𝐲/𝐧 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬

But it wasn’t.

Being there for you was probably the best decision the two of them had ever made.

And you let them in—not just into your house but into your life and heart.

Daryl didn’t get that either. You should’ve known better, should’ve realized they would only bring trouble and heartbreak. It never ended well with him and Merle around. Then again, Daryl figured you didn’t have much left to lose anyway.

You were getting worse by the day, skin paler than it had any right to be, bones jutting out where they hadn’t before. Every time he saw you, it was like looking at a ghost that hadn’t figured out it was dead yet.

And still, you smiled.

Even now, coughing up blood into a tissue, you grinned at them from your spot on the couch like it was just another Tuesday.

“At this point, the Grim Reaper must be scared of me,” you wheezed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Just doesn’t wanna show the fuck up.”

Merle let out one of those wild, barking laughs of his, shaking his head. “Shit, girl, I don’t blame him. You’re stubborn as hell.”

“Damn right.” You stretched, wincing, but you didn’t let it show too much. “I oughta start charging him rent if he’s just gonna keep circling and never really move in.”

Daryl didn’t laugh. He just stood there, arms crossed, watching you like you might disappear between one breath and the next.

Because you might.

Merle, either oblivious or just refusing to acknowledge reality, sprawled out in the recliner across from you, kicking his boots up on the coffee table. “So, what? You gonna outlive all of us just to spite that bony bastard?”

“That’s the plan.”

You and Merle grinned at each other like it was all some big joke.

Daryl didn’t think it was funny.

That night, when Merle was outside smoking and talking shit on the phone to some guy Daryl didn’t care about, he sat on the couch beside you. Not too close—just close enough to remind himself you were still here.

You were wrapped in that same old blanket you always had, the one with holes in it, the one you swore was perfectly fine even though Daryl had half a mind to steal it and replace it with something that wasn’t falling apart.

Your hands trembled when you reached for the glass of water on the coffee table. Daryl saw it before you could pretend otherwise and handed it to you instead.

You nodded in thanks, taking a slow sip before leaning your head back against the couch. “You’re quiet tonight.”

Daryl huffed, staring at a crack in the wall. “Ain’t got nothin’ to say.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He glanced at you, scowling. “No, I don’t.”

You smirked like you knew some big secret. “You get all quiet when you’re mad about something.”

Daryl looked away. He didn’t want to admit you were right. Didn’t want to admit that his heart skipped a beat because you noticed that little fact about him.

You sighed, running your fingers over the rim of the glass. “You don’t gotta be mad for me, y’know.”

He clenched his jaw. “Ain’t mad.”

You gave him a look, all sharp and knowing. “Bullshit.”

Daryl inhaled through his nose, tapping his fingers against his knee. His hands felt restless, like they should be doing something—fixing something, fighting something. But there wasn’t shit to fight. Nothing he could win anyway.

“I don’t like seein’ you like this.” The words came out rougher than he meant, but they were the truth.

You exhaled slowly. “I know.”

“Feels like…” He trailed off, frowning.

“Like what?”

Daryl shook his head, restless energy thrumming under his skin. “Like you’re just sittin’ here waitin’ to die.”

You didn’t look surprised by that. Maybe you’d already thought the same thing yourself. Maybe you’d been thinking it longer than he had.

After a long pause, you said, “I don’t think I’m waiting to die. I think I’m just trying to live while I still can.”

Daryl swallowed hard, shifting in his seat. “That ain’t much better.”

You shrugged. “It’s all I got.”

And maybe that was what pissed him off the most.

That you’d accepted it. That you weren’t fighting. That you were making jokes about the damn Grim Reaper instead of doing something.

He knew it wasn’t fair. Knew this wasn’t something you could punch your way out of. But that didn’t stop the anger from curling hot and sharp in his chest.

Didn’t stop him from wanting to do something.

You must’ve seen it written all over his face because you sighed and nudged his arm with your knee. “C’mere, Dixon.”

He frowned. “For what?”

You patted the couch beside you. “Just come here.”

Daryl hesitated, then shifted closer. You tugged the edge of your blanket over his lap and leaned your head against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Daryl froze, shoulders tense. “The hell you doin’?”

“Relax, would you?” You sighed, closing your eyes. “You feel like a damn rock.”

He let out a breath through his nose but didn’t move away.

“You ever just let yourself be still?” you murmured.

He didn’t answer.

You hummed, like you already knew. “You should try it sometime.”

Daryl stayed stiff for a long moment before slowly letting himself relax.

Just a little.

Your breathing was steady, soft—like maybe, for the first time in a while, you weren’t in pain. Like his presence was better than any painkiller you’d ever taken.

And for the first time in a while, Daryl let himself believe—for just a second—that maybe you’d still be here tomorrow.

Rick glances at him, just for a second, before casting his gaze back to the fire. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask. If Daryl wants to talk, he’ll let him.

Daryl exhales, shaking his head. “Real dead girl walkin’.” A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Would’ve fit right in.”

Rick frowns, waiting.

“She’d have liked me callin’ her that, too,” Daryl continues, voice quieter now. “Had a sick sense of humor. Always laughin’ at shit she shouldn’t. Couldn’t ever tell if she was tough as hell or just didn’t give a damn.” He huffs. “Got along with Merle, though. Ain’t many could say that.”

Rick tilts his head. “That so?”

“Yeah. Thought he was funny. Thought I was funny, too.” Daryl lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “Never did get why.”

A beat of silence stretches between them before Rick asks, “What happened to her?”

