hey angel ♡ this is your warning. i write: – shane walsh (yes, that shane) – rafe cameron – top gun pilots with commitment issues – and other fictional men who need therapy- if you like dangerous men you’re home 💌 Also this is a 18+ blog so read at your own risk!! (Please leave me suggestions because I am just getting started!)
Description: A slow-burn Shane Walsh x Reader story set in the world of The Walking Dead. What starts as two strangers trying to survive the apocalypse slowly turns into something deeper as trust, loyalty, and complicated feelings grow between them.
🔞 This fic also contains mature/18+ content, including suggestive scenes and smut later in the story.
Hi guys! I would like to say thank you for all the love and support on my first fic! I just wanted an update for you guys about the next part. I am a college student, so I am currently preparing for finals right now so I have put the next part on hold for minute. I like to have a decent amount of parts done so I don’t feel overwhelmed on what to do next. Im just making final edits, but expect the next part by this weekend! I just wont be posting as much consistently until finals are over!
The story focuses on the slow, quiet tension between him and the reader… the looks, the arguments, the almost-moments that buildup.
(This fic is 18+ because it contains smut. Not in this part though!)
Not out in the open.
Not where Randall can hear every word.
The living room feels too small for the number of people packed into it. The windows are open but the air still feels heavy — like it’s sitting on everyone’s shoulders.
No one really wants to sit.
Most of you stand.
Rick is near the fireplace. Shane leans against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes moving from face to face like he’s already preparing for disappointment.
You stay close enough to hear everything. Close enough to feel the tension rolling off both of them.
From the barn outside — faint but noticeable — comes the occasional thud of movement. A reminder of what this is all about.
Rick finally speaks.
“We need to decide what we’re doing with Randall.”
Straight to the point.
No one looks comfortable.
Dale steps forward first.
Of course he does.
He removes his hat slowly, holding it in his hands like this is something sacred.
“We are talking about ending a life,” he says. “Not defending ourselves. Not reacting in the moment. Making a calm, deliberate choice.”
His eyes move across the room.
“I know we’re all afraid. I am too. But fear can’t be the only thing guiding us.”
No one interrupts.
Even Shane stays quiet — though his jaw is tight enough you can see the muscle jumping.
Dale continues.
“If we start deciding people should die simply because they might be dangerous… where does that stop? How long before we start doing it to each other?”
That lands.
Hard.
Rick rubs his face, exhausted.
“He knows Maggie,” he says finally. “He knows this farm exists. If we release him, there’s a real chance he brings others back.”
Hershel nods slowly.
“That risk is serious.”
Glenn looks torn but agrees.
Daryl shifts against the wall, uncomfortable.
“Kid’s mixed up with rough people,” he mutters. “That ain’t nothing.”
Carol stares at the floor.
Maggie looks pale.
You feel like your chest is being squeezed tighter with every passing second.
Rick takes a breath.
“We need to know where everyone stands.”
The words feel final before he even says them.
“All in favor of executing Randall.”
No hands shoot up.
It’s quieter than that.
More reluctant.
Hershel gives a small nod.
Then Glenn.
Then Daryl.
Carol.
T-Dog.
Maggie hesitates — then nods too, tears already in her eyes.
Your heart pounds.
You feel Shane’s gaze shift to you.
Not demanding.
Just waiting.
You swallow hard.
Then you nod.
Not proud.
Not confident.
Just acknowledging the danger you all know is real.
Rick looks like the ground just dropped out from under him.
Because he understands what this means.
Dale looks around the room slowly.
Like he’s searching for someone — anyone — to stop this.
“So that’s it,” he says quietly. “We take a vote… and that makes it right.”
No one answers.
He shakes his head.
“I thought we were better than this. I thought we were trying to hold onto something.”
His disappointment hurts more than anger ever could.
“You’re all talking about safety,” he continues. “But I think what you’re really doing… is giving up on hope.”
The room feels even smaller now.
Even Shane looks unsettled.
Dale steps back.
“I can’t be part of this decision,” he says.
And then he leaves the house.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
The door closes behind him.
No one moves for a long moment.
The choice has been made.
But Randall is still out there in the barn.
Still breathing.
And now all of you are left with the weight of knowing what comes next.
———————————————————————
Night presses down hard over the farm.
No wind.
No insects.
Just that heavy stillness that makes every sound feel louder than it should.
From the porch you watch Rick and Shane lead Randall toward the barn.
No one follows them.
It feels like something that has to happen away from everyone else.
Randall is barely holding himself together now.
His hands are tied. His steps uneven.
“Please… I won’t say anything,” he keeps rambling. “I’ll go somewhere else. I swear. You don’t have to do this.”
Shane doesn’t answer.
Rick doesn’t either.
The barn door shuts behind them.
The sound echoes across the yard.
Inside, the air is thick with dust and fear.
Rick forces Randall down to his knees.
Shane stands off to the side, tense, arms folded, watching every movement.
Randall is crying openly now.
“You don’t have to kill me… man, please…”
Rick raises the gun slowly.
His hand is shaking.
He swallows hard.
“Do you have anything else you want to say?” he asks.
Randall sobs.
“I don’t wanna die…”
Rick’s finger tightens.
And then —
A voice cuts through the barn.
From the darkness.
“Do it, Dad.”
Both men freeze.
Rick’s head snaps toward the sound.
Shane straightens immediately, eyes scanning the shadows.
“Carl?” Rick calls out.
No answer.
Just the echo of those words hanging in the air.
Rick lowers the gun slightly, shaken.
Shane moves first.
He spots movement near the open barn door — just a glimpse.
“That boy ain’t supposed to be here,” he mutters.
He strides over quickly, grabs Carl by the arm just outside the doorway, and pulls him away before Rick even fully processes what’s happening.
“Come on,” Shane says sharply. “This ain’t for you to see.”
Rick is left standing there with Randall.
Gun still raised.
Decision still unfinished.
you see Shane walking to the house holding Carl by his arm.
Shane, let’s go of Carl’s arm and hands him off to Lori.
“I don’t know what the hell you thought you were doing back there, but that wasn’t for you to see or for you to be a part of you keep your ass right here with your mom.”
Rick steps in
“Back off Shane, I can handle it from here with MY son.”
Shane walks off to the RV where you’re sitting at on watch while Dale is walking in the fields
⸻
The RV roof creaks softly under your weight as you settle near the edge.
It’s one of the only quiet places left on the farm.
Up here you can see the whole field — the barn, the house, the fence line disappearing into the trees.
Everything looks calm.
But nothing feels calm.
You wrap your arms around your knees, staring out into the dark.
Footsteps hit the ladder a few minutes later.
You don’t even have to look.
Shane climbs up and swings himself onto the roof, breathing a little harder than usual — not from exertion, but from frustration.
He runs a hand over his shaved head.
“Thought I’d find you up here,” he mutters.
You study his face.
“What happened?”
Instead of answering, he scans the field.
“Where’s Dale?”
You glance toward the pasture.
“He went for a walk,” you say. “Said he needed to clear his head… about Randall. About the decision.”
Shane lets out a quiet breath through his nose.
Figures.
He sits down beside you, elbows on his knees.
For a second neither of you speaks.
Then he finally says,
“Carl followed us.”
Your stomach drops.
“To the barn?”
“Yeah,” Shane says. “Didn’t see him at first. Just heard him. Told Rick to do it. Told him to pull the trigger.”
The words sit heavy between you.
“What did you do?” you ask.
“Took him straight back to the house,” Shane replies. “Kid shouldn’t be anywhere near that. He’s still a kid whether Rick wants to admit it or not.”
You nod slowly.
“That was the right thing.”
Shane shakes his head.
“Rick didn’t think so. Got on my ass about it. Said I came at him too hard. Like I’m the problem.”
His jaw tightens.
“He don’t get it. This world ain’t gonna wait for Carl to grow up nice and slow.”
Silence stretches.
The wind moves through the grass below.
“Did Rick… do it?” you ask quietly.
Shane stares out into the darkness.
“No,” he says. “Randall’s still alive.”
Something twists in your chest.
Relief. Fear. Uncertainty.
All tangled together.
You both look out toward the field.
Dale is just a distant shape now, walking slowly through the tall grass.
Trying to make sense of everything.
Shane watches him for a moment.
“He’s takin’ this harder than most,” he mutters.
“He believes we’re losing ourselves,” you say.
“Maybe we already did,” Shane replies.
You glance at him.
There’s no anger in his voice.
Just tired honesty.
“What happens now?” you ask.
Shane leans back on his hands.
“We wait,” he says.
“But we ain’t got forever.”
The weight of that hangs between you.
Below you, the farm is quiet.
Too quiet.
And neither of you realizes…
How close the night is to breaking open.
——
The night feels wrong.
Too still.
You and Shane are still sitting on top of the RV when it happens.
A scream cuts through the darkness.
Raw.
Terrified.
Human.
Both of you freeze for half a second.
Then Shane is already moving.
You scramble after him, boots hitting the ground hard as you run toward the sound.
The field feels endless in the dark.
Tall grass brushing your legs.
Your heart pounding so loud you can barely hear anything else.
Then you see him.
Dale.
On the ground.
A walker crouched over him.
The sound it’s making — tearing, feeding — is something you’ll never forget.
“DALE!” Shane shouts, sprinting forward.
He rips the walker off Dale and drives his knife into its skull.
You drop beside Dale immediately.
And then you see it.
His stomach is torn open.
Blood everywhere.
His hands shaking weakly as he tries to hold himself together.
Your breath leaves you in a broken sound.
“Oh my God…”
Shane stands over both of you, breathing hard, eyes wide for once.
For once… he has no plan.
No anger.
Just shock.
More footsteps crash through the field behind you.
Rick. Glenn. Maggie. Lori. Daryl. The others.
They all stop when they see Dale.
The reality of it hits the whole group at once.
Rick drops to his knees beside him.
“Dale… Dale…” he whispers.
Dale tries to speak.
Can’t.
His eyes move between all of you.
Scared.
In pain.
Knowing.
Rick pulls his gun.
Raises it.
His hand is shaking so badly it almost looks like he might drop it.
He can’t do it.
He just can’t.
The silence is unbearable.
Then —
A single gunshot splits the night.
Daryl lowers the gun slowly.
His voice is rough.
“I’m sorry, brother.”
No one moves.
No one breathes.
You feel Shane step closer behind you.
Not touching.
But there.
Watching.
Thinking.
Something shifts in him again.
Something hard.
Because this…
This is exactly what he’s been afraid of.
Hesitation.
Consequences.
Death that could have been prevented.
The farm doesn’t feel safe anymore.
It doesn’t feel like home.
It feels like the beginning of the end.
⸻
The farm doesn’t feel like the same place anymore.
After Dale’s body is carried inside… after the shock settles into something heavier… people slowly drift off in different directions.
No one talks much.
There’s nothing to say.
You and Shane don’t leave each other’s side the rest of the night.
Not because you planned it.
Because neither of you wants to be alone.
By the time you finally go inside, the house feels too quiet.
Too still.
You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at your hands.
They’re still shaking.
Shane closes the door behind you.
For once… he doesn’t have that restless energy.
No pacing.
No muttering.
Just exhaustion.
He leans back against the wall for a second, rubbing his face hard like he’s trying to wake himself up from a nightmare.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.
Your voice sounds small even to you.
He doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t say I told you so.
He just walks over and sits beside you.
Close.
Solid.
Real.
You feel the mattress dip under his weight.
“I keep seeing it,” you admit. “The walker… the blood… the way he looked at us.”
Shane nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
A long silence stretches between you.
Then something inside you finally breaks.
“What if we could’ve stopped it?” you ask. “What if we’d made the Randall decision sooner… or done something different?”
Shane turns toward you.
“You can’t carry that,” he says quietly.
“But you are,” you shoot back.
He doesn’t deny it.
Instead he reaches out and pulls you into him.
Your forehead presses against his chest.
His arms wrap around you — firm, protective.
You didn’t realize how badly you needed that until now.
“You did everything you could,” he says.
“Dale made his own choices. We all do.”
Your eyes sting.
“I hate this world,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” Shane mutters. “Me too.”
He rests his chin lightly against your head.
For a while you just sit there like that.
Breathing together.
Trying to steady yourselves.
Eventually you both lie down, still close.
Still stunned.
Still emotional.
But not alone.
⸻
The next day feels heavier.
The whole group gathers in the field for Dale’s funeral.
A simple grave.
No speeches at first.
Just grief.
Rick finally steps forward.
His voice is rough.
“We honor Dale by remembering who he was,” he says.
“By holding onto the things he believed in… even when it’s hard.”
You glance at Shane.
He stands a little apart from everyone else.
Silent.
Watching.
His expression unreadable.
He doesn’t interrupt.
Doesn’t react.
But you can feel the tension in him like a live wire.
Later, after most people drift away, Shane approaches Rick privately near the fence line.
You’re too far to hear everything.
But you see Shane talking low and intense.
Rick answering, frustrated.
Two leaders pulling in opposite directions.
Whatever they’re saying —
It isn’t over.
Not even close.
—-
The farm feels different after Dale’s funeral.
Quieter.
Not peaceful — just worn down.
Like everyone is running on nerves instead of sleep.
That afternoon Rick calls another meeting.
No one really wants to be there.
But everyone knows it can’t be avoided anymore.
You stand near the fence with Maggie and Glenn. Lori sits on the porch steps. Daryl leans against a post, arms crossed. Andrea and T-Dog hover nearby.
Shane steps forward first this time.
There’s no hesitation in him now.
“We need to talk about security,” he says.
“About real security.”
The tone in his voice makes people straighten.
“We got a man in that barn who knows where we are,” he continues. “Knows the area. Knows people. And he’s got a group of thirty armed men out there somewhere.”
No one argues with that.
“You think we can just keep him tied up forever?” Shane asks. “You think he ain’t lookin’ for a chance to run?”
Dale’s absence is felt in the silence.
Rick watches Shane carefully but doesn’t interrupt.
Shane goes on.
“We need more patrols. More watches at night. Stronger fence rotations. And we need to stop pretendin’ we got options with Randall.”
His eyes sweep the group.
“There ain’t a reason to keep him alive. He’s still a threat. Every hour he’s here is a risk.”
The words hang heavy.
You feel everyone glance at you without meaning to.
You step forward.
“I agree with him,” you say.
Your voice is steady even though your heart isn’t.
“This isn’t about anger. Or revenge. Or losing who we are. It’s about survival. Randall already tried to kill some of us. His group would do worse. Keeping him alive doesn’t fix anything.”
Glenn shifts uncomfortably.
Maggie looks torn.
Lori presses her lips together.
Andrea nods slightly.
Rick runs a hand over his face.
“We’re not executioners,” he says.
“And we’re not safe either,” Shane replies.
Daryl finally speaks.
“Kid’s people ain’t good. From what he told me… they take what they want. Ain’t exactly choir boys.”
T-Dog worries about guarding Randall long-term.
T-Dog worries about guarding Randall long-term.
Maggie quietly asks if there’s another way.
No one has a real answer.
The group feels split down the middle.
Fear on one side.
Morality on the other.
Rick looks like the weight of both is crushing him.
The story focuses on the slow, quiet tension between him and the reader… the looks, the arguments, the almost-moments that buildup.
(There will be smut eventually!! So this fic is 18+!!)
This part contains explicit sexual themes, including graphic smut and depictions of female oral sex.
The night keeps pressing in.
You’re still on the porch steps, arms wrapped around yourself like that might be the only thing that holds you together.
Every sound makes you flinch.
Every shadow feels like bad news.
You haven’t moved in what feels like hours.
The anger is still there — stubborn and sharp — but now it’s tangled up with fear so deep it makes your stomach hurt.
You don’t even hear the door open behind you at first.
Lori’s voice is soft.
“Mind if I sit?”
You look up, startled.
“Yeah… yeah, of course.”
She lowers herself beside you slowly, watching the dark road too.
For a while she doesn’t say anything.
Just sits there.
Then she sighs.
“I know that look,” she says.
You swallow.
“I’m not sure you do.”
She gives a small, sad smile.
“Oh… I do.”
You glance at her.
And suddenly you feel exposed.
Like she can see right through the fight. The kiss. The panic.
“You two had a bad one today,” she says gently.
“That obvious?”
“You both looked like you were about to kill each other.”
You huff a weak laugh.
“Feels like we still might.”
Silence again.
Then Lori speaks carefully.
“You’re not like the other girls he’s been with.”
You frown slightly.
“What does that mean?”
She chooses her words slowly.
“I’ve known Shane a long time. Before all this… before the world ended. He had relationships, sure. But they were… surface level. Fun. Easy. He never let himself get too tied down.”
