The storm outside had turned into a slow, steady downpour, drumming softly against the windows of the Mikaelson compound. It was your first time visiting it. You were a friend of Rebekah, you two had only met recently and gotten along immediately. Nevertheless it took her very long to invite you over. Despite you knowing about all the supernatural surrounding her life you had always wanted to be inside the Mikaelson compound.

But now Rebekah had gone upstairs fighting with Kol over shoes he had destroyed ("You did it on purpose!" "Rebekah I didn't even know those were yours") and for safety reasons (you were scared of Rebekah when she was angry) you had decided to stay downstairs. You looked around trying not to intrude, but you couldn’t help and admire the whole building. The entire compound was breathtaking. The furniture seemed ancient and expensive. The Mikaelson‘s were old money and you knew that, but everytime you were shopping with Rebekah you were reminded how rich they truly were.

Suddenly you noticed a chess board set up on a table across the room. Despite the fact that the pieces were all over the place it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. It looked as if every single piece had been done by hand and knowing the Mikaelson’s that wasn’t so unlikely.

You picked up the black queen, your fingers running over the smoothed wood. You smiled as you kept looking at the figures. You were admiring a rook when a voice, smooth and deep, spoke from behind you.

"Do you play?“

You turned, suprised to find Rebekah‘s big brother, Elijah. You didn’t know a lot about Elijah but when you saw him in his suit leaning against the doorway so casual you had to smile a little. There were no need to hide your true abilities or be modest. You loved playing chess and had been quite good at in since your childhood, you loved how able you were to control the pieces while you systematically teared the other side apart.

"Yes I do,“ you said with a smirk setting the pawn down, watching him taking a step forward

“Then we should play,“ he said his voice calm as always as he made his way over to you, inspecting you before sitting down, "I barely have good opponents.“

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I’d hate to bruise that centuries-old ego,“ you said jokingly before taking your seat across him.

A quiet chuckle tore from Elijah’s throat as he raised an eyebrow, "Darling, I’ve been playing chess longer than you’ve been alive.”

You rolled your eyes at his antics and smirked as he turned the chessboard so you could have white.

You moved your pawn to d4 and Elijah contered with his pawn to d5. Then your knight to f3. Elijah looked at you but didn’t say anything before moving his bishop to b4. He didn’t have to say check but you quickly contered with a pawn to c3. Elijah had obviously only tried to intimidate you because his bishop retreated. You kept playing it safe for a while before you got bolder and took his queen.

"You talk about playing chess for centuries and now you fell for that?,“ you asked with a raised eyebrow. Elijah didn’t respond but you saw his jaw tense.

At first, he had played as if entertaining a guest. He smiled when he took your pawn. He complimented a clever move of yours but he only did that once. But as you took the queen and then his rook something shifted.

He started leaning forward. He studied the board longer. He touched one piece, paused, and withdrew his hand.

"Are you trying to castle me?,“ he mumbled and took another pawn. You tried not to grin, you had him exactly were you had wanted.

Ten more moves in and Elijah’s brows furrowed slightly, the first crack in his flawless composure. His knight was trapped, his bishop pinned, and your queen had just begun to sweep dangerously close.

“You’re… good,” he said quietly, watching your fingers as you moved a piece with practiced ease.

“I told you,” you said, resting your chin in your hand.

Another move, then another. You saw his eyes narrowing as you took his bishop. Then finally it was time for your final attack. He sat back slowly, almost disbelieving. His gaze flicked from the board to your face and back.

“You’re bluffing,” he murmured, but it was more to himself than to you.

“Nope,” you said sweetly, then pushed your queen into place. “Will you resign or do you wish to go through the whole humiliation process were I checkmate you?“

Elijah stared at the board, utterly still. He finally looked up at you, a slow, stunned smile spreading across his face. “I cannot remember the last time someone beat me.”

“You’ll remember this one,” you said, smug.

---

The next times you came over the chessboard was already set. Rebekah was rolling her eyes because Elijah insisted on playing a round of chess with her friend, after everytime her and Rebekah hung out. You wanted to decline, but his gaze held something challenging, his smirk something deceiving.

This went on for weeks. After a especially nasty loss for Elijah it was him who invited you over, not Rebekah. As you entered Elijah was seated in the room, wine poured, blazer off, sleeves rolled. He barely glanced up as you walked in, but you could feel the intensity in the air like static before a storm. You bit your lip but couldn't stop yourself from commenting.

“I see you’ve prepared for defeat,” you teased lightly, slipping into the chair across from him.

His eyes finally met yours, dark and unreadable. “I’d call it preparation for redemption.”

You smiled, slow and amused, already reaching for your first pawn. “That sounds dangerously close to hope."

The match began in silence, save for the gentle clink of glass and the occasional sound of your pieces meeting the board. Elijah played aggressively tonight, starting with The Scotch Game. You were about to make a joke about the name of the opening and the fact that he was drinking wine, but when you looked up you realized how serious he was. Elijah was done with polite openings and careful traps. His knight struck early, cornering your bishop, and his queen started to go on your nerves.

Nevertheless through it all you stayed calm and composed, blocking his attacks deciding to play a safe game, without recklessnes. And it drove him mad.

Each move you made unraveled his careful control. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the flicker of frustration in his eyes when you slid your rook across the board with the confidence of someone who knew the end was already written.

By the time you murmured, “Check,” he was staring at the board like it had betrayed him personally.

He leaned back in his chair, one hand covering his mouth, the other drumming fingers against his thigh. You took a sip of his wine, pretending not to watch him seethe in slow, dignified silence.

Kol passed you two and raised his eyebrows watching the normally completely composed Mikaelson looking disheveled. "Elijah do you want t-," he started but Elijah raised his hand making Kol shut his mouth and left with a shrug.

“You’re toying with me,” Elijah muttered at last.

You raised an eyebrow, “Or I’m just better at chess.”

His gaze snapped to you, sharp and heated. “I haven’t lost this many matches in centuries.” You chuckled slightly, "In a row or in general?“

He didn’t reply immediately. Just watched you, his eyes traveling over your face, down to your lips, your hands on the edge of the board.

“I’m starting to think you’re doing it on purpose,” he said softly, voice low. “Winning?” “No," he leaned in slightly. “Driving me insane.”

Your pulse jumped. You tried to hide it with a shrug, but he saw. Of course he saw.

You moved your final piece, trying to avoid his gaze, "Checkmate.”

Elijah stared at the board, then at you. I took a while and then he laughed quietly and disbelieving, shaking his head, the sound rough at the edges. “You are… impossible.”

“Is that a compliment?”

He stood slowly, coming around the table. You turned in your chair just as he reached you, his hand curling around the back of it. He was imposing your space but you didn't mind as he was hovering above you.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said, low against your ear. “But I know I’m not letting you leave without another game.”

Your breath caught in your throat “And if you lose again?”

His hand brushed your jaw, fingers barely touching. “Then I’ll have to find another way to win.”

Your hands were shivering as you set the figures up again. He took the hint and sat back watching you intensely. "Well let's hope it won't come down to that," you said your voice not sounding as composed as you had hoped.

Elijah jaw was tensed but there was the illusion if a smile on his lips. But you wouldn't let him win just because he was hot (Which he was. Like really, really smoking hot. brother of your best friend this, brother of your best friend that, Elijah was the prettiest man you had seen in a long time), that was why you took his bishops, his rooks, his queen and finally his king again with a sweet smile. Elijah didn’t even wince. As you stood up to head home Elijah speeded towards you, taking your wrist, "Wait," he whispered.

You turned around, heart racing at how close he was. His hand was still around your wrist, not tight, but firm as if he didn't want to let go, even if he would the second you asked.

“Elijah?” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes were already on you, dark and unreadable, flickering between your lips and your eyes. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty, it was charged with electricity, as he brushed his knuckles against your cheek.

“Listen, I have lost before. And I keep telling myself it’s just chess,” he murmured, his voice soft but threaded with something rougher underneath. “But I’ve never cared this much about losing a game.”

You blinked, mouth parting, and before you could reply, he was leaning in slowly giving you every second to stop him. Your breath hitched and your heart was racing probably a million times per hour but you didn't.

His lips brushed yours once and then again, a lot firmer like he’d finally allowed himself to fall forward. His free hand rose to cradle your jaw, tilting your head up as he deepened the kiss, and it was all heat and control and the quiet, devastating kind of hunger you’d only seen in glances before now.

His lips moved over yours with a reverence that made your knees weaken, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the softness of your sigh as you leaned into him.

Your fingers found his shirt, clutching it like an anchor, and Elijah deepened the kiss just slightly, just enough to steal your breath and leave you craving more. The hand on your jaw slid back into your hair, his fingers threading through it gently, possessively, like he’d already decided he never wanted to let go.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breathing was uneven, his voice husky when he whispered, “Come upstairs with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, like he already knew your answer but wanted to hear it anyway.

Your pulse jumped. “And what if I say no?”

He smiled, that perfect, composed Elijah Mikaelson smile, but there was a flicker of something dangerous behind it now. “Then I’ll insist on a rematch.”

You didn’t answer. You just kissed him again, and that was all the answer he needed.

In one smooth motion, he picked you up and you let out a startled laugh. His grip was strong, steady, like holding you was the easiest thing he’d done all night.

“I didn’t know vampires carried people to bed like that,” you teased, breathless.

“Only the ones who win,” he said, eyes locked on yours.

He threw you onto his bed and closed the door behind him. His sleeves were still rolled up and he hovered above you.

"You’re infuriating," he said, his voice low and rough with restraint. “And briliant, but you toyed with me," he said kissing your neck. You closed your eyes and smirked as he held himself above you. “And you loved it,“ you whispered.

A smile flickered across his face as he looked down at you again, “I did,” he admitted, hovering so close his breath tickled your skin. “God, I did. You have no idea, what I was thinking every time you wore that smug smile."

He kissed you again, harder this time, with none of the earlier hesitation. There was praise in every touch, every press of his mouth against yours. His lips moved to your jaw, your throat, worshipful and hungry all at once. As if he was trying to communicate through his kisses how much he had enjoyed it

“I can’t stop thinking about the way you play,” he muttered against your neck. “How focused you get. How satisfied that little smile is when you take one of my pieces like it’s inevitable.”

You gasped softly as his fingers slid under your shirt, slow but sure, and he pushed it above your head throwing it to the floor. You arched into him as he pressed kisses down your collarbone, each one slower than the last, until he finally pushed the cups of your bra down taking your nipple into his mouth.

He unhooked the bra, bitting down on your other nipple making you gasp and look at him, "Maybe next time I'll bend you over that table, making you play while I take you from behind," he muttered into your ear.

You had to laugh. His words were so filthy and so unlike the Elijah you had come to know it was almost funny. He looked at you his eyes betraying his amusement as he licked over your hardened bud one time again before he kissed down your belly.

You felt your arousal and your body heated up as you watched him opening your skirt and pushing it down your thighs, before his fingers slipped between your thighs very slowly and controlled. It was maddening somehow. He watched your reaction closely, the way your lips parted and your hips shifted forward, just barely, as he ran the pad of his finger between your fold.

“Impatient, are we?” he murmured, voice like velvet, mocking you. You huffed. Normally you were the one mocking him while you were playing. A moan escaped you as he slipped a finger inside you, moving it slowly and purposefully. He was still fully clothed, while you were bare beneath him, squirming as he continued stretching you. His finger was a lot thicker and longer then yours and he knew exactly how to angle it to make you enjoy it while his thumb on your clit was igniting a fire inside you.

You met his gaze, lips curling into that same smirk that had cost him three matches in a row, “If I knew you were this good with your hands, I might’ve let you win.”

That made him pause. His hand stilled for just a second, and then he chuckled, low and darkly, it was a side of him you had never seen before but assumed that it was somewhere beneath the layers of his suit.

“You can dominate me on the chessboard,” he said, another finger slipping inside, sliding deeper, making you gasp as he curled them, “but not in bed.”

You were about to throw something cocky back at him, but then his thumb circled just right and the thought shattered like glass as your body started to tremble and you squirmed beneath him.

“Still smug?” he asked softly, watching you unravel.

You dug your nails into his shoulder and whispered, breath hitching, “I can multitask.”

His hand moved faster, expertly precise, like every move on the chessboard had just been practice for this, and now he was winning. It felt as if he was trying to find out how much you were able to take.

“Darling,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, as he slipped in a second finger, “the only game you’re playing right now is mine.”

Your body was trembling, breath ragged, as Elijah held your gaze with that maddening, controlled composure, the kind that only made you want to beat him. But this was his terrain and he knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.

He didn’t look away once as your back arched, as your fingers dug into the sheets. "Elijah," you moaned as he kissed you hard and kept his pace.

Suddenly he pulled out and you whimpered, trying to gain friction back, looking at him panicked as if to ask what had happened. He laughed at how desperately you tried to grind yourself against his hand and stood up watching you while you were still panting, as he undid his belt, took of his shirt and pulled his jeans down. You moved onto your belly, crawling to the end of the bed, your hands pushing his boxers down, revealing his half hard cock.

"Can you take all of me?," he whispered his hand gripping your head and you bit your lips nodding. He really was big and your cheeks heated up at the idea of him inside you.

“Open your mouth,“ he commanded

You did, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound barely restrained. He stroked himself once, then pressed the tip against your parted lips, smearing precum across them before sliding in slowly. His grip in your hair tightened again as he pushed deeper.

“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes hooded as he watched your lips stretch around him. “So obedient when I ask nicely.”

He didn’t give you a chance to take control, not that you would have expected it. With both hands in your hair now, he began to move slow, as if he wanted to get you to know the feeling. You moaned around him, the vibrations making him groan again as his hips rolled forward.

“You look so pretty like this,” he said, almost to himself. “Your mouth full off my cock, while your eyes are on me.”

He slid deeper with each thrust, until your throat opened for him, and he let out a hiss of pleasure, his jaw clenching. He held you there for a beat, buried deep, watching you struggle to breath and he loved it. He shifted your hair into a ponytail so he was able to hold it even better.

“Breathe through your nose, darling,” he murmured, a hand brushing the side of your face in a brief, shockingly tender moment. “Good girl.”

He began to move again, setting a pace that left your throat burning and your thighs pressed tightly together. He was relentless but controlled, his hips moving with steady force while his hands kept you exactly where he wanted you. You whimpered as his right hand grabbed your neck to angle you even better.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he growled, watching his cock disappear between your lips. “Of fucking that smart mouth until you can’t speak and that smug little grin disappears from your face.”

Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes, but the heat coiling low in your belly was unbearable. You moaned again, loving the way he lost just a little more control every time you did. He was in control but you had quickly figured out what was turning him on.

He pulled out with a wet pop, while you gasped for air. He smirked down at you, thumb wiping at the corner of your mouth.

“Still think you’re winning?” he asked, voice full of dark satisfaction.

You tried to respond, but he was already pushing you back onto the bed, crawling over you with the kind of confidence that promised he wanted to fuck more than just your mouth tonight.

You didn’t even get a full breath in before Elijah had you flipped onto your stomach, hands pressing your hips down into the mattress.

“All those games,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp as his body hovered above yours. “All those nights you humiliated me. Smiling. Gloating. Like I was nothing but a pawn.” He bit you slowly drawing some of your blood making you whimper as he drank. You couldn’t see him as he withdrew, but you were sure his mouth was full of your blood and you shivered at the thought.

You gasped as he yanked your hips up, the sheets rough beneath your knees. He didn’t wait or tease anymore. He slid into you in one hard, punishing thrust, and you screamed into the mattress. Your fingers curled around the sheets holding you as you tried to get used to it and the pain mixed with pleasure as he slowly made you lightheaded.