Daryl’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t look up. “Hell if I know,” he mutters. “She was barely survivin’ before the end of the fuckin’ world. Always sick, never gettin’ out much. Was born like that.”

Rick watches him carefully, but Daryl just stares into the fire, lost in his own head.

It was a shitty day, too damn hot, and Daryl was already in a bad mood when he stomped up the rusted steps of the trailer.

Merle had dragged him out here to some backwoods lot, said they were meetin’ up with an old buddy for some “business.” Daryl didn’t ask too many questions.

But when the trailer door swung open, the last thing he expected to see was a girl—no older than him—leaning in the doorway with a cigarette between her lips and an amused look in her eyes.

“Merle Dixon,” you drawled, exhaling smoke. “Figured that was your ugly mug pullin’ up.”

Daryl blinked. You were pale—like real pale, the kind that don’t see much sun. Dark circles under your eyes, too, like you never slept. But there was somethin’ about you, the way you looked at him like you already knew him.

“And you,” you said, flicking your cigarette. “You must be Baby Dixon.”

Daryl scowled. “The hell’d you just call me?”

You grinned, tapping your temple. “Good guess. You just got that look, y’know? Like a kicked dog with a temper.”

Merle barked out a laugh, slapping Daryl on the back. “Shit, girl, you nailed ‘im.”

Daryl huffed, crossing his arms. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

You leaned against the doorframe, smirking. You introduced yourself like you were proud of your name. “Ain’t got no fancy title like ‘Baby Dixon,’ though. Guess you’ll just have to come up with somethin’ for me.”

Daryl scoffed. “How ‘bout ‘pain in my ass’?”

Your laugh was loud and real, shaking your head. “I like you, Dixon.”

He rolled his eyes, but damn it if he didn’t kinda like you, too.

Daryl swallows hard, the memory fading. He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face.

“She’d have made it fun,” he says, voice rough. “This whole end-of-the-world shit.”

Rick doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, finally—

“What’d you call her?”

Daryl huffs a quiet laugh. “Dead Girl.” His throat tightens. “She thought it was funny.”

You shouldn’t have left him. You needed him. Murphy was your anchor, your world, and no matter what you felt for Lucille, no matter what this place meant for you now—you would not leave him behind.

The dim glow of the basement faded, replaced by warm sunlight pooling through white sheets.

Murphy’s smile. Bright, boyish, untouched by the weight of the world. He lay beside you, half-hidden beneath the covers, his messy hair a dark halo against the pillow. His blue eyes sparkled as he nudged your side, his body warm and solid against yours.

“You ever think about just staying like this forever?” His voice was hushed, like speaking too loud would shatter the moment.

You smirked, rolling onto your side to face him. “You’d get bored.”

“Nah,” he grinned wider, reaching out to push a strand of hair from your face. “Not with you.”

The sheets filtered the morning light, turning everything soft and hazy. It felt safe here, hidden away from all the bullshit. Just you and him.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re such an idiot.”

Murphy leaned in closer, nose brushing against yours. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

You wanted to freeze time. Keep him here. Keep him safe. Keep him yours.

But the memory fractured—ripped away like torn fabric.

The dim basement light returned, washing the world in cold, sickly yellow.

The silence was unbearable tonight.

You sat at the kitchen table, thumb picking at a loose thread on your sleeve, knee bouncing. Across from you, Lucille sipped weak tea, her expression unreadable. The sound of the chemotherapy bag dripping into her IV filled the space between you. Or maybe that sound was just in your head.

Her gaze flicked toward you. She noticed. The restless energy, the way your fingers twitched like they wanted to wrap around something solid—like they needed something to fight.

“You should get some sleep,” she said gently.

You let out a sharp exhale, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’ll pencil that in right after my mental breakdown.” It came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t bother softening it.

Lucille exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. Her lips twitched, like she wanted to smile but wouldn’t.

“You’re restless.”

“Gee, what gave it away? You should be a detective,” you deadpanned.

She didn’t react to the sarcasm. Just waited. That was the worst part. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just giving you space to step forward or step back.

You rubbed a hand over your face, fingers pressing into your temples as you let out a slow breath. The words weren’t ready to leave you yet. But Lucille was patient. And patience was the one thing that always broke you.

“I left him.” The confession was barely above a whisper, pried from between clenched teeth.

Lucille didn’t ask who. Maybe she already knew. Maybe she just knew you.

Who else could it be? You had no boyfriend. No casual flings. Just you and Murphy. A relationship so tangled, so blurred at the edges that defining it was impossible. It was a whole thing.

A hollow laugh slipped from your throat. Sharp. Bitter. Fractured.

“Very dramatic. Blood, yelling—a real ‘go, save yourself’ moment. Would’ve been a hit in theaters.” You tried to make it sound like a joke, but your voice shook at the edges.

Lucille’s expression softened. “And now you can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Huh. You are perceptive,” you mocked, but it lacked any real heat.

She gave you a look. The kind that made you feel like a petulant child. The kind that Murphy used to give you when you got too stubborn for your own good.

You scoffed, crossing your arms.

“I should’ve fought harder.” The words fell out, raw and jagged. “I should’ve—I don’t know. I should’ve done something.”

You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat didn’t budge.

“And now he’s out there, and I’m here. Sitting on my ass like some goddamn—”

You cut yourself off, but the damage was done. The tears gathered, hot and stinging, burning at the corners of your eyes. You blinked rapidly, looking away, pretending they weren’t there.

Lucille leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. Drip. Drip.

“You don’t have to hold it in.” Her voice was soft, but firm.

