Fanfiction Land

The porch creaked as you leaned back in the chair, pretending to focus on the fading light instead of the warmth blooming in your chest. You didn’t miss the way his steps slowed when he reached the end of the walkway, like he was fighting with himself about turning back. Sure enough, a moment later, Rick came around again and settled on the porch rail beside you. He folded his arms, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“You know,” he said, eyes flickering to the flannel draped around you. “I wore that thing near every day back at the farm. Didn’t think I’d see it again.”

You smirked into your cup. “Guess it wanted a better home.”

His laugh was quiet but genuine this time, breaking through the tired edge he always carried. “That right? It just… wandered off and found its way onto you?”

You shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

Rick shook his head, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he let the silence stretch, his gaze fixed on the treeline like he was keeping watch–but his body stayed loose, angled towards you. After a while, he said, almost too soft, “Glad it;s you wearin’ it. Makes me feel like you’re safe. Like I’m right here even when I ain’t.”

Your chest tightened, and suddenly the flannel felt heavier, like it carried more than just warmth. You swallowed, fingers brushing the fabric. “Guess I’ll have to keep it then.” 

This time, Rick didn’t hide his smile. “Guess you will.”

Glenn Rhee

It started with a screwdriver. Then one of his hats. Then a hoodie. Glenn pretended not to notice at first, but after the fifth item vanished into your mysterious hoard, which he found buried against the wall on your side of the bed. He decided he’d had enough. So, naturally, he staged a full-blown intervention. In front of everyone.

He burst into the common room like a man on a mission, making everyone else look up for half a second before going back to their business. You, however, barely flinched, curled up on the couch with your legs tucked under you, flipping through a dog-eared magazine you’d found on a run. Glenn marched over, dropped himself onto the cushion beside you, and crossed his arms. “We need to talk.”

You blinked, giving him the slowest, most innocent look you could muster. “About?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he jabbed a finger toward the hoodie you were currently drowning in–his hoodie, grey and soft, the sleeves hanging long past your hands. “That’s mine.”

Your lips twitched up for a split second. “Is it?”

“And so is the hat you wore yesterday,” he continued, his voice climbing theatrically, “and the screwdriver you swore you ‘just found.’ Oh, and don’t think I didn’t see you using my toothbrush the other day.”

You froze mid-page turn, eyes darting up to him. “...Okay, that one was an accident.” 

Glenn narrowed his eyes like he was weighing the severity of your crimes. He tried, truly tried, to hold the glare, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. A grin slipped through. 

“You know,” he said, shaking his head, “in most cases, I’d be annoyed. But considering I kinda like seeing you in my stuff…” His gaze flicked over you once, lingering just long enough to make your cheeks warm. “...I’ll allow it.”

You let out a laugh, leaning back into the couch cushions with exaggerated relief. “Oh, thank you, Your Highness. I’ll try not to steal anything too important, then.”

Glenn leaned back smugly, clearly enjoying himself. “Glad you understand. But if you steal my snacks again,” he added, pointing a stern finger your way, “I’m calling war.”

Your mouth dropped open. “War? Really?”

He nodded gravely. “Full-scale. No survivors.”

You burst out laughing, pulling the hoodie tighter around you like a shield. Glenn watched you with that same stupid grin– the one that softened all his edges and made it very clear that, for all his dramatics, he didn’t actually want any of his stuff back. Not really.

Daryl Dixon

You’d borrowed one of his vests. Once. Weeks ago. Just to run out on watch when the evening chill had crept in sharper than expected. You’d meant to give it back, honestly you had, but somehow it never found its way out of your things.

Daryl never mentioned it. Not once. He wasn’t the type to fuss over clothing anyway. But every time you wore it, you caught him looking. Not in a give it back way. More like a don’t know what to do with these feelings. The kind of look he never quite held long enough for you to call him out on. 

That day, you’d been helping Maggie mend some fencing, Daryl lingering nearby with his crossbow slung loose. You’d tugged the vest closer around you when the wind picked up, and sure enough, when you glanced over, there he was–eyes flicking to you, then back down, jaw tight like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. You set the wire cutters down and tilted your head. “You want it back?”

