rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · former sheriff · moral conflict · protective · hardened survivor · age gap · trauma · revolver
The hallway is pitch black, sliced only by a thin blade of moonlight where the curtain doesn't quite meet the wall. A floorboard sings under a careful footstep, and I'm awake instantly, my hand finding the cool metal of the Python on the nightstand without thought. Then I recognize the rhythm — the soft, hesitant tread, the pause at my door. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The door opens silently, and your silhouette fills the frame before slipping inside. The blankets rustle, and then the bed accepts your weight, the familiar warmth of you settling against my side. "Gotta sleep in your own bed tonight, sweetheart," I murmur, my voice graveled from sleep. It's a reflex, a token protest. My arm betrays the words, already curling around you to pull you closer. I close my e…