“This,” he growled into your ear, thrusting again, harder this time, his pace becoming punishing. “This is what I’ve been thinking about every time you beat me.”

You clutched the sheets harder, your body shaking as he pounded into you with a fury that bordered on unhinged. His fingers dug into your hip as if he was trying to anchor himself, you knew his fingers would leave bruises bug you didn’t really care. Maybe you even liked the thought.

“I watched you lean over that board, all smug, while drinking my wine,“ he snarled. “I knew exactly what you were doing. I knew you wanted me to snap.”

Your moans were helpless now, high and broken, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. But he didn’t soften. He couldn’t. Not when he finally had you like this.

“Finally,” he hissed, pulling you back onto him, grinding so deep you saw stars. “I get my payback.”

You cried out as his hand slid up your spine and wrapped around the back of your neck, holding you there, pinned beneath him. You grinded your hips back encouraging him to keep going and he was happy to do so.

“You think you’re so clever,” he growled, teeth grazing your shoulder, again licking the wound he had left, “So untouchable. But look at you now, love, you are moaning like a little whore while being split apart by my cock. But you can handle it, can’t you?“

You couldn’t even answer, only nod. The pace, the intensity, the sheer force of his frustration was unraveling you from the inside out. Your climax built too fast, too sharp, and when it hit you, it stole the sound from your lungs. You screamed and your body trembled and for the second you had your eyes pressed together only seeing a white light. You clenched around him, thighs trembling, and that was it.

He lost it.

He groaned, raw and ragged, as he buried himself deep one last time, coming hard inside you. You felt him pulse, heard the curse fall from his lips as his hand fisted in the sheets beside your head and his fangs buried on the other side of your neck.

After that there was a long silence. He stayed there for a moment, chest heaving against your back, his breath hot against your neck. Then he pulled out slowly, almost reluctantly, and collapsed beside you, hand brushing your thigh, his voice low, "Are you alright? Was it too rough?“

You shook your head and moved into his hug. He pulled the covers over you both before leaning down again. "Checkmate,“ he whispered and you had to laugh shaking your head.

You still weren’t sure how you managed to pull a man like Elijah. You met a while ago, when he walked up to you like he already knew what you would say. All dark eyes and smooth charm, tailored clothes and quiet confidence. He had disarmed you instantly. From the first moment, you sensed something different about him. Though you didn’t know then just how true that would turn out to be.

And now, months later, here you were. Nestled against one of the oldest living creatures on earth, with his arm around your waist like it belonged there. He could have had anyone. And yet, he chose you.

You certainly weren’t going to argue.

A soft sigh slipped from your lips as you pressed in closer, wrapping the blanket tighter around both of you. You looked up at him, studying the familiar lines of his face in the firelight. His hair fell softly across his brow, his dark eyes tracking the lines of his book. But the way his hand moved, slow and precise, long fingers flexing just enough to remind you how they felt against your skin. That was what made your heart flutter.

Your gaze moved up to the column of his throat, the curve where neck meets shoulder. A place you kissed before many times, gently, reverently. But tonight, you didn’t want to kiss it. You wanted to bite it.

The thought hit fast and hot. You swallowed hard, shifting under the blanket as heat pooled between your thighs. It wasn’t the first time you had felt it. That deep, aching urge always crept in during quiet moments like this. When you felt content and safe around him, overwhelmed by love and want and intense feeling.

But just as quickly, shame curled through you like smoke. You shouldn’t want that. Not like this. It was too much. You were too much.

The last time you followed that instinct, let it slip past your lips in the heat of the moment, your ex hadn’t understood. He laughed. Pulled back. Shut down. Called you intense. In that tone people use when they mean something else. When they mean weird. When they mean wrong.

You pretended it didn’t hurt, but it stuck. It lived in you. Ever since, you kept that part of yourself locked away. Bit your own lip instead. Dug your nails into the sheets instead of skin. Avoided the feelings that threatened to swallow you whole.

And now here you were, held in the arms of the most perfect man you had ever known. Still too scared to show him the whole of what you wanted.

Elijah turned another page, but he hadn’t read a single word in the last five minutes. He could feel your body pressed against his side, warm and restless, your breaths coming shallower now. And he could practically hear the thoughts racing behind your silence.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched you from the corner of his eye, taking in the way your gaze lingered on him a little too long, the way your lips parted like you might say something, then thought better of it. Your breath caught.. just barely. But he noticed. He always did.

There was a flush rising beneath your skin, a certain tension in your frame that made his chest warm. You were trying so hard not to let it show. He could feel it in the way you tucked yourself a little closer, like you needed him to notice without asking. He found it very sweet.

He didn’t know what you were holding back, not exactly. But he could feel it, some small ache just beneath the surface. Something you thought you needed to hide.

He could wait. He would wait. But it was hard not to smile when you got like this. All quiet and shy…and clearly about two seconds from climbing into his lap.

His book was forgotten. His eyes were on you now, wearing that unreadable expression he saved for when he was studying something closely. Not judging. Just observing.

"W-what?" you asked, trying not to squirm. "You’re very distracting, you know that?"

Elijah gave you a small, amused smile. "I haven’t done anything."

"Exactly," you said, returning the smile. "You sit there looking like that and expect me to concentrate on anything else?"

He hummed, low and content, and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. "I was under the impression we were just reading."

"I was trying," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips brushed your skin. "Then your hand turned a page and my brain completely stopped working."

"That sounds serious," he said, voice dropping just a little, all low and velvet-soft as his fingers slipped beneath the blanket. "Should I be concerned?"

You giggled breathlessly just before he caught your mouth in a soft kiss. His hand trailed up your thigh, pausing just beneath the hem of your dress. Then, with careful ease, he dipped under the fabric. Your pulse quickened, but you didn’t pull away.

His palm slid higher, warm and steady against bare skin. He smiled into the kiss, then shifted, lifting you effortlessly into his lap. The blanket slid down, pooling around your waist as your knees braced on either side of his hips. He only broke the kiss long enough to lift your dress over your head, leaving you in nothing but your panties.

He hadn’t expected his evening to go like this. Elijah had planned to read, maybe kiss you once or twice and fall asleep with you curled against his chest. But now you were in his lap, bare and radiant, and all he could do was stare. The way your skin flushed under his palms, the way your fingers trembled as they touched him. It always undid something in him.

Your hands moved to the front of his shirt, fumbling slightly with the buttons. He didn’t rush you. He liked watching you like this. A little nervous, focused, so clearly wanting him. You got halfway down before he leaned in and kissed your jaw, a whisper-soft encouragement. You pushed the fabric back off his shoulders and down his arms, quickly tossing it aside.

His hand slid down your back, firm and possessive, pulling you tight against him. He was already hard, and the pressure of it beneath you made your breath hitch. He guided your hips with slow, deliberate movements, coaxing you to grind against him. The friction stole your focus, made your fingers tremble against his skin as the heat between you deepened, hungry and sweet and impossible to ignore.

You let your hands roam across his chest, drinking him in. His skin was warm under your palms, his muscles carved and defined. Your fingertips traced the ridge of his collarbone, slid up the curve of his neck, tangled in his hair. He felt like something meant to be worshipped.

You reached between you, breath shaky, and undid the fastenings of his pants. He let you, his eyes never leaving your face. You pushed the fabric down just enough to free him, and the second your hand wrapped around him, he groaned, the sound rumbling through his chest.

You stroked him slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of him in your hand. The way he exhaled like you were undoing him. The way his fingers dug into your thighs, the ways his pupils dilated, making them somehow even darker.

The firelight flickered across your back, casting the two of you in molten gold. He leaned in, breath warm against your throat, and you tipped your head back as he kissed along your neck, his mouth open, tongue teasing. His hand moved between your legs, slipping beneath your panties and pushing the fabric aside.

His fingers teased you gently, not enough to satisfy, just enough to make your hips shift, seeking more.

"Go slow for me. Let it ache a while," he murmured. "I'll take care of you."

Your body trembled with anticipation, with need, and you bit your lip, stifling a whimper. He kept his touches light, too light, just barely brushing the surface, then a little deeper, circling and coaxing until your legs began to shake.

You tried to stay in control. Tried to hold back the part of you that wanted to claw, to bite, to take. The part that always felt too hungry.

But then he pulled away, slow and deliberate, and shifted beneath you. He pressed the head of his cock right where you wanted him most and held there, unmoving, letting the need twist hot and sharp inside you.

You held your breath as he pressed against you, and then, slowly, you began to sink down. You let out a quiet moan, savoring the stretch and the way his hands tightened around you, steadying you.

You started to move, slow and careful. Lifting just enough to feel the pull before sinking down again. Every motion was thick with wet heat, achingly slow. Sweet friction that built fire with every pass.

Your muscles burned with the effort of staying in control, and your heart pounded like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest. Your nails digging into the sofa.

His hands slid along your spine, grounding you as he let you set the pace. But it was not enough to hold back the rush building in your blood.

It was too much. The pleasure. The pressure. The unbearable fullness of him, deep and steady, everywhere.

And still, you tried to hold it together.

Still, you held back.

He felt it in the hitch of your breath, in the tremble that started in your thighs and worked its way through you like a current. Your heart was a wild, beautiful thing beneath your skin. Fluttering against your ribs, echoing in his ears like a siren’s call. And your scent… god, the warmth of it, the way clouded all of his senses as you eased down onto him. It nearly undid him.

You were trying so hard to stay composed. He could see it in the tension at your jaw, the way your fingers dug into the leather behind you instead of into him. It made something sorrowful ache in his chest. You were holding back. Still afraid. Still unsure if it was safe to fall apart with him.

He wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to be. That he could take it. That he wanted it. Wanted you to be hungry, wild and unrestrained. But he didn’t speak. Not yet. He didn’t dare interrupt the soft, sacred rhythm you set.

One of his hands slid across your shoulder, fingers trailing down your arm until he found your wrist. He brought it forward, pressed your palm to his chest, his skin hot beneath your touch.

“Touch me,” he said softly, steady as a heartbeat. “You don’t need to hold back.”

Your pulse jumped. The warmth of his skin, the steady thump under your palm, was too much. Too intimate. Too good. Your other hand followed, splayed flat over his heart. His hands returned to your waist.

You moved again, hips rolling deep and slow. You arched into him, nails dragging red down his chest. The pleasure built and built. And still, it wasn’t enough.

Your body trembled, caught between the instinct to take and the fear of being too much. You kissed along his jaw... that beautiful jaw. Just a little bit of stubble, sharp enough to cut. You kissed along it, slowly, breathing him in, afraid and desperate in equal parts to sink your teeth in.

Your mouth lingered there. Open. Wanting. But not daring.

His fingers flexed at your hips.

"Take it," he murmured, voice wrecked. "Whatever you want. Take it."

And finally you gave in.

You sank your teeth into the curve where neck met shoulder. Not enough to break skin, not on someone like him, but enough to hurt. Enough to shake him.

Elijah’s groan was guttural, the sound of a man utterly undone. His head fell back, and hips jerked beneath you, a sudden, uncontrolled thrust, and your body clamped down around him so tight it made your breath catch.

“Fuck.”

He swore under his breath, more primal than polished now and his hands squeezed your ass, guiding your hips.

“Again,” he hissed. “Harder.”

Your chest clenched. No one had ever enjoyed your intense side. No one had ever asked for more. The shame that always curled beneath your ribs was gone, burned out by the raw need in his voice. He wasn’t tolerating it. He was loving it.

And you were helpless to resist.

You bit him again, harder, and the strangled sound that escaped him sent a thrill down your spine. Your hands were shaking, fingers pressed tight against his chest, and your heart was pounding, but everything else felt perfectly, blissfully clear.

"Yes," he breathed, and his hand slipped between you, his fingers stroking over the spot where you were joined, and then up, rubbing in insistent circles over your clit, "Yes, love, yes..."

You moaned against his neck, the sound muffled. It was too much. The feel of him moving beneath you, the smell of his cologne, the taste of his skin, the press of his fingers, his hand against your back. The sounds he made. That beautiful, wrecked voice saying yes, over and over again.

Your mouth was everywhere, rabidly moving along the line of his jaw, the sharp ridge of his throat, the flushed skin you already marked once. You bit down over and over, teeth dragging just enough to make him groan, filthy and low. You felt drunk on it, dizzy, like the whole world was spinning around you and he was the only thing that could keep you upright.

Your hips bucked hard, your rhythm lost, and he began to bounce you, lifting your hips and bringing them back down with a punishing force. Every thrust drove a ragged sound from the both of you.

“Elijah,” you gasped, already breathless, fingers curling into his shoulders.

“Again,” he growled, voice sharp now. “Fucking bite me.”

The command in his voice hit like a punch to the gut. A moan tore from your throat as you did, harder this time, the taste of his skin flooding your tongue. His pace increased, his whole body shuddered, and his cock twitched deep inside you as he cursed under his breath. He started moving you even faster, every thrust hit something perfect, something devastating, and your moans turned into broken little sobs.

Your hands scrambled for his skin, digging into his chest, his shoulders, holding on as you bounced in his lap, thighs burning, body slick with sweat and slick and spit.

“Look at you,” he gasped, voice gone completely hoarse, his dark eyes wide and wrecked. “So fucking sweet like this. Look at how you ride me…wild fucking thing-”

You didn’t even recognize the sound you made. You were too far gone.

It wasn’t even sex anymore. It was heat and hunger and something feral. You bit him again, just under his jaw this time, and he groaned, his hips losing their rhythm, and you didn't care. You didn’t care how loud you were, how your teeth tore at his skin, the way your nails left angry red marks down his chest.

The ache in you was so deep. It had been there for months, burning like an ember in your core. And now, finally, the fire was burning through you, scorching everything else away. There was nothing but this moment.

You came with a cry, body clenching down around him in waves, your whole body shaking, lips still pressed to his skin. You couldn't stop. You didn’t want to. You kept licking, kissing, moaning into his neck as the pleasure overtook you completely.

He followed you, voice wrecked and raw, hands still guiding you through it as he spilled inside you with a shudder that wracked his whole frame.

Slowly, the world came back. The crackle of the fire, the cool leather of the couch, the heat of his body, and the gentle press of his lips against your cheek, your neck, your shoulder.

Your limbs felt like lead, and all the air left your lungs in a shaky exhale.

"Holy shit," you managed, still gasping for breath.

"That is," he murmured, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "One way to put it."

You laughed, still dizzy, and collapsed against his chest. He pulled the blanket back up around the both of you, his hands smoothing along your spine, soothing you as your breath came in pants.

The fire had burned low. Most of the room had fallen into shadow, and the chill of the air was starting to creep back in. Without a word, Elijah shifted, carefully disentangling himself from the mess of limbs and blankets.

“No,” you mumbled, arms wrapping tighter around his middle. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He chuckled softly. “Nowhere far, sweetheart.”

You let him go reluctantly, flopping onto your side as he stood. And then … well. You definitely didn’t regret letting him go.

The firelight kissed every plane of his body in soft orange-gold. You watched as he moved to the fireplace, unhurried and utterly unbothered to be naked, every muscle flexing as he bent to adjust the wood in the hearth. Strong shoulders, defined arms and the curve of his back… he looked like he should be carved into stone. He didn’t even have to look at you to know what you were thinking.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking back.

“You’re naked,” you shot back, pulling the blanket up to your chin, flushed and smiling.

He gave the fire one last nudge and turned, smiling in that infuriatingly composed way. “So I am.”

He crossed the room with slow, easy steps, the light catching the curves and ridges of his torso. Your gaze drifted lower, and he laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “You alright?”

You nodded, blushing.