You let out a tight, bitter laugh. Shook your head.

“No, I can’t.”

She frowned, but before she could argue, you pushed forward, voice quieter now. Raw.

“Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop. And if I can’t stop… then I can’t save him.”

Silence.

Lucille didn’t tell you it was okay. She didn’t feed you empty reassurances. She just let you sit in it. Let you breathe through it.

The clock ticked. Your pulse slowed. The tears didn’t fall, but they were there—a storm behind your ribs, waiting for permission to break.

Lucille nodded once. Decisive. Certain.

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. No pity. No sugarcoated comfort. Just a plan.

You nodded back, exhaling.

The storm didn’t break tonight.

You headed upstairs, looking for something to do—anything to make the weight in your chest disappear. Anything that would silence Murphy’s voice, the echo of his last words still gnawing at the edges of your mind.

You didn’t have anything against his voice, but you sure as hell didn’t want to hear that moment replaying over and over again.

“Go.” The unsaid ‘save yourself’.

Like hell you could.

You pushed the thought down and stepped onto the porch, where you found Negan, slouched in a chair, smoking. He was back from wherever the hell he disappeared to, looking like he was trying way too hard to be unbothered.

You weren’t stupid.

He was doing it again—pretending. Acting like Lucille’s condition wasn’t sitting on his chest like a goddamn anvil. Acting like the slow creep of death in the next room wasn’t tearing him apart the same way it was tearing you apart.

But it was always there.

The sickly pale color of her skin. The wigs she insisted on wearing every day. The dark circles under her eyes, beautiful even as they dimmed.

Negan could pretend all he wanted—but you saw it. And he saw that you saw it.

Without a word, you sat down next to him, carefully keeping some distance between you. Close enough to share the moment, far enough that you wouldn’t have to acknowledge it.

“Share?” you asked, holding out your hand for the cigarette before he could even think about telling you no.

Negan sighed, side-eyeing you before handing it over. He didn’t protest, but you could tell by the way he rubbed a hand over his face that he wanted to.

And in true Negan fashion, he didn’t offer comfort—just commentary.

“You look like a kicked puppy. That a new aesthetic choice, or are we just leanin’ into the whole ‘existential crisis’ thing?”

You took a drag from the cigarette, exhaled slow, hoping it would settle you. It didn’t.

“Can you just shut up for once? Or is that too hard of a job for you?”

Negan let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re the one who chose to come out here, sit next to me, take my damn cigarette—and now I need to shut up?” His voice curled with annoyance, every word growing sharper. “I think the fuck not.”

Your grip tightened around the cigarette, the burn of it grounding you.

“Jesus Christ, Negan.” You turned toward him, eyes narrowed. “I don't know how Lucille puts up with you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—am I not grieving properly for you?” His smirk was mocking, but his voice was cutting. “You wanna teach me how it’s done? Maybe I should sit in a dark corner and mope until I implode—that more your speed?”

Your jaw clenched.

“You are so goddamn exhausting.”

“And you are so goddamn predictable.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think I don’t see what you’re doin’? The whole tortured, guilt-ridden, it-shoulda-been-me act?”

Your breath hitched, but you refused to react.

“News flash—you can sit here and hate yourself all you want, but it ain’t gonna bring your boy back.”

The world stopped.

You went still.

The cigarette slipped between your fingers, hitting the porch floor with a faint sizzle.

Negan’s eyes flashed when he realized he hit something real.

“Ah. There it is.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “That’s what this is about, huh? Poor little girl lost her best buddy, and now she don’t know what the fuck to do with herself.”

That was it.

Before you could think—before you could stop yourself—your hand lashed out.

Crack.

The sound of skin meeting skin cut through the night.

Negan’s head snapped to the side, jaw tight, the ghost of your slap burning red against his cheek.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your hand trembled, but your face remained stone cold.

Negan slowly turned back to you, jaw flexing. His tongue ran over his teeth, and for the first time, he didn’t have a smartass response.

You saw the moment he decided not to react. The way he swallowed down the anger, the fight, the instinct to throw another verbal punch.

Instead, he let out a slow, low chuckle.

“That all you got?” His voice was hoarse, full of something you couldn’t place.

You ground your teeth together so hard it hurt.

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs like a vice.

You turned and walked away.

Your boots thudded against the wooden floorboards, each step carrying the raw, burning rage he’d just set loose.

Negan stayed where he was, watching you disappear into the house.

Neither of you said another word.

But the fight?

It wasn’t over.

The night crept in, slow and heavy, wrapping itself around you like a too-tight rope.

You tossed and turned on your makeshift bed, your body restless, your mind refusing to shut the hell up. It wasn’t about the discomfort—Lucille had done her best, piling blankets and pillows together until it almost felt like a real bed. Almost.

Hell, it was probably better than that shitty excuse for a mattress you had in your apartment.

But comfort had nothing to do with it.

It was the rage—boiling under your skin like molten iron, filling your chest, coiling tight around your ribs. It was the fear, cold and sharp, creeping up your spine, raising goosebumps along your arms. It was the guilt, thick and suffocating, curling around your throat like a noose.

And it was all so insufferable.

A well-deserved torture for leaving Murphy behind.

But eventually, your body betrayed you, exhaustion dragging you under despite the demons still clawing at your mind.

And it was worse.

“Oh, there you are! Missing me already?”

The voice—his voice—snapped your head up so fast, you almost stumbled.

Murphy stood a few feet away, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin pulling at his lips. His blue eyes were bright and joyful.

Just him.

Standing there like nothing had happened.

Your breath hitched, something sharp lodging itself in your throat.