His eyes lifted to yours, unreadable for a beat too long. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “Nah.”

You frowned faintly, waiting for him to add something else, but he didn’t. He never did. 

“…You sure?” you pressed.

Daryl shifted, thumb hooking against his belt as if he’d rather be anywhere else than standing under your gaze. Finally, he gave a half-shrug, eyes darting away again. “Smells like you now.”

The words were quiet, almost muttered — like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud at all.

Your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, the world seemed to still, the wind, the distant voices, all of it drowned out by the echo of what he’d just admitted without really admitting.

Before you could form a response, he cleared his throat and straightened, brushing dust from his jeans like it was the most important task in the world. Without another word, he hitched the crossbow back into place and started walking off, shoulders stiff. You stared after him, the weight of his vest suddenly heavier on your shoulders, warmer somehow. He hadn’t just let you keep it. He’d given it to you. In the only way Daryl Dixon knew how.

Carl Grimes

It was just a hat. His hat. The one he’d worn forever — scuffed, sun-bleached, the leather band cracked from years of use. You’d tried it on once as a joke, tilting it low over your eyes and giving him your best cowboy impression. Somehow… you never gave it back.

Carl never said anything. At first. He’d glance your way sometimes, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, but he never asked for it. You figured if it really bothered him, he would’ve spoken up.

Then one morning, he walked into breakfast, rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking every bit the picture of teenage exhaustion. He paused mid-step when he saw you already at the table, hat tipped back on your head like it had been yours all along.

Carl let out a long, exaggerated sigh as he slid into the chair across from you. “I think you’ve officially worn it more than I have.”

You grinned over your plate. “You mad?”

He grabbed an apple from the basket in the center of the table, rolling it absently between his palms. “No.” He bit into it, then nodded at you, a little smirk sneaking out. “You look cute.”

The word landed heavier than you expected. You froze, fork halfway to your mouth, blinking at him. “Wait—what?”

Carl shrugged, suddenly fascinated with his apple, though the tips of his ears betrayed him by turning pink. “I dunno. Just… kinda like knowing you’re wearing something that was mine.” He risked a glance at you, then quickly looked back down. “Makes it feel like we’re… connected or something.”

Your face went hot instantly, and you ducked your head, mumbling something incoherent into your food. Carl didn’t push. He just leaned back, chewing leisurely, clearly pleased with himself. And when he finally glanced up again, that smug little smirk was still tugging at his mouth.

But then…another sound. Different. The beat of something heavier. Slower. Human.

His throat clenched tight, venom already pooling hot and sharp against his tongue. The human rhythm was faint, but it was enough to promise release of his hunger. His body leaned into it instinctively, his eyes flaring darker, breath stalling in his chest. That's when you moved. You stepped into his line of sight, your presence a barrier as effective as iron bars. Your hand rested against his chest as you stared him down. “No,” you said. Your voice wasn’t raised, not pleading, but sharp and certain, a command cutting through the haze. 

Jasper’s muscles locked. His instincts screamed at him to move past you, to tear through the trees and claim the heartbeat pounding in the distance. But your gaze anchored him, dragging his focus away from the hunger, pinning him to something steadier.

“Follow me,” you ordered, softer now, though no less firm. And he did. God help him, he followed like a lost puppy. 

Every step seemed to require just as much focus as the war did. The human heartbeat tugged at him like a hook in his ribs, dragging him backward, promising the burn in his throat would end if only he gave in. But then the wind shifted again, and another scent cut across his senses. A sharp, warm, copper-sweet scent hit his nose. Animal blood. It hit him like a lifeline. His head snapped towards it, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring as the tang grew stronger. You were leading him right to it, coaxing his instincts into another channel. 

