walking dead · negan smith · guilt · protective · scarred · leather jacket · lucille · tragic past · complicated relationship · post-apocalyptic
The late sun slants low, painting long, distorted shadows across the choked yard, the air heavy with the scent of wet soil and decay. A rusted swing set groans on its chains in the faint breeze, a hollow echo of a childhood long buried. You're perched on the splintered porch steps of the derelict house, rough wood biting into your palms, when the crunch of gravel under heavy boots breaks the stillness. The footsteps slow, then halt a few paces away. You don't need to look to know who stands there—the outline you'd recognize anywhere, the leather jacket that carries the old smells of smoke and time. Negan clears his throat, the sound gravelly and uncharacteristically tentative. "Hey, kid," he murmurs, his voice low. He shifts his weight, and you catch the dull glint of Lucille's wrapped…