You stare at the ground.
“That sounds about right. He said the same thing you’re saying right now almost word for word.” you dryly chuckle
“But with you,” she continues, “it’s different. He’s different.”
You don’t answer.
Because part of you is scared to believe that.
“This world changes things,” Lori admits. “So maybe what I’m saying doesn’t mean much anymore. Old patterns don’t always survive something like this.”
She glances at you.
“But I’ve watched him since we got here. The way he looks at you. The way he loses his temper when he thinks you’re in danger. The way he listens to you even when he’s pretending not to.”
Your throat tightens.
“He doesn’t listen,” you mutter.
“Oh, he does,” she says quietly. “You’re one of the only people he does listen to. That’s why you two clash so hard. You both want control… but for different reasons.”
You rub your hands over your face.
“I shouldn’t have fought with him like that.”
“You love him.”
It isn’t a question.
You stare straight ahead.
Lori’s comment makes you feel like you have a frog in your throat.
“I just know the idea of him not coming back makes me feel like I’m suffocating.”
Lori nods slowly.
“That’s what real feelings look like in this world. They’re not soft. They’re messy and loud and terrifying.”
You laugh bitterly.
“That sounds terrifying .”
“It’s honest.”
Headlights flash faintly in the distance.
Both of you look up at the same time.
Your heart jumps out of your chest.
But the lights disappear again — just imagination.
Your shoulders slump.
“What if the last thing he remembers is me being angry?” you say, voice breaking. “What if I wasted our last time together holding a grudge?”
Lori’s hand rests gently on your arm.
“Then you fix it when he comes back.”
“When,” you repeat quietly.
She squeezes your arm.
“You think he’s out there thinking about anything else right now? Shane Walsh doesn’t do halfway feelings. If he cares about you… he’s fighting to get back to you.”
Your eyes fill with tears you can’t stop anymore.
“I don’t know how to not be mad at him,” you admit.
“You don’t have to stop being mad,” Lori says. “You just have to decide what matters more — being right… or not losing him.”
The night stretches on.
And now you’re not just afraid he won’t come back.
You’re afraid that if he does —
Everything between you is about to change.
——————————————————
The sound of an engine finally becomes real.
Not imagined.
Not wished into existence.
Real.
Headlights cut across the field. Gravel crunches. The truck rolls into the yard.
You’re already on your feet before it even stops.
Your heart is pounding so hard you feel dizzy.
Rick gets out first. Glenn follows. Hershel climbs down slower — drunk, exhausted, shaken.
And then Shane steps out.
Alive.
Breathing.
Your lungs finally work again.
For half a second you almost run to him.
Almost.
Then you see the movement in the back of the truck.
A boy.
Young. Bloodied. Hands tied.
Everything shifts.
“What the hell is that?” someone asks.
“His name’s Randall,” Rick says. “He’s hurt. We brought him back.”
Shane’s head snaps toward him instantly.
“We brought him back?” he repeats. “You brought him back.”
Rick’s voice tightens. “We couldn’t leave him.”
“He knows where we are now!” Shane explodes. “You don’t just drag a problem like that back to the farm!”
Glenn tries to step between them. Hershel leans against the truck, barely holding himself up.
The whole group gathers.
Tension spreads fast.
Rick stands his ground.
“We’re not executioners.”
Shane laughs harshly.
“No — you just wait until he brings his buddies here and gets everyone killed!”
“Lower your voice.”
“Why? So we can pretend this is still the old world?!”
Their argument builds fast. Sharp. Familiar.
Two leaders pulling in opposite directions.
Finally Rick snaps.
“That’s enough, Shane!”
Shane stares at him — chest rising and falling hard.
For a second you think he might swing.
Instead he shakes his head like he’s disgusted with the whole situation.
“Do whatever you want,” he mutters. “You always do.”
And he turns away.
Walking straight across the yard.
Straight toward you.
Your stomach twists.
Because now there’s nowhere to hide.
He slows when he reaches you.
Stops just a few feet away.
Up close you can see the blood on his shirt. The bruise forming along his jaw. The exhaustion in his eyes.
You also see the anger.
Still there.
Still alive.
“You good?” he asks.
It’s such a simple question it almost makes you laugh.
“Are you serious right now?”
You shake your head.
“I thought you weren’t coming back.”
His expression softens — just barely.
“Yeah.”
Silence settles between you.
Heavy with everything unfinished.
“You brought him back,” you say finally. “The kid.”
Shane scoffs.
“Rick brought him back.”
“But you didn’t stop it.”
“I tried,” he snaps. Then quieter
“You think I don’t know what kind of risk that is?”
You cross your arms.
“You also think you’re the only one who sees risks.”
“There you go again,” he mutters.
“Because you never actually listen!”
“And you never admit when I might have a damn point!”
The fight threatens to ignite all over again.
But something is different now.
You both hesitate.
Because you almost lost each other tonight.
Because the anger doesn’t feel as important as it did before.
Your voice lowers.
“I hated the way we left things.”
His jaw flexes.
You sit there in silence with each other for a minute, not another word and you’re wondering if Shane’s gonna say anything or if he’s just going to walk away.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“I didn’t mean… all of it,” you admit. “I was scared. And mad. And I don’t know how to handle you sometimes.”
He lets out a rough breath.
“You drive me insane.”
Despite everything, you almost smile.
Then you look at the blood on his hands.
“What happened?”
“Bar fight. The kid had friends that were in the Bar. Tried to get us to let them come back to the farm we said no, and it was us or them. Better them than us” he says bluntly.
“Walkers. Guns. Whole mess.”
Your heart lurches.
“You could’ve died.”
“I didn’t though.” he shoots back.
You step closer.
Not touching.
But close enough to feel the heat between you.
“I don’t want to spend whatever time we have left just… fighting.”
“Then don’t,” he says.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.”
Silence again.
The sounds of Rick arguing about Randall drift across the yard. Hershel being helped inside. Maggie crying. Chaos continuing.
But right here it’s just the two of you.
“I’m still mad at you,” you say honestly.
“Good,” he replies. “I’m still mad at you too.”
You nod.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes.
Neither of you apologizes.
Neither of you walks away.
But the distance between you finally feels… smaller.
Like something cracked open tonight that can’t be shoved back in place.
———————————————————————
Night settles heavy over the farm.
The house is quieter than usual — not peaceful quiet, but strained.
Like everyone is holding their breath after the chaos of the day.
You grab a blanket from the couch, already planning to sleep on the porch.
Space feels safer right now.
Distance feels easier than lying next to Shane with everything still unresolved.
You step toward the door.
“Where you goin’?”
His voice comes from the hallway behind you.
You don’t turn around.
“Outside.”
“No.”
You pause.
Slowly look back at him.
He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, exhaustion written all over his face — but his eyes are sharp.
“You’re not sleeping out there,” he says.
“I’ve done it before.”
“Not tonight.”
You sigh, already tired.
“Shane, I’m not in the mood to argue.”
“This ain’t an argument,” he says flatly. “There’s a stranger tied up in the barn who knows where we are. I’m not lettin’ you sit out in the dark like a damn target.”
You tighten your grip on the blanket.
“I can handle myself.”
“I KNOW you can,” he snaps. “That’s not the point.”
There’s that same frustration again — the one that never fully goes away between you.
He pushes off the wall and steps closer.
“Just because we ain’t exactly thrilled with each other right now doesn’t mean I stop lookin’ out for you.”
Your chest aches a little at that.
“I wasn’t asking you to.”
“Too bad,” he mutters. “You don’t get a vote.”
You roll your eyes.
“That’s not how this works.”
“That’s exactly how it works when someone’s safety’s involved.”
Silence stretches.
Finally you drop the blanket onto a chair.
“Fine. I’ll sleep inside.”
He nods once — like a battle won.
But neither of you looks satisfied.
You walk toward the small room you’ve been sharing.
The tension follows you in.
You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at your hands.
He lingers in the doorway.
“There’s something else,” he says.
You glance up.
“Of course there is.”
“Randall.”
The name hangs heavy.
“He needs to be dealt with,” Shane says bluntly. “The guys he was runnin’ with? Dangerous. Real dangerous. He knows about this farm. He’s a threat whether we wanna admit it or not.”
You nod slowly.
“I know.”
He looks surprised you didn’t argue.
“You agree with me?”
“I agree he’s a risk,” you clarify. “I’m not blind, Shane.”
Relief flickers across his face — then fades when you continue.
“But killing him… that’s different.”
His jaw tightens.
“He didn’t choose that group,” you say quietly. “He didn’t ask for the life he got dropped into. None of us did.”
“He still chose to run with them,” Shane counters. “And they talked about things… bad things. If we let him go, he comes back with people. If we keep him, we waste food and manpower. There ain’t a good option.”
You look down.
“I just keep thinking… he’s just a kid.”
“So was Sophia,” Shane says, voice rough.
That hits.
Hard.
You swallow.
“That’s not fair.”
“This world ain’t fair.”
Silence fills the room again.
You can see the conflict in him now — the part he doesn’t show anyone else.
He isn’t heartless.
He’s scared.
Scared of losing more people.
Scared of making the wrong call.
Scared that caring makes you weak.
You speak softer.
“What if we’re wrong?”
“What if we’re not?” he shoots back.
You rub your arms, suddenly cold.
“I don’t want to become the kind of people who just… decide someone’s life isn’t worth the risk.”
He exhales slowly.
“And I don’t want to become the kind of people who hesitate until we’re dead.”
That lands somewhere deep.
Neither of you has an answer.
Finally he sits beside you on the bed — not touching, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.
“We’ll figure it out,” he mutters.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “We always say that.”
A long pause.
Then he adds quietly,
“I ain’t asking you to like it. Just… think about it.”
You nod.
“I will.”
He watches you for a long time after you say you will.
Like he’s trying to decide something.
The lantern light flickers across his face, catching in the tension of his jaw, the tired lines around his eyes. You can practically hear the thoughts fighting behind them — logic, fear, anger, something softer he doesn’t know how to handle.
“You always make it complicated,” he mutters.
You let out a quiet breath.
“Yeah. Well… you make it intense.”
That almost earns a smile.
Almost.
Silence stretches again.
Heavy.
Charged.
Then he shifts closer on the bed.
Slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to.
You don’t.
His hand comes up, hesitating for half a second before brushing your hair back from your face. The touch is careful. Different from the rough urgency he usually carries.
“I hate when we fight like that,” he admits quietly.
“Then don’t push me.”
“You push back just as hard.”
“That’s because you don’t listen.”
“I do listen,” he says, voice low. “Just… not always the way you want.”
You roll your eyes slightly, but you don’t move away.
His fingers linger against your cheek.
“I thought about you the whole time we were gone,” he adds.
Your heart stutters.
“That doesn’t fix everything.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s a start.”
All the tension from the day crackles between you.
Anger. Fear. Relief.
———————————————————————
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs with his thumb grazing against your lips.
You stand up from the bed and stand straight in front of him.
You drop your top half of your clothing off.
You show me out of your jeans.
“Show me.”
Shane sits there on the edge of the bed watching you completely naked, standing in front of him.
Shane’s eyes darken when he steps up getting closer.
Practically touching your chest to his torso.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Something heavier.
Hungrier.
His hand comes up under your chin, lifting your face so you have to look at him.
“You got any idea what you do to me?” he says low.
The words aren’t rushed. They’re controlled. Like he’s choosing every one.
“You stand there lookin’ at me like that… after a day like today…”
His thumb drags slowly along your jaw.
“Got me thinkin’ about nothin’ but you.”
Your breath catches.
He steps forward until your back nearly brushes the edge of the bed, his body caging you in without actually touching.
Dominant.
But still careful.
“I was out there fightin’… and all I could picture was comin’ back here and getting back to you,” he continues, voice rougher now.
“Remindin’ myself you’re real. That you’re mine.”
Heat coils low in your stomach.
Your fingers curl into his shirt.
“Show me then,” you whisper.
That’s all the permission he needs.
His mouth crashes into yours — deeper this time, slower but full of intent. One hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you steady while the other grips your hip, firm and grounding.
“You don’t get to run from me when we fight,” he murmurs against your lips.
“Not anymore.”
You shiver.
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he says. “And neither are you.”
He presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth — almost possessive, but softened by the way his fingers stroke your side like he’s reassuring himself you’re still there.
“Gonna make this right,” he adds quietly.
“My way.”
His hand slides behind your knee, guiding you backward until the mattress presses against the backs of your legs.
“Lie down,” he says quietly.
It isn’t harsh.
But it isn’t a suggestion either.
You let yourself fall back onto the bed, heart pounding as he stands over you — broad shoulders blocking the lantern light, eyes fixed on you like he’s already decided something.
“Been thinkin’ about this all damn night,” he mutters.
He lowers himself slowly, hands gliding up your thighs, thumbs tracing slow over your folds.
“So wet for me.”
“Shane…” you whisper.
He glances up at you from where he’s kneeling between your legs, a faint, dangerous smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
The way he says it sends a shiver straight through you.
His head dips back in between your legs.
He’s kissing, sucking, licking, spitting.
Devouring your pussy.
“Shane… Don’t..STOP.”
Your practically squealing.
You grip the sheets so hard your knuckles are white. Biting your lips so hard you can taste blood.
“I don’t plan on it.”
Shane lifts his head up.
You look dead into his eyes after feeling him stop.
You feel his fingers starting to tease your folds. Dipping in and out of you.
“Baby you want me to keep showing you how sorry I am, your going to have go be more quiet.”
He dips back into your pussy.
Now having two of his finger work inside of you, while he’s sucking your clit.
You grab a pillow to muffle your whines.
“Come on baby let it all out for me.”
his free hand comes up to toy with your left nipple.
your back arches and you throw the pillow back on to the bed and replace it with your hand.
The tension coils tighter and tighter.
Every breath feels like it gets stuck halfway in your chest.
Shane doesn’t rush you.
That’s what makes it worse.
He watches you — really watches you — like he’s learning every reaction, every sound, every way your body moves when he touches you. Like this moment matters more than anything else outside this room.
“Look at me,” he says low.
You do.
His eyes are dark. Focused. Completely locked on you.
Like he’s not just trying to make you feel good — he’s trying to pull you back from every fear you’ve been drowning in all day.
His hand slides up your side, steady and grounding.
“Come on baby, cum for me.”
Your back arches as the pressure inside you builds — slow and overwhelming. Your breathing turns uneven, small broken sounds slipping out before you can stop them.
He doesn’t tease you about it.
Doesn’t tell you to be quiet this time.
Instead he presses closer, holding you there — like he wants to feel every second of it with you.
“That’s it… let go,” he says roughly.
Something in his voice — the certainty, the control, the care — snaps the last thread holding you together.
The release hits hard.
Your body tightens, then melts all at once, a shaky breath tearing out of you as your head falls back against the mattress. For a moment the whole world goes silent except for the sound of your pulse in your ears.
Shane stays right there.
Not moving away.
Not making a joke.
Just watching you come back down, his hand still slow and steady on your skin like he’s making sure you’re real.
When you finally open your eyes again, he’s still looking at you the same way.
Hi guys, thank you so much for all the love I’ve been getting on this series! 💌
I am currently in the middle of writing part 13 but I would like to know what you guys would like to see in the series or how you think I should carry on!
or if you want to see any blurbs or one pieces of different characters or of Shane!
The story focuses on the slow, quiet tension between him and the reader… the looks, the arguments, the almost-moments that buildup.
(There will be smut eventually!! So this fic is 18+!!)
Shane’s jaw is tight. He’s already fed up. Fed up with secrets. Fed up with Hershel’s fantasy. Fed up with Rick pretending this world is still the old one.
Without asking you — without even looking at you — he presses a gun into your hands.
“Load it.”
You try to grab his arm.
“Shane, stop. Hershel will throw us out. We need this place—”
He doesn’t answer you.
Then he sees Rick coming back with walkers on poles.
“What is that?” he mutters.
Rick keeps walking.
Shane’s voice rises.
“What is THAT?”
And then he’s moving — fast — storming toward the barn.
⸻
Hershel steps forward, calm but shaking.
“They’re sick people.”
Shane grabs a walker from the pole and drags it forward. He shoots it in the chest.
“No, man. It’s time for you to stop. You gotta open your eyes.”
And then he does it.
He throws the barn doors open.
⸻
The Barn Opens
Walkers flood out.
The group opens fire.
One by one, they drop.
You’re shooting too — hands shaking, heart pounding — because now it’s survival, not ideology.
Bodies fall.
Smoke fills the air.
And then the last one steps out.
Small.
