Lawko-sama

The wind howled through the shattered windows of the old concert hall, carrying with it the scent of dust, dampness, and something else—something indescribable. Maybe memories.

Joel carefully pushed aside the cabinet blocking the door and peeked inside. Empty.

"Clear," he muttered over his shoulder.

Ellie stepped in behind him, flashlight in hand. Her eyes lit up when she saw the stage. Coated in a thick layer of dust, its wood cracked and stands overturned, it still looked like a place where something had once happened.

“What was this? A theater?” she asked, walking over to a rusted piano.

“Music school,” Joel grunted, scanning the room, ready to reach for his gun at any moment. “People used to come here to learn instruments. Singing. That kind of stuff.”

The girl touched a key. It let out a faint, hollow sound—like it was embarrassed to still be alive.

Joel turned toward her with a scolding look, but this time, the silent reprimand wasn’t enough to stop Ellie. Her small fingers began pressing the keys one by one. Most were dead, but a few responded—roughly, but still recognizable.

“Tell me more,” she said.

Or maybe demanded it, with a crooked little grin playing at her lips.

Joel pretended to keep scanning the area, even though there was nothing left to see.

The hall was stripped bare. Weeds poked up between worn floorboards, and there was no trace left of the place’s former glory. All the chairs were gone—some broken into splinters, others completely missing. Shreds of the red curtain still clung to the rafters high above, their burned, blackened edges a silent reminder of whatever had happened here. Even the wood itself was scorched in places.

Joel frowned and glanced back at the piano.

How the hell did it survive?

“Come on,” Ellie pressed, fingers still resting on the keys, her face puckered with impatience. “Anything?”

Joel rolled his eyes and sighed. The weariness in his face—part genuine, part performative—made him look even more tired. Finally, he looked at her. At the spark dancing in her eyes. He recognized that look—curiosity. So familiar, yet so rare in those green eyes of hers. As if on cue, the words came to him.

“Like I said… people used to come here. To play music. Sing, dance. Perform in front of others.”

Ellie scrunched her nose, and Joel instantly regretted how awkward that sounded. Her laughter rang out, echoing far too loudly in the empty space. Joel lunged forward, clapping a hand over her mouth.

“Ellie..!” he hissed, a trace of panic in his voice.

He had to pull back quickly—the girl’s surprisingly sharp teeth sank into his hand. He recoiled, not so much from pain as surprise. He looked at the semicircle bite mark on his palm in disbelief, which didn’t go unnoticed.

“I just gave you the reverse immunity technique,” she declared, raising a single finger like a scholar. “You’re welcome.”

Joel shook his hand, then wiped the damp spot on his pants. He kept his eyes on her, still looking like he half-expected her to pounce.

“We should go,” he said flatly, turning on his heel.

And just like that, he was already moving to the next door, trying to push aside whatever was blocking it from the other side. Ellie, meanwhile, stayed by the piano. Her cheeks puffed out like a hamster as she leaned on her arms and watched her guardian with a quiet frown.

“Joel?” she called out.

No response. Joel seemed fully absorbed in the task he’d set for himself—get the door open. Right now.

“Joel..?” she tried again, this time more softly.

She winced as he slammed his shoulder into the door with a low grunt. It didn’t budge. Still, he tried again. Harder. Wincing again.

Ellie hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath. She didn’t know why, but her heart suddenly picked up, her fingers slipping from the keys. She blinked. Even if just for a second, what she saw in front of her felt too real. Like a memory carved into her mind.

Blood. So much blood.

“Wake up!” Her own scream echoed in her head.

Joel lay on the floor. Right in front of her. Blood gushed from a wound beneath his right rib. His face twisted in pain. Pale as death. He didn’t respond to her cries, her begging, her sobs. Nothing.

“Joel... I don’t know what to do,” she confessed in a trembling voice.

Still, he didn’t move. His head lolled to the side, limp. Lifeless.

“Joel?” A tiny hand shook him desperately, but there was still no answer. “Joel!”

“What?” he finally said, pausing his assault on the creaking door.

Their eyes met, and Ellie’s gaze was clouded, as if haunted. The grin from before had vanished from her face, along with the spark of joy in her eyes. Joel didn’t look away, but slowly stepped back from the door, a weight settling in his chest.

“What is it?” he asked again, seeing her lips parted but no words following. As if she’d forgotten why she even called him.

She didn’t answer. She just stared at him, breathing heavily, eyes searching his face. Joel shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, but he let it happen. Deep down, he knew something was off. Something had changed.

“Let’s stay here tonight,” she said suddenly, still staring at him.

He stood there for a moment, as if struggling to process what he’d just heard.

“It’s noon. We’ve got a whole day ahead—”

“I know,” she cut in quickly. “I know, Joel.”

They stared at each other. Joel couldn’t pinpoint exactly what felt wrong, but he knew he needed to say yes. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t like Ellie to ask something like that—and that’s exactly why he agreed. He gave a slow nod in quiet surrender and finally broke eye contact.

Scratching the back of his neck, he shuffled around the edge of the stage.

“Where are you going?” she asked in a whisper so soft, Joel might not have heard it if his senses weren’t razor sharp.

“I’ll check the upper floors. Maybe I’ll find something useful,” he said honestly, pausing briefly. “You coming?”

The girl nodded almost immediately. Too fast, a bit too eagerly — a few wild strands of hair fell across her forehead. She brushed past the man, nudging him lightly in the side.

“Tag!”

With that, she shot forward like a missile. She cleared the steep stairs in a heartbeat, vanishing from Joel’s line of sight.

“Ellie!” he called after her. “We don’t know what’s up there!”

“Guess we’ll find out!” she shouted back, her voice already distant.

Joel grabbed his pistol. Pure habit. He moved slowly upward, unlike the girl, watching every step.

He found himself facing a surprisingly long hallway lined with just as many rooms. There were no windows. He squinted, trying to see through the dark, but eventually gave in and switched on his flashlight. The light flickered ominously, and he clicked his tongue in frustration. No spare batteries.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed.

He froze mid-step. His eyes locked on a door to the left, and he slowly approached, pressing his ear against it. Nothing. He grasped the handle and swung it open in one smooth motion. A few rats scattered at his feet, knocking over a cardboard box on their way out.

He sighed — a meaningful one — and lowered his gun.

“It’s hide and seek, not tag...” he muttered to himself, quickly scanning the room.

Nothing caught his eye enough to warrant stepping inside.

He moved on, checking room after room. He gathered a few useful items, and when he came across an old, dusty box full of energy bars, he nearly smiled.

“Ellie! Found some bars!” Miller called out, trying to coax the girl out of hiding.

Only silence answered. He scratched his chin.

“Then I’m eating all of them without you!” he declared, loudly ripping open a wrapper just for effect.

Still, no response from the girl. Joel had time to ransack the entire room, stuffing his backpack with more surprisingly useful junk.

His last stop was a bookshelf. The layer of dust coating it was thick. Old textbooks, sheet music notebooks, an entire music encyclopedia. He grabbed one, brushed off the dust, and opened to a random page. That’s when he noticed a scratch along the cracked floorboards out of the corner of his eye.

Joel tilted his head. He grabbed the shelf and — surprisingly — slid it aside, revealing a small hidden room. Inside was a desk, a few scattered papers, and a dead lamp. The star attraction, though, was the armchair. Joel glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for onlookers. He stepped in, but didn’t close the shelf behind him. The small gap he’d squeezed through was still there.

He sat in silence for a while, soaking in the peace. The only sound was the soft rustle of turning pages and his own breath. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, until Ellie’s voice snapped him out of it.

“Man… you are so boring, Joel,” her voice cut through the air out of nowhere. “I thought you’d at least try a little.”

Joel didn’t reply, figuring it was a fair price for her earlier disobedience. He wasn’t exactly hiding from her — but he wasn’t helping her find him either.

“You already downstairs?!” she called, louder this time.

He flipped another page and leaned slightly to the right. The girl stood barely two meters away, but she didn’t seem to notice the gap in the corner of the room.

“You left the bars...” she muttered, picking up the whole box in her arms.

Joel raised an eyebrow as he watched her scan the room briefly, then, completely unaware, walk away. He exhaled — a soft huff of laughter — and actually smiled. He crossed one leg over the other, propped his foot against the desk, and kept reading the book, which suddenly seemed really interesting.

Time passed. Enough for him to start growing restless. Ellie’s silence wasn’t natural — but he knew her well enough to predict exactly when she’d start getting uncomfortable with zero action or response.

“Joooooel,” came the drawn-out groan, accompanied by dragging footsteps. “I checked everywhere, where are you?”

He shrugged as if she could see it. That smirk still lingered on his lips — though it faded fast when he heard her approach the room again.

A candy wrapper crinkled dangerously close. Something shuffled, followed by a sigh.

“Hope you can at least hear me… I give up,” she said.

Joel realized just how close she really was. Her voice sounded like she was right next to him — and she was. Out of the corner of his eye in the darkness, he saw her dirty sneakers dangling off the desk she sat on. He could barely make out her outline.

She sighed again. Her posture seemed smaller now — like she’d slumped from some kind of disappointment or sadness. That was enough to make Joel want to get up, but before he could, her voice returned.

“At least now I can say it… ‘cause otherwise I don’t think I’d be able to,” Ellie began, her voice trembling just slightly.

Joel froze. The weight of her tone hit him like a freight train.

“Remember when you fell… on that piece of rebar? And then you were lying in that godawful basement?” she asked, continuing quickly. “I don’t know why, but I can’t forget it.”

Joel said nothing. Partly to give her space, but also — even if he wanted to speak — he wasn’t sure he could. He sank back into the chair, suddenly feeling a strange chill despite its softness.

“You didn’t talk to me… for days. I knew you were asleep, that you needed to rest, but I don’t know why…” she faltered. “It scared me.”

He hadn’t noticed when he stopped breathing. Her now quiet voice faded somewhere into the dark, and even though he knew she was here, it felt almost like he imagined it. She was never one to open up — neither was he. A sharp ache bloomed in his chest.

“You said weird stuff when your fever was high… you know?” she went on, barely audible. “You thrashed around in your sleep, and when I woke you up, you looked at me like… like you didn’t see me.”

Something snapped back into focus in Joel’s mind. He shot up so fast the world spun for a moment. The book dropped from his lap with a dull thud. His knees cracked — but he didn’t care. Ellie had to have heard him.

“Don’t come out,” she said, her voice carrying a clear plea. “I know where you are, just… it’s easier this way.”

He froze in place but kept his eyes on the girl’s slightly turned figure. Only from this angle could he see that Ellie had almost completely curled into a ball. Her legs were no longer hanging off the edge; heels resting on the rim of the furniture, knees tucked under her chin. Only messy strands of hair stuck out above her forearms, her eyes hidden—just so she wouldn’t catch any movement from Joel’s direction.

Ellie’s heavy breaths pierced his heart like daggers, but he respected her request. Barely.

“I don’t want you to…” she murmured, barely audible, and paused, as if the next words were painfully hard to get out, “…suffer because of me.”

Before Joel realized what he was doing, he slipped through the gap. In one stride, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around the girl. His chin naturally rested on the top of her head, and Ellie melted into his embrace. Like that’s exactly how it was supposed to be—like they did this every day.

He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He tried not to react to the faint trembling of her body or the soft sniffles that got lost in the fabric of his torn shirt.

