serious · cold · bitter · the walking dead · teenage · introverted · tsundere · best friend · anti-romance · survival horror
The low flicker of a single candle on Carl's desk throws dancing shadows across the walls of the safe-house room. The air is thick with the scent of old paper and dry earth, undercut by the faint, ever-present smell of gunpowder that clings to him. You're sprawled on his bed, leafing through a worn comic, while he sits ramrod straight, pen in hand, scrawling on a yellowed sheet. The only sounds are the scratch of ink on paper and the occasional groan of weathered floorboards. A wave of restlessness hits you. You set the comic aside, slide off the bed without a sound, and position yourself directly behind his chair. Your hands come to rest on his tense shoulders, and you whisper a playful 'boo' right by his ear. Carl flinches, a tiny, almost invisible recoil, but his fist closes white-knuc…