He climbed back onto the couch, leaning in to kiss you, long and languid. When he pulled back, you were grinning, and he looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Was that alright?” you asked, voice small. “I know I can get… in my head. And the biting thing, it’s…”

He shook his head and kissed you again, gentle and certain, as if to hush every doubt before it could reach your lips.

“My love,” he said, brushing a knuckle down your cheek. “You are speaking to a vampire. You think I’d be scandalized by a few enthusiastic nibbles?”

You giggled, a little fluttery in your chest. He pulled the blanket closer, settling in beside you. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the tip of your nose, then down to your jaw. He continued like that, peppering soft kisses all along the line of your jaw until he reached your ear. “I meant what I said. I want all of you. Even the parts you think are too much. Especially those.”

Your heart clenched.

You peeked up at him again, shy. “Even if I want to bite you like… all the time?”

He grinned. “Especially that.”

You nod, small, eyes down.

She reaches over, not touching, just close enough. “We’re family now, okay?” she says, like it’s something solid, something you can hold onto.

Your fingers twist tighter in the fabric.

She notices. Of course she does.

“And we are definitely taking you shopping,” she says, a little lighter now. “Gonna get you out of that hiding place you call a wardrobe.” You almost smile, just barely, still quiet, still tucked into yourself but not as alone as before.

She looks over at you , “welcome home sweetheart,” as you two pull up to the house, the engine still running for a second longer than it needs to.

You don’t move right away. Just sit there, fingers tugging at the sleeve of your soft pink cardigan, pulling it over your hand, eyes stuck somewhere down in your lap.

“Tell me,” she says, softer this time, studying you, “what was a pretty thing like you doing in a place like that?”

You swallow, throat tight. “I needed the money,” you say quietly, barely above a whisper.

She tilts her head a little. “And you thought being a stripper was a good idea?” she asks, not sharp, just… watching you, like she’s waiting to see how much you’ll give her.

You shrug, small, one shoulder lifting more than the other, wincing just slightly like even that pulls at something sore. Your fingers twist tighter into the fabric.

“Beats flipping burgers, I guess,” you murmur, voice soft, almost like you’re trying to make it sound like a joke—but it doesn’t quite land.

Your eyes stay down, blinking a little too slow, like you’re holding something back.

She lets the silence sit for a second, looking at you really looking this time, at the bruise on your left eye, the way you fold in on yourself, how quiet you keep your voice.

Her expression shifts, just a little. Softer.

“C’mon,” she says after a moment, gentle but certain. “Let’s get you inside.” — let’s get you something for that eye , she says .

You both get out the car.

You reach for your bag, holding it close as you follow her up toward the house, steps a little slow like you’re still deciding if this is real or not. The air feels different here. Quieter, but not safe quiet ,just unfamiliar.

Your eyes lift without meaning to. Three guys by the pool. Talking, laughing low, the kind of presence you feel before anyone even looks your way.

You shift slightly behind your bag, shoulders drawing in just a little.

Smurf notices. Of course she does.

“Come,” she says, like it’s simple, like there’s nothing to question.

Her voice doesn’t change, but her pace slows just enough for you to catch up beside her instead of behind her .

You both get inside, the house already loud in a low way voices somewhere deeper in, TV on, footsteps moving like the place never really sits still. The three guys come in behind you. You feel it before you even turn around.

Smurf doesn’t stop walking. Just glances back once.

“Nicky,” she calls, easy. “Get her an ice pack.”

Nicky moves right away, like she already knows better than to ask questions. She comes back a minute later, quiet, careful, pressing it into your hand before sitting close enough to help you hold it without shaking.

You flinch a little when the cold hits your skin.

“Easy,” Nicky says softly. “Just hold it there.”

You nod, eyes down again, letting her guide your hand a bit so it sits right over your left eye.

The guys are there now—Craig leaning back like he owns the space, Deran watching more than he says, and J standing a little off, jaw tight, eyes moving between you and Smurf.

“I’m Nicky,” she says after a beat, glancing at you. “I’m J’s girl.”

You don’t say much, just a small nod, still holding the ice pack in place.

The room stays quiet for a second too long. Smurf looks at all of them, then back at you like it’s already decided.

“She’s part of the family now,” she says, simple, final.

Craig shifts a little. Deran doesn’t move. J just watches.

And you sit there, small on the edge of it all, ice cold against your skin, trying to understand what “family” is supposed to feel like here.

“Where’s Pope?” Smurf asks…

J answers without looking up much. “He’s picking Lena up from school.” His voice is low, steady, looking between you in Nicky

Smurf just nods once. “Okay.”

She turns slightly. “Nicky, take her up to Pope’s old room. Help her get settled. Show her around.”

Nicky gives a small nod. No extra questions. Just stands and gestures for you to follow.

You get up slowly, still holding the ice pack against your eye, following her up the stairs. The house feels bigger the higher you go—quieter too, like the noise stays downstairs.

Halfway up, you glance at her.

“Who’s Pope?” you ask softly.

Nicky doesn’t even hesitate. She just keeps walking, like it’s normal conversation.

“That’s Andrew,” she says. “He’s one of J’s uncles.”

You nod a little, listening.

“He keeps to himself,” she adds, glancing back at you briefly. “Doesn’t sleep much. Doesn’t really talk much either. Just… kind of does his own thing.”

You look down again, adjusting the ice pack carefully.

Nicky pushes open a door at the end of the hall. “This is his room,” she says, stepping aside so you can go in first.

Behind you, Smurf’s voice carries up from downstairs, casual like it’s already decided.

“Burgers and fries with hot dogs for dinner,” she calls out.

Like that’s just how things are now.

Smoke from the grill hangs low in the backyard, burgers and hot dogs already sizzling, Smurf standing over it like she’s done it a thousand times and could do it with her eyes closed.

The back door creaks.

Pope comes in first, Lena right behind him. Small steps, backpack still half on her shoulder. The second she sees Smurf, she doesn’t slow down. She runs.

“Smurf!”

Smurf doesn’t even turn all the way, just opens her arms a little like she already knew.

“C’mere, baby,” she says. “Give me some love.”

Lena throws her arms around her waist, Smurf bending just enough to hug her back, firm and easy like it’s nothing new. Lena presses a quick kiss to her cheek before pulling back just enough to look up at her.

“Can I watch TV?” she asks, already bouncing a little on her feet. Smurf hums, like she’s considering it, but her hand is already smoothing Lena’s hair back. “Yeah,” she says. “Go on.”

Lena lights up instantly and darts back inside without another thought.

Pope stands a few steps back the whole time, quiet. Watching, like he always is. Not saying much, not needing to. Just there.

Smurf glances over her shoulder at him. “You eat?” she asks, like she already knows the answer.

He doesn’t really respond, just gives the smallest nod and moves past her toward the house.

The grill keeps popping behind them, smoke curling up into the warm air, like the whole place just keeps going whether anyone talks or not.

You come downstairs slowly, still holding onto the feeling of the upstairs hall like it might be safer than what’s below it. Your fingers keep worrying at your sleeves, tugging them over your hands as you reach the bottom step.

The house is louder down here—TV in one room, voices somewhere outside, the smell of smoke and food drifting through the air. You pause, just for a second, eyes scanning like you’re trying to place where you’re supposed to stand.

That’s when you hear them.

Voices outside.

You follow the sound, quiet steps across the floor, until you reach the glass sliding door. You stop just behind it, not fully stepping out yet. Just there. Watching through the reflection first before you actually look.

Smurf by the grill. Craig moving past without slowing. J off to the side. Nicky inside somewhere.

And Pope.

Standing a little apart from everyone else.

“What’s up?” he says, voice flat, tired already. His eyes flick once across the yard. “What’d you do, Smurf?”

“Nothing,” Smurf answers, not even turning fully. “Don’t start.” She brought someone home , Deran says walking past you stepping out side , grabbing a drink from the cooler.

Pope takes deep breath ,“It’s not enough you brought J in,” he goes on, lower now, sharper at the edges. “Now there’s someone else.”

You stay behind the glass. Still. Watching it all but not stepping out. You shift slightly at that, sleeves tightening under your fingers.

Pope’s eyes move—just once. Toward the door. Toward you. It’s quick. Controlled. Nothing held there long enough to read. Then he looks away again. Like he’s trying so hard not to stay mad even tho , nothing he says will get through to Smurf because she does whatever she wants anyways .

Lena comes up to you like it’s nothing, like you’ve always been there. Small steps, head tilted, eyes curious.

“Who are you?” she asks.

You pause, then soften your voice. “I’m a friend of your grandma’s.”

She studies you for a second, then shakes her head like that’s not enough. “I’m part of the family now,” you add quietly, almost unsure of it yourself.

“That means you watch TV with me,” she says like it’s settled.

A small breath leaves you. “Sure,” you say.

She grabs your hand without hesitation and pulls you toward the couch. You follow easily, still adjusting to how close everything is here, how people just… reach for each other.

The TV flickers on. Something about wolves. Forests. Pack behavior.

Lena settles in beside you like she’s known you longer than she has, fingers already finding your necklace, playing with it without thinking.

“What happened to your eye?” she asks, not scared, just curious.

You hesitate, hand lifting a little before settling again. “Um… it’s a long story,” you say softly. “One you might not understand right now.”

She looks up at you.

“Maybe I’ll tell you later,” you add gently.

Lena nods like that makes sense. No push. No fear. Just acceptance. Then she leans into you a little, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

On the screen, wolves move through the trees—quiet, alert, close together.

Lena watches for a second, then looks up at you again. “Wolves aren’t mean animals,” she says, low voice, serious like she’s sharing something important.

A small smile touches your face without you meaning it. “I didn’t know that,” you admit. “Who told you that?”

“My uncle Andrew,” she says simply.

The name lands quietly in the room.

You glance up slightly, just enough to see Pope inside the house now, standing where he can see the couch but not close enough, he watches the two of you , connecting he hates it, especially how soft your voice is .

He’s watching. Not interrupting. Just there.

Your fingers stay still under Lena’s hand as she keeps playing with your necklace, like she’s decided you’re safe enough to sit beside. Smurf brings the food in from outside, setting everything down like it’s just another night.

“Dinner’s ready,” she says.

You and Lena both get up, her hand still loosely in yours before she lets go to move closer to the table. You follow a step behind, quiet, watching where everyone goes before you move.

Smurf’s eyes catch the two of you. She pauses, then walks over toward Pope, nodding slightly in your direction.

“See,” she says low to him, “she’s good with her.”

Pope doesn’t answer. Just stands there, jaw set, eyes flicking once toward you before going back to nothing.

Nicky’s already grabbing plates, handing them out like she’s done it a hundred times. Everyone starts moving in, no real order to it, just taking what they want.

You stay close to Lena, reaching for a plate for her from Nicky , trying to do it right. Trying not to be in the way.

“I can help—” you start softly.

“I got it,” Pope cuts in, stepping in before you can finish. His voice isn’t loud, just firm.

Your hands pause mid-motion.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, pulling back a little. “I was just trying to help.”

“Don’t need it,” he says.

Just like that.

You nod, small, eyes dropping again as you step back to give him space, fingers finding your sleeves like they always do.

Lena looks between you both for a second, then back at her plate, like she’s used to it, and you grab some food , hamburger bun chips in hot dog , you then poor you a glass of tea, Lena wanted you to sit by her , so you did .

Pope looks up from his plate, eyes landing on you this time, not quick like before. He actually holds it. “What happened to your eye?” he asks. You barely get a second to answer “It’s a long story,” Lena says for you, mouth full, like she’s been waiting to say it. “Maybe she’ll tell us about it sometime.” There’s a small laugh around the table, not mean, just… easy.

Lena frowns, looking around. “What?” “Nothing,” you say softly, shaking your head a little. “They just thought you were being funny.”

“But I wasn’t,” she says. “I know,” you murmur. She nods once and goes back to eating like that’s the end of it. Pope’s still looking at you, just for a second longer, then he looks away, jaw tight again.

He stands up. “Smurf,” he says. “Can I talk to you outside?” She wipes her hands, already moving. “Yeah.” They head out the back. You sit there for a second, trying to focus on your food, but your ears are already picking up their voices through the open door. “What’s she doing here, Smurf?” Pope’s voice, low but not quiet enough. A pause.

“I thought maybe we could use the help around here,” Smurf says, calm, like she’s already decided it. “With Lena.” “No,” Pope says right away. “Not happening.” “Pope—” “No.” His voice sharper now. “She’s not staying.”

You don’t realize you’ve stood up until you’re already near the door, the voices clearer now, your hand pressing lightly to the frame like you’re steadying yourself.

“Lena needs a female around,” Smurf says, more firm now. Silence for a second. You step out just enough for them to see you, small, careful. “Why… am I here?” you ask, voice quiet but steady enough to be heard. Both of them look at you.

You swallow, fingers tightening in your sleeves. “Why did you pick me?” Smurf’s expression doesn’t change much, she just studies you, like she always does. Pope’s already looking away again.

She comes up to you, calm like she’s already decided it. “Look, sweetheart. I brought you in because I thought you’d be a good fit for our family. I saw you struggling.” “But I wasn’t…” you try to say, voice small but quick, trying to get it out before it becomes something else. You try to protest, but she doesn’t really slow down.

“Lena needs a nanny,” Smurf says, steady. “Someone to help look after her. I thought you’d be good for her. She’s already liking you.” “No,” Pope cuts in immediately, voice flat.

“I’ve got this handled.” You let out a quiet breath before you can stop yourself. “Clearly,” you say under your breath. Soft. Barely there. His head turns right away. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, like you didn’t mean for it to leave your mouth at all. Smurf shifts back a step, watching the two of you now instead of stepping in. She lets it sit, lets it play out.

“No,” Pope says again, sharper this time. “Say it.”

You hesitate, then lift your eyes to him. Something in you tightens instead of backing down. You fold your arms, taking a small step closer without really thinking about it.

“No,” you repeat, quieter but clearer now. The air changes just a little nothing loud, nothing dramatic, just heavy in a way that sits between you and him.

“Say it,” he repeats.

You exhale, sharper this time. “Fine.” You step closer to him now, not backing down. “You don’t want my help because you think I’m soft. Because I might be good for her.”

“Go on,” he says, voice flat.

“Because you don’t know anything about me,” you say, eyes locked on him now. “And that scares you.”

A beat. You shake your head slightly, frustration finally breaking through the quiet. “Well, you know what? This whole thing makes no sense to me, but here I am, okay.” Your voice steadies again, but there’s edge under it now. “You wanna keep pushing me away, fine. But Smurf invited me to be here, so I’m here. Deal with it.”

He looks at you for a second, unreadable. Then, plain as ever, “You wear too much pink.”

Without missing a beat, you fire back, “And you’re an asshole.”

You turn on your heel and head back into the house, heart beating a little too fast for how quiet you’re trying to stay.

“Get back here,” Pope says, his voice low, firm, right behind you. You don’t stop. “Why?” you call back, stepping further inside. “You’re not done insulting me?”

“You don’t walk away when we’re in the middle of a conversation,” he says, following you in.

You pause just enough to glance over your shoulder. “Oh… that was a conversation?” you say, soft, but there’s something sharper in it now.

Then you keep walking.

He comes in after you anyway. Close enough you can feel it, even without looking.

Outside, Smurf watches the whole thing through the open door, a small smile tugging at her lips. “She’ll fit right in,” she says.

Deran steps out beside her, letting out a short laugh. “Coulda warned us at least,” he says.

“What, and give Pope the satisfaction of turning it down right away?” Smurf says, taking the drink from him like it was already hers. “And miss this? Nah… I’m good.”