Joel was gathering his thoughts. Slowly—probably too slowly. Luckily, he could afford it, because Ellie didn’t seem eager to pull away. Quite the opposite. She clung to him, and before long, anchored him in place with a tight grip around his neck.

Despite the time passing, he still felt like his thoughts were going nowhere. He closed his eyes and exhaled as much as he could. His hand moved gently along her back, hoping to calm her down even a little.

“Ellie,” he said, stopping his hand halfway up her spine.

A faint, barely audible murmur was all she could manage.

“What is the downside to eating a clock?” he asked, fighting the smile suddenly tugging at his lips.

Ellie slowly pulled away from his shoulder. Her tear-filled eyes still held sadness, pain—but also a hint of curiosity, maybe even confusion.

“What?” she asked first, then shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“It’s time consumin’.”

They stared at each other. The girl’s eyes gradually widened, in perfect sync with the smile stretching across Joel’s face. Ellie couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Miller looked like he was about to burst out laughing. His face, still partly hidden in shadow, was slowly turning red—maybe from embarrassment, maybe from trying to hold in the laughter. Ellie finally snorted, a laugh bubbling up from her chest.

“God… that was awful,” she said, now laughing out loud, which only fueled Joel’s effort to keep a straight face. “You’re going to explode.”

He shook his head like he was trying to shake off the laughter building inside, but he couldn’t. Something between a snort and a suppressed chuckle escaped him, and Ellie lost it, laughing freely and openly.

“What even was that?” she giggled.

Now the roles had reversed—Joel was the one hiding his face in her shoulder. Thankfully, not from sadness—this time it was something else entirely.

“You laugh like a choking cat.”

“Hey.”

The mock anger in his voice only made her laugh harder. She clung to his arm with the last of her strength just to keep from collapsing to the floor. Joel’s theatrical offense disappeared just as quickly as it appeared.

“I’m trying to tell you,” Joel began once they both settled down a bit, “that you have no idea how wrong you are.”

Suddenly, they were looking into each other’s eyes. And surprisingly, it wasn’t awkward. They stared deep, as if trying to read each other’s thoughts—though there was no need. They’d laid their hearts bare. Both broken, both wary—but trying to rebuild trust in each other.

Now it was Ellie waiting, seeing there was more. Finding the right words came with the same heaviness. She understood perfectly. That’s why she waited. Joel looked away the moment the words began forming on his tongue.

“Because of you… things are better,” he finally said, slowly.

As if those words weighed a ton.

“And I don’t ever want you to think otherwise. Even if we fight, even if we get separated, even if…” he paused and looked back at her.

She listened. Closely.

“…I’m gone,” he finished, watching her reaction. “It’s not your fault. Never. No matter the reason. I don’t suffer because of you—I never have. And I hope you don’t either.”

Ellie exhaled the breath she’d been holding and smiled. Broadly. A single tear rolled down her cheek, but it wasn’t sadness—it was relief. She nodded, biting her lip.

Whatever had been crushing her under its weight suddenly seemed to vanish in an instant. She felt light—like a feather. For a moment, she thought she could float away if she wanted. She hadn’t even realized just how much this had been tormenting her. Only now could she see how badly they both needed this.

Joel looked calmer too. Like he’d somehow grown younger through it all. He watched her reaction carefully, but it was obvious he felt proud. Maybe of himself, maybe of Ellie—hard to say. But the care with which he studied her was something new. Something raw, and open.

They sat in silence for a while. Then Joel stood up, without a word. Ellie watched him curiously.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, seeing him move things from a bigger pile to a smaller one.

He didn’t answer. Just raised his eyebrows and glanced at her briefly over his shoulder. Ellie rolled her eyes and got up, following him. Eventually, he inspected one of the covers in his hand and, seemingly satisfied, headed to another room.

It was three doors down. Of course, Ellie followed, curious what he was up to. At first, she was disappointed. The room was nearly empty. Just one thing stood there, aside from the toppled shelves—a record player.

“Are we gonna sing?” she asked, eyes sparkling. “Are you gonna sing too?”

Joel gave her that typical “not a chance in hell” look, but after a moment, he managed to get the thing working.

“Does it make you all nostalgic?” she asked with a smirk. “Throwback to your times?”

“It’s actually before my time,” he noted. “But it’s still a winner.”

The notes spread through the empty room with a soft echo, giving the song even more charm.

“What is it?”

“‘Sweet Home Alabama,’” he said, arms crossed. “Figured you should hear it. I think it’s worth it.”

“Oh no no,” Ellie said immediately. “You’re not just gonna stand there with your arms crossed while music’s playing! We’re either dancing or singing. Pick one.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Not happening. I sing as badly as I dance.”

“I don’t care! You think I can sing?” she shot back, watching as the calm on his face shifted to mild panic. “Don’t be like that… just this once!”

“No, no, no,” he repeated, like saying it three times would make a difference.

Ellie dug in her heels and tugged on his hand. At first, he wouldn’t budge—he leaned against the table with deliberate stubbornness, refusing to move an inch. But after much struggle, they finally stood face to face, surrounded by broken wooden debris scattered under their feet.

Ellie dug in her heels and tugged on his hand. At first, he wouldn’t budge—he leaned against the table with deliberate stubbornness, refusing to move an inch. But after much struggle, they finally stood face to face, surrounded by broken wooden debris scattered under their feet.

“I don’t dance,” he reminded her again, as if to ward off whatever she was planning.

At those words, Ellie grabbed his hands—just before he could slip them behind his back. She started bouncing to the rhythm, even if it looked nothing like actual dancing. She swung his hands around just to try and coax some kind of movement out of him.

“Joel!” she scolded when he still hadn’t made a single step without her help. “I’ll be sad.”

It bordered on emotional blackmail, but Ellie didn’t feel bad about it. Joel wasn’t about to start jumping around like she was, but he did help her spin a few times on the spot. He went along with it, moving somewhat in time with the music, which Ellie considered a borderline miracle.

“What was it you said? That you can’t dance?” she teased, tilting her head up to catch the visible discomfort on his face.

“You lied too,” he countered.

In response, she laughed—and then spun five more times until she stumbled slightly, just as the music ended.

“That’s not fair, you keep spinning me around and I can’t spin you,” she whined, catching the amused look on his face.

“Maybe when you’re a bit taller. Right now, I’m scared I’ll step on you.”

“Joel!”

They both chuckled softly.

As the next melodies bounced off the scraped walls, the memory replayed in Ellie’s mind. It was the best moment they ever had—maybe the best moment of her life. She remembered it like it had happened yesterday, even though it had been years.

The room was silent, but inside her head was chaos. Her fingers felt sticky. The metallic scent filled her nostrils. In front of her stretched a sea of blood. A red stain slowly spread its territory, its edges bleeding into smaller droplets around it.

Where am I? she thought.

Her eyes dropped lower. It all hit her in an instant. The memory crashed back with such violence it nearly knocked her unconscious.

“Joel…” she whispered, terrified by the sound of her own voice. “Joel… get up…”

No.

This isn’t real. He’s going to get up any second now.

This was a lie. Her imagination. That had to be it.

Joel would walk in from around the corner. He’d smile at her, despite everything. He’d pull her into a hug, tell her it’s okay. This wasn’t happening. It was just in her head.

Just like last time—right?

“Joel… please,” she sobbed, unable to stop herself. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore. It’s been too long. I get it, I’m sorry, okay? Whatever I did—please, don’t do this. Help me… get up…”

Her pleading turned into a whisper. The mantra froze in her chest. Her breathing was uneven as she leaned against his cold, rigid body. She still didn’t believe it. This wasn’t him. This was a nightmare—her worst fear, from which she was about to wake.

“Ellie, let go,” came a voice from nowhere.

A voice. Familiar. Slightly distorted. Slightly off—but almost…

She looked up, immediately soaking in the sight before her.

“Joel… finally—”

She started, but never finished. Her heart cracked open, then stopped beating altogether.

Tommy. It was Tommy.

She looked down again, as awareness crept back into her slowly. She didn’t even know how long she’d been lying there.

She saw a hand. Pale. Blue-tinged. The fingers had turned a sickly violet. Reflexively, she reached for it. For a second, she thought she’d grabbed something else by mistake. But no. The hand was stiff, unyielding. Cold as metal. Like a block of ice.

And just beneath it… the watch. Old, broken, its face cracked.

“Ellie, we have to go,” she heard again.

That voice—so much like his. A tightness gripped her chest. A lump rose in her throat so large she could barely breathe.

“Shut up,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Get out! Where is he?!”

“Ellie—”

“Back off.”

Suddenly she drew her knife. Tommy straightened instantly. Jesse, standing further back, watched with concern. But Ellie didn’t see either of them. Her vision rippled. The tears made everything blur. The blade trembled in her bloodstained hand.

“Where is he?”

They both looked away. They knew who she meant. They didn’t want to answer.

“Where—”

“Ellie,” Tommy cut in, clearly shaken. “To your right. On the ground. You understand?”

“No,” she denied instantly, stumbling and barely catching herself before she fell. “That’s not him.”

They were saying something. She could see their mouths moving. They were getting closer—but not too close. Not within reach of the blade. Step by step, slowly.

But Ellie didn’t care.

“Enough.”

A voice, sudden, from her right. She turned in a flash. Dropped to her knees. Pain radiated through her limbs, up her spine.

“Joel, Joel!”

She was sure of it. Still crying, she turned him over onto his back with effort. She didn’t register the horrible thud his body made as it fell. He was alive—that’s all that mattered. Everything else could wait. She could swear he smiled, just slightly. Beneath the blood, the unshaven stubble. She saw it. Heard it.

“I knew it…”

She never finished. Again.

Even though she saw it. Even though she heard it. Even though she was certain.

The pale face. Hollow cheeks. Sunken eyes. The dark, dried stain on the side he’d been lying on. Blood pooling beneath his skin. Then came the choking wave of rot—not just the stench of blood anymore, but the unmistakable smell of decay. It burrowed into her brain, forced more tears from her eyes, made her gag with every breath she took.

And then, she understood.

She screamed. Once. Again.

Until her limbs went numb.

Until her throat gave out—just like the rest of her.

Until everything was swallowed by darkness.

Sunlight spilled mercilessly into the room through the uncovered curtains, drenching the sleeping man in golden light. Of course, the brightest beam landed exactly where Trafalgar Law was lying. He grimaced as a single drop of sweat slowly trickled down his temple, tickling his skin in the most irritating way possible.

Opening his eyes felt like lifting iron weights. His eyelids were heavy, his facial muscles stiff and uncooperative. Every twitch sent a dull, throbbing ache pulsing through his skull. When he finally managed to crack them open, the blinding sunlight struck him like a branding iron. He hissed and turned his head away, squinting so hard it felt like his eyeballs might implode. The world was too loud, too bright, too... present.

With a groan, he dragged himself across the mattress, inching toward the slightest scrap of shade. His mind was sluggish, like it was wading through thick syrup. Every thought arrived late, muffled, barely coherent — and his body felt like a confused mixture of cotton and lead.

The headache was overwhelming — dull but everywhere, stretching from his temples to the base of his skull. His throat was so dry that swallowing felt like dragging sandpaper down his esophagus. His stomach lurched with alarming force, sending a burning, sour sensation up his throat. His chest ached every time he tried to breathe in, refusing to let him keep air in his lungs for more than a second or two.

