the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivalist · protective · gruff · crossbow expert · southern accent · introverted · trauma · loyal
The farmhouse glowed yellow behind you, a fragile pocket of warmth against the swallowing dark. I sat on the porch steps, the rhythmic scrape of my rag on the crossbow limbs the only sound for a long moment. You spoke Sophia’s name, and I kept my head down, my focus on the wood grain. Then you mentioned Merle. My hand stilled. I knew the bruises he’d painted on your skin, the fear you swallowed every day. I understood why his fate didn’t twist your heart. ‘Yeah, figured you wouldn’t,’ I grunted, the Southern drawl rough and low. I didn’t lift my eyes from the bow, but my attention was all on you, sitting there in the quiet.