“Murph…?”

The relief came so fast it almost hurt. You wanted to run to him, throw your arms around his shoulders, bury your face in his hoodie and just breathe him in.

He’d press his lips to your forehead, over and over again, like he always did after being apart too long. It was his ritual. His way of saying he missed you.

And every single time, you’d scrunch your nose and shove at his chest, muttering, “Eww, Murphy, you’re slobbering all over me.”

But the truth?

You never wanted him to stop.

You wanted him to do it now.

You took a step forward, a laugh bubbling up past the knot in your throat. “Miss you? That’s rich coming from you—don’t tell me you were crying in your sleep, Murph.”

Murphy gasped dramatically, hand to chest. “Me? Crying? You wound me, honey.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

You felt warm. Safe.

For the first time in days, your ribs didn’t ache, your chest didn’t feel hollow.

It was just Murphy—his voice, his presence, alive and real.

“You really thought I wouldn’t find you?” He smirked, head tilting. “C’mon, honeypie, have a little faith.”

You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head. He always said that. Always.

And yet…

Something was wrong.

Your stomach twisted. The warmth started to fade.

The light around you dimmed.

Murphy’s smile twitched—just barely—but you saw it.

His body stiffened, the playful glint in his eyes flickering, dimming into something else. Something… unnatural.

His expression slackened.

His hands trembled.

“Murph?” Your voice wavered.

His mouth parted, lips forming a word—your name? No. Not quite.

And then—

His eyes clouded. His skin paled.

And his voice dropped into something hollow.

“You left me.”

Your entire body seized.

Murphy lurched forward, his face twisting, his mouth gaping open, rotting teeth, dark veins spreading down his neck—

No. No. No.

His arms snapped out toward you, fingers curling like claws—

“You left me.”

You ran.

You turned, bolted in the opposite direction, but your feet wouldn’t move fast enough.

His breath rasped behind you, wet, guttural, wrong.

“You left me.”

And then—

Darkness.

You woke up gasping.

A jagged, shuddering inhale that burned your lungs, your chest tight and constricted. Your body shook, fingers curling into the blanket like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

Panic. Raw and suffocating.

Your throat was tight, your pulse hammering against your ribs, against your skull, against every nerve ending in your fucking body.

Your vision swam.

The walls closed in.

You weren’t in Alexandria. You were back there.

You were back in the moment you ran.

“You left me.”

A sob punched out of you before you could stop it, your hands flying to your mouth, fingers digging into your skin as you rocked forward, trying to breathe, trying to push it down, trying to stop the shaking.

But you couldn’t.

You couldn’t make it stop.

And then—

A voice.

“Sweetheart?”

Lucille.

Your head snapped up, wild-eyed, chest still heaving, vision still blurred.

Lucille was crouched in front of you, voice soft, gaze steady.

Not hovering. Not coddling. Just waiting.

You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaling shakily, grounding yourself in the sound of her breathing.

In. Out. Steady.

Slowly—painfully slowly—your pulse began to even out.

Lucille didn’t ask.

She just nodded. Then she stood.

“Come on.” She offered her hand. “I’ll make you some tea.”

And just like that, the world came back.

It didn’t make the weight in your chest disappear.

It didn’t change anything.

But for now—just for a moment—it was enough.

For one blissfully dumb second, in your half-conscious state, you thought, Maybe it was just a bad dream.

Then you shifted.

Pain exploded through your ribs like a goddamn firecracker, and you let out a noise that could only be described as a dying cat attempting opera.

Negan’s voice came from across the room. “Well, good fuckin’ morning to you too, sunshine. You sound like a goddamn feral possum.”

You cracked one eye open, vision still blurry. “I thought it was more like a dying cat.”

Negan took a slow sip from a steaming mug, his smirk evident even with half his face buried behind it. “Eh. Tomato, tomahto. Either way, you sound like something that needs to be put outta its misery.”

You scowled at him but didn’t have the energy to argue. Not when the pain was this bad. Instead, your gaze flickered to the mug in his hands. You expected the rich aroma of coffee, but instead, it smelled like burnt dirt water.

Figures. He would drink black coffee that tastes like despair.

“Don’t be mean,” Lucille scolded as she stirred something in a bowl nearby. Whatever it was, it smelled heavenly, and your stomach clenched in response. It had been… what? A few days since you’d eaten anything? Maybe longer?

Negan huffed, leaning back in his chair. “I ain’t bein’ mean, I’m bein’ observant. Like a motherfuckin’ scientist. And science tells me our girl here got her ass handed to her.”

You grumbled as you attempted to sit up. Every muscle in your body immediately filed a formal complaint. “Pretty sure I got hit by a truck.”

Negan smirked. “Yeah, well, you sure as hell look like you did, sweetheart. Some sadistic asshole had a vendetta against your face.”

Your stomach twisted. Murphy.

You had to find him.

Lucille must have noticed the panic creeping in because she was at your side in an instant, pressing a warm hand against your arm. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe here. You don’t have to talk yet, but we do need to know—who did this to you?”

Negan, ever the subtle one, added, “’Cause if you tell us, I got some spare time today to go introduce their skulls to a baseball bat.”

Lucille shot him a glare. “Negan.”

“What?” he shrugged, looking unbothered. “I’m just sayin’, if someone’s out there treatin’ her like a damn punching bag, it’d be real rude of me not to return the favor.”

Despite everything—the bruises, the pain, the overwhelming weight of it all—you let out a weak chuckle. Because, really, what kind of world was this where murder threats were comforting?