Thin.
Silent.
Sophia.
Everything stops.
No one shoots.
Rick slowly steps forward.
And Shane… just stands there.
Because he was right.
But not like this.
Never like this.
The smoke hasn’t even cleared yet.
Gunpowder hangs in the air. Your ears are still ringing. Your hands are still wrapped tight around the grip Shane forced into them.
And then she walks out.
Small. Dirt-matted hair. Empty eyes.
Sophia.
Nobody moves.
Nobody breathes.
You feel your stomach drop like the world just tilted sideways.
Carol makes a sound — not even a scream at first. Just something broken.
Rick steps forward.
And you—
You look at Shane.
He’s frozen.
Not triumphant.
Not smug.
Not even angry anymore.
Just… still.
Because this is the part he didn’t think about. The part where being right doesn’t feel like winning.
Rick raises his gun.
You can’t watch.
You close your eyes at the shot.
⸻
The shot echoes across the field.
Then silence.
Heavy. Suffocating. Final.
You open your eyes slowly.
Sophia is on the ground.
Carol collapses. Daryl catches her. The group stands scattered in shock — smoke drifting, shell casings cooling in the dirt.
And Shane finally moves.
He exhales like the air has been trapped in his lungs for days.
Like he just survived something.
Like he just proved something.
That’s what snaps you.
You shove the gun back into his chest.
Hard.
“Happy now?!”
His head jerks toward you, stunned.
“What?”
“YOU WERE RIGHT, SHANE! That what you wanted to hear?!”
Your voice cracks into a scream before you even realize it.
People turn. But no one intervenes.
Because the storm between you two has been building.
“You just needed to win, didn’t you?! Needed to prove you’re the only one who knows how this world works!”
Shane’s face darkens instantly.
“That ain’t what this was.”
“Then what WAS it?!” you yell. “Because it sure as hell looked like you were enjoying yourself in there!”
His temper ignites.
“You think I WANTED that? For her to walk out?!”
“You didn’t even hesitate opening those doors!”
“Because I knew what was behind them!”
You laugh — sharp, broken, furious.
“Yeah. You always know, right? Just like you knew back at the quarry? When you threw that in my face like I’m some helpless idiot you gotta babysit!”
His jaw flexes.
“Don’t start that.”
“Oh no — we’re finishing it,” you snap, stepping closer. “You don’t get to scream at me like I’m weak and then act like it never happened.”
“I NEVER said you were weak.”
“You said I couldn’t protect myself! That I needed you to save me!”
“Because I DID!” he roars. “You were seconds from getting ripped apart!”
Your chest heaves.
“I was surviving! Just like everyone else!”
“Surviving ain’t winning!”
“And what — this is?!” You gesture wildly toward Sophia’s body. “THIS is your victory speech?!”
Shane steps closer too.
Too close.
Now you’re chest to chest, breathing each other’s anger.
“I am trying to keep you alive,” he growls low.
“And I am trying to be more than something you guard like property!”
“I DON’T SEE YOU AS PROPERTY!”
“Then stop treating me like something that’s gonna break!”
Your hands shove his shoulders.
Hard.
The movement is instinctive. Furious.
He stumbles back half a step — more shocked than hurt.
Then he grabs your arms.
Not gently.
Not violently.
But enough to stop you.
Enough to make the air between you feel dangerous.
“Don’t,” he warns, voice rough. “Don’t push me right now.”
“Or what?” you fire back. “You gonna scare me into listening like everyone else?”
His grip tightens.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
“GOOD. Maybe now you know what it feels like!”
Your eyes are bright with tears you refuse to let fall.
“I am tired of wondering if you respect me or just want to control me.”
Something in him cracks.
Real anger. Real fear.
“They almost killed you,” he says, voice shaking now. “Back at that quarry… I saw you go down. You don’t get what that did to me.”
“And you don’t get what it did to me hearing you say I can’t stand on my own!”
For a second it feels like one more word could turn this into something worse.
Like fists instead of shouting.
Like regret neither of you can undo.
Then Rick’s voice cuts through the tension.
“Both of you — enough.”
You and Shane don’t even look at Rick.
You’re still staring at each other.
Still breathing hard.
Still furious.
Still hurt.
Still tangled in something way more dangerous than walkers.
Finally Shane lets go of your arms.
But he doesn’t step away.
“You wanna prove you can survive?” he says hoarsely.
“Fine.
“Then stop making me care whether you do.”
That hits harder than any shove.
You swallow.
“Too late for that,” you whisper.
And for the first time since the barn doors opened
Shane looks like he doesn’t know how to fight anymore.
Just how to feel.
And that scares him more than anything.
————————————————————————
Later that day the farm feels… wrong.
Too quiet.
Not peaceful quiet.
The kind that makes your skin itch.
You and Shane haven’t said a word to each other since the barn.
You stay on opposite sides of the yard like magnets forced apart.
If he moves toward the house — you move toward the fence.
If you go for water — he walks the perimeter.
Everyone feels it.
The fight.
The screaming.
The almost-violence.
The grief from Sophia’s death sits heavy on the whole group, but between you and Shane there’s something sharper.
Personal.
Unfinished.
You’re checking one of the supply crates when Maggie comes running out of the house.
She looks pale.
Panicked.
“Has anyone seen my dad?!”
Everything freezes.
You straighten slowly.
“What?”
“He’s gone,” she says, breath shaking. “His truck’s gone. He didn’t say anything — he just… left.”
Rick starts asking questions. Glenn looks confused. Carol is still numb.
You feel eyes on you.
You don’t need to turn to know it’s Shane.
Because this is exactly the kind of chaos he warned about.
And you hate that part of you knows it.
Before anyone can figure out what to do — another scream rips through the house.
This one is different.
High.
Broken.
Maggie bolts inside.
Everyone follows.
You hesitate at the doorway.
Shane brushes past you hard enough your shoulder bumps his.
Not an accident.
Not quite intentional either.
Just… anger with nowhere to go.
You snap.
“Oh yeah, keep walking. That’s real mature.”
He stops.
Turns.
“Oh NOW you wanna talk?”
“Don’t start with me.”
“You been starting with me all damn day!”
“At least I don’t pretend I’m always right!”
“At least I DO something!”
Voices echo down the hallway.
Rick shouts for quiet.
Then you all see it.
Beth on the bathroom floor.
Blood.
Glass.
Maggie sobbing.
The world tilts.
Everything that mattered five seconds ago suddenly feels stupid. Small. Shameful.
————————————————————————
You rush forward instinctively, dropping to your knees beside Maggie.
“It’s okay. She’s breathing. She’s breathing,” you say, even though your hands are shaking.
Hershel’s absence hits harder now.
This is what happens when hope leaves.
Behind you, Shane stands in the doorway.
Frozen again.
But this time not because he proved something.
Because he didn’t.
Because even he can’t shoot this problem in the head.
You feel him watching you.
Watching how gentle you are with Beth.
How steady your voice sounds even while tears sit in your eyes.
Guilt burns in your chest.
Not just about the fight.
About the shove.
The screaming.
How close it got.
Rick starts giving orders. Towels. Pressure. Stay calm.
You reach for one.
So does Shane.
Your hands collide.
You both jerk back like you touched fire.
For a second you just stare at each other.
Everything unsaid still hanging between you.
“You still think I can’t handle myself?” you mutter.
His jaw tightens.
“You still think that’s what this is about?”
“Then what is it about, Shane?!” you snap under your breath. “Because we almost tore each other apart out there while the world is literally falling apart in here!”
His voice drops.
Raw.
“It’s about you mattering too damn much.”
You swallow.
“That doesn’t give you the right to control me.”
“And you pushing me like that don’t give you the right to pretend I don’t care!”
Rick barks your names.
You both move.
Not together.
But not as far apart as before either.
Beth lets out a weak sound.
Maggie sobs harder.
And the fight between you and Shane doesn’t end.
It just… changes.
Becomes quieter.
Deeper.
More dangerous.
Because now it’s mixed with fear.
Loss.
And the terrifying realization that in this world —
You might lose each other before you ever figure it out.
————————————————————————
The sun is starting to sink when you realize what’s happening.
Rick is grabbing his keys.
Glenn is loading the truck.
And Shane is already walking toward the driveway like the decision was made hours ago.
You feel it in your chest before anyone even says the words.
They’re going after Hershel.
Your feet move before your brain catches up.
“Shane.”
He keeps walking.
Of course he does.
You jog to catch up, anger and panic tangled so tight you can’t tell which one is louder.
“Shane — stop.”
He finally turns.
His face is still hard from earlier.
Still bruised with everything you both threw at each other.
“What?” he says.
Just one word.
Flat. Guarded.
“You’re just leaving?” you ask. “After… everything?”
His eyes flicker.
“I ain’t leaving you,” he mutters. “We’re bringing Hershel back.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Silence stretches.
Glenn pretends not to listen. Rick gives you both space.
Because everyone knows this isn’t just about Hershel.
Shane sighs — long and frustrated — running a hand over his shaved head.
“Look… about earlier…”
You immediately shake your head.
“No.”
His brow furrows.
“What do you mean no?”
“I mean I’m not doing this again,” you say, voice tight. “I’m not arguing with you right now.”
“I’m not arguing,” he insists. “I’m trying to—”
“I said I don’t want to hear it.”
That hits him like a slap.
Something flashes in his eyes — hurt wrapped in anger.
“You serious right now?”
“Yes.”
Your arms cross over your chest like armor.
“You don’t get to decide when we talk just because it’s convenient for you.”
He steps closer.
Too close.
“Convenient?” he repeats. “You think I’m trying to clear my conscience or something?”
“I think you always need to have the last word.”
His jaw clenches.
“You really believe that.”
You don’t answer.
And that silence is worse.
For a second it looks like he might explode again.
Like the screaming fight is about to start all over in front of everyone.
Instead —
He grabs your face.
And kisses you.
Hard.
It’s not soft.
Not romantic.
Not a reconciliation.
It’s frustrated.
Desperate.
Angry.
Like he’s trying to say everything he doesn’t know how to put into words.
Your hands shove against his chest instinctively — but you don’t pull away right away either.
Because some part of you is terrified.
Then he breaks it.
Breathing rough.
“I’m not losing you over stupid shit,” he mutters.
You glare at him.
“You don’t get to just shut me up like that.”
“And you don’t get to shut me out,” he fires back.
Rick calls his name.
The moment snaps.
Shane steps backward toward the truck.
Still looking at you.
Still mad.
Still hurting.
“Don’t wait up,” he says quietly.
Then he turns and climbs in.
The engine starts.
Gravel crunches.
And just like that — he’s gone.
—
The yard feels too big after they leave.
Too empty.
Your anger keeps you standing there at first.
You pace.
You clean weapons.
You check supplies that don’t need checking.
You replay the fight.
The shove.
His hands on your arms.
His voice saying you matter too damn much.
Then the kiss.
God… the kiss.
Your stomach twists.
What if that was the last thing you did?
Be mad at him.
What if a walker gets him?
What if Hershel’s drunk and reckless and Shane has to pull something stupid to save him?
What if Rick can’t stop him this time?
What if he just… doesn’t come back?
The thought hits like a physical blow.
You sit down hard on the porch steps.
Suddenly you can’t breathe right.
Because the last time you saw him —
You were glaring.
Arguing.
Holding onto pride like it mattered more than him.
Your eyes burn.
“I’m such an idiot,” you whisper to yourself.
Carol sits beside you quietly.
Doesn’t say anything at first.
Just lets you spiral.
“I shouldn’t have let him leave like that,” you admit finally. “What if… what if something happens?”
Carol’s voice is gentle.
“In this world… something always happens.”
That doesn’t help.
It makes it worse.
Night starts to fall.
Every sound makes your head snap up.
Every distant groan.
Every engine you think you hear.
You hug your arms around yourself.
Because anger feels a lot less safe now than fear.
And for the first time since the barn —
You realize you would give anything just to hear him yell at you again.
The story focuses on the slow, quiet tension between him and the reader… the looks, the arguments, the almost-moments that buildup.
(There will be smut eventually!! So this fic is 18+!!)
Morning light slips through the thin curtains of his room, soft and gold, nothing like the harsh Georgia sun outside. It paints his skin warmer, gentler.
You wake up before him for once.
Shane’s arm is heavy around your waist, his chest rising slow and steady beneath your cheek. You stay still, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing. For once, he isn’t tense. No furrow between his brows. No tight jaw like he’s bracing for the world.
You prop yourself up just enough to look at him.
The sharp line of his jaw. The faint freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks you only really notice this close. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. He looks younger like this. Softer. Not the intense, coiled man everyone else sees.
Your fingers hover for a second before you gently trace along his collarbone, barely there.
His eyes snap open.
You freeze.
He startles slightly, instinct kicking in for half a second before he focuses on you. His expression shifts from alert to confused to amused all in one breath.
“You starin’ at me?” His voice is thick with sleep.
You don’t even try to deny it. “Maybe.”
He squints at the light coming through the window, then back at you. “You’re awake before me?” A small smirk tugs at his mouth. “World must be endin’ again.”
You roll your eyes softly, but you’re still hovering above him, close enough that your hair brushes his chest.
He studies you now.
Really studies you.
His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “What’re you lookin’ at like that?”
“You don’t look so intense when you’re asleep,” you admit quietly. “No one would believe it’s you.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah? That so?”
You nod. “You look… peaceful.”
That makes him pause.
For a second, he doesn’t joke.
His hand slides from your hair to your jaw, thumb resting just beneath your chin. “Don’t get used to that,” he mutters, but his voice is softer than usual.
You don’t move away.
You just stay there, eyes locked. The air between you feels still, heavy in a way that isn’t tense — just real.
He studies your face the same way you were studying his.
“Now I’m starin’,” he says low.
“Fair.”
His thumb brushes across your cheek. Slow. Thoughtful. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just… there.
You both just lie there like that for a minute. No teasing. No fighting. No outside world pressing in.
Just his steady breathing.
Just your fingers tracing lazy circles against his chest.
Just the quiet understanding in his eyes.
And for once, Shane Walsh doesn’t look like he’s bracing for something.
He just looks at you like you’re the only thing that exists.
He doesn’t look away from you.
Not even for a second.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, pulling you down just enough that your lips brush. It’s slow at first — warm, unhurried — and then he deepens it, a quiet groan vibrating against your mouth like he’s been holding it in.
You feel it in your chest.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
“Damn,” he mutters, voice rough. “I could stay right here all day.”
You smirk faintly. “Could you?”
He exhales through his nose, almost annoyed at himself. “I don’t do this. Layin’ around. Wastin’ time.” His hand drifts down your back, holding you there. “Never wanted to.”
Your eyebrow lifts. “So what, I’m turning you soft?”
He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no heat behind it. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” you tease lightly. “Shane Walsh wantin’ to stay in bed all day? Who are you?”
He shifts, rolling slightly so you’re beneath him now, bracing himself on one arm. “Careful,” he warns quietly. “I ain’t soft.”
You look up at him, unimpressed. “You just said you wanna lay in bed all day.”
“With you,” he corrects immediately.
That makes you pause.
He sees it — sees that it hit.
But you don’t let him off easy.
“Don’t blame me for that,” you say gently. “If you’re feelin’ something, that’s on you.”
His jaw tightens just a little — not angry, just thinking.
You’re right. And he knows it.
He brushes his thumb across your cheek again, slower this time. “You make me want things I ain’t used to wantin’,” he admits quietly. “That don’t mean I’m soft. Just means…” He trails off.
“Means what?”
His eyes flicker over your face.
“Means I don’t hate it.”
That’s as vulnerable as he’s gonna get this early in the morning.
You give him a small smile and push lightly at his chest. “Alright. Up. We’ve got chores to pretend we weren’t ignoring.”
He groans dramatically but rolls off you. “You’re cruel, you know that?”
“Mm. You’ll survive.”
—
Getting ready feels different today.
He keeps glancing at you while he pulls his shirt on. You catch him staring once and he doesn’t even look embarrassed.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re starin’ again.”
He shrugs. “Yeah. I am.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile too hard, and fix your hair.
When you both step out of the room together, the morning air hits different. Cooler. Brighter.
And of course — someone notices.
Glenn is halfway across the yard when he spots you both exiting from the same doorway.
He stops mid-step.
His eyebrows shoot up.
He looks from you.
To Shane.
Back to you.
A slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. “Oh.”
Shane immediately stiffens. “Don’t.”
Glenn raises his hands. “Hey, I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t gotta,” Shane mutters.
You cross your arms casually. “Good morning, Glenn.”