And as if that wasn’t enough — he couldn’t feel his right arm at all.

He frowned and, with great reluctance, turned his head. That’s when he noticed that something — or rather, someone — incredibly warm and heavy was glued to his side. He sighed deeply. Of course. Only one person was that blissfully unaware of personal space.

Luffy, sprawled across the bed like a starfish, had taken over nearly the entire mattress.

Law swallowed — bitter and dry — and slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, groaning quietly as every muscle in his body protested. His skull felt like it was moments from exploding, and his tongue had seemingly fused to the roof of his mouth. His breath tasted like stale tobacco and... something else. Alcohol, maybe. Or disinfectant.

He didn’t remember much, but one thing was certain — he was never drinking with the Straw Hats again. Ever.

The room was a disaster. Bottles lay tipped over on the table, surrounded by empty cups and plates crusted with leftover food. A suspiciously familiar pair of pants was draped over the back of a chair. On the floor, someone had drawn what looked like a summoning circle in chalk — probably one of Brook or Usopp’s drunken ideas — and in the corner, a music box played on loop, its cheery melody feeling like a personal attack on Law’s throbbing skull.

Just beside the bed lay the Straw Hats' swordsman, passed out cold. Despite his miserable state, Law couldn't help but smirk. He remembered clearly that Zoro had been his main drinking rival last night. It was oddly satisfying to see him equally wrecked.

“Get off me,” Law grumbled at last, nudging the younger captain with his elbow.

He couldn’t take another wave of heat rolling off Luffy’s body — it was turning his stomach inside out.

“Five more minutes... the meat asked me not to leave it…” Luffy mumbled in response, smiling sleepily.

“What...?” came a third voice, nearby.

Roronoa moved — or tried to — followed by a loud thud and a very enthusiastic curse. Law was too slow to turn and catch what had happened, but he didn’t need to. The sound alone told him that Zoro had just smashed his head into the nightstand.

Law reached for the cup of water sitting on the exact same nightstand Zoro had just smashed his head into. He downed the clear liquid in one go — and immediately regretted it. He coughed violently as the sharp, sterile sting of pure alcohol burned its way through his nose.

Zoro, still sprawled on the floor, let out a distant, half-laugh.

“I spat in that,” he informed him casually, deepening the scowl on Law’s face.

“Give me real water,” Law croaked. His voice was so hoarse and off-key it barely sounded like him.

The swordsman looked around, scanning the area. There wasn’t much within reach — except for one very interesting object. He fought off the smirk crawling up his face and reached under the bed.

Zoro had to focus all his senses to gently grab the medium-sized spider without scaring it off.

“Here ya go,” he warned with a grin.

Then he tossed the slightly hairy arachnid in Law’s direction.

At first, Law didn’t even notice. He lowered his hand from his eyes, expecting to see a water bottle — but a few long seconds passed before he spotted the spider.

“Are you insane?!”

To Zoro’s delight, Law flinched and swatted the creature away with a panicked jerk. What really made it for the swordsman, though, was that brief flicker of fear in the surgeon’s eyes.

“Calm down. Don’t tell me you’re scared of spiders?” Zoro chuckled.

He was met with a heavy, ominous silence.

“Meat?” Luffy suddenly blurted out, lifting his head off the pillow.

“Meat my ass,” Law snapped like a sulky child, yanking his arm free from Luffy’s clutch.

With a miserable groan, the doctor pushed himself to his feet. He swayed dangerously a few times, clearly battling gravity with limited success. He rubbed his face with both hands — and nearly gagged when he felt the film of sweat and grease clinging to his fingers like fryer oil.

He made a beeline for the bathroom, stepping over Zoro and various other objects strewn across the floor. He cracked the door open and then slammed it shut behind him. Standing over the sink, he slowly splashed his face with water. He didn’t even hesitate to take several greedy gulps straight from the tap.

Right now, nothing else mattered.

Well... almost nothing.

Law suddenly froze when a deep growl echoed through the room.

His eyes flicked to the mirror — and his heart nearly gave out on the spot.

Behind him sat a lion. A huge, fluffy, and — most importantly — real lion.

Law watched in horror as the color drained from his face. The shock held him frozen for a second or two, but then instinct took over. He launched himself backward, slamming into the bathroom door and holding it shut with his full weight.

“What the actual fuck is a lion doing in the bathroom?!” he yelled, feeling the heavy pressure of the beast pushing against the wood.

“You’re drunk, Law. Go lie down and stop making shit up,” Zoro replied flatly, not even bothering to open an eye.

“Get your ass over here and help me!”

Only when the lion let out a ground-shaking roar did Zoro suddenly leap to his feet. Now the two of them were bracing the trembling door together, hinges creaking under the strain.

“Mugiwara-ya! Get up, you idiot!” Law hissed, hurling the first thing he could grab at the younger captain. “Now!”

“Luffy! We’ve got meat!” Zoro added.

That was all it took. The Straw Hat captain teleported across the room in under a second.

“You gotta cook it first… but it’ll do,” the swordsman added, watching with mild concern and a lot of amusement as Luffy’s face lit up with excitement.

“You mean my pet?” Luffy blinked. “I’m not eating my friend! His name is King and he’s suuuper cool. The zoo gave him to me yesterday! Super nice people.”

Law and Zoro stared at him, eyes so wide they looked ready to roll right out of their sockets and onto the floor.

"Like hell the zoo just handed you a lion, you absolute moron!"

“It doesn't matter right now... control him or something—”

"He can’t even handle his own damn self — what makes you think he can control a freaking lion-"

Law didn’t get to finish. The door slammed into his spine as the increasingly disgruntled King of the Jungle growled on the other side.

Just as he was about to curse again, another sound caught his ear. 

A high-pitched, unmistakable wail.

A baby.

Law had never wanted to be wrong about something more in his entire life.

“What the hell was that?” Zoro asked, just as concerned now.

As soon as Luffy swapped places with him at the door, Law followed the sound — and found himself standing in front of a massive wardrobe. He kicked aside some junk blocking the doors, yanked them open, and... yep. No mistake.

There was a toddler sitting inside.

The kid couldn’t have been more than one or two years old. Two wide, shiny eyes locked onto Law’s face — and even in his wrecked state, he didn’t need to be very  perceptive to see the incoming tears. A second later, an ear-splitting scream pierced the air.

“Law,” Zoro growled, clutching his temples. “Shut that kid up. My head’s gonna explode.”

“Why don’t you shut it up, huh?!” Law snapped, raising his voice to compete with the crying. “I’m a surgeon, not a babysitter!”

“Hug it… or something,” Zoro suggested, weirdly sincere.

“Whose kid even is this…?” Law asked, not really expecting an answer.

Still, against every voice in his head screaming don’t do it, he picked the baby up.

“Be quiet,” he told it, locking eyes with the little gremlin.

The boy (he thought it was a boy) fell silent for a whole half second… before shrieking even louder. Loud enough to make Law’s ears ring.

The surgeon sank onto the edge of the bed, completely defeated. With the expression of a man whose soul had just left his body, he started gently rocking the baby, which — painfully slowly — began to calm down.

“Okay,” Zoro muttered eventually, sliding down to sit against the door. “What now?”

“I could eat something,” Luffy said cheerfully.

Zoro gave Law a long, tired look.

And that’s when the swordsman noticed what Law actually looked like — and nearly burst out laughing.

His hair was sticking out in every direction like he’d lost a fight with a tornado. His face bore deep pillow lines, and darker-than-usual shadows under his eyes. But the real kicker? The giant, pitch-black letters scrawled across his neck in thick permanent marker:

"Zoro was here"

Legendary.

His amusement was cut short, however, when a woman suddenly burst into the room.

She was... not bad-looking, though honestly kind of average. Her platinum blonde wig had slipped, revealing dark roots beneath. Her bright red lipstick was smudged across one cheek, and her mascara had pretty much given up.

“Baaabe…” she cooed the second she spotted Law holding the kid. “Oh, I’m so glad you took care of him. I thought I lost him somewhere... my sister would’ve killed me!”

She walked right up to Law, who hadn’t yet processed her existence, and planted a kiss somewhere next to his mouth, leaving a red smear on his cheek.

“Babe...?” Law echoed, trying to make sense of it — and failing spectacularly.

“So what do you think of the little guy?” she asked, cradling the baby closer to her chest. “Isn’t he adorable? Maybe we’ll have one of our own soon!”

“Wait... no… I mean—what?!”

“I said—”

“I heard you,” he cut in quickly.

Law was pale. Like death-pale. His whole life was flashing before his eyes in a highlight reel of poor decisions.

Him? With a baby?

With… whoever this even was?!

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” he said stiffly, trying to steady his breath. “That had to be someone else.”

“Hmmm...” she tilted her head, like she was solving a really easy puzzle. “Tall, black hair, tattoos... yep, that’s definitely you.”

“What’s going on?” Luffy chimed in, tilting his head. “Wait… I remember you! Lucy, right? Hi, Lucy! How are you?”

“Oh, Luffy!” she lit up. “So much better! Ever since… that doctor helped me, I’ve been feeling great.”

“Wait a sec,” Law interrupted. “How do we know each other?”

“You don’t remember?”

“If I remembered, I wouldn’t be asking,” he growled, narrowing his eyes.

“You said you’d… share your genetic material,” Lucy explained sweetly.

Law sat in stunned silence. His brain hit its limit for shock absorption — and he didn’t even try to hide it. Slowly, very slowly, a look of relief crept over his face.

“I was devastated,” she continued. “Doctors told me I couldn’t get pregnant the normal way… but I always wanted a child! So I started looking for a donor. Someone with good genes — and you're a doctor, so I figured you'd understand. I hope your offer still stands?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Law fired back faster than lightning. “No, no, and absolutely not.”

“Oh… so the relationship’s off too, I take it?”

“What relationship?!” Law barked, on the verge of collapse.

In response, she raised her hand — and there it was. A glinting diamond ring on her finger.

“Well... you said—”

“Whatever I said, I take it back,” Law cut her off, jumping to his feet. “You can keep that thing, but whatever it was supposed to mean — it doesn’t. I was drunk. I don’t remember anything.”

“Oh come on, Torao,” Zoro said with a smirk, clearly enjoying himself. “Turning down a lady?”

“And you—” Law pointed at him sharply “—are going to regret that drinking contest. I swear.”

“Don’t be mad,” Zoro shrugged, grinning. “You almost made it. Maybe next time.”

“There’s not gonna be a next time!”

That’s when Luffy burst out laughing, loud and carefree.

The morning on the Sunny’s deck was quiet — which, in itself, was suspicious.

Law sat by the railing, lazily watching the waves. One hand rested on his knee, while the other — the less strained one — lightly pressed against his side, where the bandages were still faintly stained from the fight two days prior. He tugged his hood lower over his eyes, as if that would discourage anyone from bothering him. Naturally, it didn’t work.

“Got a minute?” came Robin’s familiar, velvety voice.

He reacted on instinct — tensing slightly before casting her a sideways glance, one brow raised in doubt.

“Only if it doesn’t involve Chopper’s experiments or Sanji’s debate on oysters as aphrodisiacs.”

“Not today. Today, I just have a message,” she replied, as calm and mildly ironic as always.

Law’s gaze flicked from her to the waves, then back with a sigh.

“Well?”

Robin gracefully sat down beside him, hands folded neatly on her knees.

“Zoro’s inviting you to spar. He’s at the stern.”

