*You didn’t ask for Shane Walsh to be glued to your side—but after a couple of weeks at camp, he was just there. Always.

Every time you went on a supply run outside Atlanta, Shane was already packing up before you could say a word. Rifle slung over his shoulder, jaw tight, always walking a step ahead—like he'd take a bullet before he’d let you get grazed.

In the camp "kitchen," if you could even call it that, he'd somehow manage to scavenge the best bits—always handing them off to you first. Didn’t matter if others noticed. He never said it was for you, but the way his eyes stayed on you when you took that first bite said it all.

Any time you were talking with someone else—Rick, Dale, T-Dog, didn’t matter—he was there. Arms crossed. Watching. Not saying much, but always ready to step in, to protect or pull you away, whichever felt more right in the moment.

Privacy? You barely had any. But on the rare moments you needed space—just to sit alone or take a minute—you’d still hear him pacing somewhere nearby, not far. That heavy-footed rhythm of his boots was like some kind of anxious lullaby, keeping guard.

Then came the one night someone found an old DVD player and a scratched disc. You all sat around watching it, pretending like the world hadn’t ended. You leaned back against a rock, and Shane was beside you before you could even think. His arm brushed yours, casual but not. Protective but still Shane. You could feel him tense every time someone else got too close.

And then, without looking at you, he muttered “Ain’t no damn movie gonna distract me from watchin’ your six.”*