“Morning,” he says, still grinning like he just uncovered the world’s most obvious secret. “Sleep well?”
As he walks off, you nudge Shane lightly with your elbow.
He looks annoyed.
But there’s a faint pink creeping up the back of his neck.
“You embarrassed?” you ask under your breath.
He looks down at you.
“Not even a little,” he says firmly.
Then quieter—
“…Just ain’t used to people lookin’ at me like that.”
You tilt your head. “Like what?”
“Like I got somethin’ good.”
The weight of that hangs between you for a second.
You don’t say anything.
You just reach for his hand — quick, subtle — squeezing once before letting go.
And this time?
He doesn’t pull away.
You and Shane split off the second you hit the yard.
He heads toward the fence line with that same purposeful stride — shoulders squared, scanning everything. You go the other direction, helping sort supplies near the porch, trying to shake the quiet warmth from earlier.
It still lingers.
The way he looked at you.
The way he said he didn’t hate wanting something soft.
You’re mid-task when Glenn’s voice cuts across the farm.
“Hey! Everyone — can you come here for a second?”
There’s something tight in it.
Too tight.
People start drifting toward the center of the yard — Maggie, Andrea, Dale, even Rick stepping out from the house. You catch Shane’s eye from across the way. He’s already suspicious.
Glenn stands there, nervous energy practically vibrating off him. Maggie is beside him, pale.
“What’s goin’ on?” Rick asks.
Glenn swallows. Looks at Maggie. Then back at the group.
“There’s… there’s walkers in the barn.”
Silence.
Not confused silence.
Heavy silence.
“What?” Andrea breathes.
“In the barn,” Glenn repeats. “Hershel’s been keepin’ them in there. He thinks they’re sick. Not dead.”
The world seems to tilt.
You look at Shane.
And you see it happen.
His entire body goes rigid.
“What’d you just say?” he asks, voice low. Too low.
Rick steps forward. “Shane—”
“No.” Shane’s eyes are locked on Glenn now. “Say it again.”
Glenn hesitates. “There’s walkers in the barn.”
That’s it.
That’s the spark.
Shane lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“Shane,” Rick starts carefully, but it’s too late.
“They’ve had us livin’ here,” Shane snaps, turning in a slow circle like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Sleepin’ here. Eatin’ here. And they got a barn full of biters twenty feet away?”
“They’re not biters,” Maggie says quickly. “They’re people. They’re sick—”
“They are dead!” Shane roars.
The yard goes still.
You’ve seen him angry.
You’ve seen him intense.
But this is different.
This is fear dressed up as fury.
“They’re not people anymore,” he continues, voice shaking with restrained rage. “You open that door, they’re comin’ out. And then what? We just hope they stay polite?”
Rick steps closer. “We can handle this calmly.”
“Calm?” Shane scoffs. “You wanna handle it calm? There are walkers in the damn barn, Rick!”
You move without thinking, closing the distance between you and him. Not touching yet — just close enough.
“Shane,” you say firmly.
His eyes flick to you.
For half a second, the storm pauses.
“They didn’t tell us,” you say quietly. “That’s the problem.”
His jaw tightens. “The problem is they’re breathin’ next to us and you all wanna have a discussion about it.”
Dale steps in. “They’re not breathing, Shane. And they’re not a threat if the barn stays shut.”
“Until it don’t,” Shane shoots back.
He runs a hand over his shaved head, pacing now.
“You all wanna pretend this ain’t what it is? Fine. But when that door breaks and they’re tearin’ into somebody, don’t act surprised.”
Rick’s voice hardens. “We are guests here.”
“And we’re alive because we don’t ignore threats!” Shane fires back.
The tension between him and Rick is thick enough to choke on.
You step closer finally, placing a hand on Shane’s arm.
It’s solid. Coiled tight.
He looks down at your hand like he’s debating something.
Then back at you.
He’s not embarrassed.
He’s not ashamed.
He’s terrified.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says quietly to you. “Tell me that ain’t a disaster waitin’ to happen.”
You hold his gaze.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” you answer carefully. “I’m saying if you explode right now, no one’s gonna hear you.”
That lands.
He exhales sharply through his nose, eyes still burning.
Across the yard, Hershel stands on the porch now, having heard everything.
“They are my family,” Hershel says firmly. “And they are not monsters.”
Shane’s head snaps toward him.
“They will eat you,” Shane says flatly.
The calm of the morning is gone.
Whatever softness existed between you two an hour ago?
It’s buried under survival now.
But when Shane moves forward, ready to keep pushing —
He doesn’t shake your hand off.
And that says more than anything.
The yard slowly disperses after Hershel retreats back into the house and Rick calls for everyone to cool off.
But Shane doesn’t cool off.
He storms toward the fence line, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he needs something to hit.
———
You follow him.
“Shane,” you call, keeping your voice steady.
He doesn’t stop.
“Shane.”
He spins around suddenly, eyes blazing. “What?”
You step closer anyway. “You don’t get to just blow up and walk off.”
He lets out a sharp breath. “I ain’t blowin’ up.”
“You are.”
He laughs — humorless. “You got no idea.”
“Then tell me,” you push.
And that’s when it breaks.
“How do you think I feel?” he snaps, voice cracking with frustration. “Knowin’ they got walkers right there — right by where you’re sleepin’?”
Your brows knit together.
“If they break out,” he continues, stepping closer, “they can get to you before I can.”
The words hang heavy.
It isn’t control.
It isn’t ego.
It’s fear.
You cross your arms. “I can protect myself.”
“Yeah?” he fires back instantly. “Like at the quarry?”
Your stomach drops.
His voice gets sharper. “Yeah — see how great you protected yourself then? When I had to come and pull one off you?”
That hits harder than he probably means it to.
You stare at him.
The memory flashes — dirt, blood, hands grabbing, panic.
Your jaw tightens.
“Fuck you,” you say quietly.
His expression shifts immediately — like he didn’t expect that.
The story focuses on the slow, quiet tension between him and the reader… the looks, the arguments, the almost-moments that buildup.
(There will be smut!! So this fic is 18+!!)
(No smut in this part though!)
You throw on the first thing you can and head downstairs, nerves buzzing under your skin.
The farmhouse is quiet — too quiet. Then you remember.
Carl.
Your steps slow as you near the downstairs bedroom where he’s recovering. The door’s cracked open.
You peer inside.
Carl’s awake in bed, propped up carefully, pale but alert.
And Shane’s there.
Sitting in the chair beside him, elbows on his knees, talking low and steady like nothing in the world matters more than that kid breathing.
Relief hits so hard your knees almost give.
Shane looks up first.
Your eyes meet.
There’s no regret.
No distance.
Just that same look from last night — but tucked away, controlled.
Carl notices you lingering in the doorway.
He squints slightly.
“Did you brush your hair?”
You freeze.
Your hand immediately goes up to your messy, very obvious bedhead.
Shane presses his lips together, shoulders tensing like he’s physically restraining himself.
You clear your throat. “I was… eager to see how you were doing.”
Carl nods slowly, unconvinced but too tired to push it. “You look like you just rolled outta bed.”
Shane looks down at the floor, jaw tight, fighting a smile.
You shoot him a warning look.
He finally glances up at you, eyes warm — amused, knowing.
“Oh, she did,” he says casually. “Roll outta bed.”
Your mouth drops slightly.
“Shane,” you warn.
Carl looks between you both again, confused. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly, stepping further into the room. “How’re you feeling?”
You move to the other side of the bed, adjusting Carl’s blanket, focusing on him — but you can feel Shane’s gaze on you.
Heavy.
Private.
When Carl starts talking about how the stitches itch, Shane leans back in the chair, arms folding across his chest.
He watches you.
Not like last night.
Not heated.
But proud.
Like you being there — messy hair, clearly flustered — fits into his world in a way he didn’t expect.
And when Carl finally closes his eyes again, drifting back to sleep, Shane stands slowly.
He steps closer to you, lowering his voice.
“Eager, huh?”
You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “Shut up.”
He huffs a quiet laugh — the soft kind he doesn’t let many people hear.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “Ain’t nobody thinkin’ nothin’.”
But the look he gives you says he is.
And he doesn’t look like he regrets a single second of it.
Carl’s breathing evens out again, soft and steady.
———————————————————————
You and Shane step just outside the room, leaving the door cracked so you can still hear if he needs anything.
The hallway feels quieter now. Smaller.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
You cross your arms lightly. “You could’ve woken me.”
Shane leans back against the wall, watching you carefully. “You were out.”
“That’s not the point.”
His jaw shifts. Not defensive — just choosing his words.
“You looked peaceful,” he says finally. “First time I seen that since all this started.”
Your expression softens slightly.
“I didn’t wanna take that from you.”
The tension in your chest eases, but you don’t let him off that easy. “I woke up and you were gone.”
His eyes flicker with understanding.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quietly. “Wasn’t leavin’. Just… needed air. Needed to make sure the place was secure.”
A beat.
“And I meant what I said.”
You hold his gaze.
“About not walkin’ away,” he continues. “About this not bein’ some quick mistake.”
His voice lowers just slightly.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean. Not about that.”
There’s no bravado in it. No heat. Just certainty.
“You matter to me,” he adds. “That’s the truth of it.”
The words land heavier than anything from last night.
You search his face for doubt.
There isn’t any.
“You just looked so calm,” he says again, softer now. “Didn’t wanna wake you up and make you start thinkin’.”
A small almost-smile tugs at your mouth. “Too late.”
He huffs quietly at that.
“I’m still here,” he says, stepping a little closer. Not touching — just close enough to feel his warmth. “Ain’t disappearin’ on you.”
You nod slowly.
“Okay.”
And it’s simple. Not dramatic. Not some grand declaration.
Just two people in a farmhouse hallway, choosing each other in a world that doesn’t make promises.
Shane studies you one more second before brushing his knuckles lightly against your hand — subtle, private.
“I’ll wake you next time,” he mutters.
You squeeze his fingers once before letting go.
“Good.”
Carl shifts faintly in the room behind you, the old farmhouse settling with quiet creaks.
Shane glances toward the staircase, then toward the front door.
Then back at you.
There’s that crooked, almost boyish smile he doesn’t show often.
“What?” you whisper.
He scans the hallway dramatically, leaning slightly to check the corners like you’re about to commit a felony.
“You actin’ suspicious,” you murmur.
“Just makin’ sure,” he says under his breath.
“Making sure of what?”
“That we ain’t got an audience.”
Before you can respond, he steps in close — fast but gentle — one hand sliding to your waist. It’s not heated like last night. It’s lighter. Easier.
His forehead bumps yours for half a second.
Then he kisses you.
Quick.
Soft.
But sure.
Not desperate.
Not rushed.
Just intentional.
His thumb presses lightly into your side like he’s anchoring himself for that split second.
You barely have time to react before he pulls back, grin tugging at his mouth.
“You’re trouble,” he mutters.
“You started it,” you shoot back quietly.
He chuckles under his breath, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” he says. “Guess I did.”
He gives one last glance toward Carl’s door, then back at you — expression settling into something steadier.
“I’ll be outside,” he says. “Holler if he needs me.”
And just before he turns to leave, his fingers brush yours again — quick, private, almost invisible.
Then he’s out the door, boots heavy on the porch steps, slipping back into guard mode like nothing happened.
But the small smile lingering on your face?
That says everything.
The farmhouse door creaks as you step outside.
———————————————————————
Rick and Shane are standing near the truck, voices low but intense. Daryl’s off to the side, checking bolts. Glenn’s leaning against the porch railing, half-listening, half-observing like he always does.
“…we sweep the west treeline again,” Shane is saying. “If she doubled back, she could be near the creek.”
Rick nods once. “Fine. We split it.”
Shane’s eyes flick up when he notices you. Just for a second.
There’s no smile.
No softness.
Nothing that would give anything away.
Just business.
He points at the dirt map. “Daryl takes north. Rick, you and T-Dog head toward the fence line.”
Then, after the smallest pause—
“You’re with me.”
It’s said the same way he’d assign anyone else.
Firm. Neutral.
But Glenn’s head tilts slightly.
You feel it — that almost-smirk forming.
You shoot him a sharp look immediately.
He lifts his brows innocently. “What?”
“Nothing,” you mutter.
But then you notice something else.
Andrea’s gaze flickers between you and Shane.
Dale squints slightly from under his hat.
Even Rick watches Shane for a beat longer than necessary.
Not suspicion exactly.
Just… noticing patterns.
Shane doesn’t react. If he feels it, he buries it.
He walks over and hands you a rifle without touching you. Not even a brush of fingers.
“You good?” he asks, voice flat, professional.
“Yeah.”
There’s a layer between you now — intentional distance.
Rick steps closer. “This isn’t about comfort. It’s about coverage.”
Shane doesn’t bite back. “She can shoot.”
Simple. Direct.
No extra weight to it.
You step forward before it turns into something. “I’ll take left flank. We’ll keep spacing.”
Rick nods once.
Glenn leans toward you as everyone disperses. “You two always get paired up now?”
You give him a deadpan look. “We’re looking for a kid, Glenn.”
He holds his hands up. “Okay. Okay.”
———————————————————————
As you and Shane head toward the tree line, there’s space between you — deliberate, careful.
Every snapped twig or rustling branch makes both of you glance up, hoping it’s Sophia — and fearing it’s a walker. The sun filters through the trees in broken patches of light as you and Shane move slowly through the forest.
He’s a few steps ahead, scanning the ground for tracks.
You’ve been quiet most of the morning.
Too quiet.
Finally you speak.
“Shane.”
He glances back. “Yeah?”
You hesitate for a second before saying it.
“Are you gonna be able to do this?”
He slows down a little. “Do what?”
You gesture between the two of you.
“This. Whatever… this is.”
Shane’s expression shifts, like he already knows where this conversation is going.
You sigh and look down at the ground as you walk.
“Look, I know you. Or at least… I know the reputation.” You shrug slightly. “You’re basically a bachelor. Never really stuck around anywhere too long. Never wanted anything serious.”
He huffs quietly but doesn’t interrupt.
“And I’m not saying I want anything serious either,” you add quickly. “I’m just saying… things are already complicated enough.”
You finally look up at him.
“Walkers everywhere. People dying. Sophia missing.”
Your voice softens.
“And we slept together last night.”
That makes him stop walking completely.
You stop too, turning toward him.
“I just… don’t want to be confused,” you admit. “Or left wondering what the hell is going on between us.”
You cross your arms slightly.
“I don’t need relationship drama on top of everything else.”
For a moment Shane just watches you, the usual cocky confidence replaced by something quieter.
“Last night wasn’t just… some random thing,” he finally says.
You tilt your head a little. “Then what was it?”
He rubs the back of his neck, thinking.
“Look, before all this?” he says. “Yeah. I didn’t stick around. Didn’t want to.”
You nod slightly. “That’s exactly my point.”
“But this ain’t before all this,” he says, gesturing around at the empty woods.
You both pause as a distant walker groan echoes through the trees.
When the noise fades, Shane looks back at you.
“World’s gone to hell,” he says. “People are dropping every damn day.”
His voice lowers.
“If I was just looking for something easy… I wouldn’t be getting mixed up with someone like you.”
Your eyebrows lift slightly.
“Someone like me?”
He steps a little closer.
“Yeah,” he says. “Someone who actually matters. You don’t bullshit.”
The words clearly surprise you.
You glance away for a second, trying not to show it.
“I’m not asking you for forever, Shane,” you say quietly. “Nobody even knows if forever exists anymore.”
He nods once.
“But I also don’t want to wake up tomorrow wondering if last night meant anything to you.”
Shane studies your face for a long moment.
Then he sighs.
“You think I’d still be walking out here with you if it didn’t?”
You shrug a little.
“You’re hard to read.”
He chuckles under his breath.
“Yeah, well… you’re the one who came looking for me this morning.”
You roll your eyes slightly but a small smile slips through.
After a moment he gestures forward with his chin.
“Come on. Sophia’s still out here somewhere.”
You start walking again beside him.
After a few steps you mutter,
“You’re still kind of a pain in the ass.”
Shane smirks.
“Yeah,” he says. “But you didn’t seem to mind too much last night.”
You shove his shoulder lightly as you both continue deeper into the woods, the tension between you no longer quite as uncertain as it was before.
The story focuses on the slow, quiet tension between him and the reader… the looks, the arguments, the almost-moments that buildup.
(There will be smut in this eventually so this is 18+! Read at your own discretion)
*SMUT AHEAD DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE A MINOR*
The clippers go quiet.
A minute later, the bathroom door opens.
You glance up — and stop.
There stands Shane.
His head is freshly shaved. The softness is gone. No distractions. Just sharp lines and tired eyes and that jaw set like stone.