When the deer broke into the clearing ahead, the world narrowed to a single point. Jasper didn’t think, he couldn’t. His body surged forward in a blur of motion, power flooding his limbs with a feral precision he hadn’t felt since the war. The deer barely had time to turn before his hands closed around it. The rush was immediate, warmth flooding his mouth, strength burning into his muscles. It was violent, yes, but clean. The blood filled him without igniting the furnace of shame that always followed when he thought of humans

When it was done, Jasper straightened slowly, shoulders rising and falling with a breath he didn’t need but took anyway, grounding himself in the act. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the last trace of crimson away. The pull in his throat had dulled to something tolerable, the monster in him quieter now, if only for the moment. Then he realized you were still there, watching him feed quietly.

His eyes lifted to yours. They were still dark, but flecks of gold shimmered faintly in them, like embers catching in ash. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel entirely lost. “I reckon I can live with this,” he said, voice rough but steadier than before.

You allowed yourself a faint smile, not relief exactly, but something close acknowledgment. You fell softly to your knees next to him, still silent. Worry filled him softly as you stared at him, seemingly studying his face. He nearly shot up when he felt a soft fabric touch his cheek. You wiped away the last remnants of blood decorating his face as you watched him slowly come down from hunger. He closed his eyes, relaxing for once, when you finally spoke up. “Then you’ll survive a lot longer than most.”

“Breathe,” you murmured against his skin, your voice low and steady, as if speaking to a wounded animal. “It will hurt, but you’ll live.”

Live. The word was absurd, because every heartbeat felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside. His pulse thundered in his ears, drawing out the rustle of the grass beneath his knees. His vision blurred, and for a dizzying second he was sure you were lying; that this was the end of him.

Then your voice came again, softer this time, threading through the roar in his head. “You’ll thank me for this one day. You’re mine now, Jasper Whitlock..”

The pain spread like wildfire from his throat, sweeping down into his chest, curling into his heart like a branding iron. His arms and legs lit up with it next–each muscle twisting in agony as though the flames were eager to devour every inch of him. It was a soldier's torment, the kind that didn’t relent, didn’t falter, and certainly didn’t grant him the dignity of unconsciousness. His breath came ragged. He clawed at the dirt beneath him, nails filling with soil, the ground damp and cold under his fingertips. Somewhere above the crackling in his head, he could still hear you; your words like a rope tethering him to earth.

You stayed by his side. Hands curled up in his hair as you cooed softly in his ear. Not that Jasper could really hear it. You laid with him in the grass, even though you wished he had let you turn him in the comfort of your guy's bed, but who were you to deny his request. So here you lied, cradling the crying man in your arms knowing you both would spend the rest of eternity together.

Time seemed to unravel. The hours bled into days. Sometimes, in the haze of burning, he thought he was back on the battlefield, the sound of distant gunfire popping like fireworks in the heat of the pain. Other times, he swore he could hear your heartbeat– slow, steady, unchanging–right beside him. When the fire finally, mercifully, began to fade, it didn’t go away like a candle light. It receded, reluctantly, like a tide dragging away from the shore, leaving him hollowed out and strange. 

The world is suddenly too sharp, too bright. He could hear the scuttle of insects in the grass a dozen yards away, smell the dampness of the earth, taste the faint copper of his own blood. The night no longer felt cold–he was the cold one now. And there you were, smiling down at him, the first thing his new eyes saw.

You were close, crouched in front of him, the moonlight painting your skin silver. Your gaze locked onto his–unflinching, unyielding–and for the first time since the agony began, something inside him stilled. It wasn't relief. It wasn’t peace. It was recognition.

“I told you,” you said, almost gently now, brushing an errant lock of hair from his forehead. “You’re mine.”

The words didn’t feel like a threat. They felt like truth, carved into the marrow of his new existence. And as the last traces of fire smoldered in his veins, Jasper realized with unsettling certainty that he would follow you anywhere. Forever.

He was hoping to find a town, any town for that matter, before nightfall. Instead, the sun slipped beneath the horizon too soon, bleeding red light across the earth before the shadows swallowed it whole. He was still two miles from the next settlement when the temperature seemed to shift. The air also seemed to grow still, almost unnaturally.