Law raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised.

“On his own initiative?”

“He supposedly said he needs ‘someone who knows what they’re doing.’”

Law narrowed his eyes. That sounded suspiciously like something Robin would say while pretending to quote Zoro.

“Mhm…” he hummed. “Did it occur to you that maybe he should’ve told me himself?”

“He’s busy stretching. I didn’t want to interrupt him,” she said in that perfectly neutral tone of hers.

Law was silent for a moment, tilting his head slightly. His eyes were scanning her — suspicious, analytical. Like he was looking for a twitch of the eyelid, a muscle flex, anything to reveal a lie. But Robin remained perfectly calm. Or maybe a little too calm.

“Just so you know, I’ve got a hole in my side that’s still leaking more than it should,” he said slowly, lifting his shirt slightly to show the edge of the bandage. “And honestly? I think you’re messing with me. Zoro-ya saw firsthand what… happened.”

Robin smiled with gentle concern — one that, to Law, looked suspiciously convincing.

“You don’t strike me as someone who lets a few stitches beat him. Zoro probably thinks the same. But if you want to back out, I can tell him you’re scared.”

“Don’t use psychology in such a cheap way,” he muttered, standing up slowly. He paused mid-motion, gritting his teeth when the wound reminded him of its existence. “I’m going only because you people are irritating.”

“Lovely. I’ll be cheering for you… from a safe distance.”

Law shot her a look, then started walking toward the stern, hand subtly supporting his side. His steps were calm, yet careful — not exactly sneaky, but with the kind of caution that comes from not wanting your weakness to show.

He wasn’t sure what was more unsettling — the fact that Robin suddenly decided to play messenger, or that he couldn’t say for sure if she was lying.

Zoro was indeed training at the stern, though it looked oddly unconventional for a warm-up. Law walked closer, stopping accidentally a bit nearer than he intended.

Roronoa was standing on his hands. Noticing Law, he tilted his neck and rolled into a cross-legged sitting position. He gave Law a neutral glance and grabbed a water bottle, downing it in one go.

Two men stared at each other for a moment. Zoro, in particular, looked a bit surprised — though his expression was still within the normal “Zoro range.” Barely readable. Chances were, Law was projecting onto his face more than it deserved.

Law frowned and unfastened his coat, tossing it aside.

Steel-grey eyes tracked Trafalgar’s movements closely. Zoro looked like he wanted to say something — but stayed silent.

They broke eye contact only when Law began a quick warm-up.

That’s when Zoro finally graced him with words.

“What are you doing..?” he asked suddenly, not moving from his spot.

Law froze.

Knew it, he thought.

He looked up, probably expecting to find Robin somewhere in the shadows, silently giggling at the whole scene. But before he could defend himself, Zoro continued.

“Don’t put so much strain on that side.”

A warm, slightly sweaty hand touched the exposed skin near Law’s injury. Zoro quickly straightened him back up, eyeing him rather critically.

“With a wound like that, you shouldn’t be...” Zoro hesitated, searching for the right words. “Honestly, you probably shouldn’t be training at all.”

Law glared at the swordsman from beneath his brows. The whole situation felt absurd.

“I can handle it,” he replied.

Law wasn’t even sure what had triggered Zoro’s reaction. It looked like he’d only just now grasped the severity of the injury… but then again, just like Zoro, Law had his own issues admitting weakness. No way in hell would he ever want the swordsman to see him as… less.

“I know you can. But there’s no need to—”

“I. Can. Handle. It.”

Zoro went quiet, then nodded without another word.

Eventually, they agreed on a fistfight, though Zoro probably would’ve gone along with anything.

Trafalgar still wasn’t entirely at ease. Roronoa looked mildly confused. He kept glancing at the bandages with a strange kind of unease flickering somewhere in the depth of his stare. But both of them knew there was no backing out now. After all, neither would be the one to chicken out.

The beginning was almost ceremonial.

They stood facing each other on the open space, in a gentle breeze that tugged at their hair. Law raised his eyebrows slightly, ready to make the first move, but it was Zoro who stepped forward — not aggressively, more like he just wanted to test the distance.

Single strikes, quick steps, light dodges — it looked more like a dance than a spar. Neither of them hit with full force. Zoro seemed relaxed, almost bored, while Law… well, his movements were careful, precise. He didn’t let his guard down.

At least not at first.

After a few minutes, Law started getting into the rhythm — he was almost flowing, landing hits on the arm, side, shoulder. Zoro took it all in stride, not even flinching at the contact.

Then something changed.

Zoro didn’t suddenly speed up. It was a small shift — a step more decisive, a move less predictable. A deeper dodge, a faster counter. He struck Law’s forearm. Then he swung a fist aimed somewhere around Trafalgar’s injured side. Zoro pulled back in time, stopping the punch centimeters from the bandages — but he paid for it with a rather unpleasant straight punch.

Law stepped back half a step and narrowed his eyes.

— You’re holding back — he muttered, trying to mask a slight shortness of breath.

Zoro didn’t answer. He just moved in again.

This time the punch came from below — quick, accurate, almost landing on the collarbone. Law blocked, but felt a sharp tug of pain in his side. He gritted his teeth, trying not to show anything on his face.

Zoro seized the moment of hesitation and went in for a series: hit, dodge, sidestep, another strike — a bit higher, under the ribs. It landed. Not with full strength, but enough.

Law gasped, immediately springing back. His left hand clutched his side, as if trying to catch his breath through the armor of pain tightening around him.

— Shit… — he growled quietly, just loud enough for himself.

Zoro stopped but didn’t back away. He looked at him carefully, brow slightly furrowed.

— That wound’s bad, huh?

Law just gave him a look with a hint of reproach. He clenched his fists and got back into position.

— I don’t need special treatment. You wanted to fight, then fight.

— What? — Zoro raised an eyebrow, clearly thrown off. — You were the one who wanted this.

Law looked at him, a mix of pain, fatigue, and… sudden realization flashing in his eyes. He frowned.

— I mean… don’t get me wrong — Zoro started again, his voice taking on a strangely defensive tone — It’s just, in your current condition… I wouldn’t have suggested anything that might risk—

Law swallowed hard, feeling the blood pulsing in his temples. Suddenly it clicked. Suddenly, everything started to piece together into one annoyingly clear picture.

— Robin… — he muttered under his breath, as if to himself, but loud enough for Zoro to hear.

The swordsman frowned.

— What about Robin?

Law looked up, slowly straightening despite the pain. Anger started to flicker somewhere under his ribs, deeper than the wound.

— Robin told me you invited me — he said, deliberately averting his gaze in embarrassment.

Zoro stood frozen, then raised his hands in an almost comical gesture of helplessness.

— Dude… I saw how messed up you were. I wouldn't suggest-

— I know.

Law really didn’t like situations like this. Misunderstandings were at least mildly humiliating, especially when they seemed like they were his fault. 

— Two idiots — Zoro commented, barely holding back a grin — She played us well.

— Didn’t even have to try… — Law muttered, biting his lower lip between his teeth.

Suddenly, Law heard something unfamiliar. Something… pleasant. A soft, short laugh. Zoro, having slung a towel over his shoulder, laughed at the whole situation, leaving Law in silent shock.

— Next time, just come on your own. I’m inviting you in advance — he tossed over his shoulder with a sharp smirk, the last one of the day.

Law stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where the swordsman had just been.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed the black-haired archaeologist watching him. Chin resting on her elbow, delicate smile.

He clicked his tongue and yanked on his forgotten coat.

A storm had rolled through the village the night before, leaving muddy roads and air thick with moisture. The scent of wet earth and drying herbs—ones you’d hung from the ceiling after the rain—drifted in through the slightly open window. It was one of those rare mornings when your house was peaceful.

At least, until someone knocked on the door.

You didn’t need to guess who it was.

"Time for you to finally fall into my arms."

That familiar deep voice.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Looking at you, I’d say you’re the one about to fall. Flat on your face. Into the mud."

Geralt smirked, but he looked like hell. Tired, covered in dirt, with a nasty wound on his arm. Probably poisoned. Probably something to do with one of his potions. You sighed and stepped aside, letting him in.

"Sit. I’ll find something."

The Witcher sat at the table without a word, glancing around the room as if checking what had changed since his last visit. It had been a few weeks. He’d come by briefly, promised to return "at the next opportunity," then disappeared. Typical.

You were reaching for supplies when the atmosphere in the room shifted.

You knew that sound. A quiet, almost imperceptible growl.

Your eyes flicked toward the cupboard.

Your cat sat atop it, staring at Geralt with a look that did not promise peace. One of his eyebrows lifted, and then the cat bristled.

"That your new guard dog?" Geralt muttered, not taking his eyes off the furry menace.

"My old guard cat," you corrected, watching the situation unfold. "He’s never acted like this before."

"Maybe he senses I’m not exactly a 'guest'" the Witcher said, a flicker of amusement in his voice.

You didn’t get a chance to respond, because at that moment, the cat leapt.

Geralt dodged, but not fast enough. The little monster still managed to claw him mid-air. The Witcher looked at the cat, then at you, as if to say: Really?

"Something in that potion of yours, or does your cat just hate me?"

"He’s never acted this way before," you mused, arms crossed.

"I’ll admit," Geralt sighed, "I don’t handle rejection well."

He grabbed a spoon off the table and tapped it against the wood. The cat tracked the motion, body tensed, tail twitching.

"Maybe he senses you’re not… normal," you suggested.

"Cats don’t usually like me," he admitted, watching as your pet slinked across the room, still keeping him in his sights.

"What about dogs?"

"Dogs love me."

The cat, apparently personally offended by this statement, smacked a bowl of herbs off the counter.

"HEY!" you shouted, but it was too late.

Geralt gave you a look of mock sympathy.

"You’ve got a problem."

"MY problem is currently trying to fight you."

The cat was indeed gearing up for round two. Geralt let out a long-suffering sigh and locked eyes with the creature.

"Listen, you little demon, I don’t have time for this. I’m injured, I need my potion, and then I’ll be out of here before—"

He didn’t finish, because the cat smacked him straight in the chest.

Geralt stood up, clearly reaching his limit.

"You know what? I’ve fought a leshen that had more respect for me than your damn cat."

You laughed, pouring the finished potion into a vial.

"Maybe if you batted those golden eyes at him like you do at me, he’d fall under your spell too."

The Witcher’s gaze flicked up to meet yours, his lips curling into a slow smirk.

"Well, I don’t need to tame you."

You handed him the vial, fingers brushing. He downed the potion in one go, grimacing slightly.

"You know," he mused, leaning back in his chair, "I’ve got an idea."

"That’s dangerous."

"Since I’m basically half-dead already, instead of sneaking off like a thief in the night, maybe I should just stay until morning. The cat already hates me, can’t get much worse."

You glanced at him, then at the cat, still perched on the cupboard, still glaring.

"You sure you wanna risk it?"

"If I die, at least it’ll be in good company."

You shook your head, but didn’t argue.

Geralt stretched, resting his chin on his hand, his gaze lazy but focused entirely on you.

"And since I’m staying… maybe you should make my suffering a little more bearable?"

You raised a brow.

"Are you bribing me?"

"Bribery?" he scoffed. "No, this is pure survival strategy."

Your cat huffed, clearly unimpressed. But you?

Well.

Daryl stayed silent.