Inside, you move slow near the kitchen, fingers brushing your sleeves but not as tight this time. You turn slightly—and he’s right there. again, as your leaning your back against the counter .

Closer than before. Not touching. Just… there. Your breath catches for a second, but you don’t step back. His eyes drop for half a second to your cardigan, your hands, then back up to your face.

Still unreadable. Still steady.

“You’ don’t get todo that,” he says.

You lift your chin just a little. “Yeah,” you say softly. “ I think I do …. It hangs there between the two of you . Not loud. Not soft either. Just something that doesn’t move. “What happened to your eye?” Pope asks, voice low, not pushing but not letting it go either.

“It’s nothing,” you say, your voice almost cracks . “It really doesn’t concern you.” Your voice stays soft, but there’s a small edge under it now.

“Tell me,” he says.

You just look at him for a long second. Then you exhale. “Fine… Smurf found me. At a strip club.” His brow shifts slightly. “What was she doing in there?”

You shrug, small. “Don’t know.” A pause. “It’s from my ex… he got mad because I wouldn’t take him back.”

Pope’s jaw tightens just a little. “So he hit you?”

You nod.

Silence sits between you for a second.

“You know… I’ve seen you there before,” you say quietly, glancing at him. “At the club. You always seemed so mad… so down.”

His eyes flick to yours. “Maybe that’s just how I am,” he says, flat, but there’s something heavier under it.

Another pause. Closer now. Too close to just ignore. “We’re definitely not telling Lena this story,” he adds, low, like it’s already decided.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Your eyes meet his again, and it lingers this time. Not soft. Not warm. Just… something that doesn’t move, sitting tight between the two of you. “Tomorrow morning,” he says, voice low, like he’s already moved past everything else, “she’ll expect breakfast.”

You nod a little, still standing close, closer than you meant to be.“Waffles,” he adds. “Maybe some eggs.” “How about bacon?” you ask, softer now . He gives a small nod. “Sure.” A beat. “Chocolate chip waffles. That’s what she’ll want.” “Got it,” you say.

“Six-thirty,” he says, eyes steady on yours. “That’s when you need to be up. She’s gotta be at school before eight.” You nod again. “Okay.”“Do you drive?” he asks. You nod.

“Good,” he says. “Take Smurf’s car… since she invited you here.” A pause. “You can take the Jag.”

You shift slightly, and that’s when you notice how close he is.

Not touching.

But close enough that if either of you moved even a little—

His hand lifts like he’s going to point at something, but it doesn’t. His fingers just hover near yours for a second, like he changed his mind halfway through.

You don’t pull back.

Neither does he. “You’ll be ready?” he asks, quieter now. “Yeah,” you say, just as soft. His eyes stay on you a second longer than they should, then drop briefly to your hand before he steps back, like he’s the one breaking it.

“Good,” he says.

Don’t make me regret this,” he says, voice low. “I’m still not okay with it… but Smurf does her own thing.” A small pause. “You’ll notice that the longer you stay here.”

You nod, quiet.

Lena’s already passed out on the couch, curled into herself, the TV still playing low. Nicky and J are off somewhere, their voices gone from the house. Craig already left. Deran’s still outside with Smurf.

The house feels different now. Quieter.

You stand there for a second, not really moving, your fingers brushing over your sleeves again, but slower this time.

Your mind keeps replaying it.

The way he stood close. Too close. The way his voice dropped when he was telling you what Lena needed. The way his hand almost , You swallow, shaking it off a little, like you’re trying to settle back into yourself.

You don’t even hear Smurf come in.

“Sweetheart” you okay ?

You blink, looking up.

Deran’s leaning in the doorway now, slight smirk on his face. “She didn’t hear you,” he says to Smurf. Then, a little louder, “Shortbread.” He says

Your eyes flick to him, confused for a second.

Smurf steps closer, her attention already on you. I asked “You okay?” she asks, softer now.

You nod. “Yeah.”

She watches you for a second, like she’s deciding if she believes it.

“Tomorrow,” she says, lighter, “we’ll go shopping, okay?”

You nod again, small. “Okay.”

Deran huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, still leaning there. “Shortbread,” he mutters again, like it fits. That’s your nickname, he says , trust me it’ll stick …

You head upstairs to your room and catch Pope just finishing with Lena. He’s tucking her in, pulling the blanket up like it’s nothing new for him. He stands there a second longer, making sure she’s settled, then steps back and shuts the door behind him quietly.

“Heading up?” he asks you as he turns.

You nod.

His eyes drop for a second, catching your hands.

“Do you stay here on occasion?” You ask him trying to keep your voice steady because of how close he is …

He hesitate. “Sometimes….” Not so much anymore he says voice low … “You’re fidgeting again,” he says, flat but observant.

“I’m not,” you say softly, immediately, like your trying to catch up with your own thoughts.

He gives a small look. “Okay.”

You walk toward his old room—your room now—feeling him follow behind you without needing to look back. The hallway feels smaller with him there.

“Six-thirty,” he says again, like he’s making sure it sticks.

You stop at the doorway, then turn to face him. You step closer without really thinking about it, just enough that the space between you tightens.

“Pope,” you say, looking straight at him now. “I said I got it the first time.”

He doesn’t move back. Doesn’t move at all, really. Just looks at you for a long second, eyes steady, reading you in a way that makes your chest feel a little too tight.

“God, I hate this,” he says under his breath, voice low.

And for a second, neither of you moves.

“Look at me,” you say softly.

It takes him a minute. He doesn’t move right away, jaw tight, eyes still somewhere just past you.

“Pope… please look at me.”

Finally, he does.

The second his eyes lock onto yours, the air shifts.

“I promise,” you say, voice steady even though your hands aren’t, “nothing is going to happen to her. Not under my watch at least.”

You swallow, still holding his gaze. “I didn’t even know if I wanted this… to do this at first. I didn’t know why Smurf brought me here. She just told me to get in the car and that I was coming home with her, so I did.”

A breath slips out of you. You don’t look away. “And when I got here… I don’t know. It felt strange. Like I didn’t fit anywhere.”

Your back is against the wall now without you really noticing when it happened. He’s closer too—close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to keep looking at him.

“Please keep looking at me,” you say quieter.

His gaze flickers for half a second, like it almost breaks, but it doesn’t.

“When you came in with Lena,” you go on, voice softer now, “and she wanted me to watch TV with her… I felt seen for the first time in a while.”

A beat.

“I know it’s stupid to say,” you add quickly, shaking your head a little, “but I think Lena will be good for me too. So please… let me do this, Pope.”

Silence sits heavy between you. Too close. Too still.

His eyes drop for a second—to your face, your cardigan, the way you’re pressed into the wall like you’re trying not to take up space—and then back up again.

“I really hate pink,” he says finally, low.

It almost pulls something out of you. Almost.

You let out a small breath. “Noted.”

The pan in front of Bob sizzles to life as he drizzles the olive oil onto it. The oil spirals as he spreads it around, coating the pan evenly throughout. His stomach growls, demanding to be fed, but alas, Bob has to actually wait for his pancakes to be cooked before he could eat them, much to his hungry stomachs annoyance.

Bob was excited to surprise you with breakfast this morning. You had been out late last night, meeting the rest of the squad at the Hard Deck for some celebratory drinks for another successful mission at Top Gun and your plan to be home by ten turned into you not rolling into bed until half passed two after you dropped off a stumbling Mickey and Jake off to their respective apartments, Nat ducking out just in the nick of time so she wouldn't have to deal with those two.

Bob hoped to make it to you with your favorite breakfast, already imagining your curious face poking out under the covers when he'd walk in with a plate stacked high with that fluffy deliciousness and how you'd stretch, pulling him into an appreciative kiss before snatching the plate from him.

That hope died the moment your arms wrapped him up in a back hug, your head leaning against his shoulder as you yawned.

Bob groans, dramatically throwing his head back at the fact his plan for a romantic morning with you was ruined, “You were supposed to stay asleep.”

“Well good morning to you too, grumpy.”

Bob mumbles something about him not being grumpy, but you ignore him, burying your face deeper in his back, “Couldn’t really stay asleep when my personal space heater walked away and left me shivering in that cold tundra, now could I?”

“It is not a cold tundra in our room.”

“Fix the heater and it won’t be anymore.”

Bob stifles a laugh as he flips the now done pancake onto a plate. You always claimed to the love the cold until it reached below 65 in the house, “Promise I will. Right after breakfast.”

You hum, accepting his answer, “You’re lucky it wasn’t the AC that was broken. If that wasn’t fixed on day one, we would not be here right now.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep. Some cold? Fine, okay. I’ve been fine the last few days that it's been broken. But… a few days without the AC? In San Diego, especially if it was during a heat wave? No thank you!”

Bob shakes his head as he chuckles, when you move to pull away, he brings his hand down from the pan to you, stopping you from detaching from his waist.

 “No stay.”

“You just grumbled at me a second ago for hugging you?”

“Correction, not for you hugging me, for you getting out of bed when I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed. There’s a difference.”

You roll your eyes, ready to say something witty when he adds, “Plus, you give the best hugs.”

“Well… since you said that so nicely, I guess I can stay.”

Bob does a quiet cheer. You lightly bite his shoulder and squeeze his waist a little harder, but it doesn’t faze him, he just chuckles as he flips another pancake, “Keep squeezing me while I flip these pancakes. It’s a great motivator.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep! The best.”

You stay there, hugging Bob from behind as he makes his way through the kitchen, stuck on him as he grabs cups from the cabinet and the syrup from the pantry, waddling behind him to keep up.

It’s a silly sight that would definitely get the squad to tease you both about being a sappy, lovey dovey couple acting like they were still in their honeymoon phase even though you’ve been dating for years, but it’s how you two worked. You could be wrinkled and grey and you’d still be sickeningly sweet on each other, too lost in one another to care otherwise.

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Nat huffed and left her spot on your couch. She held you by your shoulders, turning you in her direction. "That’s not true at all. If it's the right person, you could have a million dates gone terribly wrong and they'd still like you," she explained.

"And you have nothing to worry about," she smiled. "You  are intelligent, cunning, talented, hardworking," she fixed a strand of your hair. "And the most gorgeous woman I've laid eyes on,".

That made you chuckle.

"No seriously," said Nat. "If I was in Bob's place, I would feel like I'm the luckiest woman ever," she shrugged.

You laughed, shaking your head, "You can keep dreaming," you gave her a sly grin.

Natasha beamed, "There she is!"

Just then, you heard three gentle knocks on your door.

"Right on time," noted Nat.

"Okay let's do this," you said to yourself and once again fixed your dress before heading towards the door.

"Good luck and don't trip over yourself," called out Nat from behind.

You smiled and opened the door to find Bob standing at the doorway with a bouquet of daisies in his hand.

"Hey hi," he cleared his throat.

"Hi," You gave him a little wave and a smile.

He widened his eyes, taking in your appearance. "You look amazing," he said.

You blinked, "I-yeah-I mean thank you," you quickly nodded.

He smiled then looked down at the flowers in his hand. "Oh these are for you,".

You smiled in awe, "How did you know?" you turned to him, referring to your favourite flowers.

"Oh you-uh you mentioned they were your favourite once," he tugged at his glasses as he explained.

"Oh," You breathed out, trying your best to ignore the sudden warmth blooming in your chest.

"Shall we?" He asked, gesturing towards his car,

"Yes, of course," You nodded and went along with him.

***

The two of you had decided to visit the Gardens for your date. Both equally craving some peace and quiet in nature, after a long, and awfully tiring week.

And as much you were loving being here, you were terribly freaking out. Each time you tried to ask him something, the words got caught up in your throat and you were afraid of som saying the wrong thing, and you were worrying every second as to whether your outfit was still okay or not.

"So," began Bob, pulling you out of your train of thoughts.

"Hmm, yes? I mean- yeah?" You turned to him.

"Do you.." he hesitated, struggling to find the words. "Do you like it here?" he asked.

"Oh yeah very much!" You nodded, a smile forming at your lips. "The weather's really nice and," you waved a hand around. "So are the surroundings,".

"It really is," he agreed.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but closed it, looking unsure.

For yet another moment, the two of you walk in absolute silence, with only the sound of the birds chirping.

"The uh-" You tried. "The birds sound very...sweet?" You managed.

"They are," smiled Bob.

"What bird do you think that is?" You asked.

Bob's eyes seemed to light up at your question "Well," He seemed to think for a moment. "Judging by the short and slurred call, it could be a white-winged dove," he said.

"Though it could be a mourning bird too".

You listened to him with a wide eyed grin, proud of yourself for finding a  suitable enough topic.

You smiled fondly as the two of you walked at the edges of the lake, you listening to him talk about birds.

"Oh and the Common Nighthawk-"

You felt a round shape collide with your skull before Bob could finish his sentence. You lost your footing terribly and dove head first into the lake.

You heard Bob call out your name as you felt the cold water strike you across every inch of your skin.

You suddenly felt two hands grab yours as you attempted to get you out. Bob was already at the edge, pulling you back up easily with a surprising amount of strength.

"Oh my god, are you okay!?" He asked as soon as you landed back on the grass.

You heaved before using your sleeve to wipe the water away from your eyes. "Yeah - yeah I'm okay," You managed, but you were shivering.

Just then, a group of kids appeared in your sight. "We're so sorry," one of them said to you.

"We didn't mean to hit you, it was an accident,".

"It's-it's alright," You reassured them, before sneezing five times in a row. ""I'm okay, I promise," You sniffled.

"You're trembling," Bob said, concern woven in his irises.

"I’m okay Bob, don’t worry," You attempted.

You were not fine

You were cold, very cold.

It was as if he'd read your mind, Bob quickly pulled out a handkerchief. "You can use this to dry yourself,"he handed it to you.

"It's- no it's okay, Bob. You don't have to do that," You managed to sound convincing.

"No no no, it's very much not okay," He frowned. "Come on, let's get you dried up," He slowly draped an arm around your shoulder and led you away from the lake.

After very thoroughly, ridding yourself of the water on your skin, you could still feel your hair terribly clinging to you, your makeup entirely ruined and your outfit wrinkled.

You could feel the breeze send chills through your skin.

Seeing this, Bob quickly shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders. "Oh no Bob, you'll get cold," You shook your head.

"I'll be okay," He reassured you. “Just keep it on, please?" he pleaded.

You sighed and hesitantly put it on. 

You wanted to break down in tears. You and Nat had spent so much time dressing you up and it was all entirely ruined in  a few seconds.

"What's wrong?" Bob asked, his brows furrowed.

"It's- nothing," You looked away, trying desperately to brush off the tears threatening to spill out.

He reached out for your hand and held it on his own. "I can see something's bothering you, and I really hate to see you upset." He brushed his thumb across your skin.

"Can you please tell me what's wrong?" He leaned closer.

You bit your lip, "It's just-" You let out a sigh. "It's our first date and it was supposed to be perfect. "You turned to face him. "And I spent so much time making sure everything was perfect..making sure I was perfect." You admitted.

"And I've already ruined it." You looked down, fumbling with the fabric of your dress.

“Hey hey don't say that please,” concern washed over Bob’s features. “You've not ruined anything, I promised.”

You looked back up at him, lips forming a frown.

“Of course today hasn't really been going as we planned...” He slowly lifted a shoulder.

“Clearly,” you muttered, glancing down at your wrinkled dress.

“But still,” He held out both your hands in his. “I'm here with you,” He smiled. “On an actual date!” He beamed.

“You've no idea how much I've dreamt of this, of being here with you,” He gazed fondly into your eyes.

You couldn't help but smile at his words. “Me too,” You nodded.

Bob shifted closer to you. “And don't you worry about today not being perfect, because it already is.”.