That’s when she stepped out from the tree line like she’d been part of them a moment before, her figure gliding over the uneven ground without a sound. At first, Jasper thought she was just a simple woman– young, beautiful, and a strange air of confidence, as if she feared nothing in a land where fear was currency and everyone had it. But the moonlight touched her face, and that’s when he noticed her eyes.

They weren’t the dull brown or blue of any neighbor or kin he’d known. They were molten– a deep, burnished color that almost looked golden that seemed to glow faintly against the night. He instinctively tightened his grip on the reins.

“You’re hurt,” she said, her voice low but clear. Jasper tensed instantly as she stared at him. His wound was wrapped, not properly but enough that the blood was at least absorbed in the makeshift bandage instead of his coat, and hidden from sight with his coat. No one was around when it happened and especially not a civilian. 

Jasper swallowed hard. “It’s nothing that’ll stop me Miss.”

“You’ve been bleeding for miles,” she continued, stepping closer. “And if I could smell it, others could too.”

He didn’t understand what she meant until he saw the way she was looking at him–like she knew him already, like she’d been waiting for him. There was something in her gaze that rooted him, and his horse apparently, some ancient certainty that told him he shouldn’t take off even though every soldier instinct in him said to.

“You’re not from here,” he said cautiously, slowly getting off his horse as it walked off towards the grass.

A faint smile touched her lips as she followed the horse’s movements. “I’m not from anywhere anymore.”

She circled him slowly, her movements too smooth to be natural, her presence pulling at something deep in his chest. His heart pounded harder, not from fear but from an unexplainable pull. When she came to stand in front of him again, her eyes softened.

“I should leave you to your fate,” she murmured, almost to herself. “But you’re mine.”

The words should have chilled him, made him get back on his horse and take off on her, but instead they settled in his bones like truth. He didn’t understand them, not yet, but they felt as solid as the earth beneath his boots. Something seemed to draw him into her that he couldn’t explain. Something supernatural in a way.

“What are you?” Jasper asked.

“Something you can’t go back from once you know.” Her hand lifted, slow enough for him to see her fingers tremble almost as if she was restraining from something. “And you…you’re the only one in over a century who’s ever made me hesitate.” 

The wind picked up then, brushing her hair across her face, carrying with it a scent Jasper couldn’t place. Sweet, sharp, alive. She stepped closer, and he didn’t back away.

“You could die tonight,”she said plainly. “From your wound, from thirst, from the wrong traveler crossing your path. Or…” Her gaze flicked to his throat for only a moment before meeting his eyes again. “You could live forever. With me.”

Jasper wasn’t a man who made choices lightly. War had taught him the price of every decision. But here, now, staring at this strange, impossible woman, he felt the same certainty he did the first time he’d led men into battle; the kind that came from knowing you were exactly where you were meant to be. Who you knew you were meant to be with.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She smiled, and the world seemed smaller for a moment, holding only them. “(Y/N).”

He gave a slow nod. “Then, Miss (Y/N), I reckon you’ve found yourself a willing man.”

Visibility dropped to a few feet. The woods became a blur of motion and noise: wind whipping the branches, water pouring off your hood, thunder rumbling so loudly it felt like the ground might split. By the time you and Carl stumbled across the old hunting shack half-hidden in the undergrowth, you were both drenched, breathless, shivering, and far more pissed off than afraid.

Carl kicked the door open with a grunt and hauled it shut behind you both with a loud clang, bracing it with his shoulder until the old latch clicked into place. The interior was dim, musty, and colder than you’d hoped, but it was dry. And that, right now, made it feel like a goddamn palace.

“You okay?” Carl asked, his voice slightly hoarse from the cold, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. You nodded, teeth chattering as you pushed your wet hair out of your face. “Yeah,” you huffed, tugging your soaked sleeves down past your wrists. “Could be worse.:

Carl pulled off his hat, letting it hang in his fingers. His dark curls were flattened and dripping, plastered to his forehead. “At least we’re dry now.”

“That’s debatable,” you muttered, wringing out your sleeves. Water splatted onto the wooden floor. The inside of the shack was small–barely enough room for the two of you to move without bumping elbows. It smelled faintly of old smoke and damp leaves. A rusted wood stove sat in one corner, but the chimney was cracked and useless. The stone fireplace, though also damaged, looked just functional enough.

