Fanfiction is my love language

"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.

You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.

"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."

"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."

Oh. That John Tucker.

"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.

"Isn't that a big coincidence?"

"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"

"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."

"Mom — what, that's not really —"

"She's probably not even going to use it."

She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.

What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.

He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.

Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.

"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."

"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.

"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."

He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"

You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.

"He's right," you said.

"He's a traitor," Tucker said.

You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.

You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.

Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.

"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"

"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."

"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."

He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

You looked back down at the onion.

Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.

"Not a word," you said.

"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.

The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.

party saturday, be here, i made a playlist

You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?

yourself and good energy

You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.

what time

nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud

That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.

You thought about it the entire rest of the week.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.

You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.

You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.

It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.

You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.

Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.

"You look great," he said, holding the door open.

"You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"

"Tucker."

"What."

"We're not cooking. There are already people here."

He looked genuinely confused. "So?"

You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.

Dean wasn't in the kitchen.

You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.

Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."

"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.

"I'm a guest," you said.

"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.

You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.

Dean appeared sometime around ten.

He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.

So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.

You went to find Tucker.

The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.

Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party

You typed back: fine. dean's here.

Three seconds.

oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.

maybe

that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do

You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.

The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.

You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.

The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.

You told it to shut up.

It had a point though.

You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.

You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.

"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."

Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.

"I've been talking to people," you said.

"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."

"Maybe I just like that side of the room."

He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.

"You've been doing that for a year," he said.

"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.

"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."

The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.

You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.

"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.

Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.

"Yeah," he said.

He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.

The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.

He didn't kiss you right away.

That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.

"You made me wait a long time," he said.

"You could have said something sooner," you said.

"I said something tonight."

"Barely."

Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.

"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.

He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.

"Take your jacket off," he said.

You did.

He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.

"Good," he said, like that meant something.

Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.

He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.

"There it is," he murmured.

"Shut up," you said.

"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.

He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.

"Dean —"

"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."

He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.

"Dean."

"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.

"You're so —"

"Tell me."

You told him.

"Please"

The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.

He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.

"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."

"Dean —"

"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."

"That's your fault," you managed.

"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."

When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.

He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.

"Don't," you said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.

You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.

You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.

"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.

"Yeah," you said.

He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.

It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.

"Months," he said again. Quieter now.

"I know," you said. "I know."

When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.

You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.

You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.

You met his eyes in the mirror.

"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.

Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"

You turned around. "What kind of thing?"

He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.

"Right," you said simply.

Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.

You unlocked the door.

"Hey," Dean said.

You looked back.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."

You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.

Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.

You took it.

"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.

"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."

"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."

"Tucker."

"It's in the pot on the back burner."

You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.

"Thank you," you said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."

You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

Tucker handed you a chip.

You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.

Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.

Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"

"Made it myself," Tucker said.

"You absolutely did not."

Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

"It's your house," you said.

He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."

"I know," you said.

Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.

It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.

It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?

The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.

You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.

i know. yes or no.

fine.

The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.

You sat in the middle of the couch.

He pulled up the movie without comment.

It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.

Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.

The movie ended and neither of you moved.

He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.

You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.

Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.

You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.

That was how it started.

By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.

You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.

He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?

You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.

Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.

You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.

"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.

"I didn't say that."

"You described a situationship."

"I described two people who spend time together."

"With benefits."

"Occasionally."

She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"

You said nothing.

"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"

You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."

Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.

The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.

The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.

"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."

"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"

"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."

The room went quiet.

"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."

Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Okay," you said.

The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.

The first sign was the texts.

Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.

You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.

You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.

You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.

But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.

You went over on a Thursday.

Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.

You looked at him for a moment.

"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."

"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.

"I want you to say what's actually happening."

He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.

"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.

You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."

"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."

"Okay," you said.

He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.

"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"

"I never called it anything," you said.

"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."

The room was very quiet.

You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.

"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."

He opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."

"Hey —"

"Good night, Dean."

You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.

You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.

You texted Anna: you were right.

She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.

"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.

"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."

The hard part came later, at midnight.

You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.

You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.

You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.

The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.

Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.

You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.

"What is that," you said.

"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"

"Tucker."

"I know."

You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.

"It's salvageable," you said.

He exhaled. "I knew it."

"Get me the garlic."

You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.

Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"

"We're collaborating," Tucker said.

Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.

Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.

"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.

"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"

"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.

You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.

"Smells good," Dean said.

You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.

Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.

"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.

"I can see that," Dean said.

Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"

"I know," you said, drying the pan.

You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.

When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."

"Noted," Tucker said.

You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.

Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.

Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.

"She labeled it," Dean said.

"She always labels it," Tucker said.

Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."

"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."

He couldn't focus in class the next morning.

The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.

Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.

He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —

You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.

You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.

You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He'd said that. He'd actually said that.

He stared at his laptop screen.

You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.

And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.

Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.

Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.

He wrote something down without reading it.

The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.

You don't belong here.

He closed his laptop. Opened it again.

You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.

He was not fine.

That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.

Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.

He picked up his pen. Put it down.

Wait.

He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.

The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.

You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.

He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.

You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.

Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.

He started noticing everything.

The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.

He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.

He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.

He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.

He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —

That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.

He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.

He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."

"She didn't do anything," Dean said.

A pause. "Then tell me what you did."

Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."

"And?"

"And she's fine."

"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"

"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.

Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."

"What."

"You absolute idiot."

January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.

You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.

Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."

"I know," Dean said.

Logan looked at him. "Just saying."

"I know," Dean said again.

Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.

He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.

You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.

He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.

It was a random Wednesday in late January.

Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.

Tucker's laugh. And then yours.

He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.

"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.

"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"

"I was recovering, there's a difference—"

"There is no difference, the result was the same—"

Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.

He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.

You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.

"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."

"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.

"See," Tucker said to you.

"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."

Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.

An hour later you started putting your coat on.

"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."

"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."

"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."

"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.

"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.

"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.

You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.

Tucker looked up from his phone.

The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.

"She forgot her mug," Dean said.

"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.

Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.

"She said bye to you first," he said.

Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Tucker —"

"I'm not doing this, Dean."

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."

From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.

Dean looked at the door.

"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.

Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.

He lasted four days.

Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.

He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.

He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.

He threw one.

It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.

He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.

The window opened.

You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.

"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."

"I need to talk to you."

"It's eleven o'clock."

"I know. You weren't answering my texts."

You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."

"You didn't answer."

"I was asleep."

"Can I come up?"

The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."

"There's a trellis."

You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."

"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."

You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.

You didn't close the window.

"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."

He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.

Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.

You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.

"I need to say something," he said.

"Okay."

"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."

"I'm not stopping you," you said.

He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.

He took a breath.

"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.

You waited.

"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."

The room was quiet.

"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"

"Dean," you said.

He stopped.

You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.

"I know," you said quietly.

He blinked. "You —"

"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."

He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."

"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."

He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."

You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.

"I know," you said again. Softer this time.

"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."

You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.

"Come here," you said.

He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.

His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.

You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.

"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.

You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.

He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.

"Hi," he said, quietly.

The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."

He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.

"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.

"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."

You exhaled like something releasing.

It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.

When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.

When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.

Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.

Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.

"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.

"Small rocks."

"You hit Anna's window first."

"She didn't see me."

"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."

You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.

He pressed his mouth to your hair.

"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."

You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."

"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"Not a complaint."

You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.

"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.

Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.

"He's known for months."

"I know."

"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"

Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."

"You're not."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not."

A beat.

"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.

Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"

"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."

"I'm going to kill Garrett too."

"You're really not."

"No," he said. "I'm really not."

You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said.

"Turn off that radio." my voice nearly demanded.

Daryl looked taken aback for a moment before he twisted the knob all the way to the left, shutting it down. I glanced down toward my mirrors to see half of them still following behind, before looking ahead to see the familiar sign approaching that read "Alexandria " and it hit me right then and there what I needed to do. My bike sped up slightly to align myself with the passenger side window, Abraham glancing up at me in question.

"Can I have that?" I asked, pointing to the walkie in his hand.

He looked from me to the object a few times before hesitantly handing it out, "Now, don't do anything rash, Missy. We still got fifteen more miles to go."

"I know," I muttered before attaching the walkie to my own clothing, looking back up to the three of them, "But there's no way I'm listening to Rick, fuck that. They need help. I'm gonna swing around, see if I can get control of the other half to follow behind-"

"Not alone ya ain't." Daryl interrupted.

"I have to try." I argued just as stubbornly.

He shook his head firmly, "Damnit Rose, I ain't lettin ya go alone."

