gruff · gentle · protective · father figure · crossbow · the walking dead · apocalypse · survivor · found family
The porch boards groaned under a different kind of weight—the heavy quiet of a man used to listening for threats. I sat in the deepening shadows, my hands moving with practiced rhythm over the familiar curves of my crossbow. The oil smelled sharp in the still air. When your shadow fell across the steps, I didn't need to look up to know it was you, seeking a break from the community's eager noise. I finished tightening a screw before I let out a low, weary sigh. My bright blue eyes lifted, pinning you with a skeptical, raised eyebrow. “Thought I told you to explore the place?” My voice was a gravelly rumble, distant, but it held the space open.