You stripped off your wet jackets and boots and found a couple of dusty, fleece blankets in a lidded bin beneath a busted chair, thankfully they weren’t molded. Carl scavenged some dry bark from a bin under the hearth and used his lighter to coax a flame from what little kindling you had. The fire came to life slowly, then steadily, small, flickering orange light casting long shadows across the walls. You both huddled close, knees  drawn up, wrapped in separate halves of the same oversized blanket, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for your clothes to dry and the numbness in your fingers to fade.

At first, you didn’t talk much. Just quiet murmurs. A few tired jokes. You teased him for slipping in the mud, he teased you for screaming when a branch slapped you in the face. You both laughed when the fire cracked too loud and startled you, heads bumping as you jumped at the same time. But the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It never was with Carl. He was like that, steady and quiet in a way that didn’t demand attention, didn’t push. Being with him was like being in the eye of a storm; calm in the middle of chaos.

The fire grew warmer. The blanket felt heavier. And your eyelids drooped. You didn’t mean to fall asleep. Definitely not like that. Not halfway through telling Carl some dumb story about the time a squirrel stole your granola bar during a supply run. Not with your voice growing softer mid-sentence, your head lolling gently to the side, your body leaning until, without warning, it found solid ground. Carl’s shoulder.

He froze when your head finally landed, rigid for half a second, breath caught, eyes wide. Your hair damp against his collar, your cheek pressed to his chest, one of your hands sliding against his wrist where it rested loosely in your lap. But you didn’t wake. And then slowly, cautiously, Carl moved. Not away. Just enough to make room. His arm shifted behind you, not quite touching, but close, He tugged the blankets tighter around your legs, tucking it in gently, making sure you were covered. And then he sat there.

Completely still. Staring into the fire. Pretending like his heart wasn’t thudding so hard it echoed in his ears louder than the rain on the roof. You murmured something in your sleep and instinctively, you snuggled in closer. Your face tucked further into the crook of his neck. Your breath warm against his skin. One of your legs nudged against his beneath the blanket and didn’t move away.

Carl swallowed hard. His hand twitched slightly where it hovered behind your back. He wanted to touch you–to hold you–but didn’t dare. He just sat there in stunned, awed silence. By the time morning crept in through the slates in the wooden walls, light soft and golden, the storm long passed, the fire was mostly embers. The cabin was warmer, but not by much. The faint smell of woodsmoke lingered in your clothes. And you…wrapped around Carl like a sleepy, human-sized octopus. Your arm had found its way around his waist at some point. Your knee was hitched over his. Your face, tucked in close, was still pressed to his collarbone. Carl hadn’t moved all night. 

And he might’ve never moved if you hadn’t finally stirred — eyes fluttering open, brain catching up slowly to where you were, how you were positioned. You blinked. Once. Twice.

“What–?” you murmured, sitting up fast, heart rising. “Oh my god. Did I–? Was I–?”

Carl flushed hard, running a hand through his mess of curls, avoiding your eyes. “You fell asleep,” he said quickly. “I didn’t wanna wake you.”

“I was on top of you.”

“You’re not that heavy,” he muttered, his cheeks burning.

You stared at him, heart still pounding, trying to process the fact that not only had you unknowingly clung to Carl like a koala in your sleep — he’d let you.

You narrowed your eyes. “Carl… did you cuddle me on purpose?”

His ears turned bright red. “I—no—I mean—maybe a little—”

You laughed then, the tension bursting out of your chest in a warm rush. Your heart was fluttering, but not from panic anymore. From something else. Something new. “Next time,” you said with a smile, “just ask.”

Carl looked up sharply, surprised. “...Next time?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged, tucking the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “I don’t mind.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept working the blade in his hand, carving slowly, even strokes down the length of what looked like a branch of cedar. The rhythmic scritch, scrape of the knife against wood was the only sound between you. No greeting. No sideways glance he normally gives people. But then again Daryl wasn’t exactly known to be a people person.