He slowly brushed away a damp strand of hair away from your eye. “You're perfect to me.”

He moved his hand back to yours and placed a kiss on your knuckles.

Warmth bloomed through your chest like a living thing. And suddenly, you'd forgotten why you were so anxious about today in the first place.

“You know, I was really worried about today,” You admitted. “I mean I was excited, of course. But I was scared I might end up saying or doing the wrong thing,”.

Bob ran a hand through his hair, “Honestly, me too,”.

“Really?” You raised a brow.

“Yeah,” He pursed his lips. “And I spent an embarrassing amount of time practicing what I was gonna say to you,”.

You let out a chuckle, “Oh my god,” you shook your head.

Then shifted your focus back to him, “Well let's agree to not be so awkward in front of each other from now on,” You said.

“Yeah, I would really like that,” He smiled.

“Great,” You beamed.

“Oh shall we go check out the flowers?” He asked.

Your eyes light up, “Yes please!”.

***

The weather at the park was almost as perfect as it could be. There was a gentle breezing, cooling out the afternoon sun as  the two of you walked together.

“Oh oh pansies!!” You excitedly pointed out to the lovely array of flowers.

“Oh they’re lovely,” smiled Bob.

You quickly rushed towards the bush and carefully plucked a few, beaming with joy upon seeing the flowers.

You picked one by its stem and attempted to put it in your hair.

Seeing what you were trying to do, Bob asked, “Do you want me to put those in your hair for you?”.

You looked up at him, “Yes!” You quickly nodded.

Bob took the flowers from your palm and gently placed them one by one in your hair, securing them using your hairclip.

“Ah there, perfect,” He looked back to proudly examine his work.

You smiled, “Thank you so much!”.

Bob’s cheeks flushed a bright red, “Of course, anything for you.”

After walking for a little more, the two of you settled at a quiet corner on a bench.

"Hey look at that," You pointed at two birds sitting on  a tree branch.

"Hmm?" Bob looked around. "Ah," he glanced at the birds.

"They look lovely," he smiled.

"They do!" You nodded smiling, then  stopped in your tracks and began to observe them closely. "Huh,"

"Wht is it?" Bob asked.

"I think the one on the left is upset," you pointed out.

Bob scrunched his brows, "How'd you know?".

"Look," You nodded  in their direction. "She just moved away to another branch. Not too far from him, but not as close as before,".

Bob looked at you, confusion written all over his face. "How do you know which one's the guy and which one's the girl?" He asked.

"By observing their mannerisms, Bob Floyd," You met his gaze and stated casually.

Bob chuckled and turned his focus back to the birds, "Oh looks like he's going after her," He  noted.

“Hmm?" You turned your head in their direction. "Oh yeah," .

"Guess she's too precious for him to let go of," You chuckled.

Bob turned to you with a small smile tugging at his lips, "I can relate," he said, mostly to himself.

“You know,” You turned to Bob with a small smile tugging at your lips. 

“Hmm?” Bob turned to you.

“Today went really well, I had so much fun with you.” You said.

Bob beamed, “You did?”

“Yeah” You nodded.

“Me too,” he smiled. “Would you- uhm” he hesitated.

You shifted closer to him, “Yeah?”.

He looked up to meet your gaze, “Would you want to do this again, sometime?” he asked, his face a bright red.

You smiled fondly and nodded, “Yes, I would love that.”

Bob relaxed his features and smiled. “Great!”.

“Shall we uh- shall we head back now?” He asked, as the sun began to set.

“Yep,” You pouted, slowly nodding. 

The two of you started to get up from your spot.

Just then, a thought struck your mind. “One  little thing before that though,” You whipped your head back to face him.

“Yeah what is-” Before Bob could finish his sentence, you cupped his face in your palms and placed a quick kiss to his lips.

“Okay,” You let out a giggle, terribly flustered. “Now we can go.”

You expected him to agree and follow you but as you began to walk away, you felt him hold on to your hand.

“Actually,” he began.

As you turned back to him, he slowly wrapped his arms around your waist and placed his lips on yours, taking his time as he kissed you. 

When you pulled away, your heart beating in your throat and your entire face burning hot, he said with a fond smile. “Now, we can go.”

The fish aren’t biting today and you're two minutes away from crashing the actual fuck out. You sigh, tugging your borrowed flannel tighter around your shoulders as the wind kicks up, sending ripples across the quarry’s murky water.

Behind you, Carol hums something tuneless while scrubbing a shirt against the washboard, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat. "You’d think after all this time," she says, not looking up, "You'd be better at tellin’ when the fish are just plain stubborn. S’ not your fault, sweetheart."

You smile at her kindness, but it’s half-hearted. Your fingers fiddle with the frayed hem of Daryl’s shirt, the one he’d shrugged off onto shoulders this morning before heading into the woods, muttering about rabbit tracks he'd seen the day before. It still smells like him: sweat, gunpowder, and something stubbornly alive beneath it all.

Andrea tosses a pebble into the water, watching it sink. "How’s it you can stand him, anyway?" The question’s casual, but her eyes flick to you with real curiosity. "Man’s got a temper like a hornet’s nest."

Your cheeks flush pink, fingers tightening around the damp fabric in your hands. "Who, Daryl? Well… He’s not- " you start, then stop, unsure how to explain the Daryl that only you get to see, the one who tucks wildflowers behind your ear when he thinks no one’s looking, the one who builds little makeshift shelves in your tent out of scavenged wood and duct tape for the seashells you keep finding at the quarry.

They'll never understand him. 

Carol’s lips quirk as she wrings out a pair of pants. "Oh, I know that look," she says, softer now. "Same one Ed used to give me when we were just kids, ‘fore he decided bein’ mean was easier than lovin’." The words hang heavy between you, the ghost of her bruises left unmentioned. Your heart breaks into pieces for her. 

Andrea scoffs, tossing another pebble. "Still don’t get it. Guy snaps at Shane for breathing too loud, but you?" She gestures at the way you’re practically swimming in Daryl’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up almost six times. "He lets you steal his clothes like you're some kinda…"

"Pet," Carol supplies, grinning when you duck your head to try and hide the pink flush crawling up to your pierced ears. 

"M’ not his pet," you grumble, but your ears burn hotter when Carol laughs, soft, knowing. The laundry flutters between your fingers, wet and shapeless, and you focus on folding it just to have something to do with your anxious, shaking hands.

"He brings me coffee," you say suddenly as if it's an epiphany, voice small against the quarry’s echo. "Every morning. Even when we’re low. He- uh- he remembers how I like it." Three sugars, no cream, because before the world ended, the corner diner always got it wrong and Daryl would watch you grimace through each bitter sip like a stubborn mule until he'd reach for the sugar packets and fix it himself. 

Andrea’s pebble-throwing pauses. "Huh."

Carol’s hands still in the soapy water. "The man ever tell you why?"

You shake your head, pressing the folded shirt to your chest like a temporary shield. "Don’t gotta say it." The words come out quiet, barely louder than the water lapping at the rocks. "He shows me every damn day."

Carol’s eyes soften, but Andrea leans forward, elbows on her knees. "Yeah? How’s that?"

You bite your lip, tracing the stitching on Daryl’s sleeve where it’s come loose. "Last week," you start, voice gaining strength, "he came back from a hunt with his jacket torn up. Blood all over the sleeve." Andrea raises an eyebrow, but you rush on. "Not his. Walkers’. But he- " A laugh bubbles up, unexpected. "He still took it off before comin’ into the tent ‘cause he knows I don’t like the smell. Hung it on a tree branch like some kinda..."

"Gentleman," Carol finishes, grinning when you nod.

The conversation drifts away after that, dissolving into the quiet rhythm of washing and folding, but the warmth of Daryl’s secret kindness lingers under your ribs like a second heartbeat. By the time the sun dips low, casting long shadows across the quarry, you’ve retreated to your tent, the one tucked farther from the group, half-hidden by a thicket of pine. Inside, it’s a nest of mismatched blankets, scavenged trinkets, and the faint, stubborn scent of Daryl’s musk clinging to the fabric walls. You sit cross-legged on your shared rumpled sleeping bag, idly tracing the stitching of his shirt where it’s come loose at the shoulder, when the tent flap rustles, evening light filtering in briefly. 

Daryl ducks inside, his silhouette backlit by the dying sun. He’s got a rabbit slung over one shoulder, its fur matted with dried blood, and a paper-wrapped bundle tucked under his arm. “Ain’t much,” he grunts, tossing the bundle into your lap. It’s warm, cornbread, probably scavenged from some abandoned pantry, and still faintly soft. “Figured you’d forget to eat.”

You unfold the paper carefully, revealing a hunk of cornbread, slightly crumbled at the edges. “You remembered,” you whisper in awe, because it’s Tuesday, and before the world ended, Tuesdays were cornbread nights at the diner down the road from your apartment. Daryl just shrugs, but his ears go pink as he busies himself with skinning the rabbit, his knife flashing in the dim light.

He works in silence, the only sound the steady rasp of blade against hide, until he pauses, glancing at you sideways. “Ain’t like you to hide out here, doll,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Lori’s got that stew goin’ you like. Carol’s been askin’ after you.”

You pick at the cornbread crumbs in your lap, avoiding his gaze. “Wasn’t in the mood for company,” you murmur, but the lie tastes bitter on your tongue. Daryl’s knife stills mid-stroke, his brow furrowing as he studies you, really studies you, the way he does when he’s tracking something through the underbrush.

“Bullshit,” he says bluntly, wiping his hands on his jeans before scooting closer. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten as he nudges your knee with his own. “Spit it out.”

Your throat tightens. “They were talkin’ about you today,” you admit, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. “Andrea said she didn’t get how I could stand your temper. Carol called me your pet.”

Daryl’s nostrils flare, but it’s not anger that flashes across his face, it’s something raw and vulnerable, like a wounded animal caught in a trap. “They ain’t exactly wrong,” he mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck where the sun’s burned it pink. “Know I ain’t easy.”

"You're easy with me," you say softly, reaching out to trace the sunburned curve of his neck before you can stop yourself. Daryl goes still under your touch, his breath hitching like you've pressed against a bruise. "That's all that matters to me.”

His jaw works silently for a moment before he exhales through his nose, rough and ragged. "Still." The word comes out ground between his teeth. "Don't like 'em talkin' 'bout you like that. Like you're less than me, like I control you." The knife in his hand twitches, blade catching the fading light.

You catch his wrist before he can start skinning again, your thumb brushing the pulse point beneath his leather wristband. "They don't know, honey," you croon. "How you bring me coffee. How you built those little fucked up shelves for my shells." Your voice drops to a whisper, the tent walls suddenly too thin. "How you kiss me like I'm something precious even after all this time together."

Daryl's pupils blow wide, the knife slipping from his fingers to thud against the sleeping bag. "Christ, woman,” he breathes, and then his large hands are framing your face, calloused thumbs sweeping over your cheekbones like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. "Ain't never had nothin' half as good as you, you know that," he says, voice cracking on the last word.

His forehead presses against yours, the heat of his skin seeping into you like sunlight through leaves. You can smell the sweat and pine sap clinging to him, the metallic tang of walker blood still lingering under his nails. But when his lips brush yours, hesitant, almost reverent, it’s all you can focus on.

"You’re doin’ it again," you murmur against his mouth, fingers curling into the frayed edges of his vest.

"Doin’ what?" he grumbles, but his hands are already sliding down to grip your hips, tugging you flush against him.

"Talkin’ like you don’t deserve me. You know I hate when you do that." You nip at his bottom lip, grinning when he growls and kisses you harder, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desperation that makes your toes curl.

Daryl pulls back just enough to glare at you, his breath hot against your lips. "Ain't talkin' like that…" he mutters, but his hands betray him, sliding up under the stolen flannel to trace the dip of your waist. "Just statin' the facts, sugar."

You arch into his touch, biting back a whimper when his calloused thumbs brush the underside of your breasts. "Your facts are stupid," you whine, and he snorts, dragging his mouth down your neck just to hear you gasp. The stubble on his chin rasps against your skin, the sensation sending sparks down your spine.

The cornbread lies forgotten as Daryl maneuvers you onto your back, his body a solid weight between your thighs. He braces himself on one elbow, the other hand still roaming under your shirt like he’s mapping new territory. "Always so damn soft, it drives me crazy," he practically coos against your collarbone, his voice rough with something that isn’t quite disbelief but close enough to make your chest ache.

You hitch a plush leg over his hip, grinding against the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans. Daryl groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Quit that," he grits out, but his hips jerk forward anyway, betraying him, seeking friction.

Daryl’s breath hitches when you rock against him again, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Told you- fuckin’ hell woman- quit it,” he growls, but his body betrays him, pressing you deeper into the nest of blankets as his cock twitches against your thigh. You whine, arching up to chase the heat of him, but he pins you down with a rough hand splayed across your stomach.

“Ain’t got no condoms, y'know that,” he grumbles, voice thick with frustration. His nose brushes yours tenderly, close enough you can taste the stale coffee on his breath. “Can’t risk it. Not now. Not when things are like this.”

You squirm under his grip, fingers clawing at his vest. “Don’t need ‘em for what I want,” you pant, tipping your head back when his teeth graze your pulse point. “S’ called outercourse- just- just rub against me, c’mon- ”

Daryl freezes, brow furrowed. The confusion on his face is almost comical, like you’ve just suggested they start selling ice cream in hell. “The fuck’s outercourse?”

You giggle at the bewildered look on his face, cheeks flushing as you reach between your bodies to unbutton his jeans with trembling fingers. "Like this," you murmur, guiding his hand down to the damp heat between your thighs. His breath hitches when your fingers wrap around his cock, hot and heavy in your palm, as you drag him through the slickness gathering there. "Just- just move against me, okay? Can't get pregnant like this."

Daryl makes a strangled noise low in his throat, hips jerking forward instinctively. "Fuck, sugar," he rasps, forehead dropping to yours as you guide him between your thighs, the head of his cock catching against your clit with each shallow thrust. "This- shit- this legal?"

You snort, dragging your nails down his sweat-damp back. "Pretty sure the law ain't exactly a priority anymore, babe."

Daryl groans, hips stuttering as he grinds against you, the rough fabric of his jeans rasping against your inner thighs. "Fuckin' little smartass," he grits out, but there's no heat in it, just that rough, desperate edge that makes your stomach flip. His calloused fingers dig into the swell of your hips as he finds a rhythm, each thrust dragging his cock against your puffy clit in a way that has you biting your lip to keep from crying out and embarrassing both of you in front of the whole camp.

"Quiet, gotta be quiet, baby," he breathes against your ear, nipping at the lobe. "Whole damn camp's gonna hear you."

You whimper, arching into him as his teeth sink into the soft skin of your shoulder, just hard enough to sting. "Daryl- "

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, fingers twisting in Daryl's vest as he moves against you with rough, desperate strokes. Every drag of his cock against your clit sends sparks up your spine, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly. "Daryl," you whimper again, louder this time, and he clamps a hand gently over your mouth with a muttered curse, his hips never slowing.

"Told you- quiet," he growls, but his voice cracks halfway through, his pupils blown wide with want. His other hand slips between your bodies, calloused fingers finding your swollen, slick clit with unerring accuracy. The dual stimulation makes your thighs shake, a broken moan muffled against his palm.

Daryl watches you unravel beneath him with something like reverence, his breath hot against your cheek. "That's it," he croons, thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless circles. "Gonna make you come so damn pretty for me."

