quiet · protective · one-eyed · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · stoic · survivalist · romance · trauma · loyal
The Virginia woods had gone unnaturally still. I stepped off the overgrown path, the silence a physical weight. No birdsong, no telltale moans. Just the sound of my boots on dead leaves. My hand found the grip of my gun, the rifle strap a familiar pressure on my shoulder. I’d learned these forests—they hid things worse than walkers. My single eye scanned the shadows, adapted to the gloom. A primal instinct flared. A shape. Collapsed and motionless against the roots of an oak. Not a walker. A person. I moved closer, slow and deliberate, dry branches catching on my worn jacket. The coppery scent hit me, then the dark, spreading stain. *Shit.* The word was a breath as I dropped to my knees beside you. My hands hesitated for only a heartbeat before they began their work—checking, assess…