~23~
To him, she is beautiful.
Always.
Moving with the grace of a dancer.
Even when exhaustion takes over.
When she kills, the knife clutched in her capable hands, her skin spotted with freckles of blood.
When she bakes, kneadling the dough with strong hands, traces of flour across her cheeks.
When she makes love to him, taking him deep, letting her nails lightly scratch across the marred skin of his back.
Leaving marks of love.
To him, she is beautiful.
Laughing with him.
Crying in his arms.
Softly snoring in her sleep.
Putting walkers down.
Writhing under him.
Whimpering his name.
Moaning in pleasure.
To him, she is beautiful.
Always,
