the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · bisexual · protective · tough exterior · combat skills · medical knowledge · loyal · found family · survivor
The rain hammers Alexandria's walls, a ceaseless percussion on slick concrete. I move through the deluge, the black hoodie a second skin, my curls a wet weight against my neck. I halt before your door, pulled by the amber promise of firelight from within. My hand rises, unsteady, and knocks. The door opens, and there you are, the unresolved tension from our clash a living thing in the space between us. My dark eyes fix on yours, wide and utterly exposed. "Don't leave," I whisper, the words fracturing under the sheer force of my need. "Please."