You tilt your head slightly.
“Huh.”
He narrows his eyes. “What.”
You push off the wall slowly, walking a slow circle around him like you’re inspecting something.
“It suits you,” you say, quieter this time. “Didn’t think it would. But it does.”
His hand comes up, rubbing awkwardly over the back of his head. He almost looks… self-conscious.
“It’s just easier,” he mutters.
“Mhm.” Your gaze lingers a second too long. “Sure.”
He clears his throat and brushes past you toward one of the bedrooms. You watch him go. The way his shoulders are tight. The way something feels off.
You follow.
The door clicks shut behind you.
He stiffens instantly.
You step closer. “What happened?”
He doesn’t turn at first.
Silence stretches.
“I couldn’t keep up,” he finally says.
Your stomach drops.
“Otis… he was slowin’ down. We were runnin’. They were everywhere.” His voice is controlled, but it’s too controlled. “He grabbed me. Pulled at my head. At my hair.”
His fingers twitch at his sides.
“He was panicking. Didn’t know what he was doin’. But if he held on—” He swallows. “We both would’ve been dead.”
You don’t interrupt.
“I saw it,” he says, staring at the wall. “The choice. Clear as day.”
His voice lowers.
“So I made it.”
The words sit between you.
“I shot him.”
Your chest tightens, but you don’t move back.
“He didn’t have to die like that,” Shane adds, quieter now. “But I wasn’t dyin’ there. Not like that.”
He finally turns to look at you — and there it is.
The fear.
Not of what he did.
Of what you’ll think.
You just hold his gaze.
“You came back,” you say evenly.
His jaw shifts.
“Carl’s alive because you did.”
He studies your face like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You step closer instead.
Your hand lifts, brushing lightly over the shaved side of his head. The new growth is rough under your palm.
“It’s not just hair you cut off,” you murmur.
His breath catches slightly.
“No,” he says quietly. “It ain’t.”
And for the first time since he walked in, he doesn’t try to pretend he’s fine.
He just stands there.
Letting you see him.
Your fingers linger on the stubble of his scalp, tracing the sharp edges where hair once softened his features.
Shane's eyes hold yours, the vulnerability cracking through his tough exterior like fissures in stone.
The room feels smaller, the air heavy with unspoken truths from the world outside—the groans of walkers a distant hum, irrelevant now.
He swallows hard, his hand still covering yours against his head.
“You scared of me now?” he asks, voice low and rough, like gravel under boots.
His gaze searches your face, bracing for rejection.
You shake your head slowly, thumb brushing the warm skin at his temple.
“No.”
His jaw tightens, a flicker of something dark crossing his eyes.
“You should be.”
The words hang there, a warning wrapped in confession.
You don't flinch, don't pull away.
Instead, you lean in just a fraction, your voice steady.
“Well, I'm not.”
Shane's breath hitches, and he closes the space between you in one deliberate step, his body heat enveloping you like a shield.
His free hand rises to cup your cheek, calluses rough against your skin, but his touch is gentle, tentative.
“I care about you,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, raw honesty bleeding through.
“More than I should in this shit world. But things change so damn fast—people get ripped away. I can't let you in like that, just to watch you go.”
Your heart aches at the fear etched in his features, the man who's faced down herds of the dead now trembling at the thought of loss.
You reach up, your hand covering his on your cheek.
“You won't,” you whisper, the promise simple but fierce.
You hold his gaze, unblinking, the intensity building like a storm on the horizon.
Seconds stretch into eternity, neither of you moving, the connection electric and unbreakable.
“Fuck it.”
Shane breathes, and then his mouth is on yours—soft at first, a brush of lips testing the waters, then deepening with a hunger that's been simmering too long.
His hand slides to the nape of your neck, holding you close as his tongue slips past your lips, tasting you with a quiet desperation.
He pulls back just enough to search your eyes, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling.
“Tell me to stop if this isn’t what you want”
he says, voice husky, giving you the out.
But you do want it.
You surge forward, capturing his lips again, your hands fisting in his shirt as the kiss turns heated, tongues tangling, bodies pressing closer.
Heat blooms low in your belly, a spark igniting into flame.
Shane groans softly into your mouth, his arms wrapping around your waist.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his hips as he carries you the few steps to the bed.
He lays you down gently on the worn sheets, his body following, hovering above you as the kiss lingers, slow and consuming.
You break away just long enough to tug your shirt over your head, exposing your bare skin to the cool air of the room.
Your breasts rise and fall with quick breaths, nipples tightening under his gaze.
Shane mirrors you, peeling his shirt off in one fluid motion, revealing the hard lines of his chest and the faint scars from battles past.
His eyes darken with want, but he moves with care, lips trailing down your body. He starts at your hip, just above the waistband of your pants, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your stomach.
His tongue flicks out, licking a slow path upward, then sucking lightly on the soft skin below your navel.
You arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips as he continues, kissing and nipping tenderly up to the swell of your breast, his mouth closing around one nipple.
He sucks gently, tongue swirling, drawing another moan from you—deeper this time, needy.
He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“That feel good?'”
he asks, voice warm, checking in.
“Yes,”
you breathe, hand threading through the short stubble on his head, the texture grounding you.
Satisfied, he kisses you again, deep and reassuring, his weight settling partially over you.
You sit up slightly, fingers moving to his belt, fumbling with the buckle in your haste.
But Shane's hand catches yours, stilling the motion.
He pulls back from the kiss, searching your face.
“Is this what you want?”
he asks, serious now, thumb stroking your wrist.
You turn the question back, voice soft but sure.
“Is this what you want?”
He nods, relief flashing in his eyes.
“Yeah. I do.”
With that, clothes come off in a tangle—pants sliding down legs, underwear discarded.
Shane's divk stands thick and huge, veins prominent along its length, the head flushed with arousal.
You wrap your hand around it briefly, feeling the heat , but he guides you both down, positioning himself between your thighs.
He rubs the tip along your slick folds, coating himself, then presses in slowly, inch by inch.
The stretch is intense, your yielding to his size, walls fluttering around him.
“You okay?” he asks, pausing halfway, concern etching his brow.
“Yes,”
you gasp, adjusting to the fullness.
“Please just move. Need it. Need you.”
He chuckles low, a warm sound that eases the tension, and begins to thrust—slow at first, deep and measured, building a rhythm that's intimate, each slide drawing gasps from you both.
You hold onto his shaved head, fingers gripping the rough stubble as he moves, your other hand clawing lightly at his back, nails leaving faint trails on his skin.
Shane holds you close, one arm braced beside your head, the other hand cradling your hip. His mouth finds yours in between thrusts, kissing you deeply, murmuring praises against your lips.
“Fuck me.”
he whispers, voice breaking on a groan.
“So perfect like this.“
The passion builds steadily, bodies moving in sync, sweat-slick skin sliding together.
Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, the angle hitting just right.
Pleasure coils tight in your core, and when it snaps, you cum hard—your clenching around his dick, a gush of wetness squirting out, soaking his length and the sheets beneath.
“Shit,” Shane breathes, awe in his voice, eyes wide as he watches you unravel.
But he doesn't stop, thrusts slowing only to draw it out, his own release building.
He pulls out at the last second, stroking himself once, twice, before cum spills hot across your stomach in thick ropes.
He groans your name, body shuddering above you.
Panting, he grabs a nearby cloth—damp from earlier washing—and wipes you clean with gentle strokes, careful not to miss a spot.
Then he collapses beside you, pulling you into his side, arm draped possessively over your waist.
Your head rests on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
The silence is comfortable, broken only by your shared breaths evening out.
You trace idle patterns on his skin, then lift your head to meet his eyes.
“What does this mean now?'”
you ask softly, the question hanging with hope and uncertainty.
—
Your head rests against his chest, his heartbeat finally slowing under your ear.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Shane’s never been good with words when they matter.
His hand is still on your waist, thumb moving back and forth absentmindedly like he’s grounding himself. Like if he stops touching you, you might disappear.
“What does this mean now?” you ask again, softer.
He exhales through his nose.
“It means I shouldn’t have done it,” he mutters automatically.
You lift your head slightly. “That’s not what you feel.”
His jaw tightens.
“I don’t do halfway,” he says after a beat. “You get mixed up with me, it ain’t casual. It ain’t some ‘we’ll see.’ It’s… all in.”
There’s fear under it. Not commitment — fear.
“Because people die,” he adds quietly. “Because I make calls like the one I made tonight. Because I’m not the guy who waits around hopin’ things work out.”
You study him.
“Are you asking what we are,” he says slowly, eyes finally meeting yours, “or are you askin’ if I’m gonna walk away in the morning?”
You don’t answer right away — and that’s answer enough.
His hand slides up your back, firm now.
“I’m not walkin’ away,” he says. “Not from you.”
The words are steady. Certain.
“But this?” He gestures vaguely between your bodies. “This means you’re with me. Not just when it’s easy. Not just when I’m the guy flirtin’ in the hallway.”
His voice lowers.
“It means when I make the hard calls… you stand beside me. Or you tell me I’m wrong to my face. But you don’t disappear.”
You feel the weight of that.
In this world, that’s more than dating.
It’s choosing sides.
It’s survival.
“So what are we?” you ask one last time.
A flicker of something almost shy crosses his face.
He brushes his thumb along your jaw.
“You’re mine,” he says quietly — not possessive, but certain. “And I’m yours.”
Not ownership.
Alignment.
Partnership.
After everything that happened tonight — after Otis, after the shave, after the confession — this isn’t about lust.
It’s about who stands next to who when things get ugly.
And Shane pulls you closer, pressing his forehead against yours.
“We don’t gotta label it,” he murmurs. “We just gotta not run.”
For the first time since he walked back into that farm, he doesn’t look like a man bracing for impact.
He looks like a man who decided something.
And this time, he chose you.
You wake up reaching for him again.
Empty.
Your stomach drops instantly.
The sheets are cold on his side, his weight gone, the dent in the mattress already fading. For a split second your mind runs wild — maybe he pulled back, maybe he decided last night was too much.
You sit up fast, scanning the room. His boots are gone. His shirt is gone.
The story focuses on the slow, quiet tension between him and the reader… the looks, the arguments, the almost-moments that buildup.
(There will be smut in this eventually so this is 18+! Read at your own discretion)
The next morning comes and everyone is making groups to look for sophia.
“me and shane will take the east part of the woods. Daryl Carol Andrea will take the west.” Rick spills out the plan to everyone.
“ I want to help.” Carl steps forward.
“No.” Lori bark at Carl.
“He will be with us.” Rick stands with a hand on Carls shoulder.
Shane looks like he wants to attest but doesn’t
———————————————————————
The highway feels too quiet.
Too still.
Cars baking under the Georgia sun. The smell of rubber and rot hanging in the air. You’re kneeling beside the RV, digging through a med bag for anything useful for T-Dog’s arm while Glenn hands you gauze and Dale keeps watch from the roof.
Shane and Rick had left not even twenty minutes ago.
Carl trailing after them.
You didn’t like it. You said nothing.
Then—
A gunshot.
Sharp. Close enough to echo between the cars.
Your head snaps up so fast your vision blurs.
Everything in you goes cold.
Shane.
That’s the only name in your head. Not Rick. Not Carl.
Shane.
Glenn freezes. “You heard that, right?”
T-Dog tries to stand too fast, wincing at his arm. “That came from the tree line.”
Dale climbs halfway down the ladder. “Nobody panic.”
But everyone is already panicking.
Your hands are shaking before you even realize it. You drop the roll of gauze and don’t bother picking it up. Your chest feels tight—like someone reached in and squeezed your lungs.
“What if—” Glenn starts.
“Don’t,” you cut him off, sharper than you mean to.
Because if he says it out loud, it becomes real.
Another distant shout carries through the woods. You can’t tell whose voice it is.
Lori, Andrea, and Daryl had already been out searching another stretch. Now there’s a gunshot. No radio. No signal.
Dale’s trying to be calm. Glenn’s pacing. T-Dog’s swearing under his breath.
And you—
You’re already moving.
“I’m going,” you say.
Glenn grabs your arm. “We don’t know what that was.”
“That’s exactly why I’m going.”
Your voice cracks just slightly—and you hate that they can hear it.
Dale studies you. He sees it. The fear you’re trying to hide.
“You’re thinking about Shane,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer.
Because yes.
You’re thinking about how he looked this morning adjusting Carl’s hat. How he told you he’d be back before dark. How he brushed your shoulder when he walked past you like it didn’t mean anything—but it did.
What if that gunshot was—
No.
No.
You swallow hard and pull free from Glenn’s grip.
“If something happened out there, I’m not standing on this highway waiting to find out.”
The woods suddenly feel too close. Too full of secrets.
And for the first time since the herd—
You feel real fear.
Not for yourself.
For him.
———————————————————————
You burst through the trees so fast you nearly slam straight into Daryl.
He whirls, crossbow up. “What the hell—”
“It’s me,” you say quickly, hands up.
Glenn stumbles out behind you, out of breath. Lori and Andrea are right there too, all of you keyed up from the gunshot.
Then you hear it—
Hoofbeats.
All of you turn as a girl rides out from between the trees on a horse, pulling hard on the reins to stop in front of you.
Daryl steps forward immediately. “Who the hell are you?”
She looks between all of you, focused. “Names Maggie Greene. Your boy—Carl? He’s been shot.”
Everything goes still.
Lori’s face drains. “What?”
“He’s alive,” Maggie says quickly. “My dad’s working on him. He’s a vet. We brought him back to our farm.”
Lori moves toward the horse instantly, but Daryl grabs her arm. “Hey— you can’t just go ridin’ off with some stranger.”
Maggie looks at him, steady. “Rick and Shane are there. They carried him in.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
You step forward. “They’re okay?”
She nods. “Yes. They’re fine. Only Carl’s been shot.”
You exhale, tension easing just slightly.
Daryl narrows his eyes at her. “Where’s this farm?”
“Two miles that way,” she says, pointing. “Dirt path past the creek. Big white house on a hill. You’ll see the barn.”
Lori’s already climbing up behind Maggie. “Take me. Please.”
Maggie nods. “Hold on.”
Daryl looks between you all, still skeptical, but he lets them go. The horse takes off through the trees with Lori clinging tight.
He turns back to the rest of you. “We’re movin’. Now.”
———————————————————————
And just like that, you’re all heading toward this farm you’ve never seen — hoping when you get there, everything’s still under control.
You and Daryl move fast back toward the highway, not saying much.
Glenn keeps pace beside you, breathing hard. Andrea’s just ahead. Nobody’s joking now. Nobody’s talking about supplies.
Just one thing on everyone’s mind.
Carl.
When you break through the trees and reach the highway, Dale climbs down from the RV immediately.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Carl’s been shot,” Glenn says quickly. “He’s alive. They took him to a farm nearby.”
T-Dog curses under his breath. Dale goes still for half a second, then nods. “Alright. We move.”
No debate.
You all pile into the vehicles. Engines roar to life. The RV lurches forward, following Daryl’s directions toward the dirt path Maggie described.
The ride feels longer than it probably is.
You sit stiff in your seat, staring out the windshield as trees blur past. Your stomach twists every time you think about Carl lying on some stranger’s table.
He’s just a kid.
But underneath that worry is something else you’re trying not to focus on.
Shane.
Maggie said he was fine. Rick too. Only Carl was shot.
You repeat that to yourself.
He’s fine.
Still, your mind won’t stop running through scenarios. Was he the one holding Carl? Was there blood all over him? Did he blame himself? You know how he gets — how heavy he carries things.
The RV turns onto a narrow dirt path.
And then you see it.
A white farmhouse sitting on a hill. A big barn off to the side. Fencing. Open land stretching out behind it.
Everyone goes quiet.
This place looks… normal.
Too normal.
The vehicles pull up and stop. Before the engine’s even fully dead, you’re already standing.
Anxious about Carl.
And yeah — worried about Shane too.
Not dramatic. Not panicked.
Just needing to see for yourself that he’s standing.
Carol’s still going back and forth when Daryl suddenly shakes his head.
“Damn it,” he mutters. “We ain’t doin’ no good standin’ out here arguin’.”
He adjusts the crossbow on his shoulder. “We go check the kid. We come back at first light.”
Andrea nods. “I’m going.”
Glenn hesitates, torn, but finally stays with Carol. “We’ll keep watch here tonight. Just in case.”
You don’t wait for anything else.
The three of you start up the dirt path toward the farmhouse. It’s quiet except for your boots in the gravel and the wind moving through the fields.
When the house finally comes fully into view — white paint, big porch, barn off to the side — something in your chest tightens.