"It's not up to you." I snapped, "You guys just have to worry about staying put and keeping the rest of these dead assholes from getting sloppy. I'll keep in touch, I swear." the promise left my lips almost too easily before I was speeding down the road, trying my hardest not to look back.

Their voices shouted my name until I couldn't hear them anymore, but that only inclined me to go faster, knowing that Rick was too damn thick headed to ask for any kind of help. I mean, who in their right mind would take on all these damn walkers alone? A psycho that's who. I swear sometimes I'm the only one with a level head.

"Rose, get yer ass back here right now." Daryl's voice suddenly cracked through on the radio.

I maneuvered my hand to grasp it, clicking the button on, "No."

"Ya ain't doin this shit by yerself." he snapped.

"Watch me." I mumbled stubbornly before clicking it off, the engine of my bike roaring as I tried to find the quickest way back. Knowing I didn't have much time.

The trees on either side of me were merely a blur in my peripheral vision, my speed only increasing when I caught a glimpse of the road coming to an end, forcing me to turn right and head right back toward the community. Hoping to catch up with the other half of the herd, guiding them back to where they were supposed to be following the rest. I knew Daryl was pissed about what I did, but someone had to step in and help. I didn't need to ask anyone's permission to do a damn thing, and today was no different. And I wasn't about to let Rick kill himself over something so stupid.

The sound of static cutting through the silence of my drive made me glance back down to the radio on my jacket, tugging on it to hold up to my ear and get a better listen. It could've just been my imagination, my mind playing foolish tricks, but I swore I heard the briefest sounds of gunshots coming from the other end, before it all went quiet once again. And that left an even bigger pit in my stomach than before.

I quickly clicked the button on, holding it up to my mouth, "Rick?" I spoke, pausing for a moment to listen for his answer. There was nothing but silence. "Rick?" I tried again, only to be left with the same result.

Without another moment of hesitation, I pushed my vehicle to go even faster than before, nearly pushing eighty-five yet there was still not a single walker in sight. The places I was passing by were starting to look somewhat familiar like we had rolled through them before, the aspect only giving me hope that I was heading in the right direction. And right as that thought crossed my mind, I spotted the first cluster of red balloons, and I let myself exhale in relief.

I made another harsh right when I spotted the dirt road, noting the few lone walkers traveling West toward where the sound was once blaring. It only hit me then that I couldn't seem to hear the noise of the horn anymore now that I was closer to home, which brought me some peace of mind.

But as always, it seemed to be short lived.

I turned one last time to make a full U-turn and circle back around, hoping to find the herd traveling along this very road if what Rick was said was true. But instead, I came across the familiar RV, parked in a completely different spot from where we originally placed it. The scene was oddly quiet, the kind of silence that makes your stomach twist with some kind of unknowing nervousness. Quickly pulling my bike off to the side of the road and shutting it off so the rumbling couldn't be heard, I removed my gun from around my torso and planted both my boots on the pavement. Approaching the vehicle with caution.

My steps were slow and deliberate as I did a scan of my surroundings, before getting close enough to the RV to hear what could be going on inside. The sounds of muffled struggling reached my ears, loud enough to where I looked up toward the windows to see Rick fighting back against two unknown men. My eyes widened before I quickly moved around the back, staying low and away from the glass as to not be seen by any of them from inside and headed toward the door.

By the time I had opened it up with quiet caution, I witnessed Rick had wrestled one of the men to the ground and eventually shot up to raise his gun, firing a bullet into his head. My gaze then snapped down to the other stranger who was struggling to get up, drawing his own weapon from just behind Rick's back. But I didn't even give him a chance, raising my own gun in an instant to shoot him in the base of his skull, causing Rick to whip around and look at me with widened eyes.

We both just stared at each other and for a moment, time stood still. His chest fell heavy and deep from the physical fight and the bleeding hand he was clutching at his side, the crimson droplets falling to the ground. His gaze however was harder to read, a mix of frustration and gratefulness. But then again, that's always how he seemed to look at me.

Our attention then snapped toward the windshield when we heard the dreaded sound of walkers coming our way, the large group of them that we were trying desperately to find. Now were coming toward us at full force.

"We'll take the bike. Come on." I urged and gestured for him to follow me out.