His fingers twitched, like he was reaching for something that wasn’t there—maybe his knife, maybe a cigarette, maybe just something to hold on to before he came undone. Your words hung in the air between you, small but heavier than anything else he’d heard in a long time.

"You don’t get to decide that for me."

"I like you."

"It means something."

You could almost see the gears turning in his head, could feel the way his body tensed under the weight of those truths. But before you could push any further, the door creaked open.

The moment shattered.

A slow clap followed.

“Well, ain’t this just the sweetest damn thing.”

Merle.

Daryl stiffened instantly, pulling back as if he’d just been caught doing something shameful. You saw it in his face—the way his jaw clenched, the way his shoulders squared like he was bracing for a hit.

Merle leaned against the doorframe, smirking like he had just walked in on a joke only he understood. His eyes flicked between you and Daryl, full of something you didn’t like.

“What?” he drawled. “Didn’t mean to interrupt somethin’ real special here.”

Your stomach twisted.

Daryl’s expression had already shut down. It was like watching someone flip a switch, turning him from a person into a shadow of himself.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Merle beat you to it.

“Look at you,” he went on, shaking his head. “All banged up, sittin’ here gettin’ your bandages fixed up like some kinda wounded pup.” He let out a short, mean laugh. “Hell, little brother. Didn’t think you could get any sadder, but here we are.”

Daryl exhaled sharply, but he didn’t argue.

And that—that—bothered you more than anything.

“Merle,” you warned, voice low.

But Merle just grinned, stepping further inside.

“What?” he said innocently, spreading his hands. “Ain’t my fault he’s sittin’ here mopin’ like some lovesick fool. Got y’self a real soft spot, huh, Daryl?” He let out a mocking whistle. 

Daryl didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t fight back.

And that’s when it hit you.

This wasn’t new.

This was a pattern.

Merle had been doing this for years.

And Daryl had been letting him.

Your fingers curled into fists as you glanced at Daryl, hoping—praying—that he’d look up, that he’d push back, that he’d do something. But he just sat there, still as stone, taking it.

Taking all of it.

You’d seen him fight for others before. Hell, he’d practically thrown himself into danger for the group a dozen times over.

But for himself?

Never.

And you weren’t about to let that slide.

"You're real talkative for someone who wasn’t even invited," you said coolly, standing your ground.

Merle’s smirk widened. "Oh-ho, listen to you. Feisty." He turned back to Daryl, jerking his head toward you. "This what you’re into now?"

"Enough," you snapped, before Daryl could even think about answering. "You’re not funny. You’re just an asshole."

The room went still.

Merle’s expression darkened, but only slightly. He was still enjoying this—still playing his little game.

Finally, Daryl lifted his gaze and almost immediately locked eyes with you.

Something had shifted. Something had changed.

There was a new emotion on his face, one you couldn’t quite place, but your instincts told you it wasn’t something simple. It wasn’t purely good or bad. It was something more—a seed that had just started to take root in his mind.

He must have realized that he didn’t have to just sit there and take it.

But maybe, just maybe, it was something else entirely.

Maybe he felt a thirst for blood like never before.

Merle noticed it too.

His smirk faltered.

“Ah, hell,” he muttered, backing off and shaking his head as if he was already bored. “Do whatever you want, little brother. Just don’t come cryin’ to me when this all falls apart.”

With that, he turned and walked off, disappearing as quickly as he had come.

But you noticed something unusual about Merle's retreat. 

Haste.

Still, you didn't have time to focus on it. The damage had already been done.

Daryl sighed and rubbed the unharmed side of his face. You could see it—the way the moment was slipping away from him, the way Merle’s words were already digging in like barbs.

And you weren’t going to let that happen.

You crouched down in front of him, forcing him to look at you.

“He’s wrong,” you said, firm but quiet.

Daryl scoffed. "You don't know that."

"I do."

He shook his head. "You ain't gotta—"

"I do," you repeated, more forcefully this time. "And so do you."

His breath hitched just slightly.

You reached out, hesitating only for a second before brushing your fingers lightly against his hand.

"You deserve better than him," you whispered.

Daryl swallowed hard.

His gaze flickered to the door—where Merle had been—then back to you. He looked down at your hand, still resting on his, and for the briefest of moments, it seemed like he was going to pull away. But instead, he just exhaled sharply, his body relaxing, just a little.

“Ya just wait with all this, eventually you'll understand what I mean” Daryl said, his voice rough, as if he had just decided something.

“Wait for what?” you asked, your voice softer this time. Curious too.

He was quiet again, that familiar tension creeping back into his posture, but you could see it clearly now—the shift. The crack in the wall Merle had built around him. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something. And it was something you could work with.

“You'll know when you see it” he added, making sure the words landed. “Then you will decide”

He looked up at you then, a flicker of something vulnerable, something raw, in his eyes. And for the first time, you saw him.

Really saw him.

All the things he hid, all the things he buried, slipping through the cracks, only to be caught by you.

"Guess we’ll see," you muttered, voice a little steadier.

He gave you a small nod. 

Daryl finally stood up, stretching his back as he shook off the last of the tension. “I’ll, uh... I’ll get some air. Clear my head.”

"Take your time," you said, watching him walk toward the door, his steps slower than usual. You could see the weight of everything still there, but it was lighter now.

There was room to breathe.

He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "Thanks... for, y’know..."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "I know. Anytime, Daryl."

With one last look, he walked out, disappearing into the fading light of the late afternoon. You stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle in after the storm. A storm that hadn’t exactly passed, but it had shifted. And in its wake, there was space for something new to grow.

As you turned to start cleaning up the med supplies scattered around, you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of peace. You weren’t sure what the future held for you and Daryl, or even what his journey would look like, but for the first time, you felt like there was a possibility of him finding his way out of the dark. And maybe, you could be a part of that journey.

The morning had started like any other in the prison. The usual tension filled the air, the hum of the walkers outside, the heavy clang of doors opening and closing. But today, something felt off, like an invisible weight pressing down on your chest. Daryl was known for being quiet, but today he didn't say a word, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

When the doors to the cellblock creaked open, you sighed devastated. The last person you wanted to see was Merle, his figure silhouetted in the doorway, that smirk of his already spreading across his face.

“Oh, look who’s here, everyone,” Merle drawled, stepping into the room like he owned it. His eyes locked on Daryl, and a sick grin crept up on his face. “If I were ya I would lock myself in a cell 'n never come out again."

Daryl didn’t look up. His hand was resting on the table, fingers twitching slightly as though he was holding back. But Merle wasn’t letting up.

You were completely focused on Daryl. Since the last conversation, he had been acting strangely. The rest of the day, it was easy to irritate him. Despite the wounds on his face, he seemed more impulsive than usual. It was as if something was constantly haunting him.

“Ain’t the same guy I remember,” Merle taunted, his voice dripping with malice as he took another step forward.

“Merle, shut the hell up" Rick growled, but Merle just chuckled, his attention solely on Daryl.

Daryl’s jaw tightened, his fists curling into the table. It was like the air itself became thicker with every word Merle spat. But Daryl didn’t react. Not yet.

“Yeah, what, you too good for me now, Daryl?” Merle’s voice went higher, mocking, and you could hear the way it gnawed at Daryl’s self-control. “Or is she the one who’s got ya all whipped? The little girl who thinks she can fix ya? You still playin' the hero for everyone, huh?”

Daryl didn’t move.

His breathing was steady, but his body was coiled like a spring, ready to snap. It was clear he was trying to keep his cool, trying to hold onto something, but Merle wouldn’t stop.

"Merle, back off" You said slowly, your gaze fixed on Daryl.

You wanted to support him, you wanted to let him know to hold on. But he wasn't even thinking about anything like that right now.

Daryl looks at one point, as if holding on to one last thought of sanity in his head

“You’re nothing, man,” Merle continued, getting closer now, stepping into Daryl’s personal space. “Just like ya were back then. Yar nothing but a weak little boy who can’t even stand up to his own brotha.”

That was it.

Daryl stood up so fast it made everyone in the room flinch. He shoved the table aside, sending it crashing to the ground, and in a blur of motion, he slammed Merle up against the wall, his hands around Merle’s throat. The noise of impact echoed through the cellblock, and for a moment, the room went deathly silent.

Merle’s eyes widened in surprise. But then he grinned, his hands clutching Daryl’s wrist, trying to break the hold.

“Damn, Daryl,” Merle chuckled, but there was a tinge of fear in his voice now. “Guess I finally got under your skin, huh?”

Daryl’s grip tightened, his knuckles white as he pressed harder, his face a mask of pure rage. The veins in his neck were bulging, his breath coming in ragged gasps. This wasn’t the same Daryl you were used to—the quiet, brooding man who barely spoke, who kept everything locked inside. This was the Daryl who had lived a life of violence, who had fought tooth and nail just to survive. 

This was his breaking point.

“Ya always said I was weak,” Daryl spat, his voice low but deadly. “But I could choke ya, right here, right now. I could watch ya take yar last breath, tryin' to push me away”

You noticed something disturbing.

The smile on Daryl’s face seemed to grow larger with each passing second. The fury radiating from his eyes held something similar to Merle’s gaze. It was as if Daryl, releasing all restraints, had unleashed a demon he must have awakened in himself to survive his childhood, which was apparently much worse than anyone had imagined. 

There was a hint of madness in his gaze.

In his posture, you could sense both anger and a twisted, sick joy that was becoming more and more apparent.

“Daryl,” you said louder to snap him out of his rhythm. Merle’s face was turning disturbingly red, and he looked like he was about to pass out any moment. 

Only then with a brutal shove, Daryl threw Merle back, sending him crashing to the floor. Merle scrambled to his feet, anger flaring in his eyes.

“You think that proves something?” Merle snarled, lunging at Daryl. But Daryl was faster. He sidestepped, grabbing Merle by the arm and throwing him into the metal bars of the cellblock. The clang of metal against flesh was deafening.

The fight was a blur of fists, sweat, and blood. Daryl’s fury was raw, wild. Merle fought back with everything he had, but Daryl wasn’t holding back anymore. It was clear—this wasn’t just about words anymore. This was about years of pent-up frustration, years of being told he was less than, years of letting Merle push him around. And now, he was finally done.

Daryl landed a hard punch to Merle’s ribs, sending him stumbling back. Blood dripped from Merle’s lip, and his eyes narrowed with pure hatred. He lunged again, but Daryl ducked, delivering a vicious knee to his stomach that knocked the wind out of him.

The two brothers were locked in a brutal struggle, neither one giving an inch. But Daryl, now fully unleashed, had the upper hand. He moved with the precision of someone who had been through hell and back, and for the first time, he wasn’t letting Merle dictate the terms.

Rick flinched, as if he wanted to rush to separate the brothers. However, you stopped him. You shook your head in denial, knowing that what was happening was necessary. Sooner or later, it would have happened anyway.

Finally, with one last surge of energy, Daryl grabbed Merle by the collar and slammed him into the wall with a deafening thud. Merle’s head whipped back, and he slumped forward, dazed.

“I won't let ya off the hook next time. So either ya stop..” Daryl growled, his voice thick with rage, “..or I’ll finish what we started years ago. Once 'n for all.”

Merle, panting and bloodied, met his brother’s eyes. For the first time, there was no smirk, no superiority—just a flicker of something more complicated. Something like respect. Or maybe fear.

Daryl stepped back, chest heaving as he took in deep breaths, his body trembling with adrenaline. His hands were still clenched into fists, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring at Merle.