You writhe under him, the pressure building unbearably fast, almost overwhelmingly fast. The tent walls feel paper-thin at this point, every rustle of fabric deafening as Daryl's thrusts grow more erratic, his rhythm faltering. His forehead drops to yours, sweat dripping from his temple onto your flushed skin. "Close," he grits out, his voice raw. "Fuck- so close- "

You clench around nothing miserably as Daryl’s fingers work you closer to the edge, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips. "Please, Daryl- baby-" you whine against his palm, the words muffled but ridiculously needy. His answering groan is ragged, his hips stuttering as he grinds against you with renewed urgency. The head of his cock catches your clit on every thrust, the friction just shy of too much, until it isn't, until pleasure crests like a wave and crashes over you in a shuddering rush.

Daryl’s hand tightens over your mouth as your back arches off the sleeping bag, your cry swallowed by his calloused palm. He watches you with dark, hooded eyes, his breath coming in sharp pants against your temple. "Fuck," he rasps, his hips jerking erratically. "Just- just like that, sugar- " His voice cracks as his own release hits him, his body going rigid above you before he collapses with a muffled grunt, his forehead pressing into the curve of your shoulder.

For a long moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing, harsh and uneven in the quiet of the tent. Daryl’s hand slides from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had escaped. "Ain’t never seen nothin’ prettier," he rasps, voice rough with something that makes your chest ache.

You huff a giggle, still boneless beneath him, and nudge his shoulder with your nose. "Even with your hand smotherin’ me?"

Daryl snorts, rolling off you with a grunt, his body still thrumming with leftover heat. He reaches for the discarded flannel beside the sleeping bag, wiping hastily at the mess between your thighs before tossing it into the corner. "Woulda been louder without it," he teases, but there's no bite to it, just that gruff tenderness that still makes your stomach flutter.

You stretch lazily, the muscles in your legs pleasantly sore, and catch him staring at the chubby curve of your hip where his shirt has ridden up. His gaze flickers away when you notice, but not fast enough to hide the way his throat bobs. "What?" you tease, poking his ribs.

"Nothin'." He catches your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his hairy chest where his heartbeat thrums rabbit-quick beneath warm skin. His fingers twine with yours, callouses rough against your knuckles. "Just... you."

The simplicity of it punches the air from your lungs. You squeeze his hand, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. "Daryl Dixon, what a poet you are," you giggle, half-joking to mask the way your voice wavers.

Daryl scowls at your teasing, but his fingers tighten around yours,.anchoring, possessive. “Ain’t poetic,” he grumbles, rolling onto his side to face you. The fading light catches the scar above his eyebrow and you trace it without thinking, and he stills under your touch, his breath hitching like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched him.

“You are, though,” you murmur, and his brow furrows deeper. “In your own way.” You press a kiss to the scar, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. “Like when you patched my Chuck Taylors with duct tape ‘cause you knew they were my favorite.”

Daryl’s ears go pink. He swats halfheartedly at your shoulder. “Shut up, Christ almighty.” But his voice lacks its usual bite, softened by the way his thumb strokes circles into your palm. The silence stretches, comfortable, until his stomach growls loudly enough to startle a laugh out of you.

“Forgot about the cornbread,” you admit sheepishly, reaching for the crumpled paper packet. It’s cold now, the edges brittle, but Daryl snatches it from your hands before you can take a bite.

Daryl scowls at the stale cornbread like it's personally offended him, then shoves half into his mouth in one bite. Crumbs stick to his stubble as he chews, glaring at the tent wall like it’s hiding answers. You giggle, reaching up to brush them away, but he catches your wrist, turning your palm to press a kiss to the center. The gesture’s so sudden, so un-Daryl-like, your breath catches.

"Still tastes like shit," he laughs against your skin, but his lips curve just enough to betray him.

You wiggle your fingers free to poke his ribs again. "Hmmm, maybe. But I know you scavenged it from that gas station pantry just ‘cause you remembered it’s Tuesday.

Though he doesn't deny it outright. 

His scowl deepens, but his hands betray him again, tugging you closer until you’re sprawled half on top of him. The rabbit carcass lies forgotten by the tent flap, its blood seeping into the dirt. Daryl’s fingers trace idle patterns down your spine, rough enough to raise goosebumps. "Ain’t like I got a damn calendar, jus’ knew you needed dinner," he grumbles, pink flushing his face.

His fingers pause mid-stroke when he feels the tremor run through you, not from cold, but from the way his blunt honesty still surprises you sometimes. The way he remembers things no one else would. Your nose presses into the hollow of his throat, breathing in sweat and gunpowder and something stubbornly Daryl. "You're fulla shit, babe," you murmur, but your lips curve against his skin when his chest rumbles with a sound too soft to be a laugh.

The cornbread crumbs itch where they’ve scattered between your bare thighs, sticking to the sweat still drying on your skin. Daryl’s fingers pause their lazy tracing of your spine to pluck one away, flicking it into the dark corner of the tent with a grunt. “Messy girl,” he mutters, but there’s no real insult behind it. He'd never and you know it. 

You nuzzle deeper into the crook of his neck, smiling when his stubble scratches your forehead. “Your fault,” you murmur, dragging a fingertip through the trail of crumbs on his chest. “Shoulda let me eat it proper.”

Daryl huffs, catching your wandering hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, calluses catching on the delicate skin there. “Ain’t my fault you got distracted,” he says, but his voice dips low, roughened at the edges in a way that sends warmth pooling low in your belly again.

Outside, the campfire crackles, voices drifting on the wind, Shane’s booming laugh, Carol’s quiet murmur. The sounds feel distant, muffled by the thick canvas of your tent and the steady thump of Daryl’s heartbeat beneath your ear. You press closer, inhaling the scent of him, pine resin and gun oil, the metallic tang of the rabbit’s blood still clinging to his vest where it’s discarded beside the sleeping bag.

Daryl’s fingers tighten around yours as the campfire voices grow louder, Shane’s boisterous storytelling punctuated by Glenn’s nervous laughter. You feel the tension coil in Daryl’s shoulders beneath your cheek, his breath hitching like he’s bracing for impact. “Ignore ‘em, it's just me and you here,” you coo, pressing a kiss to the jut of his collarbone. His grunt is noncommittal, but his thumb strokes your wrist in silent thanks for the knowing comfort.

The tent flap rustles suddenly, not from wind, but from the deliberate shuffle of feet outside. “Y’all decent?” Carol’s voice is amused, muffled through the canvas. Daryl stiffens, his grip on you tightening possessively. You bite back a laugh at the way his ears flush crimson.

“No,” he barks, but you’re already wriggling free, scrambling for his discarded angel vest to cover yourself. Daryl snatches it back with a growl, shoving it into your chest again. “Wear it proper,” he practically commands, pointedly avoiding your eyes as he yanks his jeans up over his pale hips.

You button the vest with fumbling fingers just as Carol’s head pokes through the flap. Her eyes dart between Daryl’s disheveled hair and your swollen pink lips, her smirk widening. “Dinner’s ready,” she says, too innocently. “Brought y’all bowls since you were... occupied.”

Daryl's arm snakes around your waist like a steel band, yanking you back against his chest with a growl that vibrates through your shoulder blades. "We're good, thanks," he barks at Carol, his free hand snatching the offered bowls with more force than necessary. The stew sloshes dangerously close to the rim.

Carol's smirk doesn't falter. She lingers just a heartbeat too long, eyes flicking to the scattered cornbread crumbs and the way Daryl's vest hangs open on you, barely covering your thighs. "Mmhm," she hums, dragging the sound out like taffy before ducking back out. The tent flap falls shut with a whisper of canvas, but not before you catch her muttering, "Lovebirds."

You bury your face in Daryl's shoulder to muffle the giggle threatening to escape. His grip tightens. "Ain't funny," he grumbles, but his lips brush your temple in contradiction, lingering just long enough to make your toes curl.

The stew smells rich, rabbit, judging by the gamey scent, but Daryl sets both bowls aside without tasting them. Instead, his fingers find the loose threads at the shoulder of his vest where you've been worrying at them all week. "Gotta fix this," he mutters, more to himself than you, his calloused thumb rubbing circles over the frayed fabric.

Daryl's fingers still on the loose threads, his brow furrowing in that way it does when he's turning something over in his head. You watch the familiar crease form between his eyebrows, the one you've traced with your fingertips more times than you can count. Without thinking, you reach up to smooth it away, and his gaze snaps to yours, startled, like he'd forgotten you were there.

"Quit fussin' on me, woman," he groans, but he leans into your touch anyway, his stubble rasping against your palm. His hand drops to your knee, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just above where his vest ends. The contrast makes you shiver, rough hands touching you so softly it aches.

Outside, Shane's voice rises above the others, followed by a burst of laughter that sounds horrifically forced. Daryl's fingers twitch against your thigh, his jaw tightening. "What a fuckin’ asshole," he mutters under his breath, but there's no real heat behind it, just exhaustion, the kind that settles deep in his bones after too many days with too little sleep.

You catch his hand, pressing a kiss to his scarred knuckles. "Eat," you prompt gently, nodding toward the forgotten stew. "Before it gets cold."

Daryl scowls at the bowls like they've personally insulted him, but his stomach growls loud enough to make you snort. He mutters something about "damn traitorous guts" before snatching up the nearest bowl, shoving a spoonful into his mouth with all the grace of a starving wolf. Steam curls around his lips as he chews, his brow furrowing deeper with each bite.

"Carol put rosemary in it," he grumbles around a mouthful, nose wrinkling. "Tastes like a hotel's fuckin' potpourri."

You giggle, stealing his spoon for a taste. The herbs are overwhelming, definitely Carol's doing, her attempt at "civilizing" camp meals, but beneath it, you can still taste the careful balance of salt Daryl always insists on when he cooks game. "You seasoned it," you accuse, licking the spoon clean.

Daryl's ears flush pink. He swipes the utensil back with more force than necessary. "Ain't my fault she ruins good meat, was tryin’ to fix it," he grumbles, but his shoulders relax incrementally as he eats, the tension bleeding out of him with each spoonful.

He's been doing this ever since you went out together on runs to scavenge for food or anything that can help the rest of the group to survive. He sticks behind you, not too close, and always goes first before giving you a signal that everything is clear. And you start falling for his antics, giving you that sense of protection and security despite the environment you now live in.

You start joking around to test if he'll somewhat feel the same way, "You know you love me going out with you on runs like these, Dixon."

"Everyone else's just busy." He turns away and walks ahead of you.

Or that one time where he hands you a can of peaches and keeps the can of beans to himself.

"Aww, you remembered my favorite!" You smile at him, teasing, nudging his shoulder with your own.

"Ain't no favorites in a time like this." He turns his back on you as he begins to consume the contents of the can he held.

You almost gave up after this when he visits you at the guard tower the day after. He comes up the stairs unannounced and hands you a bottle of water and a sweet snack you mentioned you liked.

"You gotta eat if ya wanna keep your shift and stay awake. Wouldn't want them things to get in 'ere and eat us in our sleep." He mumbles, his face turned towards a different direction to avoid eye contact with you.

You raise your eyebrow at this and say, "You bribing me now, Dixon?"

"Shut up." He walks away after setting the items down right next to you.

"Don’t worry. Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable by thinking you might actually care.” You call out to him, and he stops before resuming walking to wherever he's headed.

In the morning, Carol approaches you with a bowl of food and suddenly gestures for you to follow her. She guides you outside of the prison, where you head over to the stairs by the entrance of Cell Block C. She signals for you to sit down, hands you the food, and suddenly starts talking.

"He likes you, you know?" She smiles at you giddily, and you almost choke on your food.

"What?" You didn't expect this kind of confrontation, thinking you were smooth and unobvious with your feelings.

"Daryl, he likes you. In case you didn't notice."

You didn't say anything, letting her continue, "I saw you looking so glum and down lately, keeping your distance from the rest of us, and I just knew something was wrong. Did he say anything stupid or offensive?"

You swallowed hard and tried to gather your thoughts.

"He just tells me I shouldn't flatter myself, or that I read into things that aren't there. I thought he'd take it as a joke, but that shit hurt, Carol." You tried to laugh it off, but Carol just looked you directly in the eye, not laughing, with one brow raised.

"Yeah, well, he's stupid like that. He does like you. I spent some time of my life trying to make Daryl Dixon understand basic human emotions. Yours or his, take a pick." Carol smiles smugly.

"Although you need to stop letting him pretend he doesn’t know because you’re scared you’ll spook him. Daryl Dixon and soft just don't blend well together, you know?" She jokes.

"It's not like-" you stop and change your mind. "Yeah, it's a little… like that."

Carol softens. “He’s not going anywhere,” she says. “Not from you. But you can’t live in this almost-thing forever. You’ll break your own heart, waiting for him to say what you both already know.”

You try your best to sleep that night, but after losing that hopeless battle, you decide to take a walk around. To your surprise, Daryl and Carol also lost the same battle and are now outside talking about something serious. Carol was standing over Daryl, who kept his head down during the entire interaction. You step closer to try to listen in.

You didn't want to, but God knows this may be the only time you'll hear anything other than "Shut up," or a few other words from Daryl Dixon.

“You care about her,” Carol scolds. “More than you want to. And it scares you.”

“Don’t wanna get her hurt,” he mutters, almost inaudible.

“She’s already hurt,” her voice hardens. “Because you keep pretending she means less to you than she does. That doesn’t protect her, Daryl. It just makes her feel crazy.”

She sighs before leaving him, but not before turning back to say, "You just have to stop running every time your heart shows.”

On your next run with Daryl, he was surprised to see you fully packed with everything you needed. He noticed how wary you are this time, fully aware of your environment, as if you were alone. He didn't say anything but still made sure to look out for you.

Your focus and strengths ebb on your way back to the prison. You trip over something on the road and almost fall, but Daryl was there just in time to hold your arm and steady you back on your feet.

You shook his hand away and muttered a small, "Thanks."

To which he simply shrugs and says, "Always. Ain’t lettin’ nothin’ happen to you.”

He walks past you, leaving you trying to hide the blushing crimson slowly blooming on your face.

Everything blurs during the Governor's final attack on the prison. You wanted to give up after seeing what happened to Hershel, but after seeing everyone else fight back, it gave you a newfound courage to do the same thing. You tried to find Daryl throughout the dust and debris, and when you did, you found him with Beth, thinking at least he's not alone. You fight your way to him, but you know it's no use. But you know he's alive, and that was enough for now.

You were able to make it out on your own, and you did your best to survive, not knowing if Daryl and you would ever cross paths again.

"I need to start worrying about my own safety before him." You start to think to yourself amidst the tiredness and hunger.

You fell asleep in an abandoned barn, but not before ensuring everything was locked and secured. When morning came, you were surprised to see a note and a few items in front of the door.

"From a friend."

You were skeptical at first, but when he finally decided to approach you, you knew you just had to try.

And after arriving at Alexandria, you proved your worth by going on expeditions, looking for survivors with Aaron.

On the day you saw Rick and the others, you did your best to convince Aaron, although he didn't need much, that they were good people. You were worried when you didn't see Daryl with them, and that made your heart clench.

You tried to rush back home to let Aaron and Eric handle things out on their own. You couldn't manage your emotions at this time, and you were worried you would explode in front of the sweetest people ever. You hesitated at first, but ended up admitting how much you envy them and their relationship. How open they are to being together, how they didn't have to hide anything or make things even more complicated.

“So,” Aaron says one night, leaning back in his chair. “Tell me more about your prison people. You make them sound like superheroes.”

You stab a piece of carrot with your fork, smiling faintly.

“Hardly superheroes,” you say. “Just… stubborn. Lucky, sometimes. Unlucky, too.”

“Names?” Eric prompts, curious. “You always say ‘we’ and ‘they.’ I want faces.”