This is real.
Carl is inside.
Rick is inside.
Shane is inside.
You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until you step onto that porch. Your pulse is steady but heavy in your ears.
Andrea knocks once before pushing the door open.
The smell hits first — antiseptic, blood, sweat.
You step inside.
And then you see him.
———————————————————————
Shane’s standing near the kitchen doorway, hands on his hips, jaw tight, a smear of dried blood across his shirt that definitely isn’t his.
He looks up.
You feel it immediately — the rush of relief you didn’t want to admit was there.
He’s standing.
He’s breathing.
He’s fine.
Your eyes scan him once — quick, subtle.
No wounds.
He catches it.
“I’m good,” he says, like he knows exactly what you were checking for.
You nod once, trying to keep it neutral. “Good.”
Rick’s voice carries from down the hall where Hershel is working on Carl.
You swallow and shift your focus. “How is he?”
Shane’s expression hardens slightly. “Still in surgery. Bullet’s lodged in there.”
You nod again, forcing your attention back to Carl.
But the truth is—
Seeing Shane upright and unhurt steadied you more than you expected.
And you hate that he probably knows it.
The house is loud in a quiet way.
Low voices. Footsteps. The weight of waiting.
At some point you step away from the others, down the short hallway near the spare bedroom. You don’t even realize Shane followed until the door shuts softly behind you.
It’s the first second alone since you walked in.
Now that you’re this close, you really see it.
His shirt is stiff with blood. Dark. Dried in some places, still smeared across his forearms.
Your stomach drops.
“Is that—”
“Carl’s,” he says quickly. “It’s Carl’s.”
You step closer anyway, eyes scanning him. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Up close, he looks wired. Jaw tight. Eyes a little too focused. Like he’s holding himself together by force.
And before you can overthink it, you just step forward and wrap your arms around him.
He freezes for half a second — surprised.
Then his arms come around you automatically.
Solid. Grounding.
You press your face against his chest, not caring about the blood. “I was scared,” you admit quietly. “When we heard the shot… I didn’t know—”
His hand moves up the back of your head. Firm. Steady.
“I’m okay,” he says, low and certain. “I’m right here.”
You nod against him, breathing him in, just making sure he’s real. That he’s standing. That he’s not the one on a table down the hall.
After a second, he pulls back slightly — just enough to look at you.
“There’s more,” he says.
Your stomach tightens again.
“Hershel doesn’t have what he needs. He can’t finish without proper surgical supplies. Rick and I— we gotta go get ‘em.”
You stare at him. “Go where?”
“A high school. Medical wing.”
Of course it’s dangerous.
Of course it is.
You don’t want to argue. You don’t want to make this about fear or feelings or anything else when Carl is down the hall fighting for his life.
So you swallow.
You nod.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Just… make it back.”
His eyes hold yours for a second longer than necessary.
“I will.”
And you believe him.
You let go first.
He heads for the door, already shifting back into mission mode.
You stand there a second longer, staring at the blood on your hands from hugging him.
Then you wipe them on your jeans and square your shoulders.
Carl needs them to make it back.
So you’re going to believe they will.
———————————————————————
You’re still standing on the porch when you hear it.
An engine.
Faint at first — then louder.
Headlights cut through the dark at the end of the dirt road.
Your heart jumps into your throat.
The truck pulls in fast, gravel crunching under the tires. It barely stops before the driver’s door swings open.
Shane jumps out.
Alone.
For half a second, you don’t even process that part. You just see him upright, moving, alive.
You run down the steps before he even shuts the door.
He looks up just in time for you to reach him, and you throw your arms around him without hesitation.
He stiffens in surprise — then wraps you up just as tight.
He smells like sweat, gunpowder, and something metallic.
“You’re okay,” you breathe against him.
“I’m okay,” he answers, a little rough.
You pull back just enough to look at him, hands gripping his jacket like you need to make sure he’s solid. “We didn’t know if—”
“I’m here,” he says firmly.
Only then does your brain catch up.
You glance past him.
There’s no one else getting out of the truck.
“Where’s Otis?” you ask quietly.
Something shifts in his expression — fast, almost hidden.
“He didn’t make it,” Shane says. “Walkers got him.”
The words land heavy.
You swallow, chest tightening — but right now, relief overrides everything else.
Because Shane is standing in front of you.
Alive.
You pull him back into another hug, tighter this time.
Inside, the front door swings open. Rick rushes out, eyes locking onto the medical bag in Shane’s hand.
“You got it?” Rick demands.
Shane nods and hands it over. “Everything they had.”
Rick doesn’t waste another second. He runs back inside toward Hershel.
You stay right where you are, still holding onto Shane for just one more second.
He exhales slowly, like now that he’s back, the adrenaline’s finally catching up to him.
“You should go in,” he says quietly. “He needs that stuff.”
You nod, but before you step away, you look at him one more time.
“Don’t disappear like that again,” you say softly.
He doesn’t smile.
But his hand squeezes yours once before letting go.
And for now —
He’s here.
———————————————————————
You sit on the porch steps, elbows on your knees, staring out at the dark fields.
Inside, you can hear movement. Metal trays. Low voices. The kind of sounds that mean something serious is happening.
You haven’t moved in a while.
The door creaks open behind you.
Bootsteps.
Shane lowers himself down beside you without saying anything at first. The wood shifts under his weight.
For a minute, it’s just the sound of crickets.
“What’s goin’ on in that head?” he finally asks.
You stare straight ahead. “Nothing.”
He huffs lightly. “Yeah. Okay.”
Silence again.
You want to say it. That when you heard the shot, your stomach dropped. That when he didn’t come back with Otis, you were terrified for a second that you’d lose him too.
But the words won’t form.
And he doesn’t push.
After a moment, he nods slightly, like he understands anyway.
“I know you care,” he says quietly.
You glance at him.
“And I do too.”
It hangs there.
Not defined. Not labeled.
Just understood.
Neither of you are ready to put a name on it. In this world, names make things fragile.
So instead, he looks out over the fields and starts talking.
“He was lookin’ at a deer,” Shane says. “Big one. Just standin’ there in the clearing. Real calm.”
You listen.
“Carl stepped closer. Curious. Like kids are.” His jaw tightens slightly. “Didn’t even hear the shot at first. Just saw him drop.”
Your chest tightens.
“It was fast,” Shane continues. “One second he’s standin’ there, next he’s on the ground bleedin’ everywhere. Rick was yellin’. I was yellin’. And he just… looked scared.”
His voice lowers.
“It changes that quick.”
You swallow.
He rubs his hands together like he’s still trying to shake the memory off.
“One second everything’s normal. Next second it ain’t.”
There’s more behind what he’s saying.
You can hear it.
He doesn’t look at you when he adds, quieter, “You don’t get time to prepare.”
You finally turn toward him.
He’s not talking about just Carl.
He’s talking about how fast people die. How fast things get ripped away.
How fast something good can turn into something gone.
“I was scared too,” you admit softly.
His eyes flick to yours.
Not dramatic. Not panicked.
Just honest.
He nods once, almost relieved you said it.
For a second, his hand shifts like he might reach for yours.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he stands up slowly. “He’s strong. He’s gonna fight.”
You stand too.
And without saying it — without promising anything — you both understand something quiet and steady:
You care.
But in a world where everything changes in a second,
Neither of you are ready to risk saying it out loud.
The story focuses on the slow, quiet tension between him and the reader… the looks, the arguments, the almost-moments that buildup.
(There will be smut in this eventually so this is 18+! Read at your own discretion)
“What was that?” you ask quietly. “Back there. What did you mean?”
His smirk falters.
For a split second, he looks like he might actually answer.
But then his eyes shift — past you.
Over your shoulder.
His expression hardens instantly.
Every trace of humor gone.
“What?” you start.
He moves fast — grabbing your arm and pulling you toward the line of abandoned cars.
“Shane—”
“Shut up,” he hisses. “Get under.”
“What are you— are you seriously just ignoring what I asked?”
He drops to the ground beside a low sedan, practically shoving you down with him.
“Under the car. Now.”
You twist, annoyed — until you hear it.
The low, distant moan.
Then another.
You turn your head.
A herd.
Dozens of them spilling over the rise in the highway, slow but steady. Too many to outrun. Too close to fight.
Your stomach drops.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
He slides under the car first, then pulls you in tight beside him. Gravel digs into your elbows. The metal frame presses inches above your back.
Walkers shuffle past, boots dragging through dirt, shadows crossing over you.
Your breathing turns shallow.
Shane’s arm comes around you instinctively, pulling you closer against his chest.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs low near your ear. “Don’t move.”
You nod, but your hands are shaking.
One walker stumbles close enough that you see rotted fingers brush the tire inches from your face.
Your breath stutters.
Shane tightens his grip immediately, his hand pressing against the back of your head, tucking you into his chest so you don’t have to see it.
“I got you,” he whispers. “You’re good.”
You’re pressed flush against him — his body solid and warm, heart steady against your cheek. His other hand grips the knife at his belt, every muscle in him coiled and alert.
Protective.
Focused.
Completely tuned to you.
Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking.
Another pair of feet shuffle past.
Then another.
Time stretches painfully slow.
You feel him shift slightly, angling his body so he’s between you and the open side of the car.
Even under here, even trapped, he positions himself as your shield.
“You okay?” he whispers again.
You nod, but your voice betrays you. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t call you out on the lie.
Instead, he presses his forehead lightly against yours in the cramped space.
———————————————————————
The herd eventually passes.
The highway falls quiet again — too quiet.
You and Shane crawl out from under the car slowly, both of you dust-covered and tense. The teasing from earlier feels like it happened days ago.
Then—
A scream.
High-pitched. Terrified.
“Sophia!”
You snap your head toward the woods just in time to see Sophia bolt between the trees.
“Rick!” Carol cries.
Rick doesn’t hesitate. He runs after her instantly.
Carol tries to follow, but Shane grabs her shoulders, holding her back.
“Let him go!” he snaps, firm but not cruel. “He’s faster alone.”
“She’s my baby!” Carol sobs, struggling against him.
“I know!” Shane shouts. “But you run in there blind, we lose you too!”
You stand frozen for a moment, your heart still not fully recovered from the herd. Everything feels unreal — like the world keeps tipping sideways and never settles.
Eventually, the chaos shifts into movement.
People spread out to search nearby cars again. To keep busy. To not think.
You move mechanically, opening doors, checking backseats.
You’re still in shock.
Shane notices.
He approaches slowly this time, not crowding you like before.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod automatically. “Yeah.”
He studies you. Doesn’t buy it.
“What’s on your mind?”
You shrug, avoiding his eyes. “Nothing.”
He huffs lightly. “That’s a lie.”
You glance at him. “You first. What’s on yours?”
For a split second, he looks caught.
Because he knows what you mean.
The water truck.
The almost-kiss.
The question you asked.
He shifts his weight. “Sophia,” he answers too quickly.
You hold his gaze.
“Right.”
Before you can push further, Rick bursts back onto the highway alone.
Confused.
Breathing hard.
“She ran into the woods,” he says, scanning the group. “Told her to stay put. She didn’t come back.”
Carol collapses into sobs.
Panic spreads instantly.
You move without thinking, kneeling beside her and wrapping your arms around her shaking frame.
“We’ll find her,” you whisper, even though your own chest feels hollow. “Rick’s gonna find her.”
Daryl grabs his crossbow and nods at Rick. “We’ll track her.”
They disappear into the trees together.
———————————————————————
The sun dips lower. Shadows stretch long across the highway.
Shane keeps moving. Organizing. Redirecting people. Doing anything except standing still near you.
And you notice.
Every time you look up, he’s somewhere else.
Helping Dale. Checking weapons. Scanning the woods.
Avoiding you.
“Okay,” a voice mutters beside you.
You look up to see Glenn watching you carefully.
“What?” you ask.
He lowers his voice. “What’s going on with you and Shane?”
You blink innocently. “Nothing.”
Glenn raises an eyebrow. “Really.”
“Yes.”
He leans closer. “I walked around that water truck.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “So?”
“So,” he says flatly, “you two looked like you were about two seconds from setting off another explosion.”
You scoff softly. “That’s dramatic.”
He studies you for a second longer — then smirks slightly. “You care about him.”
You don’t answer.
He nods like that’s confirmation enough. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Before you can respond, movement stirs at the tree line.
Rick and Daryl emerge.
Empty-handed.
Carol’s face falls instantly.
Rick shakes his head. “Lost the trail in the dark.”
Silence swallows the group.
“We go again at first light,” Daryl says firmly.
No one argues.
———————————————————————
As the camp settles uneasily for the night, you catch Shane looking at you from across the vehicles.
He looks like he wants to say something.
Instead, he turns away.
And that might bother you more than if he’d just fought with you.
Night settles heavy over the highway
The air cools, but it doesn’t ease anything.
You spot him on watch near the edge of the vehicles, rifle resting against his shoulder, silhouette sharp against the dim glow of the moon.
Shane doesn’t turn when you approach.
“I was wondering how long it’d take you,” he mutters.
You cross your arms. “You can’t just avoid me.”
“I ain’t avoidin’ you.”
“You’ve barely looked at me since this afternoon.”
He exhales through his nose, still scanning the tree line. “We got bigger problems.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Finally, he looks at you.
And he’s guarded.
Hard.
“You asked me something earlier,” you say quietly. “And you didn’t answer.”
His jaw tightens.
“Look what happened right after,” he says, voice low but edged. “A herd rolled through. Kid’s missing in the woods right now.”
His eyes flick toward the dark trees.
“You should be thinkin’ about that.”
It stings more than you expect.
“I am thinking about that.”
“Then focus on that,” he says firmly. “Not… whatever this is.”
There’s frustration under his tone. Not anger at you — but something he doesn’t want to deal with.
You search his face for a second longer.
“You’re the one who started it,” you remind him softly.
He shakes his head slightly. “Bad timing.”
“That’s all it is?”
He doesn’t answer that.
Instead, he looks back out into the dark.
Conversation over.
The distance between you feels wider than the stretch of highway.
You stand there a second longer, waiting for him to soften. To explain. To say something that makes sense of it.
He doesn’t.
So you nod once, more to yourself than him.
“Okay.”
And you walk back to the RV.
⸻
Inside, it’s cramped and tense. Carol’s quiet sobs drift from the far end. The engine ticks as it cools.
You sit down heavily and pull your knees up slightly.
That’s when you notice it.
You’re still wearing his jacket.
It’s too big on you. The sleeves swallow your hands. It smells faintly like him — soap, sweat, gun oil, something warm and familiar.
You don’t remember putting it on tonight.
Maybe he handed it to you earlier without thinking.
Maybe you grabbed it without realizing.
You stare down at it, fingers brushing the worn fabric.
He pushes you away.
Tells you to focus.
Acts like whatever almost happened didn’t matter.
But he still makes sure you’re warm.
Still positions himself between you and danger.
Still notices when you’re shaken.
You sink back against the RV wall, confused and tired.
Outside, you can hear his boots shifting occasionally as he patrols.
You close your eyes.
You don’t know what this is.
You don’t know why he pulled back the second it started feeling real.
The story focuses on the slow, quiet tension between him and the reader… the looks, the arguments, the almost-moments that buildup.
(There will be smut in this eventually so this is 18+! Read at your own discretion)
!!Warning!!
There is some suggestiveness and 18+ imagery in this so read at your own discretion.
Morning feels wrong before you even know why.
The air is too quiet.
You walk into the breakfast area and immediately spot Shane at the table, elbows braced, head in his hands.
He looks wrecked.
“You look like hell,” you say, grabbing a bottle of water and sliding into the seat across from him.
He squints up at you. “Appreciate that.”
“Whiskey girl held up better than you,” you tease.
He gives a weak smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”
Dale’s voice cuts in from across the room.
“Doc… what’s that clock for?”
Everyone turns.
On the wall behind Jenner, a red digital clock ticks down.
Jenner hesitates.
“Just… a timing mechanism.”
The number keeps dropping.
Rick steps forward. “Timing for what?”
Jenner finally exhales. “The building runs on generators. Once the fuel reserves deplete, the system initiates decontamination.”
A cold wave rolls through the room.
“What does that mean?” Glenn asks.
Jenner’s voice is flat.
“It means the facility will self-destruct. It prevents the spread of any remaining pathogens.”
Silence.
You feel it settle in your chest.
Shane stands up slowly.
“What do you mean self-destruct?”
“The doors closed last night,” Jenner says quietly. “And they will not reopen.”
Everything explodes at once.
People shouting. Demanding.
Shane turns to you. “What the hell does that clock mean exactly?”
