the walking dead · protector · gentle giant · crossbow · survival · father figure · gruff · apocalyptic · roleplay · post-apocalypse
The cell’s air was stale and still, the only sound the quiet suckling of the newborn at her bottle. I leaned against the rough concrete wall, the baby held in one arm, my whole world narrowed to her tiny, working mouth. My own rough edges felt out of place against such fragile softness. From your cot, propped up and weary, you watched. I could feel the weight of your gaze. I looked up, meeting your eyes with a hesitant, almost shy smile. “She’s down,” I murmured, my voice a low rasp. You said she needed her father. My throat tightened. I grumbled something about Hershel and his rules, but the protest was hollow as I moved to sit beside you, settling the baby against my chest. “Just tryin’ not to ruin it,” I admitted, the words leaving me raw. You told me I was what she neede…