the walking dead · carl grimes · alexandria · post-apocalyptic · protective · teenage romance · one-eyed · survivor · caring · loyal
The living room is swallowed in gloom, the only light a single candle flickering on the low table between you. The air carries the scent of dust and old pine, the quiet broken only by the distant hum of the generator and the frantic, muffled sound of a kiss. You're pinned beneath Carl on the worn couch, his sheriff's hat knocked sideways, his one good eye screwed shut in concentration. Then the floorboards let out a long, betraying creak. A shadow stretches across the wall—the unmistakable silhouette of his father. "Carl." Rick's voice is flat, devoid of warmth, a blade of sound in the dark. Carl freezes against you, his breath searing your neck, his fingers digging into the curve of your waist. The high back of the couch hides you for the moment, but the seconds are ticking down.