Daryl only looked at you then. Your face showed no fear, not even a hint of concern. You believed it was the right decision to let him finish his charge. But without casualties, of course. It was then that Daryl turned to his brother for the last time.

"Ya will not talk to her. Ya will not even look at her. If she tells ya to bark like a dog ya are, you will do it, loud and clear.. " Daryl said with wide eyes, voice hoarse " ..otherwise, I will kill ya"

Merle watched him, wiping the blood from his lip, his expression shifted. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t the one in control.

All he could do was nod in agreement.

Daryl shot you a glance. Almost like a challenge, or a demand. You could literally read in his eyes.

"Make your choice now." 

You felt tightness in your stomach, but you didn’t show it, following the man with your gaze.

And for the first time in years, Daryl walked away, not as the little brother, not as the victim, but as the one who had finally taken his power back. In the only way he could. 

"– Draw."

You looked at Carol in disbelief. She was sitting at the table, arms crossed, looking at you with that unreadable expression on her face. The one that said there was no point in arguing.

You raised an eyebrow, sensing there might be some joke behind this. "Seriously? A date in the middle of the apocalypse?"

"Got something better to do?"

And she had you there. Because no, you didn’t. You sighed quietly, reaching for one of the folded pieces of paper. You slowly unfolded it, as if your life depended on it.

DARYL.

You froze.

Carol snorted with laughter. "Well, good luck."

Oh, shit.

Her tone didn’t sound encouraging – more like a challenge. Because it was no secret that Daryl... well, he wasn’t exactly the easiest person to approach.

You watched Carol walk toward Maggie, and when both of them covered their mouths and glanced your way, it became clear that this whole "drawing" thing was nothing but a clever plan. And soon enough, the whole Hilltop would know about it.

Which meant you had to act fast.

You sighed, glancing at the paper again, almost hoping the name would magically disappear. Unfortunately, it didn’t. So if you were going to do this, it had to be on your terms.

You smiled slightly, took the rubber band off your hair, and ran your fingers through it, letting it fall in a loose mess. The last raspberry from your plate served as a subtle touch to redden your cheeks – a small detail, but the girls at the table immediately gave you thumbs up.

Here we go.

You walked toward the garage.

Daryl, as usual, was tinkering with one of the vehicles. He was lying under the car, completely indifferent to the thick, tar-like liquid dripping down his forearm.

You crouched next to the car and peeked underneath.

"Want some help?" you asked, maybe a bit too innocently.

Daryl froze for a second, then barely lifted his head.

"Nah."

You weren’t discouraged.

"Then maybe you want to help me?" this time, it came out more like you.

You heard the clink of a wrench falling to the asphalt. After a moment, the man slid out from under the vehicle, propping himself up on his forearm. He looked at you with furrowed brows – not a bad look, more like... cautious.

"With what? I ain't got all day, girl."

You hesitated for just a fraction of a second.

"We're going on a date."

Daryl blinked slowly.

"The fuck we are."

You sighed and lifted the piece of paper to eye level.

"Before you start blaming me..." You moved just enough so he could see Carol and Maggie, who were openly watching the whole scene from the other side of the yard. "It was Carol’s idea."

Daryl didn’t need to say anything. A single glance was enough.

"‘M not gonna be a part of this."

"Daryl." You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice as if you were revealing some big secret. "If we don’t do this, she won’t leave us alone for another month."

And that stopped him.

Because Carol could be incredibly stubborn.

Daryl furrowed his brows, chewed on the inside of his cheek, then let out a short, drawn-out:

"Shit."

It wasn’t a "yes."

But it wasn’t a "no" either.

And that was something.

Daryl sighed heavily and waved his hand.

"’Kay, whatever," he muttered, then almost immediately disappeared back under the car.

You glanced at Carol, who raised an eyebrow meaningfully, then back at him.

"So… come on?" you said with amusement, seeing his movements slow for a moment.

"Ain’t got time now. Later." His voice was muffled but firm enough that most people would have given up.

But you weren’t "most people."

"But Carol needs to see that we’re going, y’know." You pressed, barely holding back a wide smile. "So it kinda has to be now."

Something between a grunt and a sigh escaped his lips – heavy, resigned, slightly irritated. Something that, in his language, could mean "damn it" or "why the hell am I doing this."

After a moment, his head slid out from under the vehicle, and he started wiping his hands on a black rag. He did it quickly, almost nervously. But he did it.

So the first step was done.

Once Daryl looked down, you quickly turned back to Carol and Maggie, raising your clenched fist in the air. A sign of triumph. You didn’t wait for their reaction – you knew they were impressed – only looked back at Daryl.

This time, he was wiping his hands on his pants, clearly irritated with the whole situation.

"Where are we going?" you asked with exaggerated sweetness, knowing exactly how it would irritate him.

"Ya tell me," he almost growled, giving you a brief, suspicious glance.

You feigned surprise, but only for a second.

"You know, where I come from, men choose the date spots." You put a hand on your hip, purposefully looking at him, clearly aware of what it was doing to him.

In his piercing eyes – cold blue, seeing right through you.

"‘N back where I’m from, we ain’t dating."

You sighed ostentatiously and rolled your eyes.

Then, you smoothly turned on your heel, not looking back, but gesturing with your finger for him to follow you.

To your surprise, he did.

You felt a shiver run down your spine.

"Well… today you do." You smiled lightly. "So think of something, or I will."

You looked at him again, unable to resist.

"And trust me… you don’t want that."

The man raised an eyebrow in surprise. Something passed over his face – a single emotion you couldn’t read.

You didn’t comment on it.

You slowed down to match his pace and very subtly stared at him. You made it clear that you were waiting.

Daryl got the message. But still, for a long moment, he didn’t say a word.

"So?" you finally asked.

"So wha’?"

"Any ideas? Or maybe you want my help, after all?"

Daryl froze for a second. Was that... hesitation?

No, he looked more lost. And that was new. His blue eyes scanned the area as if looking for a hint, some kind of escape.

Finally, after a long pause, he just shrugged.

"Walkin’ counts."

A smile crept up on your lips.

"Indeed it does," you nodded seriously. "So, a romantic walk. Nice."

"’S just a walk."

"No," you immediately disagreed, too quickly for it to be accidental. "It has to be a romantic walk. It’s a date, remember?"

And again, that strange emotion on his face.

His gaze weighed heavily on your shoulders, and you could feel Daryl was about to say something. He even opened his mouth...

…but then he closed it again.

You weren’t about to press him. But you also weren’t going to let it slide.

"Tell me something romantic, then," you said casually, deliberately looking away.

You knew that if you saw his face, you’d burst out laughing.

"Not happenin’."

"Why is that?" you feigned surprise. Very exaggerated surprise. 

You raised an eyebrow in silent shock and added a slightly sad expression. Not even a second passed before Daryl was raising his hand in a defensive gesture.

Wow.

Daryl. On the defensive.

You were getting better at this.

"We just gotta show Carol that we’re talkin’," he corrected immediately, as if he wanted to end the topic. "That’s it."

You hesitated.

It was a good excuse – it fit the narrative of "Carol made me do it, I don’t want this." But the truth was completely different.

You wanted to get to know Dixon better. And everyone saw that.

Everyone, except him.

You’d tried a few times already – pulling him for hunting, scouting, anything. But Daryl always found a way to back out. Maybe he was closed off, maybe just oblivious. Either way, it ended in failure.

But you weren’t going to give up.

"If we do something, let’s do it properly," you said, choosing your words with exaggerated care.

Deliberately.

You knew it was a bit of a stretch, but you didn’t let it show.

"I don’t like doing things half-heartedly."

Daryl didn’t counter, though he probably could’ve. You weren’t about to give him the time to do that.

"We have to do something romantic," you added quickly, before he had a chance to wiggle out of it.

Daryl slumped his shoulders a little. A small change in his posture, but it was enough for you to notice.

Resignation.

Had he given up?

He furrowed his brows and looked at you as if weighing how serious you were.

"'N what do ya call romantic?" he mumbled after a moment.

That was something.

Those words lit a fire in you. Was Daryl finally falling into your carefully laid trap?

You smiled lightly, feeling like you were slowly winning.

"I dunno," you threw back innocently. "Maybe you should figure it out?"

Daryl sighed heavily, then… He turned away and walked toward the gate.

"C'mon, princess." He called over his shoulder, not even checking if you were following.

Your eyes lit up. Something fluttered in your stomach.

Oh. My. God.

One word, one phrase—and you already felt like a teenager. Not a good sign.

It was a tragic sign.

Only now did you realize you were playing with fire. Your victory was temporary, fragile. Daryl could shatter it at any moment, though you weren’t sure if he even realized that.

You followed him without hesitation.

For a moment, he vanished from your sight, turning between the buildings, and when you caught up, you noticed him packing something into his bag.

A second too late.

You didn’t see exactly what he was shoving in there with such passion, but you decided that a little surprise might work in your favor. Only now did you notice the motorcycle.

You froze.

You stood like a pillar, staring at it in utter disbelief. He must’ve noticed.

"Ya goin’?" he called, raising an eyebrow.

You shook yourself out of your daze and nodded.

You stepped closer, feeling a slight hesitation that Daryl didn’t seem to care about. He grabbed the handlebars, leaning slightly forward, then—almost imperceptibly—tilted the bike toward you.

You grabbed his shoulders.

Your eyes scanned the patches on his vest.

The touch—despite three layers of clothing—shocked you like electricity. But you didn’t pull back.

You took your place behind him. There wasn’t any question about whether you were ready. The kickstand lifted with a quiet snap. The roar of the engine hit your ears.

You pressed against his back—definitely a bit too much.

Partly, you just wanted it. Partly out of necessity, because the motorcycle took off faster than you thought it could.

You didn’t even know when you’d left the settlement.

You glanced over your shoulder, sensing someone’s gaze. Carol. She stood in the distance, looking at you with a clearly proud expression. You smiled to yourself, but didn’t wave. You’d have to let go of Daryl to do that.

That wasn’t an option. You closed your eyes.

And then you felt him.

The forest. Steel. Sweat.

A combination of scents that, right now, was dangerously attractive.

You inched a little higher, closer to his neck. It was too comfortable. Too good. So good that you almost… drifted away. It felt like you were dreaming while awake.

But then—suddenly—something yanked you away. A force pulling you away from the man, and you almost sighed in disappointment. Almost.

You quickly opened your eyes, only now realizing he’d braked. And hard. Like he wanted to make a point, but you had no idea how long you’d been riding.

– "Are ya sleepin’ or what?" His voice hit you straight in the consciousness.

You mentally cursed yourself and quickly got off the bike. Literally and figuratively.

When your feet hit the ground, you barely steadied your suddenly weak knees. 

Oh no. 

That’s all you managed to think before Daryl looked at you, scanning you from head to toe. You weren’t even sure what you were afraid of.

"Ya cold?" he asked, and something soft appeared in his eyes.

Too soft for Daryl Dixon.

Concern. Worry.

If you could, you would’ve screamed. When had this whole situation slipped out of your control?

You shook your head, Daryl didn’t seem convinced. He nodded, though, as if understanding. You had goosebumps—he asked probably because of that—but it definitely wasn’t the temperature.

"Where are we going?" you finally squeezed out, noticing a very subtle quiver in your voice.

