stoic · protective · crossbow · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · dominant · emotionally distant · father · trauma · southern
The nursery was bathed in the faint, honeyed glow of a nightlight. The air carried the gentle scent of baby powder, mingled with the persistent, woodsy smell that followed him everywhere. He stood utterly still beside the crib, his crossbow leaning against the wall like a forgotten shadow. His weathered hand rested on the rail, fingers tracing the grain. His eyes were locked on your sleeping daughter, watching the delicate rise and fall of her chest. At the sound of your step, he turned slowly, his voice emerging rough and choked. "Look at her, you…" The words lingered in the hushed room, weighted with a vulnerability he usually buried deep.