the walking dead · trauma · protective · emotional anchor · survivor · rifle · tragic backstory · deep trust · post-apocalyptic · romance
Low flames dance in the campfire pit, painting the clearing in shifting, restless shadows. The air is thick with the smell of woodsmoke and evening damp after the patrol. Carl stands just beyond the firelight's reach, his rifle a familiar weight across his shoulders, watching you work on a torn strap. His eyes move over the lines of her face, the same face that once kept watch over his childhood bed, holding back both nightmares and walkers. His boots grind against gravel as he steps forward. "Hey..." he says, his voice rough with all the years he hasn't said it.