Lucille sighed, rubbing your back gently. “Ignore him. He has all the emotional sensitivity of a brick.”

Negan scoffed, placing a hand over his chest. “I am deeply offended by that, Lucille. I have layers. Like an onion. A very charming, profanity-ridden onion.”

“You’re making her laugh at a very inappropriate time,” Lucille muttered, though her voice held undeniable fondness.

Negan grinned. “I call it trauma bonding. It’s a service I provide free of charge.”

Despite everything, despite the pain and fear still clinging to you, you smiled. It was small, fleeting, but it was real. The weight of what happened hadn’t gone away, but at least, for now, you weren’t alone.

Lucille handed you a bowl of whatever concoction she’d been making. “Eat first. Then we’ll figure things out.”

You hesitated for just a moment before taking the spoon. You had a long way to go, but for the first time since you’d run here, you felt like you could breathe.

And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t entirely broken yet.

You woke up groggy and sore, your body still a battlefield of aches, but at least the pain had dulled to a constant throb instead of the full-blown rebellion it had been before. The scent of something warm and familiar filled the room, coaxing you into awareness.

Slowly, you sat up, wincing as your ribs protested. Your surroundings came into focus—Lucille at the portable camping stove, stirring something in a dented pot, her movements slow but practiced. Across from her, Negan sat at the table, idly flipping through a battered deck of cards, shuffling and cutting them like he had all the time in the world.

For a moment, it was almost peaceful. Almost.

Then Negan opened his goddamn mouth.

Without even looking up, he drawled, “Well, look who finally decided to rejoin the land of the fuckin’ living.”

You blinked, still shaking off the last bits of sleep. Apparently, a simple good morning wasn’t part of Negan’s vocabulary.

“How long was I out?” you rasped, your throat dry and voice hoarse.

Lucille turned, offering you a gentle smile. There was warmth in her gaze, something soft that eased the sharp edges of your discomfort. “A couple of days,” she said. “You had a fever for a bit. Your body wasn’t handling all this stress and the injuries too well.”

Negan, never one to let a moment of tenderness breathe, added, “Yeah. Lotta moanin’. Lotta tossin’ and turnin’. Real dramatic shit. Thought we had a goddamn soap opera star in our bed.”

The flick of his cards echoed in the quiet, and you rubbed your face, too drained to fire back just yet.

Lucille, ever patient, ladled some soup into a bowl and set it beside you. “Eat. You need it.”

You hesitated, stomach tight with knots, but the smell was too good to ignore. Your fingers curled around the bowl’s warmth.

Negan’s gaze was on you before you even took a bite, his tone light but edged. “You allergic to soup, or just plannin’ to sit there starin’ at it all day?”

You shot him a glare but finally picked up the spoon. The first sip was scalding, but it was rich, full of flavor—comforting in a way you hadn’t expected. The warmth settled into your bones, easing something inside you that had been clenched tight for too long.

“Didn’t realize hospitality came with a time limit,” you muttered, mostly to spite him.

Negan snorted. “Ain’t got much of it to begin with, sweetheart. But you can thank my wife for that.” He gestured toward Lucille. “She’s the nice one. And apparently, she likes your annoying ass far too much.”

“Negan.” Lucille’s voice carried a quiet warning.

He held his hands up in mock surrender. “What? Just makin’ an observation. Like a scientist.”

You ignored him and kept eating, but you weren’t the only one noticing things.

The way Negan shifted in his seat. The way his fingers drummed against the table. The way his eyes flicked to you, then away, like you were an eyesore he was forcing himself not to acknowledge too much.

Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering something under his breath before speaking up again.

“So. What’s the plan, then?”

You frowned, mid-spoonful. “What plan?”

Negan gestured vaguely at you. “Your grand fuckin’ plan. You gonna stay here forever? Set up shop in my goddamn bed?”

The bite in his tone was subtle, but it was there.

Your grip on the spoon tightened. “Didn’t realize I had an eviction notice already.”

Negan shrugged. “Ain’t about that. It’s just—I got enough shit on my plate, alright?”

Lucille looked between you both before settling on Negan, her tone even but firm. “She’s staying. We’re not throwing her out, and you know it.”

Negan let out a long-suffering groan. “Jesus Christ. End of the world, and I still can’t win an argument.”

With a grumble, he pushed up from the table, snatching up his cards as he headed for the door.

“Two of you naggin’ me. Just my goddamn luck,” he muttered before disappearing outside.

Silence lingered before you turned to Lucille.

“He’s a real joy to be around.”

She smiled tiredly. “He’s… complicated.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Negan sat silently in his chair, watching. It had been hours since you turned up on their doorstep, your fists slamming against the wood with what little strength you had left. When he’d opened the door, you hadn’t hesitated—you’d thrown yourself at him, arms winding around his waist, your face buried in his sweatshirt.

It was weird.

You hated him. He wasn’t exactly fond of you, either. But the way you clung to him, shaking, silent—he’d known right away.

Something was really fucking wrong.

So he’d pulled you inside, led you to Lucille, and the moment you saw her, you’d completely fallen apart.

That had been hours ago.

And you still hadn’t spoken.

Lucille’s voice was a quiet plea, coaxing, desperate. “Honey, talk to me.”

But you only shook your head, violently, your face still buried against her.

Lucille sighed, glancing up at Negan with a helpless look.

Negan met her gaze but didn’t speak. He didn’t know what the fuck to do either. If this had been anyone else, he would’ve forced them to talk by now. But you—he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen you like this.