“It means we don’t have much time,” you say, stomach dropping. “When it hits zero, this place blows.”
Panic erupts.
Shane snaps.
He rips his gun from his waistband and storms toward the control consoles.
“OPEN THE DAMN DOORS!” he roars.
He starts firing — bullets ripping through screens, glass shattering, sparks flying.
“Shane!” you shout.
Jenner shouts back, “It won’t matter! Once I sealed them, they were never meant to open again!”
Rick tackles Shane from behind, slamming him to the floor.
“Are you done?!” Rick yells.
Shane struggles for a second, pure fury in his face.
You rush forward.
“STOP!” you scream at Shane. “You could be shooting the one computer that can get us out of here!”
That hits him.
He freezes.
Breathing heavy.
The gun lowers.
The clock keeps ticking.
Jenner stares at all of you — at the chaos, the fear, the will to survive.
“You still want to live,” he murmurs.
Rick steps closer. “Yes.”
Jenner hesitates… then moves back to the main console.
“I can give you a chance. That’s all it will be.”
He overrides part of the lockdown. Not the main doors — but a blast corridor.
“You’ll need something to breach the exterior doors.”
Rick’s eyes flick to Carol — who presses something into his hand.
A grenade.
From his old uniform.
The clock is nearly done.
Everyone scrambles.
You grab Shane’s arm, dragging him toward the exit corridor.
“Move!” you yell.
The group sprints down the narrow hallway as the alarms begin blaring.
Red lights flash.
Rick pulls the pin.
“GO!” he shouts.
The grenade detonates.
The blast blows the doors outward.
Heat roars behind you.
You and Shane dive out into the open air as fire erupts from the building, the CDC exploding in a violent wave of flame.
You hit the pavement hard, ears ringing.
Smoke billows into the sky.
You roll over, heart pounding —
Dale and Andrea stumble out, coughing.
You scan behind them.
No Jackie.
Andrea realizes at the same time.
Her face crumples.
The building collapses inward, flames consuming everything.
Shane pushes himself up beside you, chest heaving, soot streaked across his face.
You’re alive.
Barely.
But alive.
And now there’s nowhere left to run but forward.
———————————————————————
Glass rains. Fire blooms into the sky. The world shakes.
You and Shane peel out of the parking lot in the jeep, smoke swallowing the rearview. The others are ahead — the RV swerving through chaos while Rick keeps shouting directions out the window.
Then the engine sputters.
Shane looks down at the gauge.
Empty.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
The jeep jerks and dies.
Behind you, walkers are already staggering toward the noise of the explosion.
“Go!” Shane barks, grabbing the supply bag from the back. “Run to the RV — don’t look back!”
You don’t argue. You sprint.
Your lungs burn as the RV door swings open and Glenn waves you in. “Where’s Shane?!”
“He’s right behind me!”
But when you turn —
He isn’t.
You see it happen.
The bag slips from his shoulder as he runs. It hits the pavement and spills slightly. He hesitates — just for a second — then turns back for it.
“No!” you scream from the RV doorway. “Shane, leave it!”
Walkers pour between abandoned cars, drawn by the blast, by the shouting, by him.
He disappears behind a sedan.
You can’t see him anymore.
Your hands clamp around the RV doorframe as you scream his name over and over. Your voice cracks, breaks — you’re half out the door before Rick grabs you.
“You go back out there, you’re dead!” he snaps.
“He’s gone!” you choke. “He’s gone!”
Gunshots echo.
One. Two. Three.
Then silence.
Your stomach drops so hard you think you’re going to pass out.
Smoke drifts across the highway.
For a split second, you truly believe that’s it. That he got swarmed. That you watched him choose a bag over himself.
Over you.
Then—
A figure bursts from behind the cars.
Shane.
Breathing hard. Blood splattered across his shirt. The bag slung back over his shoulder.
He shoves a walker down and sprints full force toward the RV.
Glenn and Rick lean out, grabbing his arms and hauling him inside as hands swipe inches from his boots.
The door slams shut.
You don’t even think.
You throw yourself at him.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you sob, hitting his chest once before gripping his shirt like if you let go he’ll vanish again. “I thought you were gone. I thought—”
He’s still catching his breath, but his hands wrap around your arms, steady and firm.
“I wasn’t gonna let ‘em take me,” he says low, almost shaken despite himself. “Not today.”
“You scared me,” you whisper, voice breaking. “You should’ve left it.”
His forehead rests against yours for half a second — something raw flickering there that he usually hides.
“That bag has food and medicine,” he murmurs. “Ain’t leavin’ that.”
But his grip tightens just a little like he understands something else now —
He almost didn’t make it back to you.
The RV lurches forward just as the CDC collapses into a fireball behind you.
Inside, it’s chaos for a second — heavy breathing, shaking hands, the smell of smoke and sweat and gunpowder.
Then it settles.
Too quiet.
Shane’s still got the bag slung over his shoulder. You’re still clutching the front of his shirt like if you let go he’ll disappear again. Your eyes are red. Your breathing uneven.
And everyone sees it.
———————————————————————
Rick is the first to look away. Not uncomfortable — just… noticing. Filing it away.
Glenn raises his brows slightly, then pretends to busy himself checking ammo.
Andrea gives you a long look — not judgmental. Just aware.
Even Dale, up in the driver’s seat, watches through the mirror for half a second longer than necessary.
No one says anything.
But they all saw you break.
They all saw the way your voice cracked when you thought he was gone.
And Shane notices too.
You finally realize you’re still gripping him and step back, wiping your face quickly like it didn’t just happen. Like you didn’t just come apart at the thought of losing him.
He adjusts the bag on his shoulder, jaw tight.
But he’s not looking at the group.
He’s looking at you.
Different.
There’s no cocky smirk. No teasing remark about you “gettin’ all worked up.” Just something heavy settling in his chest.
“You thought I was dead,” he says quietly — not mocking. Not amused.
You don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is written all over your face.
“I couldn’t see you,” you finally say. “You disappeared.”
The RV hums down the highway. Fire glows behind you through the back windows.
For the first time, Shane doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t brush it off.
His voice drops lower, meant only for you.
“You were screamin’ my name.”
It’s not a question.
You swallow.
“And?”
He studies you for a long second — like he just realized something that’s been building for a while now. Something neither of you have said out loud.
You weren’t just scared.
You were wrecked.
And he felt it.
His hand brushes yours — subtle, quick — but grounding.
“Didn’t know I mattered that much,” he mutters.
You meet his eyes.
“Don’t test it again.”
That almost-smile tugs at his mouth, but it’s softer than usual. Not teasing.
Something protective shifts in him — deeper than before. Not just instinct. Not just responsibility.
Personal.
And the group may not say it.
But everyone in that RV knows something changed the second you thought you lost him.
The RV finally limps to a stop on the side of the highway.
Steam curls from under the hood. The silence after the engine dies feels heavier than the explosion at the CDC.
Everyone spills out.
Dale and T-Dog get to work under the hood.
Rick organizes pairs to scavenge the stalled cars littering both sides of the highway.
You don’t even look around.
Shane falls into step beside you like it’s automatic.
No one comments on it.
But they notice.
⸻
The heat presses down hard. Sun bouncing off metal.
The smell of old gasoline and something worse.
You move down the line of cars together, quietly checking doors, popping trunks, scanning for walkers in backseats.
He keeps slightly ahead of you.
Always between you and the open road.
You reach into a sedan, digging through a glove compartment. He leans against the frame, watching the tree line.
After a minute, he says it.
“You really thought I was gone back there.”
You don’t look at him.
“I didn’t see you.”
“That ain’t what I asked.”
You slam the glove box shut a little harder than necessary and move to the next car.
He follows.
“I heard you,” he continues. “Screamin’ my name like that.”
You roll your eyes, keeping your voice steady. “Everyone was screaming.”
“Not like you.”
You open a trunk. Empty.
“Can you drop it?” you mutter.
He steps closer — not crowding, just close enough that you feel the heat off him.
“Why’s it bother you so much?” he asks quietly. “That I know you care?”
You finally turn to face him.
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“Yeah, it does.”
You shake your head and brush past him toward the next SUV. “We almost died in a fireball, Shane. Adrenaline makes people dramatic.”
He lets out a low huff — not convinced.
“You looked wrecked.”
That one hits.
You busy your hands with a duffel in the backseat, avoiding his eyes.
“You matter to the group,” you say evenly. “You’re useful. Of course I didn’t want you dead.”
He steps around the open door, forcing you to look at him.
“That all I am?”
The air shifts.
For a second, it’s too quiet — highway stretching for miles, wind rattling loose car doors.
You swallow.
“You’re reading too much into it.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push harder. Not yet.
Instead, he lowers his voice.
“I ain’t stupid.”
You shrug, trying to brush past him again. “Didn’t say you were.”
He catches your wrist gently — not rough. Just enough to stop you.
“When I disappeared,” he says, “you looked like you lost somethin’.”
Your heart kicks against your ribs.
You pull your hand free, softer this time.
“Focus on the cars,” you say quietly. “Not me.”
For a moment, it almost works.
But when you turn away, you feel his eyes on you.
Not teasing.
Not cocky.
Just aware now.
And the worst part?
You’re aware too.
———————————————————————
Shane spots the water truck first, its massive tank gleaming like a promise of relief.
He grins, that cocky, sun-kissed smile of his, and twists the cap off of a jug.
Cool water gushes out in a forceful spray, soaking him from head to toe.
His t-shirt clings to his broad chest, outlining every ridge of muscle, the fabric translucent against his tanned skin.
Rivulets cascade down his abs, tracing the V of his hips before disappearing into his jeans.
You wander over, drawn by the sound, your eyes locking onto him.
Wild, unfiltered, water dripping from his dark hair, plastering it to his forehead.
You can't help but admire the way the liquid molds his clothes to his body, highlighting the powerful lines of his shoulders and the bulge of his biceps as he holds the hose steady.
He catches your gaze and his smile widens, playful and inviting.
Without a word, he passes the jug to you, his fingers brushing yours just long enough to send a spark up your arm.
You take it, feeling the rush of water as you aim it at yourself.
The cold hits like a shock, drenching your white shirt in seconds.
It soaks through instantly, the thin cotton turning sheer and heavy, clinging to your skin like a second layer.
You tilt your head back, letting the spray cascade over your face and neck, the chill raising goosebumps everywhere it touches.
Shane's eyes widen as he watches.
The water has rendered your shirt completely transparent, revealing the full swell of your breasts beneath, nipples hardening into tight peaks from the cold and the intensity of his stare.
The fabric outlines every curve—the dip of your cleavage, the soft undersides pressing against the wet material, even the faint shadow of your areolas showing through.
Droplets trace paths down your torso, soaking into the waistband of your pants, making your skin glisten.
He breathes out a low, reverent 'fuck,' his voice rough.
You glance down and realize just how exposed you are—the shirt might as well not be there, every intimate detail on display for him.
Heat floods your cheeks, but it's mixed with a thrill that tightens your core.
Shane steps closer, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his body cuts through the cool dampness on your skin.
The air between you thickens, charged with unspoken want.
Your breath catches, hitching in your throat as his presence overwhelms you—close enough to feel the warmth of his exhale, to smell the clean scent of water mixed with his natural musk.
You look up at him, heart pounding, lips parting slightly.
His eyes are dark, intense, locked on yours.
'Do you want me to stop?'
he murmurs, his voice a gravelly whisper.
Hand hovering near your arm as if deciding whether to touch.
Before you can form a word, Glenn's voice cuts through the tension like a blade.
'Hey, what the hell are you two doing over here?'
He rounds the corner of the truck, oblivious, toolbox in hand.
Water drips from your hair and down your spine as Glenn rounds the truck.
He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t even look twice.
“Radiator hose is cracked,” Glenn mutters, already walking past you both.
“Dale’s patching it.”
That’s it.
The moment dissolves without acknowledgment.
You immediately twist the jug shut.
The water cuts off.
Leaving only the hum of heat and the distant clank of tools near the RV.
Your shirt clings shamelessly to you.
You cross your arms over your chest, trying to hide how transparent it’s become.
Shane doesn’t move.
His eyes drag over you slowly, deliberately.
“Well,” he says low, voice rougher than before, “can’t say I hated that.”
You shoot him a glare, though your pulse is still racing. “Oh, please.”
He steps closer, not touching. “Not like I wasn’t enjoyin’ the view.”
You snort softly despite yourself. “You got a pretty good one too.”
Before he can respond, you grab a dry t-shirt from the backseat of a nearby car and yank it over you head unexpectedly.
He lets out a muffled curse as the fabric covers your face.
“There,” you say smugly. “Problem solved.”
You pull the shirt down, hair damp and messy, eyes flashing with amusement.
The story focuses on the slow, quiet tension between him and the reader… the looks, the arguments, the almost-moments that buildup.
(There will be smut in this eventually! So this is 18+ read at your own discretion!)
The heat is still hanging in the air from what happened with Ed.
Everyone feels it.
Jim’s been digging those holes all day. Won’t tell anyone why. Just keeps digging.
Shane finally steps up.
“Jim. That’s enough. Put the shovel down.”
Jim doesn’t even look at him. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t?” He finally lifts his head, eyes glassy, furious. “Huh? I gonna end up like Ed?”
The camp goes quiet.
You step forward before Shane can answer.
“That only happened because he was beating his wife,” you snap. “Don’t twist it.”
Jim laughs — sharp, ugly. “That’s not anybody’s fucking business. That’s their marriage.”
Shane’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t rise to it. He steps closer slowly, hands open.
“Jim. Just give me the shovel.”
For a second it looks like Jim might.
Then he swings.
You gasp — but Shane moves fast. He catches Jim’s wrist mid-arc, twists hard, the shovel clattering to the dirt. In one clean motion he ducks behind him, hooks an arm around Jim’s neck, locking him in a headlock.
“Easy,” Shane growls, tightening just enough to control him. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
Jim thrashes, then finally goes slack, breathing heavy. Shane releases him slowly, keeping himself between Jim and everyone else.
No one says anything.
The tension just sits there.
————————————————————————
Later That Evening
Amy and Andrea come back laughing, arms full of fish they caught down at the quarry. The mood shifts — a little. Enough to pretend things are normal.
A fire’s built. There’s a fish fry. People actually smile.
Rick and the Atlanta group still aren’t back.
You sit near the fire, knee brushing Shane’s. Neither of you mention it, but both of you are watching the road.
Amy gets up, excusing herself to the R.V to use the bathroom
You hear the first scream before you see anything.
It rips through the camp.
Walkers spill out of the dark like they’ve been waiting for the invitation.
“GET DOWN!” Shane roars.
Everything explodes into chaos.
You grab the closest thing — a tire iron — and shove a walker off Jackie before it can bite. Shane is already moving, tackling one away from Carl, slamming it to the ground and crushing its skull with a rock.
More keep coming.
You and Shane fall into step without even looking at each other.
He covers your blind side.
You guard his back.
One lunges for you — you swing, miss — and Shane’s arm hooks around your waist, yanking you back as his other hand buries a knife in the walker’s temple.
“You good?!” he shouts.
“I’m fine!” you snap back, already moving again.
Gunshots crack through the night.
You freeze for half a second —
Rick.
Rick and the others crest the hill, firing into the herd. Daryl’s crossbow twangs. Glenn unloads. Morales shouts.
The walkers start dropping.
Smoke. Screams. Blood.
And then—
Silence.
Shane is breathing hard beside you, chest heaving. His hand is still on your arm like he forgot to let go.
You both turn toward the camp.
Bodies on the ground.
Crying.
Chaos settling into grief.
And Rick is staring at what happened in his absence.
The night that changes everything.
The camp doesn’t feel like camp anymore.
It feels like a graveyard.
Walkers lie scattered in the dirt. Smoke from the fire drifts low. People are crying quietly, too tired to do anything else.
Amy is still in front of the RV.
Still.
Andrea hasn’t moved from her.
⸻
The Discussion
Rick gathers everyone near the trucks. His voice is steady, but his eyes aren’t.
“We can’t stay here,” he says. “They’re moving out of the city now. This place isn’t safe.”
Shane nods once. “He’s right about that part.”
You’re standing near Andrea, watching her hold Amy’s hand like it might still be warm.
Shane continues, voice firm. “Fort Benning. It’s a military base. That’s structure. Guns. Perimeter. That’s where we need to go.”
Rick shakes his head. “We don’t know what’s left at Fort Benning. We don’t know if it even still exists.”
“And you think the CDC does?” Shane fires back.
Rick looks at you all. “If there’s any chance of answers — any chance at understanding what this is — it’ll be there.”
The argument builds.
