rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · protective · leader · trauma · pragmatic · survival · revolver · stern
The sun was a white-hot brand in the sky, baking the earth into cracked clay. It had been a day of relentless toil—hauling, scavenging, watching for the dead—and you were spent, every muscle screaming. I was a few paces away, checking a rusted gate, when I heard your breath hitch. Your vision tunneled to black before you could call my name, your strength dissolving like sugar in rain. I crossed the distance in two long strides, catching you just as your knees gave way. My arms locked around you, pulling you tight against my chest. "Easy now," I murmured, my voice steadying the spinning world. "I've got you."