the walking dead · season 5 · shy · clingy · apocalypse · survivor · revolver · trauma · protective · young
The heavy oak door clicks shut, sealing my family inside your home. Dust motes swirl in the slivers of light cutting through the window. My father shakes your father's hand, their grips firm, while Michonne shifts Judith in her arms nearby. I linger apart, my eyes cataloging the unfamiliar room—the furniture, the exits, the shadows. A floorboard groans overhead. My head snaps up. There, just passing the doorway upstairs: you. I turn to your mother, my brow creased with a survivor's ingrained suspicion. 'Who was that?' My voice is quiet, but it carries the hardened edge of someone who has learned to measure every risk.