Your hair was a tangled, bloody mess. Your hands and face were caked with dirt and gore. The cuts on your cheeks looked bad—really bad. Your clothes were stiff with dried blood, clinging to you like a second skin.

He rubbed a hand over his face. Jesus fucking Christ.

“We should clean her up,” he muttered finally, the concern in his voice foreign even to himself.

Lucille shook her head. “Not yet.” She adjusted her grip on you, rubbing slow circles against the back of your head. “Shh… it’s okay, darling. You’re safe here.”

Negan exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. He trusted Lucille to know what was best for you. She was your friend, after all.

But what the fuck had happened before you got here? What had done this to you?

You clung to Lucille like she was the only thing keeping you afloat, fingers fisting the fabric of her sweater as though letting go meant drowning. She was your anchor, the warmth of her embrace keeping you from slipping too deep into the dark waters of your thoughts.

The need for comfort, for safety, was overwhelming.

And Lucille gave it to you without hesitation.

Eventually, your sobs quieted. You weren’t shaking as much, your breath no longer coming in broken, panicked gasps.

Lucille felt the shift and pulled back slightly, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. “Please,” she murmured, her voice gentle but insistent. “Tell me what happened. Let us help.”

You swallowed hard, your throat raw from crying. You wanted to tell her—you needed to—but the words wouldn’t come. Your mind was still reeling, every thought tangled and jumbled, the weight of fear sitting heavy in your chest.

You needed Murphy.

“Please,” you whispered hoarsely, voice barely above a breath. “Not now.”

Lucille searched your face, her concern deepening. But she didn’t push. Instead, she gave you a small, understanding nod. “Alright,” she said softly, squeezing your hand. Then she stood and pulled you gently to your feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up first. Then we’ll talk.”

You nodded. You knew she wouldn’t let this go forever. She’d want answers. So would Negan.

But right now, all you could do was follow where she led.

Lucille sat you down at the worn wooden table in the middle of the room. Negan took a seat across from you, his arms resting on the surface. He looked tired.

“You feelin’ any better?” he asked gruffly.

You nodded, still caught off guard by this softer version of him. Since you could remember, the two of you had only communicated through sarcasm and glares. Now, here he was—actually checking in on you.

It was strange.

You let yourself breathe, your shoulders relaxing slightly as the tension in your body eased. For the first time since you arrived, you took in your surroundings.

The Smiths’ basement had been completely transformed. Where there had once been a burgundy leather couch you despised, there was now a bed. The TV and Negan’s matching armchair remained. A row of mannequin heads sat by the bed, each sporting a different-colored wig. The windows were boarded up, the only light coming from battery-powered candles on the table and a dim bedside lamp.

Lucille returned with a wet cloth, tilting your chin up with gentle fingers. “Hold still,” she murmured, dabbing at the dried blood on your face.

You flinched when she hit a particularly sore spot.

“Sorry,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Negan watched, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

When Lucille reached for the hem of your shirt, she hesitated, searching your face for permission. You gave a small nod.

She lifted it carefully, peeling the fabric away from your skin. The moment the shirt hit the floor, she sucked in a sharp breath.

Negan cursed under his breath.

Your torso was a mess of bruises—deep, ugly splotches of purple and green. Your ribs bore the worst of it, and the cuts on your arms ran deeper than they’d realized.

Lucille turned to Negan, their eyes locking in silent horror.

Negan clenched his jaw. Any lingering jealousy he’d felt earlier vanished, replaced by something far worse.

Who the fuck had done this to you?

“She needs a proper shower,” he muttered.

Lucille nodded. “C’mon, sweetheart,” she said, helping you to your feet.

She led you to the small bathroom, and when you stepped under the warm spray, the weight of exhaustion finally crashed over you.

By the time Lucille guided you back to bed, your body felt heavy, every muscle sore.

She tucked you in, smoothing your damp hair away from your face before pressing a final kiss to your temple. “Get some rest, honey,” she whispered.

You barely heard her. Sleep pulled you under before she even stepped away.

Lucille and Negan sat at the table, speaking in hushed voices, their eyes constantly flicking toward your sleeping form.

“What sick motherfucker hurt her like that?” Negan muttered, his voice sharp, barely restrained.

Lucille shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered, her gaze full of worry. “And I don’t think she’s ready to tell us yet.”

Negan let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Wouldn’t be smart to push her.” His grip tightened into a fist. “Shit. I can’t believe someone did that to her.”

Lucille nodded. “We’ll find out. And when we do—” her voice dropped to something cold—“they’ll pay.”

Negan clenched his jaw. He wasn’t the sentimental type, but guilt settled in his gut. He hadn’t been there to stop whatever happened to you.

And that didn’t sit right with him.

“We need answers,” he muttered.

Lucille’s voice was calm, but firm. “She needs to heal first.”

Negan knew she was right. But that didn’t make it any easier.

His gaze drifted back to you, his expression hardening.

Whatever sick bastards had done this—

They were going to fucking regret it.

“Would you stop ignoring me?” Murphy groaned, throwing his arms out like a dramatic teenager.

You turned on your heel, crossing your arms over your chest like one. “I told you we need to get to Lucille.”

“That is miles away,” he pointed out, exasperation leaking into his voice. “Do you want me to teleport us there, or should I summon a flying unicorn to give us a lift?”

“We could get a car,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

“The roads are blocked.”

You narrowed your gaze, closing the space between you both with fast, determined steps. “Murphy, I can't let her go through this alone. Especially not now, when all hell’s breaking loose.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’m sure Negan’s with her.”