He didn’t do idle conversation. He didn’t laugh at dumb jokes or shoot the shit during downtime. He didn’t join the card games or hover around the stew pot waiting for seconds. He didn’t complain when his knuckles cracked from the bowstring, or when he got back to camp late and the only thing left was cold beans. But he did notice things.

He noticed when you were limping, and always walked a little slower beside you. He noticed when you were shivering, and always tossed you an extra blanket without a word. He noticed when new faces showed up, and he always, always, stood a little too close, just in case they gave you a reason not to trust them. And now, beside him in the glow of the fire, the warmth licking against your face and the cold beginning to creep into your bones, you found yourself drifting. Your eyes fluttered. Your breathing slowed. The tension in your shoulders started to loosen.

The soft, repetitive sound of his knife carving wood, the occasional pop of the fire, the low rustle of leaves, it all became an odd lullaby of sorts. And at some point, without meaning to, you leaned. You didn’t realize you’d fallen asleep until you woke up. It was darker now. The sky had turned ink-black above the trees, and only embers remained in the firepit. The air had gone sharp and cold, biting against any skin now wrapped in flannel or fleece. You shifted slightly, groggy. And that’s when you noticed: you were no longer upright. You were leaning on something solid. Warm. Something that breathed… Someone…

Your eyes flew open. You blinked, vision adjusting to the firelight, and felt your heart stutter. Daryl. You practically curled into him, your head resting against his shoulder, your fingers curled softly into the worn material of his vest, like your body had decided it belonged there. His arm was slung along the back of the log behind you, not quite holding you…but close. His body radiated heat like a furnace, and you were pressed against it with no shame, without awareness, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A spike of panic bloomed in your chest. You sat completely still, caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief. You’d fallen asleep on Daryl Dixon. And he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t shoved you off. Hadn’t barked at you to get off him. Hadn’t made a sound. And then, before you could open your mouth to sputter out an apology, his voice cut through the silence, low and rough and barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “You were shiverin’.”

You froze. “...So you let me use you as a human heater?” you whispered, not entirely trusting your own voice. 

Daryl grunted softly. You felt it vibrate through his chest, against your cheek. “Didn’t say that.” You shifted slightly, not quite pulling away but just enough to lift your head. You sat up slowly, unsure if you should laugh or run. “I should’ve–sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” he muttered, a little too quickly. His eyes stayed locked on the fire, his jaw tense. He didn’t look angry. Just…stiff. Braced for something. “Ain’t like I minded.”

Your breath caught. That wasn’t what you’d expected. “Oh.”

He finally turned his head, just enough to glance at you, those piercing blue eyes catching the low light, flickering with something unreadable. Not quite embarrassment. Not quite discomfort. Something…softer.

“You looked tired,” he added after a moment. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You nodded, your fingers brushing the rough edge of the blanket that had somehow ended up covering both your legs. “Thanks…for not letting me freeze out here.”

Daryl gave a one-shouldered shrug, like it was nothing. But you saw the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket–twisting it slightly, releasing it, twisting again. Like nervous energy had nowhere else to go.

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he said after a beat.

But…he wasn’t pulling away either. His shoulders still brushed yours when you shifted. His boot tapped lightly against yours under the blanket. Just once. Just enough to feel. Your lips quirked into a quiet smile.

“Still,” you murmured, voice soft as you nudged his leg with yours. “Next time you wanna cuddle, you can just ask.”

Daryl stiffened immediately, like a spooked deer. “Ain’t what this was.”

You turned to look at him, arching a brow. “Sure it wasn’t.”

No one said it out loud, but after days of slogging through ankle-deep mud, waking with rain dripping in their faces, and shivering under half-torn tarps, this cabin felt like a five-star hotel. Boots and bags were discarded and the last granola bar was split without argument, 

You and Glenn have both volunteered for early watch, maybe out of habit, maybe because you wanted to give the others a chance to collapse without worry. But this place felt…safe. This was deep-breath safe. The watch turned quickly into something else, the two of you settled on the worn couch, talking low as the fire popped and whispered. You traded scraps of conversation: a weird dream Glenn had last week. How Eugene’s snores could probably lure walkers from miles away.Whether the dust drifting lazily in the firelight looked more like snow or ash. 