You rattle them off like a litany:

“Rick. Lori. Carl. Hershel. Maggie. Glenn. Carol.” Your voice softens slightly. “Daryl.”

Aaron tips his head. “That’s the one you always slow down on.”

You look up sharply.

“I do not.”

Eric smiles into his cup.

“You do,” Aaron says mildly. “Every time. Like you’re afraid if you say it too fast, it’ll disappear.”

You try to make it a joke.

“Maybe I just like the sound of it,” you say. “Daryl Dixon. Has a ring to it.”

“Mhmm,” Aaron hums. “And who was Daryl Dixon to you?”

You hate how your throat tightens.

“He was…” You pick at your food. “He looked out for me. For all of us. Best tracker I’ve ever seen. Crossbow. Leather vest. Bad haircut.”

They chuckle, but you don’t.

“He sounds important,” Eric says gently.

You shrug, trying to keep it casual.

“We were good together on runs,” you say. “He watched my back. I watched his. That’s all.”

Aaron studies you.

“Is that all?”

You feel the edges fray.

You could lie. You have been, by omission, for months.

Instead, you say, very quietly, “I don’t know.”

It was still raining when you made it back. You didn't want to think of anything else, so you made sure to lock yourself in the comfort of your Alexandrian home. Aaron knew better than to disturb you, seeing as how you left in such a hurry, looking like you were about to puke despite encouraging him how great these people were. He caught a few names, Rick, Maggie, Glenn, but the one that stood out to him the most was "Daryl". He saw how you smiled when you were reminiscing about your time with them before finding Alexandria. And he instantly knew that this individual was different. He knows he makes the same face when he's talking about Eric, and he connected the pieces together.

You sat down on the couch, muttering, “Stupid,” photo in hand, listening.

“You better be alive,” you whisper to the picture. “After everything.” The only one you had been given to you by Glenn before you got separated from the rest of the group. You slide the photo back into the drawer and close it gently. You pull a blanket around your shoulders and curl up on the couch, facing the door. You tell yourself it’s because you like to be near the exit. You don’t admit that it’s because some stubborn part of you still believes one day there’ll be a knock, and it won’t be Aaron, or Eric, or anyone else.

"If he’s alive, if the world is kind for once, let him find me here."

Aaron is walking with the rest of the group; they're already at the gates of Alexandria, and he can't help but feel excited (despite what Rick did) to introduce them to the rest of the townspeople.

“There’s someone you know here,” Aaron casually says. “She helped us bring people in. Said she was with a prison group once. Y/N.”

Rick’s head snaps up. “Y/N? She’s here?” Daryl goes still behind Rick. Brain stopping to process the message it just received.

“She's in that brown house,” Aaron says. “She came back shaken today, so she went home to rest. You can see her tomorrow, after-”

“Now,” Daryl cuts in, voice rough.

Aaron blinks. “It’s late. She might be asleep.”

“You said she’s here.” Daryl’s eyes are sharp. “Take me to her.” And with that, Aaron understands the dynamic between the two of you.

Rain swallows the world outside your door.

At first, you think the low thud you hear is just another gust rattling the frame, but then it comes again, three solid knocks, spaced like whoever’s out there is trying not to wake the whole street.

You blink awake on the couch, blanket sliding off your shoulders. Your neck protests; you must have fallen asleep sitting up, waiting for nothing and no one.

The candle on the table is a stub now, wax cooled in uneven waves. The house is dim, lit more by flashes of lightning than anything else.

Another knock. “Aaron?” you call, voice rough.

“No,” comes the muffled answer. Deeper. Rougher. Familiar in a way that slams into your chest.

You’re already moving.

Your hands fumble at the lock for a second, slick with sudden sweat, not rain, then the door swings open.

He fills the frame. Daryl stands on your porch, soaked to the bone. Hair plastered to his forehead, jacket heavy and dripping, boots leaving small dark puddles on the mat. Crossbow slung over one shoulder, fingers clenched tight around the strap like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Aaron hovers a step behind him under the overhang, eyes flicking between you two, reading the moment in an instant.

“I’ll, uh… give you guys some space,” Aaron says softly, looking at you directly this time. “I’ll be at my place if you need anything.”

His gaze sweeps over you, fast, almost frantic, face, neck, shoulders, checking for injuries you don’t have.

Then it lands back on your eyes and doesn’t move.

“You’re…” His voice comes out hoarse. He swallows. “You’re here.”

It’s such a simple thing to say. It shouldn’t knock the breath out of you.

But it does. You laugh, a wet, shaky sound that breaks halfway through.

“You’re here,” you echo, and suddenly your vision blurs.

The tears spill over before you can stop them. All the nights in the guard tower, all the runs where you watched his back, all the days after the prison where you wondered if he was dead in a ditch or tearing himself apart somewhere. He’s standing on your porch.

Alive.

He drops the crossbow as it burns him. It clatters against the wooden boards, forgotten, as he closes the distance in two strides.

You reach for him, hands finding his face, palms framing his cheeks, thumbs brushing the stubble and the rain and the years away.

“You’re here,” you say again, smiling through the tears now. “You’re actually here.”

His façade cracks.

His hands come up, one catching the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, the other wrapping around your waist and hauling you against him so hard you gasp. He tucks his face into your shoulder, into your neck, into the space that’s always felt like it was waiting for him. You clutch at his jacket, feeling the cold fabric, the solid heat underneath. For a moment, the world is just the drum of rain on the roof and the sound of your breathing.

“’m sorry,” he mutters into your hair, the words muffled and raw. “’m sorry. ’m sorry.”

He says it like a prayer. Like a confession. Like if he stacks enough apologies between you, they might make up for all the time lost.

“Why are you even apologizing?” you manage, voice thick, pulling back just enough to see his face. “You’re here. We’re both here.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, eyes locked on yours now. “I’m so sorry for bein’ scared. Sorry for bein’ such a coward.” And now you can’t tell where the rain ends, and the tears begin.

“I never wanted to lose you,” he says, words tumbling out faster now, like a dam finally broken. “At the prison. After. I fought my damn hardest to see you again. Every damn day, I-"

“Daryl,” you start, but he shakes his head, jaw tight.

“Lemme say it,” he rasps. “Please. Just… let me.”

“I love you,” he blurts. “I love you so much it hurts,” he says, the words rough and clumsy and perfect. “Hurts when you were right beside me, and I couldn’t hold your hand. Hurts when I saw you laugh with other people and couldn’t say nothin’ ’cause I was too chickenshit.”

You wanted to let him pour his heart out, and you did. “It hurt like hell,” he continues, voice breaking, “when that prison went up and I didn’t know where you were. If you were buried under concrete or out there alone. I kept hearin’ your voice in my head and didn’t know if I was talkin’ to a ghost.”

His fingers tighten at the back of your head.

“And then I get here,” he says, “and some guy tells me you’re alive. That you’ve been helpin’ people. That you’re in some house with walls and a roof and you didn’t have to go through…” He trails off, jaw clenched.

“I love you,” he says again, steadier now. “I love you, and I’m sorry it took me this long to say it. I’m sorry you had to hear it like this and not… when we had somethin’ solid under our feet.”

He was waiting for you to push him away. He was waiting for the rejection.

Instead, you laugh. A wet, shaky sound, full of too many things to name.

“You idiot,” you say, voice wobbling. “You absolute idiot.”

And with that, he frowns, "Do you have any idea,” you ask softly, “how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that?”

“I thought I’d imagined it,” you go on. “All of it. The hovering. The peaches. The way you always knew where I was on a run. I thought I was crazy for reading into every little thing when you kept telling me not to.”

“Carol told me,” you add, a small, watery smile tugging at your lips. “Back at the prison. She said you liked me. That you were scared. I heard her yelling at you one night, telling you to stop running every time your heart shows.”

Color rises in his cheeks even now.

“Should’ve known you’d be listenin’,” he mutters.

“Of course I was listening,” you say. “It was the only way I was ever gonna hear you say anything real.”

He huffs out a sound that’s almost a laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess that tracks.”

“And I love you too,” you say. “I’ve loved you since the prison,” you admit. “Since before that, probably. Since you started hovering, I realized I felt safer with you behind me than any wall in this world. Since I saw you risk your life for people who didn’t always deserve it.”

“It hurt,” you confess. “When you brushed me off. When you pretended I was just another body in the group. But it hurt worse to think I’d never get to tell you any of this. To think you’d die not knowing.”

"You're such a dumbass, Dixon." You laugh but still hold his face with utmost affection. You kissed his face over and over again before kissing the side of his lips. He holds your face, hand on your cheek, letting you nuzzle your face into his palm. Looking at you with a smile so soft, delicate, and reverent. Worshipping you for loving someone like him. Worshipping you for looking so beautiful despite the apocalypse, despite crying your heart out.

“Okay,” he says, smiling. “Okay. I get it."

"I love you." He says, before you're finally pulling him inside your home.

It’s hot in here, you think. Too many bodies.

You blink, shake your head once, trying to clear it.

The room tilts a little anyway.

“Y/N?”

You look up at the sound of your name, but it’s like your brain is lagging behind your eyes. Everyone’s faces swim together for a second before sliding back into place.

Rick’s watching you with that cop’s stare he never quite lost.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you lie automatically. “Just… a long day.”

Daryl uncrosses his arms.

“You’re pale,” he grunts.

You roll your eyes. “You tell me that every time I don’t have dirt on my face.”

He doesn’t smile and pushes off the wall and steps closer to the table, closer to you. You can feel him at your side now, a solid, familiar presence.

“We can take two cars,” Spencer is saying, oblivious. “If we split the streets, we cover more ground. I can go with Y/N, we—”

He breaks off as your knees wobble.

The room does that tilt again, harder this time, and for a second the only thing you can hear is the roar of your own pulse in your ears.

You grab for the edge of the table.

You miss.

You sway.

Daryl catches you.

His hand clamps around your upper arm, firm, stopping the fall before it starts. His other hand lands at your waist, steadying you. It’s not gentle so much as sure.

“Whoa,” he mutters. “Gotcha.”

“Y/N?” Rick’s voice sharpens. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine,” you say, which would probably be more convincing if you weren’t seeing double.

You blink hard.

The fevers after the guts runs always feel like this—like your body gets halfway to sick and then remembers it doesn’t have time. You’d hoped it would skip you this round.

Apparently not.

Daryl shifts his grip, easing you into the nearest chair.

“You don’t look fine,” Spencer says from across the table. His brow furrows in what you’re sure he thinks is an attractive show of concern.

Daryl crouches in front of you, one knee popping as it hits the hardwood. Up close, his eyes are more intense than the fever.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

The room steadies a little around his face.

“You feelin’ sick?” he asks.

“Just… hot,” you mumble. “And floaty. It’s fine. I can still go.”

He makes an unimpressed noise.

“Yeah, nah,” he says. He reaches up, back of his hand brushing your forehead, then your cheek. His calluses drag over your skin, rough and careful at the same time.

You’re hot. He can feel the heat radiating off you.

“Daryl-” you start.

He clicks his tongue, annoyed, and does the thing that always makes you go quiet.

He leans in and presses his forehead to yours.

It’s not a kiss. Not exactly. It’s more like a touchstone: his brow resting against yours, noses bumping lightly, his hand cupping the back of your head. You pick up the faint smell of smoke and leather and whatever soap the Alexandrians use these days.

You go still. Your breath catches.

“Christ,” he mutters after a second, voice a low rumble that vibrates against your skin. “You’re burnin’ up.”

You swallow, throat dry.

“You’re… just cold,” you say weakly.

He pulls back enough to look at you, eyes narrowed.

“Uh‑huh,” he says. “Rick.”

Rick’s already a step closer, arms crossed.

“Yeah?” he says.

“I’m stayin’,” Daryl says. “Ain’t takin’ her out there like this.”

Rick studies you for a beat.

You want to argue. You really do. You’re not useless. You can still shoot. But your arms feel like lead and your head feels like someone stuffed it with cotton.

Rick sees it.

“We can manage without you this run,” he says. “Take care of her.”

Daryl nods once.

Spencer shifts, looking between you and Daryl.

“I could stay,” he offers. “You could go with them, Dixon. I’ll make sure she’s-”

“Nah,” Daryl cuts in, rising to his full height in one smooth motion. He keeps one hand on the back of your chair. “Ain’t happenin’.”

Spencer bristles.

“I’m just saying-”

“I heard what you’re sayin’,” Daryl says. His eyes are flat. “Ain’t interested.”

Spencer scoffs, masking something like irritation.

“Right,” he says. “Of course. Because she can’t be around anyone but you.”

It’s not the words; it’s the tone. The implication. Something hot and unpleasant flickers in your chest.

“Spencer,” you say, warning in your voice.

He holds up his hands, backing off a step. “Fine. Whatever. Just thought she might want better company.”

Rick steps in before it can escalate.

“That’s enough,” he says. “We got a run to plan.”

Spencer shoots you one last look, half regretful, half lingering, and turns away.

You’re too tired to roll your eyes.

Daryl squeezes the back of your chair once, then leans down, his mouth near your ear.

“Up,” he murmurs. “C’mon. Let’s get you back home.”

You let him haul you to your feet.

The room tilts again, but his arm slides around your waist, taking most of your weight.

You don’t even pretend not to lean into him this time.

The walk back to your shared house is a blur of sunlight and spinning fences.

Daryl’s grip is steady, his steps matched to your unsteady ones. He doesn’t talk much, never does, but you can hear his breathing, feel the tension in his body.

“Sorry,” you mumble at one point, head leaning against his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“Stop apologizin’,” he says. “You got sick. Ain’t your fault.”

“You got… plans,” you protest. “Run. Rick needs you.”

“Rick told me to stay,” he points out. “Ain’t gonna argue with him when he’s right.”

You huff a laugh that turns into a cough.

He rubs your arm once, absent, soothing.

Inside the house, he steers you straight to the couch.

“Down,” he says.

“You gonna start trainin’ me like Dog next?” you mumble.

“If you don’t lay down when I tell you, yeah,” he says, but there’s a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

You collapse onto the cushions.

He disappears for a moment, boots heavy on the floorboards, then reappears with a cup of water and a worn washcloth.

“Drink,” he says, handing you the cup.

You do, because your throat feels like sandpaper. Every time you swallow, it hurts.

He waits until you’ve had a decent amount before taking it back and setting it on the crate you use as a side table. Then he kneels by the couch, dips the cloth into a bowl of cool water he must’ve grabbed from the kitchen, wrings it out, and presses it gently to your forehead.

You sigh, muscles melting a little.

“Feels good,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” he says. “Good.”

You reach out blindly. Your fingers catch the fabric of his sleeve and don’t let go. He huffs, not really annoyed, and adjusts so he can stay kneeling without toppling over.

“You can go sit,” you mumble, eyes half‑closed. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sittin’ right here,” he says. “Ain’t movin’.”

You smile vaguely.

“Clingy Dixon,” you tease.

“Says the one hangin’ on me like a tick,” he mutters.

You squeeze his sleeve.

“S’cause you’re comfy,” you say. “And solid. And mine.”

The last word slips out without you really thinking about it. Saying it as a matter of fact.

He goes very still for a heartbeat.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yours.”

You drift in and out for a while. Every time you surface, he’s there: sometimes sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, sometimes on the edge of it, your legs across his lap. The cloth on your forehead is always cool again, which means he keeps getting up to rewet it.

At one point, you come to with your fingers tangled in his hair. You have no idea when that happened.

“Daryl,” you mumble, thumb brushing over the softer strands near his neck. “Your hair’s gettin’ long.”

He snorts, not looking away from the doorway he’s pretending not to guard.

“Yeah, well,” he says. “Ain’t exactly a barber shop round the corner.”