Fort Benning means soldiers, strength, defense.
The CDC means answers… maybe hope.
You step forward before it turns into something worse.
“Fort Benning is farther,” you say calmly. “Gas matters. We barely have enough as it is.”
Shane glances at you.
You keep going. “The CDC is closer. We check it first. If it’s nothing, we move on. But burning fuel we don’t have on a guess about a base we haven’t even seen? That’s risky.”
Rick’s eyes flicker — he hadn’t thought about the mileage like that.
Shane exhales slowly through his nose. He hates when Rick looks like the reasonable one.
But he knows you’re right.
Andrea suddenly speaks up, voice hollow. “Go wherever you want. Just… don’t leave her alone.”
Everyone turns.
Amy’s body jerks.
A low, wet sound escapes her throat.
She turns.
The entire camp watches.
Andrea’s hands shake as she lifts the gun Rick gave her.
Amy lurches forward, teeth bared, no recognition left in her eyes.
Andrea sobs once.
Then pulls the trigger.
The shot echoes off the quarry walls.
Amy drops.
Silence again.
You feel Shane’s hand brush yours — not romantic, not soft. Just grounding. Like he needs to know you’re still there.
Rick looks around at what’s left of the group now that Morales isn’t coming.
“We leave at first light.”
No one argues.
————————————————————————
The Trip to the CDC
Morning comes gray and heavy.
The bodies are buried. Jim is feverish now — delirious. They leave him beneath a tree at his request. Another goodbye no one was ready for.
Cars are packed tight.
You ride in Shanes Jeep, shotgun resting across your lap. Shane drives. His jaw is set the entire time.
The highway is a graveyard of abandoned vehicles.
Gas siphoning takes forever. Every stop feels dangerous.
The closer you get to Atlanta, the worse it looks.
Shane keeps scanning the mirrors.
“You still think this is the right call?” he mutters low enough that only you hear.
“It’s closer,” you answer quietly. “If it’s a dead end, at least we didn’t waste what little we have.”
He nods once.
Not fully convinced.
But trusting you.
As dusk falls, the city skyline comes into view.
Empty.
Dark.
Dead.
Then—
The CDC building stands ahead behind its gates.
Intact.
But silent.
They pull up. Everyone steps out slowly.
Rick pounds on the door.
Nothing.
Night is falling fast.
Walkers begin to gather behind them.
Panic starts rising.
Shane grips his rifle. “This was a mistake.”
Then—
A metallic clank.
The blast doors begin to open.
A bright white light spills out.
Everyone freezes.
The doors seal behind you with a heavy metallic boom.
————————————————————————
Rick frees himself from Shane trying to drag him back to the cars.
Inside, everything is white. Clean. Bright. It almost hurts to look at after weeks of dust and blood and smoke.
A man in a hazmat suit appears behind the glass.
“Welcome,” he says through the intercom. “I’m Dr. Edwin Jenner.”
He explains the rules. Blood tests first. Safety protocols. No weapons.
One by one, you sit while he draws your blood.
The needle is nothing compared to what you’ve survived.
Shane sits across from you while his sample is taken, jaw tight but eyes flicking toward you like he’s making sure you’re okay.
When it’s done, Jenner surprises everyone.
“There’s hot water,” he says casually. “Showers are down the hall.”
For a second no one reacts.
Then it hits.
Hot water.
People actually laugh — real, shocked laughter.
The mood shifts instantly. Tension melts. For just a moment, it feels like the old world.
⸻
The Shower
The water is almost too hot at first.
You stand under it longer than you mean to. Watching weeks of grime swirl down the drain. Letting yourself feel human again.
When you finally wrap a towel around yourself and step into the hallway, steam still clinging to your skin, you nearly collide with someone turning the corner.
Solid chest. Warm skin.
You look up.
Shane.
He’s only got a towel slung low around his waist, water still dripping down his shoulders. His hair is darker wet. His chest rises slow and steady.
And yeah.
God definitely took his time.
Every muscle in his torso looks carved. Defined from survival and work and tension he carries like armor. Scars you hadn’t noticed before trace along his ribs and shoulder.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
His eyes drop — not subtle — taking in the way your damp hair sticks to your collarbone. The curve of your shoulders. The bare skin above the towel.
A slow smirk pulls at his mouth.
“You clean up nice,” he says, voice lower than usual.
Heat rushes straight to your face because you know he caught you staring.
“Thanks,” you manage, trying to recover. “You too.”
His gaze lingers another second longer than it should.
Something shifts between you. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just… charged.
“See you at dinner?” he asks, tone casual — but there’s something under it.
You nod. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
He gives you one last look — appreciative, steady — before stepping past you down the hallway.
You stand there for a second after he’s gone.
Heart racing.
For the first time since the world ended, the heat in your chest isn’t fear.
And dinner suddenly feels like it might be more interesting than anyone planned.
Dinner almost feels normal.
Plates are full. Music hums softly through the CDC speakers. People are actually smiling — really smiling — for the first time in weeks.
When you step into the dining area, you notice immediately:
The only open seat is next to Shane.
He looks up when you approach, eyes dragging over you for just a second before he leans back in his chair.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he says.
“Could be worse,” you shoot back, sitting down.
Glasses are passed around — wine for most.
You grab the whiskey instead.
Shane notices instantly.
A low laugh rumbles out of him. “That’s a surprise.”
You raise a brow. “What? You thought I was a wine girl?”
“I was getting there,” he smirks, lifting his own glass. “Guess I misjudged you.”
You clink his glass lightly. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The alcohol hits fast. Everyone’s a little looser. Glenn is laughing loudly. T-Dog’s telling a story. Even Andrea manages a small smile.
Then you lean forward slightly, glass still in your hand.
“Doc,” you say, steady but direct, “we didn’t come here for the drinks and the food. What happened here? We’re here for answers.”
The room quiets.
Glenn groans dramatically. “Buzzkill.”
Jenner studies you for a moment. Then he nods slowly.
He walks them through it — the virus, the wildfire strain, the French labs failing one by one. The screens light up with brain scans. Images of reanimation.
The room grows heavy again.
Hope shrinks.
When he finishes, Jenner excuses himself for the night.
But no one is ready to feel that weight just yet.
So the drinking continues.
Laughter grows louder — forced in places, real in others. It’s the kind of night people cling to because tomorrow feels uncertain.
Later
You’re definitely drunk.
Not sloppy — but warm. Lightheaded. The edges of the world a little softer.
You slip out of the dining area, heading down the hallway toward your room, barefoot against the cool floor.
You round a corner —
And nearly collide with a solid chest again.
Shane.
Also drunk.
His cheeks are slightly flushed. His eyes darker. Looser somehow, but still intense.
“Well,” he drawls, steadying you by your arms when you wobble slightly. “You okay there?”
“I’m fine,” you insist, though you’re still holding onto him.
His hands don’t move right away.
The hallway is quieter than the dining room. Dimmer.
“You don’t strike me as a lightweight,” he teases softly.
“You don’t strike me as someone who talks this much,” you counter.
A slow grin spreads across his face.
“You got me there.”
There’s a beat.
His hands are still on you.
You’re close enough to feel the warmth coming off him. The faint scent of soap and whiskey.
“You ever think,” he says quietly, voice lower now, “about what happens if this place doesn’t work out?”
The question hangs between you.
Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt without thinking.
“Then we keep going,” you answer. “Like we always do.”
His gaze drops to your mouth for just a second too long.
Then back to your eyes.
“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmurs.
You swallow.
“You’re drunk.”
“Maybe,” he admits. “But I’m not wrong.”
Neither of you move.
The air feels heavier than it should.
For a split second, it looks like he might lean in.
Instead, he exhales slowly, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your arm before he lets go.
“Get some sleep,” he says, softer now. “Big day tomorrow.”
You nod, even though your heart is pounding in your ears.
“Night, Shane.”
“Night.”
You walk to your room on shaky legs — and it’s not just the whiskey.
Behind you, he stands in the hallway a second longer than he should before turning away.
“He ain’t dead,” Shane cuts in. “And if he is, it ain’t ‘cause we didn’t try.”
You look between Rick and Shane.
You understand both of them.
Rick stands for what’s right.
Shane stands for keeping everyone breathing.
“Small group,” Shane says finally, staring at Rick. “Not the whole damn camp.”
Rick nods once. “Small group.”
Shane releases Daryl slowly. Daryl spins around but doesn’t charge again — just glares.
You step beside Shane quietly.
“You’re not wrong,” you tell him under your breath.
He exhales through his nose.
“Neither is he,” you add.
Shane glances at you sideways.
“Don’t start,” he mutters.
But there’s no real heat in it.
Just the weight of knowing this world doesn’t make anything simple anymore.
The camp slowly settles after the blow-up.
Rick’s off talking logistics. Daryl’s pacing like a caged animal. The air still feels charged.
Shane stands a little apart from it all, arms crossed, staring at nothing.
You walk up beside him.
“You okay?” you ask quietly.
“I’m fine,” he answers immediately.
You don’t buy it.
He exhales, jaw tight. “I just think it’s selfish.”
“Rick?”
“Yeah.” His eyes flick toward where Rick’s standing. “He just got back. Lori and Carl finally got him back. And now he’s ready to run back into that mess for Merle Dixon?” He shakes his head. “That ain’t leadership. That’s ego.”
“It’s principle,” you say gently.
“It’s dangerous,” he counters. “You don’t gamble your life for a guy who’d spit on you.”
You study him for a second.
“You still thinks hes going to get him?”
He hesitates.
“…Yeah.”
Of course he knows Rick is.
————————————————————————
Later that afternoon, you’re down by the water doing laundry with Andrea, Jacqui, Carol, and Amy.
The mood is lighter down here. Quiet chatter. Scrubbing clothes against rocks.
Andrea’s rolling her eyes about the earlier fight. “Men and their egos.”
Amy snorts. “You’re not wrong.”
Then—
A shadow falls over the group.
Ed.
He’s already irritated about something. Always is.
“What’s this?” he sneers. “Social hour?”
No one answers him.
He steps closer, kicks at the pile of laundry, then suddenly grabs a wet shirt and tosses it hard into Andrea’s chest.
“Watch it,” Andrea snaps.
Ed points at you. “You better shut the hell up too.”
You straighten slowly. “No one was talking to you.”
He steps forward aggressively. “I’ll knock both you and her on your asses.”
Carol flinches beside you.
“Ed, just stop,” she murmurs.
He turns on her instantly.
“Come on,” he growls, grabbing her arm roughly. “We’re done here.”
“Let go of her,” you snap.
He backhands Carol across the face.
The sound cracks through the quarry.
Everything freezes for half a second.
Then—
Boots pounding.
Shane.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He grabs Ed by the collar and slams him backward onto the ground so hard it knocks the breath out of him.
“What the hell—?!” Ed starts, but Shane’s fist connects with his jaw before he can finish.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Blood sprays.
“Shane, stop!” you yell.
Andrea and Jacqui are shouting too.
Ed tries to cover his face, but Shane grabs him by the shirt and punches again.
“You don’t ever lay a hand on a woman!” Shane roars.
Carol is crying.
“Stop! You’re gonna kill him!” Amy screams.
You rush forward and grab Shane’s arm.
“Shane! That’s enough!”
He’s breathing hard, eyes wild with fury.
You pull harder.
He jerks his arm free instinctively—and shoves you back.
You stumble, nearly falling into the gravel.
That’s what makes him freeze.
He looks at you.
Really looks at you.
The anger drains just enough for realization to hit.
Ed lies bloody and barely conscious beneath him.
Shane stands slowly, chest heaving.
The camp is silent except for Carol’s quiet sobbing.
Shane wipes blood from his knuckles without breaking eye contact with you.
No one argues.
But the air feels different now.
He didn’t just protect.
He lost control.
The woods are quieter now.
The shouting from camp has faded into low murmurs.
You’re still standing a few feet from him, arms crossed, heart pounding from everything that just happened.
“You shoved me,” you repeat.
Shane runs a hand over his head, jaw tight. He looks frustrated — but not at you.
“I didn’t shove you like that,” he says.
“You knocked me back.”
His eyes flick up to yours.
“I didn’t want you to get hit.”
The words come out rough. Immediate.
You blink. “What?”
“He was swinging,” Shane says, voice low but intense. “I saw him tryin’ to get up. You grabbed me and you were right there. If he’d come up blind, you’d have taken it.”
You replay it in your head.
The chaos. The shouting. Ed trying to cover his face.
“You don’t know that,” you argue, but it’s weaker now.
“I do,” he insists. “I wasn’t about to let him catch you with one.”
The anger in his posture shifts — not rage now.
Protectiveness.
“That’s why you pushed me?” you ask.
He nods once.
“Yeah.”
Silence settles between you.
“I wasn’t thinkin’,” he admits. “Just saw you in range and moved you.”
You exhale slowly.
“You could’ve said that.”
He gives a humorless half-smile. “Didn’t exactly have time for a polite warning.”
Despite yourself, your shoulders loosen a fraction.
“You still went too far,” you say.
He doesn’t argue.
“Yeah,” he agrees quietly.
The wind moves through the trees.
“I didn’t want you getting hit,” he repeats, softer now.
Something in his expression shifts — not angry, not defensive.
Just honest.
You study him.
“I can handle myself,” you tell him.
“I know you can,” he replies immediately. “That ain’t the point.”
“Then what is?”
He steps half a step closer.
“The point is I don’t wanna see you get hurt.”
The words hang there.
Not dramatic.
Not possessive.
Just true.
You swallow.
“I wasn’t going to let him hit me,” you say quietly.
“I know,” he says again. “But I wasn’t gonna risk it.”
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The tension from earlier is still there — but it’s different now.
Less anger.
More understanding.
“You can’t fight the whole world for me,” you say softly.
He exhales.
Just as he’s going to respond to you, you’re walking away. Half cocked and pissed off.
You shake your head and turn away from him.
“I can’t do this right now.”
You start walking back toward camp.
Boots crunch behind you fast.
“Hey—” Shane grabs your wrist and spins you back toward him. “Don’t just walk away.”
“Let go,” you snap.
He releases you immediately, but steps in front of you so you can’t keep going.
“I don’t understand why you’re mad at me,” he says, voice rising. “I was trying to protect you. Keep you from getting in the middle.”
“You almost killed him!” you fire back. “With your bare hands, Shane!”
“He hit her!” he shoots back.
“And you were going to beat him into the ground!”
“I know my limits,” he says sharply. “I wasn’t gonna kill him.”
“You didn’t look like you knew your limits.”
That hits.
His jaw tightens hard.
“I wasn’t gonna kill him,” he repeats, lower this time. “I had control.”
“You didn’t,” you argue. “You were gone.”
He runs a hand over his face, frustrated.
“Keeping you out of the way was more important,” he says. “You were right there. I saw him tryin’ to come up. I moved you.”
“You shoved me.”
“I moved you,” he insists. “Because if he’d gotten one clean shot at you, I’d have—”
He cuts himself off.
You cross your arms.
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“And you don’t get to just walk away when I’m talkin’ to you,” he snaps.
You stare at him.
“Why?”
“Because this ain’t easy for me,” he says, voice cracking just slightly around the edges. “You think it’s simple? Seeing that and not reacting? You think I enjoy losin’ it like that?”
The anger in him shifts — less explosive, more exposed.
“I’m tryin’ here,” he says. “I’m tryin’ to keep people safe. I’m tryin’ to keep you safe.”
“I didn’t ask you to lose control.”
“I didn’t ask to see him hit her either!” he fires back.
Silence slams between you.
He exhales hard, pacing one step before stopping in front of you again.
“I know what I look like when I get like that,” he says quieter. “And I hate it. But I’m not gonna stand there and watch it happen.”
You hold his gaze.
“I don’t need you turning into something you don’t like just to prove you care,” you say.
His eyes flicker at that.
“That ain’t what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
He hesitates.
“It’s me not wanting to see you hurt,” he says finally.
You soften slightly, but the frustration is still there.
“You don’t have to almost kill someone to prove that.”
“I wasn’t gonna kill him,” he says again, stubborn but less sharp.
“You can’t always be the one who hits harder,” you reply.
He studies you, breathing slower now.
“This world doesn’t give you clean options,” he mutters.
“Neither does love,” you say before you can stop yourself.
That lands heavier than either of you expected.
He goes quiet.
“I’m not your enemy,” you add softly.
“I know that.”
“Then stop acting like I am when I call you out.”
He nods once.
It’s small.
But it’s something.
“You don’t get to just walk away,” he says again, but this time it’s not aggressive. It’s almost vulnerable. “Not when I’m tryin’ to explain.”