Somewhere between your second yawn and his third, you both shifted a little closer, just enough that your knees touched beneath the thin blanket thrown over your legs.

“You should sleep,” you murmured, nudging his arm with your elbow.

Glenn’s head lolled slightly as he shook it, his eyelids heavy. “Nah, I got you. You sleep. I’ll keep watch.” 

You smirked. “Glenn, you’re literally falling sideways.”

His normal sheepish grin spread against his face, “Fine,” he muttered, leaning back. “Just for a second.”

Seconds, apparently, had their own definition for Glenn. His head tipped slowly until it found your shoulder, the weight warm and steady. He mumbled something and then went still. One of his hands drifted across your arm, not holding but anchoring, like he’d found something solid in a world where nothing was. You could have moved. Should have. But you didn’t want to. The fire sank lower, painting the room in gold and shadow. Glenn’s face, softened by sleep, looked years younger. The usual sharp lines of survival melted away, leaving only the boy who’d once delivered pizza in a world that didn’t hunt him down.

You shifted carefully, easing your weight against the cushions. The motion made him lean closer, forehead brushing the curve of your neck. A quiet, involuntary sound escaped him before his arm curled around your waist with the unthinking ease of someone who belonged there.

You told yourself it was fine. That it meant nothing. That you’d move in a minute. But the steady rise and fall of his chest slowed your racing pulse, and the quiet certainty of his hold felt…good. Too good. So you stayed.

Morning crept in slow, a pale wash of light through warped blinds. You woke to find Glenn already watching you hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep but awake.

“Did we…?” His voice was husky with morning, barely above a whisper.

“Not on purpose,” you blurted, heat rushing to your face. “It just…happened.”

He blinked, processing, then let out a short, almost amused breath. “That’s good. I mean–not bad. Just…good to know.”

You shifted, aware of how close you still were–of the hand still resting at you waist, warm through your shirt. “I can move if–” 

“No,” he said softly, certainty threading through the word. His fingers tightened briefly, like he wasn’t ready to let go. “It’s okay. I liked it.”

You looked up, startled, but there was nothing teasing in his eyes. He smiled, lopsied and sleep-roug. “Next time, maybe I’ll pretend it’s an accident again.”

You snorted despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

At first, you had sat a few feet apart, your rifles propped in the dirt, boots to the fire. But the cold crept in like it always did on nights like this and conversation had grown sparse. At some point the blanket had come out. You had spread it over both your shoulders without really thinking, and then somehow–somehow-you were leaning in just enough that your shoulders touched with every breath. 

Rick was the first to nod off. His head titled back against the truck of a tree, arms crossed, the revolver still cradled lossely in his lap. His jaw was slack, brow smooth–a rare softness for a man who always seemed half-wired, like he couldn’t ever fully let go of the weight he carried. You’d watched him for a moment longer than you meant to. It was easy to forget he was just a man sometimes–not a leader, not a fighter, not the one people looked for answers from when anything small went wrong. Just Rick Grimes. Old, hurt, tired, probably more than he let on. Human.

Eventually, your own body gave in, lulled by the heat of the fire and the quiet rhythm of his breathing. Sleep came gently. And when you stirred next–not fully awake yet– the world had shifted. Your head was resting on his chest now, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. His arm had found its way around your waist, reesting there like it belonged. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing beheath your cheek, and your heart began to race, not with fear, but with something much more dangerous. Something tender and domestic.

For a long, frozen moment, you didn’t move. You barely breathed. Worried that you’d wake Rick up and have to leave his side, his warmth. The fire had burned low at this point, casting only a small glow. The rest of the world was covered in darkness and silence. Rick was still asleep–or so you had thought–his fingers twitching lightly against your side, as if his body was dreaming along with him. Your brain screamed at you to move. To untangle yourself, laugh it off, play it cool. Blame the cold or exhaustion or the way the blanket must’ve shifted while you two slept. But the softer part of you, the one that hadn’t surfaced in a long time, stayed still. Just for a moment longer. Because being held like this, so simply, so gentle, felt safe for once. And that was a rare thing these days.