You snorted so hard your cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk. Murphy grinned, knowing damn well he’d set you up for that exact reaction.

“Yeah, we both know he’s not,” you scoffed, shaking your head. “That man only cares about his stupid ass. If there was a competition for ‘World’s Most Self-Absorbed Dickhead,’ he’d be hoisting the trophy and giving a speech about how he single-handedly saved humanity.”

Murphy smirked. “At least he’d make it entertaining.”

“Oh, for sure. He’d probably thank himself twice and then dedicate the award to his reflection.”

Murphy huffed a laugh, but the amusement faded just as quickly. His face softened, and you knew the next thing out of his mouth wasn’t going to be another joke. “I get it,” he said, voice quieter now. “You need to be there for her. But I need you to be realistic. We don’t have food, we barely have water, and we’re running on fumes. If we rush in without a plan, we’re both gonna end up dead in a ditch.”

You hated that he was making sense. You wanted to argue, to do something instead of just standing here talking about how impossible everything felt.

You let out a long breath, shaking your head. “Okay, fine. What’s your realistic plan, then?”

Murphy’s lips twitched, just a little. “Step one: We find food so you don’t murder me in my sleep.”

Your stomach chose that exact moment to growl violently, proving his point.

“Shut up,” you muttered, and he grinned.

“We’re adding water to that list too, by the way,” he teased, tapping your shoulder before walking ahead. “You’re already cranky as hell, and I don’t need you passing out on me.”

You rolled your eyes but followed after him, muttering something about how he was the cranky one.

For now, the mission to get to Lucille had to wait. But you’d get there. You had to.

You’d managed to ransack an abandoned car for some food and water—if you could call a half-crushed granola bar and a bottle of warm Gatorade “food and water.” It wasn’t much, but it had to do. You were learning quickly that the apocalypse wasn’t exactly the buffet of resources you’d hoped for.

Apparently, you were late to the whole end-of-the-world thing, having spent the first week—or more—holed up in your apartment, wasting away in bed out of sheer boredom. At the time, you figured if society was going to collapse, you might as well be well-rested for it. Turned out that wasn’t the best strategy, considering most of the supplies had already been picked clean by the time you stepped outside.

Now, food was scarce, the gas was drained from most vehicles, and the town looked like it had been evacuated overnight. No hesitation, no looking back. The second the dead started walking, people got the hell out while they still could.

Smart move.

“I thought most of the population here was old people,” you mumbled under your breath, kicking an empty can along the cracked asphalt. The rattle of metal against pavement echoed in the otherwise quiet street. “Where the hell did they all go?”

Murphy hummed beside you, his fingers squeezing yours absentmindedly as he swung your joined hands between you. “Maybe they were super-elders,” he mused. “Super-speed, teleportation—whole damn X-Men package.”

You snorted. “Yeah, right. ‘Grandpa Lightning’ just zipped out of here at Mach speed.”

“Or,” he continued, deadpan, “they all turned into zombies but, like, polite ones. Just wandering around a retirement home somewhere, playing bridge and moaning about how they miss the good ol’ days.”

You chuckled, the ridiculous image softening the tension in your chest. Even with the world ending around you, Murphy still had a way of keeping things light.

He gave your hand another squeeze. “Anyway, we need to find somewhere to fortificate for the night.”

You stopped in your tracks and turned to him with a skeptical look. “Really? Fortificate?”

He arched a brow. “Yeah?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a word. And if it is, you definitely used it wrong.”

Murphy scoffed. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. English Major. My bad for not conjugating my fake words properly.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “I think you meant fortify.”

“Or maybe,” he smirked, “you just lack the vision to appreciate my linguistic creativity.”

You huffed a laugh and nudged his shoulder before scanning the area ahead. The street was lined with darkened storefronts, their windows either shattered or eerily intact. A few houses sat in the distance, but you weren’t eager to test if they were occupied—by the living or the dead.

Then, you spotted it.

A rundown convenience store, its metal security gate partially bent but still hanging on. The sign above it flickered weakly, half the letters missing, leaving behind something that read “M_R__’_ M_RT.”

“Murphy’s Mart,” you announced, pointing at it. “Perfect. Looks like the universe wanted to name something after you before it collapsed.”

He grinned. “Damn right it did. Let’s see if my store has any decent snacks left.”

Together, you made your way over, slipping through the damaged gate and into the dimly lit interior. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of dust and old, melted candy. Most of the shelves were ransacked, but there were still a few treasures left—a couple of dented canned goods, a few bags of chips that hadn’t been torn open, and a lone can of beer sitting proudly on the counter like some post-apocalyptic holy grail.

Murphy snatched the beer immediately. “Oh, hell yes. This night just got so much better.”

You grabbed a bag of chips and plopped down onto an overturned crate. “I hope you know we’re splitting that.”

“Uh, excuse you?” Murphy clutched the can to his chest protectively. “This was my mart. Clearly, this beer is meant for me.”

You threw one of the chips at him. “We’re sharing it, dumbass.”

He sighed dramatically before flopping down next to you, cracking open the can. “Fine. But only ‘cause I’m feeling generous.”

You both took turns sipping from the warm, probably expired beer, passing it back and forth as you leaned against the empty shelves.

For a moment, with the faint neon glow of the half-broken sign flickering outside and the distant, eerie silence of the world beyond the store, it almost felt… normal.

But then, as if on cue, a distant groan echoed from outside.

You and Murphy exchanged a look.

“Guess the super-elders didn’t teleport that far,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes, shoving the last of the chips into your mouth before pulling out your knife. “Come on, genius. Time to fortificate.”