The two of us beelined to where I had discarded my motorcycle, quickly picking it up from where it laid to straddle the seat and kickstart it with a roar. Rick rushed over and hopped on the back, keeping his injured hand close to his chest while the other balanced on my shoulder, his grip almost deadly as I peeled it out of there as fast as I could.

I felt him turn around to see the walkers seemingly right on our trail, his actions causing my steering to wobble a bit. My hand came flying down to smack his knee, "Hey! First rule of riding on the back of a motorcycle: don't fucking do that."

He grunted at my harsh hit, though clearly it got his attention. "We gotta get home fast!" he shouted over the noise, "Those assholes in there- I think they staged this thing."

The horn. The distraction. It wouldn't surprise me. There had to be more of them than just the two we had taken care of.

When I didn't respond, he took it upon himself to start scolding me, "I thought I told everyone to stay put where they were. That meant you too."

I whipped my head back over my shoulder, absolutely baffled, "You're really gonna yell at me about this now? After I just saved your ass?"

"You're not listening," he argued, "It was a stupid call, Ro. You needed to stay back with them."

My blood began to boil as he continued to ignore the fact that I just saved his life. "I'm pulling over in about five seconds if I don't get a thank you." I deadpanned.

"Thank you." he quickly replied, "But I just wanted you safe. Not in the middle of this mess."

I nodded briefly, "I know...but I couldn't stand by and let you handle it alone."

He didn't say anything else, and I couldn't look back to get a read on his face. But he gripped my shoulder a little tighter, as if silently thanking me again.

There wasn't another word uttered between us, our bodies rigid while I continued to race toward Alexandria. I couldn't stop thinking about the dead chasing us the whole way there, having no idea how we were supposed to take care of the rest of them. This was going to end badly, I could feel it, but we didn't have another choice but to go back. Even though once we got in, there was no way we could get back out.

It took all of merely moments before the front gates began to come into view, and the horde wasn't letting up. I tried to pick up speed in hopes to get us through faster, my hands nearly shaking whilst I gripped onto the handlebars. Rick started to yell from behind me at them to open the gates, waving his arms around like a lunatic to get their attention. Deanna's figure stood atop the platform, her expression could be only described as terrified as the people on watch rushed down to help us.

My eyes snapped to the gate once more when it began to open, racing through the small gap and skidding to a halt the second we were safely inside. Rick gripped me tightly once more in fear he would fall off with how abruptly I stopped, and my eyes glanced up just in time to catch one last glimpse of the herd. Their snapping teeth and decaying faces were just out of reach before the metal doors slammed shut, hearing them begin to pound on the surface over my own heavy breathing. They were cornering this place as we speak, trapping us like rats.

A crowd quickly formed around us considering all the commotion, dismounting the bike and turning around in time to see Maggie rushing toward me, "Oh my God, oh my-" she cut herself off and placed her hands on my cheeks, checking me for any kind of scratch or bruise, "Are you alright?"

I nodded shakily, "Fine...just fine."

She breathed out a sigh before wasting no time wrapping her arms around me, holding me so close I swore she'd be able to hear how fast my heart was still racing. Though the truth was I was far from fine. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the gates just over her shoulder, the growing sound of them only inflicted a bad feeling inside me that somehow, someway, they would get in.

"Rick! You good?" Daryl's gruff voice suddenly came in through the radio attached to Rick's belt.

I pulled away slightly from Maggie's embrace when I heard the worry in his tone, sharing a look with Rick before he held the device up to his mouth to respond. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just made it back to Alexandria. The RV broke down, Rose and I ran into some trouble. But before you ask; yes, she's safe."

There was a brief pause, "She there with ya?"

Rick wordlessly extended the radio over to me to which I sent him a glare before snatching it out of his hand. The last thing I needed was to be scolded again. Regardless, I stepped away from the prying ears of the small group that stood near the gates, dreading to click the thing back on.

"...I'm here." I muttered.

"What the hell were ya thinkin?!" he wasted no time getting into it.

I closed my eyes and pulled the radio away from my face, not expecting the sudden loudness as I sighed to myself. "I'm sorry, okay? I know you're pissed. But Rick could've died out there if I hadn't shown up when I did. We made it back, but there's no way any of us are getting out anytime soon, the whole place is getting surrounded as we speak."

