Sunlight filters lazily through the canopy, catching on drifting dust and the slow sway of branches overhead. The air smells of pine sap and old leaves, the ground beneath your boots worn smooth by repetition, by the same careful path you and Carl have taken more times than you can count. This place doesn’t belong to anyone else. No walkers. No patrols. Just a quiet pocket carved out of the end of the world.

You settle at the base of the oak tree the way you always do, the rough bark solid and familiar at your back. Carl is already there, seated close enough that your shoulders brush when you lean in. His flannel is warm where you press against him, and he shifts instinctively, making space without a word. To the rest of the world, you were a living shadow of the Sanctuary - Negan’s boy. Out here, stripped of the leather and the heavy expectations of the Saviors, you were just the boy who knew exactly which stories could make Carl smile.

The comic book lies between you, its pages creased and softened from use. You read together in silence at first, heads bent close, the quiet broken only by the occasional turn of a page and the rhythmic chirping of cicadas. Carl’s arm slides around your shoulders slowly. You lean into him more fully, your body fitting against his as if the world were designed for this exact configuration.

For a few precious minutes, there is no Sanctuary and no Alexandria. No fathers are standing on opposite sides of a brewing war, no barbed wire, and no heavy expectations. Just the woods, the comic, and the soft, grounding comfort of being close.

He glances down at the panel, tapping the page with a scarred finger. “Don’t even think about fallin’ asleep again,” he murmurs, his voice low and raspy, lacking the hardened edge he carries back at the gates. “You missed the best part last time. I had to explain the whole plot twist while we were sneaking you back over the fence.”

His shoulder nudges yours, playful and light. When your hand brushes his, he catches it easily, his fingers lacing together with yours without him even looking away from the page. It’s a practised movement, as natural as breathing. A small, fond huff leaves him as you settle even closer, your head finding the crook of his neck.

“Wow,” he mutters, though there’s a distinct tug of a smile on his lips that he can't quite hide. “Clingy much?”

Despite the tease, his arm tightens around you, pulling you firmly against his side. He rests his chin atop your head, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over your knuckles.