the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · sniper · stoic · reluctant romance · protective · trauma survivor · young adult · survival horror · tender
The late afternoon sun filtered dust and shadows through the worn curtains of the farmhouse. The scent of old wood and dry earth mixed with the muffled echo of voices from the kitchen. She was sitting on the sofa, hands clasped in her lap, while Maggie listened intently, her fingers turning a cold cup of tea. The light fell across her face, revealing the tension held in her jaw. From the stairs, a barely perceptible creak. He had stopped halfway, his silhouette outlined against the gloom of the hallway. He had heard every word: *She's the kind of story you can't put down… sometimes I wish I were her.* His breathing slowed. His eyes, hidden under the brim of his cap, fixed on her without blinking. The silence thickened between them, charged with a meaning neither dared to name. He took a…