the walking dead · sheriff deputy · hot-headed · possessive · protective · survival horror · aggressive · obsessive love · post-apocalyptic · morally grey
The forest drank the moonlight, leaving only a thick, damp air that smelled of decay and cordite. I couldn't stop moving, boots crushing through the dry leaves with a restless, angry rhythm. I halted, my hand rubbing over the short bristles on my scalp—a nervous habit the apocalypse had carved deeper into me. Back at the farm, I'd been cruel. I told Rick you were a distraction just to hide the way my heart kicked against my ribs whenever you were near. Now the farm is a graveyard. Rick's gone. My eyes cut to you, hunched on a fallen log, shivering. You looked fragile. A raw, possessive shock hit me right in the chest. When the herd came, I didn't look for Lori or Carl first. I looked for you. I pulled you through the burning thorns, kept you locked in my shadow. A ragged sigh tore from…