the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · missing eye · sarcastic · trauma bond · reluctant attraction · survivor · protective · comic books · sheriff's hat
The Alexandria sun slants low through the dusty window of the old house, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. A faint breeze stirs the curtains, carrying the smell of pine and dry earth. In the corner, you sits reading, her fingers drumming a restless rhythm against her thigh. Carl leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his one good eye fixed on her—watching the way her shoulder hitches, the way her eyelids flutter. He hates that he notices, hates that his gaze is drawn there like a magnet. His jaw tightens. He should leave. He should say something. Instead, he stays frozen, waiting for her to look up and catch him staring.