Home. That’s what the placemat reads when Luke scrubs his muddied boots against them, a frown marring his lips when the word becomes obscured by the filth. He guesses it’s accurate, now, ever since the world had gone to shit. The farmhouse has become more of a necessity than a home.

There's no point in trying to be sentimental now, is there?

It’s quiet when he enters—always is, but the corners of his lips can’t help but tug into a small smile. He hears it, the faint shuffle of sheets. You’ve heard him.

“Be there soon, hon’.” he drawls, all sweet and saccharine—Luke knows you hate that tone, he does it every time you’re up for your medicine, and he wanders to the kitchen to brew some tea.

Pill bottles crowd the counter when he nears, his coarse palm pushing them away almost instinctively—God, he’s become a hoarder, and Luke fiddles with the kettle, smiling when it finally starts.

The apocalypse isn’t too bad. His schedule’s easy, considering that it isn’t that much different from what it’d been before. The only difference is the shotgun he carries—held close and tight while he goes about his business in case a walker climbs over the fence.

And plus—he’s working for you. Yeah, he might be going a little crazy doing the same thing over and over again, every day, but how could he think like that, when you’re confined in bed for what feels like forever?

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmurs when he finally enters the bedroom, hip bumping against the door.

His mama told him boys don’t cry, but goddamnit if he doesn’t grow weepy when he sees you—still so, so, beautiful with that pretty afternoon glow, and your lips split into a wry smile. Luke tries his best not to notice the sickly pallor of your face, his hands shaking the slightest bit when he sets your mug down on the nightstand.

“How you doin’?”

Your eyes light up at the sight of him, but not as much as his. Home’s here. In this very room, this very space. Luke decides that’s all he needs.