He grinned. “See? It’s catching on.”

And with that, the two of you got to work, reinforcing your little shelter for the night, knowing damn well this was only the beginning.

The convenience store’s counter wasn’t exactly a luxury bed, but it was what you had for the night. You shifted, trying to find a spot that didn’t have something digging into your back—a loose screw, maybe, or some other part of the register determined to make you miserable. The ceiling above you was a dull, off-white, and you found yourself staring at it without really seeing anything.

The fire you and Murphy had managed to scrape together from broken shelves flickered weakly in its makeshift pit on the cold tile floor. It wasn’t much—barely enough heat to chase away the chill, hardly enough light to make the room feel less empty. You’d shut off the store’s generator in the hopes that the flickering neon sign wouldn’t act as a beacon, inviting the dead to come clawing at your doorstep.

Didn’t mean the silence was any less suffocating.

“Do you think she’s alright?” you asked, still staring at the ceiling, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Murphy let out an exaggerated groan from his place on the floor. “God, you’re like a lovestruck teenager today, aren’t you?”

You didn’t bother looking at him, but you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“She’s fine,” he added, rolling onto his side to face you. “You haven’t already forgotten what a fierce little lady she is, have you?”

You finally turned your head, raising an eyebrow. “Little? She’s taller than you.”

“She is not,” Murphy scoffed, affronted.

“Murphy, she could bench press you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you that blinded by love?”

“Might be,” you admitted with a soft chuckle. But just as quickly as the smile came, it faded. Your fingers picked at the edge of your jacket absentmindedly. “I miss her.”

Murphy sighed, folding his arms behind his head. “Sometimes I wonder if you hate her husband just because he is her husband.”

“I do not,” you shot back, but there wasn’t much conviction behind it.

Murphy smirked. “You're right. If hating someone was that easy, I’d already be six feet under by now. You still haven’t forgiven me for sleeping with your best friend in high school.”

Your head whipped toward him, eyes narrowing into a glare. “Is that why you think I dropped out?”

Murphy shrugged, unbothered. “Wouldn’t be the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

“If I wasn’t sure about killing you before, Murphy, I definitely am now.”

He cackled, completely unfazed.

Before he could get another smartass remark in, a loud crash shattered the fragile quiet of the store.

Glass breaking.

Loud.

Really fucking loud.

You and Murphy locked eyes for half a second, completely still.

Then, the realization hit.

You could have expected this. Should have. But apparently, between the two of you, there was only one functioning brain cell, and you’d been passing it back and forth all day.

The store had been secured against the dead. But the living?

They’d found a way through.

The sound of boots crunching over broken glass sent a chill down your spine.

Someone had just stepped inside like they owned the place.

“Hey, calm down. There’s nothing here,” you said, raising your hands in a show of peace.

The muzzle of the gun pressed against your forehead, its cold steel a sharp contrast to the heat prickling your skin.

“Yeah, we definitely believe you, little girl,” the man sneered.

“Little girl?” Murphy scoffed, letting out a dry chuckle despite the knife digging into his back. “She could bench press you.”

You shot him a glare. “Murphy, now is not the time.”

The man with the gun curled his lip, unimpressed. “Hey, man, tell your bitch to shut up.”

Your head tilted slightly, eyebrows raising in disbelief. “You think I need to shut up?” You let the silence stretch, then deadpanned, “Be for real.”

Murphy’s expression twisted as if he was holding back a groan. “Honeybun, please shut up,” he hissed, his tone shifting to actual concern when the knife was pushed harder against his spine. It hadn’t broken skin yet, but Murphy wasn’t Jesus—he wasn’t about to test resurrection theory. He knew where he was headed if he died, and he had no plans to go just yet.

The gunman scoffed, shaking his head. “Mouthy little thing, huh? I kinda like that.”

Your stomach turned.

The second man—the one holding Murphy hostage—chuckled darkly. “Bet she’d be fun to break in.”

Murphy stilled.

Your jaw clenched.

The gunman’s eyes flicked over you, his smirk widening. “Been a while since we had something this fresh. Maybe we oughta—”

Murphy spit in his face.

The man jerked back, stunned, as saliva dripped down his cheek.

“You fucking piece of—”

He didn’t get to finish. The punch he threw cracked against Murphy’s jaw with enough force to send him to the floor.

Then everything went to hell.

Fists. Boots. Knuckles meeting flesh and bone with sickening cracks.

You fought back, but it was like trying to fight against a tide of fists and steel-toed boots. A punch landed square in your ribs, knocking the wind from your lungs. Someone grabbed your hair, yanking your head back, and the moment your vision cleared, you saw Murphy curled on the ground, blood leaking from his mouth, his face already swelling.

You screamed his name.

The response you got was another kick to your stomach that sent you sprawling.

Your body screamed in protest, but Murphy’s voice—weak, wheezing—cut through it all.

“Run.”

Your head snapped toward him. “What?”

Murphy coughed, spitting blood. Then, in one last act of sheer, reckless defiance, he started laughing.

“Is that all you got?” he taunted, flashing them a bloody grin. “Fuckin’ amateurs.”

The men turned on him, their attention shifting.

And you knew.

This was his shot.

Your shot.

“Murphy, don’t—”

His eyes met yours. The same look he always gave you when he was about to do something really stupid.

“GO.”

Then he lunged at the closest guy.

You didn’t wait to see what happened next. You forced your battered body to move, stumbling toward the door, barely able to stay upright. The moment you hit the street, you ran.

Murphy’s screams echoed behind you.

And you didn’t look back.