The radio clicked just in time for me to hear him mutter, "Shit." before it was silent for a few more seconds. Clearly contemplating his next move. "M' on my way."

My eyes widened, "What? No, there's no way you'll even be able to make it in here."

"Watch me." he repeated my own stubborn words back to me.

"No," I repeated more sternly this time, "Don't try to play hero right now, okay? You gotta stick with those two out there, they need you. Just finish taking the walkers the rest of the way and we'll figure something out when the time comes. I'm safe...did you hear that part?"

He sighed softly, "Yeah, I heard ya. But that don't make me stop worryin."

I nodded to myself. It was safe to say the feeling was mutual. "We'll figure it out...we always do."

There was another long and loud pause as he stewed over my words, before reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I was right. "Alright...I love you."

I smiled a bit, "I love you too. Be safe out there, keep in touch if you can."

"I will. And for the love of God, just stay put til I get back."

I rolled my eyes, "We're stuck in here, how am I supposed to leave?"

"I dunno, ya always find some kinda way, woman." he said, his deep chuckle echoing in at the end of his sentence.

"Yeah, whatever." I mumbled before slowly clicking the device off with a slightly heavier heart, trying to shake off the feeling as I turned back to where I left my bike and beginning to walk it back toward the direction of my house.

Everyone was gathered around in front of the walls with worried looks on their faces as I passed them, listening to the banging grow greater and louder, clearly moving from the front entrance to huddle around the entirety of the place. I tried to ignore it the best I could manage, but it was hard when it didn't seem to stop. I hoped these walls would stay standing, I prayed that everyone would be safe until we figured out a plan. But that's never really how it worked out now. Not in this unforgiving world. I also couldn't help but notice how this place looked like some kind of warzone, spilt blood staining the streets along with a few lingering dead bodies. Though it wasn't the least bit surprising considering the assumptions Rick and I had come to.

I found myself drifting back toward where the community was gathered, watching Rick speak out to them about how we were planning to handle this situation. Trying to give them a little bit of hope that everything was going to be alright, but it didn't even look like he believed his own words. How could he when his voice was almost drowned out by the sounds of their snarls?

My footsteps slowed to a stop beside where Carl stood, feeling him look over at me the moment he saw me approach. Neither of us said a word, simply wrapping an arm around each other whilst silently listening amongst the quietness of the people. I took a moment to glance around at all the weary glances they were giving each other, every single one of them having doubts. Hell, I couldn't have understood that more than I did right now, but I wasn't going to let any of them see that. I had to keep a brave face despite how scared I truly was, despite knowing it always ends up the same goddamn way.

Eventually they all started to disperse, clearly wanting to keep their minds off of what was going on just outside. Carl wordlessly pulled me along to move just like the rest, and I let him. I needed a distraction from the fact that the person I loved most in this world was still out there, leaving me clueless on where he was or what was happening on their end. I know the weight of the choice I had made, but that didn't make it any easier to take.

The two of us gravitated toward a spot away from everyone else, sitting down on the curb side by side, watching a few people write a handful of names on the metal wall of who we had recently lost. In my mind it was a good way to honor them, but clearly they didn't waste any time doing so, which almost made it even harder to process. Seeing that only made my eyes wander to the rest of the mess that was left behind, the damage that couldn't be undone considering the reminder they were quite literally painting right before us.

"What the hell happened here?" I asked him after a few moments of silence.

He looked at me and sighed, "These people...they got in somehow and started attacking. I don't know how many of them there were, or why they targeted us. But they had this weird marking on their foreheads that I couldn't make out."

I froze at the last words that left his mouth. "Son of a bitch...I knew it." I muttered to myself.

"What do you mean?" he asked in confusion.

"Well," I sighed, "This isn't exactly our first run in with these people. But I sure as hell hope for their sake, it's the last."

He nodded slowly but didn't press further about what I knew. And I appreciated it more than I let on. "We took care of it. I don't think there's any of them left to come back."

I nodded, "Judith?"

"She's okay." he confirmed.

My shoulders slumped with the littlest ease, glancing around again at the many people working around here like ants. Busying themselves with anything. "God...when did everything become so messed up?" I asked aloud.

The kid shrugged, "When did it stop being messed up?"

His sarcastic tone threw me off a bit, causing me to smile when I needed it most. "You got me there." I said before gently nudging his side.

