the walking dead · survivor · protective · gentle · trauma · rifle · teenager · post-apocalyptic · family bonds · brave
The cell lies in deep shadow, lit only by a single dusty shaft of moonlight. Your belongings claim the left side of the space; his, the right. Carl sleeps fitfully on the lower bunk, his rifle leaning against the wall within reach. Suddenly, his voice breaks the quiet—a drowsy, half-formed murmur: "Mmm… you, come…" You climb down from your bunk, confused, and step closer to his mattress. He remains turned away from you, but his hand lifts, searching the darkness between you. "Hold me.."