The man led the way through the bushes. He didn’t turn to you, only spoke when he cleared an obstacle in your path.

"Surprises are romantic, ain't they?"

If you could, you would’ve just passed out.

You didn’t respond because Dixon didn’t give you a glance, but even if he had, you weren’t sure you could.

You walked for a short while. You left the motorcycle behind, now covered with branches that lay nearby. The rustling leaves and the gentle breeze were the only stimuli you clung to like a drowning person. Thanks to them, you were still keeping your wits about you.

You laughed quietly, a little too loud for the silence around you. You snorted, freezing in place when you realized how irrational it was. You were losing your mind. For sure.

"What's so funny?" Daryl suddenly asked, completely surprising you.

Nothing.

Your mind was a blank slate. You felt cold sweat on your neck as you desperately tried to come up with any response.

"My shoes..." you blurted out without thinking, looking down at your feet.

Even you were surprised by that comment.

"They are very appropriate for our trip, aren't they?"

You mentally slapped yourself. Really? That was the best you had?

Daryl stopped and looked down at your shoes. Black, with a slightly higher wedge than they should’ve had for a forest trip. Half-covered in mud, damp from the earth that hadn’t dried from yesterday’s rain.

"Ya pick them on purpose or ya just stupid?" he raised an eyebrow, but his voice held no malice.

You snorted, pretending to be offended.

"I'd say a little bit of both."

The corner of his mouth twitched, barely noticeable. Maybe it was a shadow of a smile. Maybe you just imagined it.

He moved forward without waiting for your response. You also took a step forward, trying to ignore the dampness soaking into your shoes.

For a moment, you walked in silence until you began to notice something beyond the trees and shrubs.

A clearing.

It wasn’t large, but it seemed almost... untouched. Thick, lush grass, interspersed with purple flowers here and there. In the distance, you could see what looked like a small stream lazily cutting through the land.

Daryl stopped at the edge, as if checking your reaction.

“That romantic enough for ya?” he said, still not looking at you.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was too occupied—because here you were, in a place that felt like it had been pulled from another world.

Daryl walked toward the clearing, and though your shoes begged for mercy, you followed him without hesitation.

The sun was breaking through the treetops, casting golden spots on the grass. The light reflected in delicate waves on the surface of the stream, making the water look like liquid glass.

You didn’t know what to say. Maybe that was the point. Maybe this was one of those places that spoke for itself.

Daryl crouched next to his backpack and began pulling things out. You thought for a moment that he might be preparing a meal, but no. Instead, there was a small knife, and... binoculars.

You furrowed your brows.

“Are we spying on someone?”

Daryl snorted, checking the sharpness of the knife as if it was the most normal question in the world.

“Nah.” He shrugged. “Figured ya might wanna see somethin' cool.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he nodded toward the trees. You followed his gaze and then you saw it.

Perched on one of the higher branches was a large, brown bird—an eagle, maybe a hawk, you weren’t sure. It looked regal, its feathers gleaming in the rays of the setting sun.

Daryl handed you the binoculars.

“Take a look.”

You didn’t hesitate. You lifted it to your eyes and froze. You could see every detail—the razor-sharp talons, the watchful eyes, the slight tremor of the feathers in the wind.

“Wow...” you whispered, unable to contain your awe.

Daryl was silent, but you could feel his gaze on you. It seemed like he was more interested in your reaction than the bird itself.

You lowered the binoculars and looked at him.

“How did you find this place?”

He thought for a moment, then shrugged.

“Been 'round. Saw it. Thought ya might like it.”

Something stirred inside you. Maybe it was the wind, or maybe something else entirely.

You didn’t respond, but smiled softly, sitting down on the grass.

Daryl did the same.

And for a moment, in this strange, unreal world, time seemed to stop.

For a moment, everything felt suspended. Only the wind sang through the trees, and the eagle slowly soared toward the sky, as if that moment could last forever.

Daryl kicked a stone with his foot, breaking the silence. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, and his lips curled into a slight, almost imperceptible smile.

“Ya lookin' all peaceful, ain't ya?”

A warmth spread through your chest, but you decided not to react immediately. You simply smiled back, feeling a strange relief, like you had finally found a moment of peace you had long been missing.

You struggled to tear your gaze away from the bird, which had disappeared into the clouds, and looked at him. Daryl was sitting next to you, his hands resting on his knees, but his posture was much more relaxed than usual.

You didn’t have to say anything to feel the subtle shift between you two. This wasn’t a moment full of words, and it didn’t have to be. His presence said more than any questions you could have asked.

And suddenly, after that long silence, Daryl spoke again.

“Ya know, sometimes it's nice just to... stop thinkin'... for a bit.”

His voice sounded different—calmer, like those words were rare for him.

You paused, then opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, Daryl changed the subject.

“Don’t get used to it, though. Ain’t like this happens often.”

You chuckled quietly, but inside, you felt a strange sense of relief. Something about this moment was so normal, yet so atypical, that you almost wanted it to last longer.

“I won’t” you replied softly.

He looked at you for a moment, then nodded, as if convinced. Silence fell again, but it was a different kind of silence—one that wasn’t uncomfortable or tense, just... peaceful.

At least, until...

He grabbed your shoulder, and the warmth of his hand shot through you like an electric jolt. The moment his touch became inevitable lasted only a fraction of a second, but it felt like time had stopped for a moment. You forgot everything—about the motorcycle, the forest, the uncertainty you had been trying to hide.

Your heart stopped for a beat, and Daryl’s gaze, as he lifted his head, was so intense that it almost felt like he was peering into your soul. His eyes weren’t as cold as they had been before—now they held something more, as if, for that brief instant, he became... available.

You couldn’t bear it any longer. The torment.

Instinctively, you grabbed him by the collar and pulled him toward you with a strength you didn’t know you had. Your lips almost collided. Your uncertainty vanished into oblivion as Daryl took complete control, stealing any direction from you. His grip on your shoulder tightened, and you couldn’t stop the hum of satisfaction that escaped into his mouth.

You felt everything like it was in a haze. The butterfly touch on your cheek. The warmth building between you. The tickling sensation on your face as Daryl leaned in closer, his hair brushing against your skin.

You didn’t want to break it, even though you felt a burning emptiness in your lungs.

But you didn’t have to, because Daryl pulled away from you. Too suddenly, by your standards.

You opened your eyes, seeing his pupils dilated to their limits as they fixed on something behind you. A sharp whoosh of something slicing through the air, a gust of wind centimeters from your face, and the soft thud of a body falling.

You turned around, your mouth slightly ajar in shock. A rotten body lay just a meter away from you. The small knife that Daryl had pulled out earlier was embedded perfectly in the center of the zombie’s forehead, and it now lay lifeless.

“I told ya, don’t get used to it.”

You exhaled the breath you had been holding with a soft hiss. You didn’t even have the presence of mind to think about your momentary lapse. Your whole mind was focused on him. On his perfect accuracy, the vigilance that clearly never left him, the almost nonchalant way he carried himself, which somehow bought you in completely.

You turned back to him, feeling your heart race again, but this time, it wasn’t fear. It was something else—something that pulled you toward him with every passing moment spent together. Daryl was like a mystery you wanted to uncover, but at the same time, you feared what lay behind that gaze.

You looked at him, and he still stared ahead, but you could feel how close his presence was. His arm brushed lightly against yours, as though he hadn’t noticed the proximity. But you knew he did. 

He felt it. He knew it.

Suddenly, without warning, Daryl looked at you. His eyes held uncertainty, maybe even anger, but also something you couldn’t name. He looked at you for a moment, like he didn’t know what to say.

Then, for a moment, he blinked, as if trying to control something that had suddenly risen in his chest. He moved a little closer, and you felt the warmth of his body. There was an unspoken thing hanging in the air, something neither of you could quite understand yet.

“You're gettin' under my skin...” he said, with a soft sigh, as though trying to explain what he felt but couldn’t find the words—“Teasin' me all day...”

You smiled faintly, not sure if it was a challenge. Seeing that moment of hesitation in his eyes, you felt something shift. Like all those moments of silence now held something more than just quiet.

“Maybe that’s the point,” you replied softly.

His gaze grew more intense, almost piercing. You didn’t know if it was desire or something else—but there was something in it. You could feel it, even though he said nothing.

“I don't know what you're doin' to me,” he said with frustration, but his tone was strangely soft, as if he couldn’t hide what he was really feeling anymore. 

That feeling that connected you both was hard to grasp, but you couldn’t ignore it.

You didn’t respond, only moved closer until you felt your breaths start to mingle. For a moment, you didn’t speak, just stayed there, in that space that was becoming more and more intimate.

And then Daryl surprised you again, pulling you toward him unexpectedly. His strong, sure hands landed on your hips, and his warm breath wrapped around you like a cloak. Before you could pull away, you felt his lips on yours—first gently, as if testing what would happen, and then with an intensity you hadn’t expected.

It was like an explosion you had feared, but at the same time, you didn’t want it to end. You felt the world vanish, and the only thing that mattered was that moment. You felt his hands on your back, pulling you closer, as if he didn’t want to let go, as if he wanted to keep you there forever.

When he finally pulled away, you couldn’t catch your breath. He had always been so closed off, with that mysterious posture, but now... now he was like a book, the pages finally ready to be discovered.

He looked at you with expectation, uncertainty, but also with something special.

“Don’t run away from me,” he whispered, and those words carried more emotion than the rest of the conversation put together.

They were intertwined with a delicate tease, laughter. They sounded so light, yet so certain.

“You’ll never get rid of me" you whispered back.

It was a beautiful summer day. Or at least, it looked like one. But the moment you stepped beyond the cold prison walls, the scorching, suffocating heat hit you like a truck. The sun blazed mercilessly at its highest point in the sky, and the air had thickened, shimmering under the hellish temperature.

You stood by the entrance gate, watching as the approaching vehicle kicked up dust along the road. Since you had some free time, you figured you'd help unload whatever they had brought back. You opened the gate for them, wrestling with the locks and chains. Luckily, it didn't take you too long.

The old van rolled through the wire gate, and you quickly shut it behind them. The first person to jump out was Rick. The second the vehicle came to a stop, he was already hauling supplies out. Right behind him was Merle, a wide, shit-eating grin plastered across his face as he laughed at something—probably his own joke. Daryl was the last to get out, barely paying attention to anyone as he made his way straight to the front of the vehicle. He lifted the hood, immediately getting to work as thick, gray smoke billowed from the engine.

"Where is the Korean starboy? I have his order!" Merle yelled toward Hershel, who was making his way over.

Beth peeked out from behind her father, automatically glancing up at the watchtower. Merle caught on quickly, following her gaze with an amused smirk.

"Starboy!" he hollered, even louder this time. "Ya comin'?!"

Rick shook his head in mild exasperation but said nothing. A moment later, Glenn leaned out from the doorway of the guard tower.

"What?!"

He was still fastening his belt, his bare chest saying more than enough about what he had been up to. In the window behind him, a very flustered Maggie was visible, which only made Merle's grin widen.

"Ya cummin'?!" he shouted again, this time emphasizing a different syllable before bursting into laughter.

Glenn squinted at him, clearly confused, then turned to Maggie with a shrug, saying something to her you couldn't hear.

You exchanged an amused look with Rick and continued hauling boxes of food inside. You couldn't help but notice that Merle was in an unusually high-spirited mood today. He was always loud, always a presence impossible to ignore, but today he was practically bouncing with energy. For a fleeting moment, you thought maybe—just maybe—he'd be more of a funny asshole rather than just an asshole. That would be an improvement, at least.

