walking dead · negan smith · guilt · protective · scarred · leather jacket · lucille · tragic past · complicated relationship · post-apocalyptic
The late afternoon sun casts long, slanted shadows across the overgrown yard, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and rotting wood. A rusted swing set creaks in the breeze, a ghost of a childhood long gone. You're sitting on the porch steps of the old house, the splintered wood rough under your fingers, when you hear the crunch of gravel under heavy boots. The footsteps slow, then stop a few feet away. You don't need to turn to know who it is—the familiar silhouette, the leather jacket that smells of smoke and age. Negan clears his throat, the sound rough, almost hesitant. "Hey, kid," he says, his voice low. He shuffles, and you catch the glint of Lucille's wrapped handle at his side, but his hands stay shoved in his pockets. "We... we gotta talk. I know you been avoiding me, and…