“Suits you,” you say.

He grunts, but his ears go a little pink. You tug gently, guiding him to look at you. His eyes meet yours, wary.

“You okay?” you ask.

He frowns. “You’re the one with the fever.”

“I’m serious,” you say. “You look… tense.”

He hesitates. “Just don’t like seein’ you like this,” he says finally. “All… wobbly.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say. “You keep fussin’ over me like this, I might even enjoy it.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters.

You smile, eyes drooping.

“Too late,” you whisper.

It’s mid‑afternoon when there’s a knock at the door.

Daryl’s up in an instant, easing your hand off his shirt and tucking your arm back under the blanket.

“Yeah?” he calls, moving to the door.

Rick’s voice answers.

“How is she?”

Daryl opens the door a crack, enough to stick his head out.

“She’s outta it,” he says. “Fever’s high, but she ain’t worse. Gave her water. Got her layin’ down.”

Rick nods, glancing past him at your sleeping form.

“She’s in good hands,” he says.

Daryl shifts, uncomfortable with the compliment.

“Run go okay?” he asks.

“We got what we needed,” Rick says. “No trouble.”

Daryl grunts.

Rick studies him.

“You did the right thing, stayin’,” he says. “She’d have pushed herself ’til she dropped.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “That’s the problem.”

Rick’s mouth quirks.

“I also told Spencer to back off,” he adds. “In case you were wonderin’.”

“That before or after he tried to sign himself up as her nurse?” he asks.

“Bit of both,” Rick says. “He’s… Spencer. He’ll test lines. You make yours clear.”

“They’re clear,” Daryl says flatly. Rick nods once.

“Good,” he says. “’Cause she’s too sick right now to see it’s pissing you off.”

Daryl scowls. “Ain’t about me.”

“A little bit is,” Rick says. “You’re allowed that.”

Daryl huffs as Rick claps his shoulder.

“Get some rest if you can,” he says. “We’ll need you on the next one.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Later.”

He closes the door, leans against it for a second, then heads back to the couch. You’re awake again, blinking blearily up at him.

“Who was that?” you ask.

“Rick,” he says. “Said run went fine.”

You nod, relieved.

“Good,” you mumble. “Don’t wanna feel guilty on top of feelin’ like death.”

He sits on the edge of the couch, careful not to jostle you.

You reach for him automatically, fingers catching his wrist this time.

“Stay,” you say.

“I am,” he replies.

You tug a little.

“Closer,” you clarify.

He hesitates, glancing at the curtained window like someone might be watching.

Everyone knows about the two of you. Alexandria rumors travel faster than walkers. Still, the old instinct to keep what’s his private runs deep.

Your grip tightens.

“Please,” you add, quieter.

That does it.

He exhales, tension easing out of his shoulders, and stretches out beside you on the couch, boots still on, body curved to fit yours. You turn into him, pressing your face into his chest.

He smells like outside and sweat and something that’s just him.

His arm comes around your back, hand resting between your shoulder blades. Not too tight. Just enough to say, I’ve got you.

“Daryl?” you murmur against his shirt.

“Mm?”

“Love you,” you say, voice slurred with fever and exhaustion but absolutely sure.

His throat works.

He ducks his head, lips brushing your hairline in a quick, soft kiss.

“Love you too,” he says, the words quiet and steady. “Now go the hell to sleep.”

You smile, eyes already sliding shut.

“Bossy,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, chin resting lightly on top of your head. “Somebody’s gotta be.”

Outside, Alexandria hums along, oblivious.

Inside, Daryl Dixon lies on a too‑small couch with his feverish, clingy, utterly loved woman plastered to his side, one arm around her, eyes on the door, ready to fight the whole damn world if it tries to come through while she’s like this.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t look away.

His hand flexes on your hip. And you automatically know what to do. You’re spread half on top of him, leg slung over his waist, his shirt bunched in your fist. You feel heavy and floaty at the same time, that weird stage, making everything about him look extra unfair, extra hot, extra Daryl.

“You’re extra today,” he mutters, looking down at you with that half‑confused, half‑fond expression that makes your chest hurt so much.

“Dunno,” you say, pressing a slow kiss to his collarbone. “Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s because my stupid body’s like, ‘hey, here’s the man you love, let’s make you totally insane about him for a week.’”

He huffs. A kind of low, amused laugh.

“You’re insane about me all the time,” he says.

You look up at him, chin on his chest. “Yeah,” you agree. “But today I wanna bite anyone who looks at you for too long.”

His mouth twitches.

“Anyone?” he asks.

“Anyone,” you say. “Rosita gets a pass. Carol too. Everyone else? Chomp.”

He exhales this time, a laugh more evident from the sounds he makes.

“Relax,” he says. “Ain’t nobody lookin’ at me.”

You stare, getting up and slightly away from him, scandalized, offended.

“Daryl,” you say. “You’re hot.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you insist, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then his jaw. “You. Are. Stupid. Hot.”

He mutters something about you bein’ ridiculous, but he doesn’t stop you.

You climb a little higher, kissing down his neck, sucking lightly at a spot that makes his breathing go slightly faster.

Okay, yeah, this day might be your favorite already.

He eventually gets you untangled enough to roll out of bed, but you make it difficult on purpose. Every time he sits up, you tug him back down by his vest.

“Stay,” you whine. “Be bitten.”

“Can’t,” he says, pulling on his pants. “Gotta go. Ammo run.”

Ammo. Right. The world. Other people. Rude.

“You don’t have to go,” you argue, following him on your knees on the mattress. “You could stay here and help me reorganize the pantry. That’s important. We need a strong bread section.”

“That ain’t a real job.” He points out.

“Keeping our canned peaches alive is absolutely a real job,” you say. “And I like you. And you being gone is less good than you being here.”

He pauses, fingers stilling on his buttons for half a second. As if he were considering your suggestion.

“Somebody’s gotta make sure the grounds are clear,” he says. “Can’t have you sittin’ on the porch with your feet up if there’s walkers wanderin’ into the crops.”

You narrow your eyes.

“You always say that like I can’t kill walkers,” you say.

“I know you can,” he answers, softly this time. “Just don’t like you havin’ to.”

You crawl up to him, slide your hands into his hair, and he leans into it like he can’t help it.

“Okay,” you sigh. “Go be a hero. But come back fast. I have abandonment issues when you’re gone more than… twenty minutes.” You try a pout while looking directly into his eyes.

He actually laughs, tiny and quiet, but real.

“That so?”

“Yes,” you say gravely. “I get sad and listless and start talking to the tomato plants. They don’t laugh at my jokes like you do.” A sigh escapes your lips dramatically.

“I don’t laugh at your jokes.”

“You do a little nose exhale,” you counter. “That’s your laugh.”

He shakes his head, but you can see he’s done for. You tug his collar down.

“One condition,” you say.

He squints. “What?”

“I’m sending you out marked.”

He freezes. Like he's trying to figure it out, and he has already figured it out at the same time, but he's unsure if he's on the same page as you.

“Marked,” he repeats. Like he's testing it on his tongue, unsure about what it truly means.

“Yes,” you say, smirking. “So if anyone gets any cute ideas, they realize you’ve already been claimed.”

He should say it’s unnecessary.

Instead, he just goes very still while you press your mouth to his neck and suck a bruise right where his collar doesn’t quite hide it. His hand flies to your hip, fingers digging in.

“Shit,” he breathes.

You pull back to admire your handiwork.

“Perfect,” you say. “Now everyone will know whose you are.”

“I ain’t a dog,” he mutters, looking weakly at you, as if he wants more than just that. Not enough.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you say cheerfully. “Growly. Loyal. Sleeps at my feet. Very protective.”

“Get dressed,” he grumbles, kissing the top of your head before he pulls away.

You grin into his shirt. He loves it.

He doesn’t even make it out the door without you glued to his side.

At breakfast, you sit pressed against him on the steps, your knee over his, fingers hooked in his belt loop.

Then Rosita spots the mark and actually snorts.

“Well, damn,” she says. “Someone was busy.”

Daryl groans softly. Aaron, who was casually passing by, grins like a menace.

You ignore them all and tuck yourself under Daryl’s arm, head on his shoulder. Your body is buzzing, too full of fondness and something wilder, like if you don’t touch him, you might actually crawl out of your skin.

He makes it worse by absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over your shoulder.

You could bite him again. You might if he looks at you again.

Good thing he doesn't. He's learned his lesson.

When it’s finally time for the run, you’re at the gate before he is.

You meet him halfway, fingers already finding the edge of his vest, pulling him closer.

“Last chance,” you say. “Stay home. Be adored. I’ll make heart eyes at you all day. Zero complaints.”

He smirks just a little.

“Pretty sure you’re gonna do that anyway when I get back.”

“Yeah,” you admit. “But my brain is a chemical menace right now. You’re extra pretty today.”

He frowns in that confused Daryl way.

“I look the same.”

“You don’t,” you insist. “You look like mine.”

He leans his forehead against yours.

“You good?” he asks quietly. “I can stay if you’re not.”

“I’m good,” you lie, then correct yourself. “I’ll be good. Just… if you take too long, I might lose my mind and come find you.”

“Wouldn’t hate that,” he says, almost under his breath.

You kiss his jaw, then his mouth.

“Go,” you murmur. “But hurry. I have so many feelings and only one man to unleash them on.”

When the bike finally growls back through the gate, you’re halfway down the ladder before your brain can tell you to chill. He barely has time to kill the engine before you’re there, fingers grabbing his vest, eyes scanning him head to toe.

“Are you okay?” you demand.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Fine. Nothin’ out there.”

“Good,” you say, and then you kiss him like the world’s ending again, hand tangled in his hair, eyes closed, focused on the feeling of him on your lips.

Someone whistles. Someone else says “get a room.”

You don’t care. But he flips people behind you before diverting his eyes back to yours.

He kisses you back, hand cradling the back of your head, the other settling low on your back like it always does when he lets himself feel everything. When you finally pull back, you’re breathless and smug.

“You’re not leaving my side for the rest of the day," you put a hand on your hip, “Come on. I need to bite you again.”

And as you drag him back toward your shared house, half hanging off his arm, you feel it, that warm, steady thing under all the chaos: He lets you be feral and clingy and ridiculous because somewhere under the flannel and the frown.

You were obsessed. There was no other word for it. It was the way his voice sounded like gravel being crushed under a heavy tire; rough, unpolished, but strangely grounding. It was the Southern drawl that rounded off his edges, the way he could turn a simple "nah" into a three-syllable melody of dismissal. The only delightful way anyone can ever be turned down for anything at all.

Today, you decided, was the day you were going to break the silence. Daryl was a man of few words, a man who spoke in shrugs and glares. You wanted to see if you could turn that trickle of conversation into a flood.

"Daryl?" you started, your voice a pitch higher than usual. Approaching carefully, fearing he might scurry away.

He didn't look up, but his shoulders shifted. "Hmm?"

That was it. That low, vibrating hum that seemed to resonate right in the center of your chest. You bit your lip to keep from grinning. Not that he can see.

"I was... thinking about the garden," you lied, stepping closer until the scent of woodsmoke and rainwater that clung to him filled your senses.

"Rick thinks we should rotate the crops, but Hershel says the soil in the north corner is too acidic. What do you think? I mean, really think? About the chemistry of it?"

Daryl paused, his knife hovering over a crow feather. He cut a sideways glance at you, his blue eyes narrowed under the greasy fringe of his hair. Usually, he’d just grunt and tell you to ask Rick. But today, something in your expression, perhaps the sheer, unadulterated focus you were giving his mouth, made him hesitate.

"Chemistry? Soil’s dirt," he began, his voice a delicious, rusty rasp. "Can’t fix what the rain already washed out. North corner’s got too much runoff from the old creek bed. If ya want it to grow, ya gotta haul in the peat from the woods, mix it deep. Hard work. Don't know if the payout’s worth the sweat."

You nearly melted. That was more than ten words. It was a paragraph. And the way he said sweat, the 't' at the end was barely a ghost of a sound, swallowed by that thick, honey-slow accent.

"Interesting," you said, moving even closer, invading his personal space in a way only you were allowed to do.

"And what about the woods? You think the peat is better near the pine stands or the hardwoods?"

Daryl set the arrow down completely now. He turned on his stool to face you, his knees brushing against your thighs. He looked suspicious, but not annoyed.

"Pine’s too sharp. Acidic, like Hershel says. Ya want where the oaks are. Leaves rot down, make it black and heavy. Good for turnip greens. Why ya askin' me 'bout dirt all of a sudden, Y/N?"

"I'm just curious about your expertise," you deflected, leaning down so your face was level with his.

"You know so much about the land. It’s… impressive."

He let out a short, huffed laugh, a sound that was half-breath, half-growl.

"Expertise. It's just livin', girl. Ain't nothin' fancy 'bout knowin' where things rot."

You spent the next three hours trailing him like a persistent shadow. You followed him to the armory, asking about the tension weight of his crossbow. You followed him to the mess hall, questioning his preference for venison over canned ham. Each time, you pushed a little harder, asking open-ended questions that required more than a nod.

And to your utter shock, Daryl didn't shut down. He didn't tell you to shut up or go away. Instead, he seemed to lean into it. He talked about the way the wind shifted before a storm, the different sounds a walker made versus a living man in the brush, and even a rambling, twenty-minute explanation of how his brother, Merle, used to hotwire cars back in the day.

His voice was a physical weight in the room. When he got animated, the pitch would climb just a fraction, becoming a bit more frantic and melodic. When he grew serious, it dropped into a basement-deep rumble that made the air feel thick.

By late afternoon, you were sitting on the edge of his cot in his cell while he organized his pack for a run the next morning. Your ears were ringing with the sheer volume of his words, and your heart was dizzy.

"Daryl?" you interrupted him mid-sentence as he explained the necessity of packing extra socks.

"Yeah?" he asked, looking up. He looked… energized. His eyes were bright, and his face was more animated than you had seen it in months.

"I have a confession," you said, your conscience finally catching up to your ears. "I've been bothering you on purpose. I just... I’m obsessed with your voice. I wanted to see how long I could make you keep talking just so I could listen to you. I’m so sorry. I'll leave you alone now."

You started to stand up, feeling a flush of embarrassment heat your cheeks. You had gone too far, surely. You had treated him like a specimen.

Before you could take a step, his hand shot out, wrapping firmly but gently around your wrist. The heat of his skin was a jolt.

"Sit down," he commanded. It wasn't a growl this time. It was soft, low, and terrifyingly intimate.

So you sat.

Daryl leaned in, his face inches from yours. He didn't look mad. If anything, there was a glimmer of something playful, something almost smug in his gaze.

"Ya think I didn't catch on 'round hour two?" he asked, his voice dropping to a vibrating whisper that sent a literal shiver down your spine.

"Talkin' 'bout crop rotation and car batteries? Please."

You gaped at him.

"You knew?"

"I ain't stupid," he drawled, the 's' lingering just a second too long. He shifted closer, his chest almost touching yours.

"But I figured... if ya wanted to hear me talk that bad, the least I could do was give ya an earful."

He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch light despite the roughness of his skin.

"So," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. "Ya like the way I talk, huh? Like the way it sounds when I say your name?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

"Y/N," he whispered. It wasn't just a name; it was a low, rumbling vibration that seemed to settle deep in your bones. "Ya gonna listen to me all night? 'Cause I got plenty more to say. Might even tell ya some things I ain't told nobody else. Justa' see that look on your face."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, a slow, rare smirk spreading across his face, the look of a hunter who had just realized he wasn't the one being hunted after all.

"Keep going," you managed to choke out, your voice breathless. "Don't stop."