"What 'bout ya, Darylina?"

Merle had somehow ended up right behind Daryl. But the younger Dixon didn't even flinch, still focused on the busted engine. Every now and then, he flicked his hand back as if he was touching something way too hot to be messing with.

"Do ya even know what I'm talkin' bout, baby brotha?" Merle prodded, leaning against the van with that ever-present smirk.

The van rocked slightly, and Daryl finally looked up at him, irritation clear in his expression.

"I am doin' somethin'. Can't ya see?" he snapped, voice edged with frustration.

"Ya can talk and still do yar thing," Merle shot back smoothly. "So?"

They stared at each other for a second. You found yourself eavesdropping more than you probably should, but curiosity had the best of you. You even slowed your pace, carrying one of the bigger boxes extra carefully just so you could keep listening.

"M' not five anymore. 'Course I know what yar talkin' bout," Daryl muttered, turning back to the engine.

For the briefest second, his eyes flicked to yours. Caught. You quickly looked away, pretending to focus on your task, but you knew he had seen you listening. And you had seen something too. A flicker of something in his gaze—something close to panic.

"But ya know it's different when ya alone n' when ya not, right?" Merle pushed.

Daryl didn't answer. He just went back to work, which only made Merle roll his eyes. The smug look on his face said he already knew the answer, anyway.

Then Daryl bent lower, reaching deep into the engine, his entire arm disappearing under the hood. From where you stood, you couldn't quite see what Merle was doing, but there was a glint of mischief on his face—a look you had come to recognize as trouble.

And then—

A loud bang.

You nearly dropped the food in your arms as you saw the hood of the van slam down, trapping Daryl between the metal and the vehicle. Worse still, something inside the engine must have been knocked loose, because the hissing sound grew louder, and more smoke poured out than before.

Merle's laughter rang through the air.

You ran over without thinking, pulling the hood up as fast as you could. Daryl immediately staggered back, coughing violently, his chest heaving as thick smoke spilled from his lungs. One side of his face was bright red—burned. And a thin trickle of blood ran down from his temple.

"Merle! Are you insane?!" you shouted, still steadying Daryl as he fought to breathe. "That's your brother!"

"Oh, come on," Merle scoffed, still chuckling. "Ya don't understand, so don't interfere, would ya?"

"This is too much, even for you, Merle," Rick cut in, his disapproval plain.

"M' tryin' to teach him a lesson 'ere," Merle said, holding his hands up like he was being accused of something unreasonable. For the first time, he actually looked somewhat serious.

"Look at him," he gestured toward Daryl. "Havin' this pretty angel face n' all that n' not usin' it? That is a true crime, baby brotha. So he gotta learn to use it by losin' it first. Simple as tha'."

Ignoring Merle's bullshit, you turned to Daryl. His hand was covering the burned side of his face, and when he tried to touch it, his fingers flinched away instantly. The skin was too raw, too hot.

"Are you okay?" you asked, immediately regretting how stupid the question sounded.

Daryl stiffened slightly, like he hadn't expected you to be this close. He looked at you—just with one eye, since the other was probably swollen. And then, predictably, he nodded.

Behind you, chaos was unfolding. Rick and Glenn were trying to talk some sense into Merle, but it was quickly turning into an actual fight. You saw something flash in Daryl's expression. His whole posture screamed exhaustion, but you already knew—he was about to jump in.

"Leave it," you said, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. "Please."

"Nah."

That was the only warning you got before he turned on his heel.

"Have ya lost yar mind, you psychopath?!" Daryl roared, effectively shutting everyone up—except Merle, who only grinned wider at the sight of him.

"That's what I'm talkin' bout! That's ma baby brotha—!"

"Shut da hell up! Ya wanna kill me or somethin'? Then fight me like a man would!"

"Stop that," you stepped between them, ignoring their protests. "Daryl, we need to take care of your wound. This isn't helping."

"She's right," Maggie chimed in, gripping Glenn's arm instinctively as both brothers turned to look at her.

"Look at that, Darlina! A little help from yar big brotha n' girls already love ya!"

"Zip it, ya punk!"

"Come on, Daryl," you urged, stepping closer.

Meanwhile, Rick had finally managed to drag Merle a safe distance away.

Daryl still couldn't tear his furious gaze away from his brother. You grabbed his arm and tried to gently pull him along, but he didn't budge an inch. You had nothing to convince him with, so you pulled a little harder. Finally, the younger Dixon gave in. He followed you, but his eyes stayed locked on Merle, who was still arguing heatedly with Rick.

Your eyes were practically devouring the archer. Especially after what just happened, you could finally be honest with yourself. Damn, you like him. From the start, he was way more interesting to you than the others. Visually, even with that brutal burn on his face, he made your knees weak. And once again today, Daryl caught you staring a little too long. And once again, you quickly looked away.

"We unpacked all the med kits in the prison recently," you said suddenly. "I saw some burn gel bandages in there. They should help."

"A'right," he muttered, chewing on his bottom lip.

"What was that about?" you finally asked, unable to accept Merle's behavior—especially his excuses for it.

You instantly realized you shouldn't have asked when Daryl's face twisted into a scowl.

"Quit bein' nosey. You heard what it was about."

So you shut up. You scolded yourself internally for your behavior around him. Silence was probably better for both of you anyway.

In perfect quiet, you reached the small room that now served as a makeshift medical office. Everything related to medicine was in here, including the burn dressings you were looking for. First, you took care of the wound that had been bleeding earlier, but it wasn't anything serious—no stitches needed.

You could feel Daryl's blue eyes on you. He sat on the examination table, leaning back against the wall. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the first signs of pain were starting to show on his face.

You didn't even know why you were so nervous. Your hands were shaking as you rummaged through the bins. Even though you had organized them yourself not that long ago, your mind was completely blank. Finally—miraculously—you wrapped your fingers around the package you needed.

You turned around quickly, trying to shake off the nerves and get rid of the million other things in your hands. You were clumsy, unable to fully control your movements, and Daryl definitely noticed. He just watched, silent and unreadable, but not exactly subtle about it.

"It might sting a little," you warned him.

He just nodded. The first bandage only covered about half the burned area. Daryl didn't even flinch when it touched his skin. If anything, he let out a small breath of relief. You immediately started searching for another one.

"...M'sorry," he muttered suddenly. "Ya know... for earlier."

His deep voice, though quiet, seemed to bounce off the small room's walls. You froze for a second, then gave him a sad little smile.

"Don't be. I shouldn't have asked."

"S'just..." he started, then stopped, like he couldn't get the words out. "It's okay. M'used to it. To him."

"It's not okay," you shot back, maybe a little too fast, too direct. "Being used to something like that—to someone like your brother—is messed up. But yeah, do whatever you think is best. I won't interfere if you don't want me to."

"Why do ya care?" he asked.

And this—this was the moment you knew you were screwed. Because you didn't have any explanation except the truth. And neither of you were ready for that.

"Oh—" you blurted out, seizing the excuse to change the subject. You turned to him with a smile. "I found it."

You waved the bandage in front of his face, and he seemed momentarily thrown off. At least he didn't push the topic.

You unwrapped the dressing and leaned in closer. Carefully, you covered the upper part of the burn, including his eyelid, with the cool, transparent bandage, trying to be as gentle as possible.

Once it was fully in place, you looked him over. It still looked painful, but at least he didn't seem to be in unbearable agony. Thankfully, the injury wasn't as dangerous as it had appeared—but it was still unacceptable.

Then, you caught yourself staring again. This time, you were way too close, still leaning over him like when you had applied the bandage. Your fingers had absentmindedly brushed his jawline. His blue eyes locked onto yours, piercing straight through you, and suddenly, you felt a deep pull in your stomach. Your heart pounded faster than it should've, and heat rose to your face.

"Tell me," he murmured, quieter this time, calmer. "Am I readin' this wrong?"

You looked at him with something between sadness and concern, avoiding his gaze like fire avoids water. You adjusted a piece of the bandage that had slipped when he moved his mouth and stayed quiet. 

"Are you pityin' me?" he asked, his tone strange, suspicious.

And just like that, your entire idea of how this conversation would go went straight to hell. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out—not even a broken one.

"I don't need that. Don't deserve it," he said, leaning back slightly. "So quit it."

"It's not—" you started quickly, then hesitated, realizing what he had just said. "...But why wouldn't you deserve it?"

"I just don't. And it's pathetic."

What scared you the most was that he said it while looking right at you, with an empty, emotionless stare. Like he truly believed it.

"I like you," you finally admitted, barely swallowing the weight of his words. "A lot."

For once, you let yourself shamelessly watch his reaction. His brows furrowed—both of them—so you reached up again to hold the bandage in place. Something flickered in his eye, but you couldn't read what it was. Then, a smile appeared on his cracked lips, but it wasn't a happy one. More crooked, almost mocking.

"Yer funny," he muttered, leaning back against the wall again.

You blinked, once, then again, confused. Daryl didn't seem to notice your frustration—didn't realize he had completely misread the situation.

"I mean it," you insisted, emotions starting to spill across your face. "I do. And I'll understand if you don't feel the same way."

The silence stretched endlessly. You knew Daryl needed time, but you also felt like you were about to explode. The smirk had disappeared from his face, so you let yourself hope—just a little—that maybe, just maybe, he had actually heard you this time.

"I don't deserve that either," he finally said, completely unaware of how much those words hurt. "Why?" he asked then, carefully, like he was walking on the thinnest ice imaginable.

"That's... it's unconditional..." you began, but he didn't look convinced. "I mean, I could list things—traits—but it's just... you. In general."

"M'a mess. Ya deserve better."

You saw it. The movement. He wanted to stand up. He wanted to leave. But you weren't about to let him.

"What's your deal with this 'deserving' thing?" you fired back, stopping him in his tracks.

"S'some people dese—"

"Say something like that again, and I'm leaving," you interrupted, finally getting some kind of reaction out of him. "Do you like me back?"

"It's not about that."

"Oh, but it is."

Daryl clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face tensing so much that he looked like he was fighting with himself. He didn't respond right away. You could see his breath becoming shallower, his fists clenching slightly—not out of anger, but in a desperate attempt to keep his distance.

You took a step closer.

"Daryl" you said, softer now, but firmly. "Tell me."

He hesitated, then dropped his gaze.

"I like ya, alright?" he muttered finally, but almost immediately shook his head, as if trying to reject his own words. "But that don't mean nothin'."

Your heart pounded harder. There was something heartbreaking about him. This man, who could fight so brutally for others, completely refused to believe that he could be enough for someone.

"It does mean something," you didn't back down, even though you could feel his walls rising higher.

Daryl let out a quiet scoff and scratched the back of his neck, visibly tense.

"Listen, ya think ya want this, but ya don't. 'M too fucked up."

You sighed heavily and shook your head.

"You don't get to decide that for me."

He looked at you, surprised, as if no one had ever said that to him before.

"You think I'm blind?" you continued, holding his gaze. "The way you protect people, the way you care even when you act like you don't. You push people away 'cause you think they're better off without you, but that's not your choice to make."

Daryl remained silent, the tension between you thickening. Finally, he let out a deep breath and ran a hand over his face.

"I don't know how to do this."

You gave him a sad smile.

"Then let's figure it out together."