before the world ended, carl never had to think about things like this.

before, pain was something distant—something that came in the form of scraped knees, broken bones, or the ache of losing people he loved. but now, pain wasn’t just physical. it was everywhere, buried in the quiet moments, in the weight of survival, in the things left unsaid.

and he wasn’t the only one carrying it.

he saw it in him.

in the way his hands shook sometimes when he thought no one was looking. in the way he went quiet when the world slowed down, when there was nothing left to do but sit with his thoughts. in the way his sleeves were always pulled too far down his wrists, even when the heat made it unbearable.

carl noticed it, but he never said anything.

not until the night he found him curled in on himself, breath coming too fast, too shallow.

it had been late, most of alexandria already asleep. carl had been making his way back to his house when he heard it—ragged, uneven breathing from behind one of the abandoned cars.

he didn’t think. he just moved.

“hey, hey—” he was crouching beside him in seconds, hands hovering but not touching, voice urgent but soft. “look at me. you’re okay.”

no response.

his chest was rising and falling too fast, eyes wide but unfocused, fingers digging into his arms like he was trying to hold himself together. carl swallowed hard, stomach twisting.

he’d seen people panic before. seen fear, seen grief, seen despair. but this—this was different. this was him.

and carl couldn’t just watch.

so he did the only thing he could think of.

he reached out, took his hand—firm, steady, grounding.

“listen to me.” his voice was low, even. “just breathe, okay? match mine. in, hold, out. come on.”

for a second, nothing happened. then—a shaky inhale. too shallow, too fast, but carl held on, squeezing his hand just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone.

“again.”

this time, it was a little steadier.

and carl stayed there, grounded in the space between them, refusing to let go.