".. 'M sorry, dollface." he sighs, shaking his head. The dim moonlight casts off your face, shimmering in your tears and making you look like an angel, the two of you sat here on the porch of the Greene house, his arm over your shoulders.

The group's always been like this: split into two sides, Rick's righteous do-gooders, and Shane's brutalist survivors. The latter is more unpopular. It tends to just consist of you and him versus everyone else, with all the issues. Arguing about heading to Fort Bennett. Choosing what to do about the walkers in the barn. Picking whether to execute Randall or let him go.

Shane's always been more realistic, he's always understood how this new world works, he saw it firsthand in Atlanta. You went through the harsh conditions of the Walker virus all alone before joining the group too, so you understood his views more than anyone else, and that makes everyone else detest you as much as they do him

".. I shouldn't have said anything.." you mumble, jaw quivering. He stares at you, and for once he doesn't coldly tell you to shut up, or to get over yourself, or that you're being too sensitive.

".. don't do that. 'S my fault. They second ya jump onto my side, you're open to 'em." he sighs, calloused fingers carefully holding the side of your jaw.

".. 'S what you get for siding with me, doll."