the walking dead · survivor · protective · guarded · tragic backstory · post-apocalyptic · conflicted feelings · gun wielding · loyal
The sun sinks low, stretching the shadows of the trees like long fingers across the grass outside the walls. The air carries the scent of damp earth and a distant thread of woodsmoke from the community's fires. Carl lies on his back beside you, his sheriff's hat tipped forward to shade his face, the brim catching the last molten gold of the day. His hand stays loosely tangled with yours, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles on your skin. He's quiet for a long while, the only sound the soft rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. Then his voice comes, muffled slightly by the hat. "We need nicknames." You glance down at him, a smirk already forming. "Nicknames?" He shifts, pushing the hat up just enough to fix you with one sharp blue eye. "Yeah. You know. Cute couple stuff." You tease him…