“You…awake?” Rick’s voice came low and hoarse, still tangled in sleep.

Your heart nearly jumped out of your chest when you heard his low morning voice. “Y-Yeah,” you breathed, barely above a whisper. “Just now.” He didn’t move. Didn’t shift away. In fact, his arm tightened ever so slightly, like his body was answering before his mind had caught up fully.

“Didn’t mean to…y’know,” you mumbled, awkwardly. “End up like this.”

“S’okay,” Rick said, calm and quiet like usual. “I didn’t either.” The silence that followed wasn’t strained. It settled around you both like another blanket, warn and oddly comforting. You felt him exhale a long, slow breath that moved through his chest and into your cheek.

“I haven’t slept that good in weeks,” he murmured after a beat.

You smiled small, private. “Guess I make a good pillow.”

Rick let out a soft, low laugh–the kind you didn’t hear often, the kind that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then, finally, he tilted his head down to look at you. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded but soft, the firelight catching the flecks of gray in his beard and the faint crow’s feet at the edges of his gaze.

“You do,” he said, quiet but sincere. Like it actually meant something more. 

Your stomach flipped, and you cursed the heat beginning to bloom on your cheeks. “Well…if you get cold again sometime, I guess you know where to find me.”

His thumb brushed in a slow, thoughtful arc along your waist–the kind of touch that didn;t ask for anything but still managed to say everything.

Carlisle decided to take a day off work and was currently in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, sprawled out across the couch. His normal gelled back golden hair was left in a fluffy mop on top of his head. His arm was behind his head as he watched you move some of the furniture around after the boys re-arranged it to wrestle in the living room. You were dressed almost exactly like him, one of his sweatshirts was loosely hanging off your body and a pair of your short shorts hugged your thighs. Your hair was put into a messy bun that was half following out now that you kept moving.

Carlisle could feel sleep taking over him, or at least the closest thing to sleep a vampire could experience. But the sudden sound of music filled the room as well as your laughter. Carlisle opened his eyes to see you already smiling at him with your hand out expectantly. 

“Really? You want to dance while I look like this?” Carlisle says, as he sits up on the couch. A piece of his hair fell in front of his eyes as he tilted his head smiling right back at you. 

“I don’t see anything wrong with how you look,” your hand slowly moved his hair away from his face, “Believe it or not but I really like how peaceful you look right now. And I would love to have a dance with youmy lady?”

Carlisle couldn’t help but laugh as you did a dramatic half bow at him still waiting for him to take your hand. He finally gave you his hand and you immediately pulled him up and wrapped your arms around his neck. His arms looped around your waist and he slowly swayed with you around the coffee table.

“So what song are we dancing to sweetheart?” Carlisle rested his forehead to yours while pulling you closer.

“It’s a composition from Bonifazio Graziani,” you respond as you close your eyes enjoying how close you two were. 

You both slowly danced around the living room as the music continued onto another piece. Carlisle’s hands ran over your sides softly as you cradled his face in your hand. Your thumb ran under his eyes to the bottom of his lips as he let a soft breeze of air escape his lips. You both slowly leaned into eachother until suddenly a bright light filled both your visions and the unmistakable click of Alice’s camera filled the room along with the kids' laughter. 

You and Carlisle break away from eachother in surprise and look over to the entrance. All the kids stared at the two of you: Edward, Bella and Esme softly smiling at the two of you, Rosalie and Emmett both smirking (Emmett’s being far more playful and teasing), and Alice and Jasper both laughing at the two of you as Alice shook her polaroid and proudly showing you two the photo.

“How long have you all been there,” Carlisle asks while awkwardly laughing as his arm snaked around your waist. 

“Long enough to see you two almost get at it!” Emmett replied, trying to dodge Rosalie’s elbow from his rib cage.