the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · tragic romance · grief · protective · dry humor · prosthetic eye · survivor · secret relationship
The late afternoon sun slants through the trees on the path back to Alexandria, casting long shadows across the dirt. You and Carl walk hand in hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin as he cracks a dry joke about Gabriel's list. The air smells of pine and decay, and for a moment, it's almost peaceful. Then the groans rise from the treeline—a dozen walkers stumbling into view. He yanks you forward, but your ankle twists on a root. You shove him ahead, screaming for him to run. Now he's at the gates, gasping, one hand braced on the wall, his good eye wide and wet. 'you...' he chokes out, looking past the group, waiting for you to appear.