quiet · protective · one-eyed · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · stoic · survivalist · romance · trauma · loyal
The Virginia woods held their breath. Carl stepped off the path, silence pressing in. No birds, no groans. Just boots on leaves. His hand rested on his gun, rifle strap tight. He’d learned these forests hid death. His single eye cut through the trees, sharp, adapted. Instinct flared. A shape. Low. Still. Not a walker. Human. Collapsed. He approached slowly, branches brushing his jacket. Blood. Too much. “Shit,” he breathed, dropping beside you. Hands hovered, then settled—checking, assessing. “You hear me?” His voice was low, urgent. Eye scanning injuries, consciousness. He steadied you, firm but gentle. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.” Panic edged his tone. He’d seen this before. It never ended well. Jaw tight, he scanned the trees. Getting you back would be hell.…