I heard him laugh quietly before the silence settled once again, my eyes instinctively turning back to what was right ahead of me. Though when I caught sight of the same wall, Glenn's name was now being written next in big black letters. My heart felt like it was starting to sink when it hit me then that he too was still out there, long enough to where these people considered him to be dead. I tore my gaze away from the sight when I couldn't fathom the thought anymore. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be.

"You okay?" Carl asked, quickly noticing my change in mood.

I nodded slowly, "Yeah...I think...I think I'm going to go keep watch for a while. Give myself something useful to do."

His brows creased slightly in worry, "You sure?"

I nodded once more reassuringly and gave his hand a squeeze, before standing to my feet and heading back toward the front entrance. The disturbing noises only worsened when I approached, climbing up step by step to look out and see just how many walkers we were dealing with on the other side. I grabbed the sniper that was already sitting there, looking out into the sea of corpses that only seemed to keep flooding in steadily. They were continuing to make their way around the entirety of the walls, pushing on them and banging just like they did back at the prison. Even those came falling down too.

The creaking of the ladder made me glance down to see Michonne climbing up as well, making her way to the top to wordlessly look out at the same damage that I was seeing. She let out a defeated sigh the moment she saw the numbers, while I scanned every square inch of our surroundings to try and pinpoint just how many we would eventually have to deal with. But I kept losing count. It was never-ending, more and more trailing in through the tree line and drawn to all of the noise the rest of them were causing. Just an endless cycle of dead pricks that we couldn't get rid of.

"How you doing?" she finally spoke up.

I shrugged pathetically, my voice caught in my throat for a few seconds as I truly didn't know how to respond. I wasn't holding up very well by any means, the small hint of fear that everything would be destroyed was now going to be constantly on my mind. Making me realize that coming up here to have it dangling in front of my face probably wasn't the smartest choice. But then again, I couldn't handle seeing Glenn's name on that wall.

"I'm okay."

Her gaze panned toward me out of the corner of my eye, seeming like she didn't believe the lie I just told. "You're worrying."

I scoffed, "Yeah...yeah, I am. I'm worrying about how Daryl's still out there where anything could go wrong, leading the other half of walkers away. I'm worrying about the fact that these could eventually force their way in, because let's face it, they always do. And...seeing Glenn's name on that wall...definitely isn't helping anything." I ranted, the word vomit pouring out of my mouth.

She was silent for a long moment, seemingly taking it all in. "You call that being okay?" she asked lightheartedly.

"No," I huffed with a shake of my head.

She laughed quietly and nudged my shoulder, "No one said you had to be. It's okay to worry, hell, I know I am."

"I'm trying to stay positive." I claimed as I let out a breath, "But let me tell you, it's really hard to be when shit's hitting the fan. Especially like this."

"Yeah. I get it..." she trailed off when she saw the look on my face, and clearly, I wasn't hiding my emotions very well. I never really could hide them from her. "What...?" she asked cautiously.

I shook my head silently, feeling my thoughts scattered all over the place, thinking about every little thing going wrong when the original plan was supposed to work out perfectly. I had hope that it would, just this once, things could actually move in the right direction. But now I just felt utterly foolish.

"I just...I shouldn't have left him." I eventually admitted.

"What?" she asked again, "You feel guilty?"

I didn't dare open my mouth or even attempt to answer her, but apparently that was the only kind of answer she needed to know the heavy truth that was weighing me down. "Rick is alive because of you. That's not something to feel guilty for."

"But I still left Daryl behind in the process. Just like that. And now I have no idea if he's even going to make it back- so many things could happen out there."

She scoffed, "I don't think Daryl of all people is who you have to worry about. That man is invincible. And he's not going to stop without a fight to get back here; Glenn too. We just have to be patient."

In the back of my mind I knew she was right, they were both smart enough to handle this kind of crisis on their own. But that didn't stop me from feeling any less shitty about leaving him behind in the first place. The rash decision I now couldn't take back. I saved Rick, but what if Daryl ended up in some kind of danger and I wasn't around to save him? It was like the butterfly effect in a way. Once choice could alter everything. And all I could do now was put my trust in Abraham and Sasha to have his back.

"I'm more worried about Rick." she suddenly spoke again.

I looked at her upon hearing her muttered comment, waiting for her to elaborate. "He has so much on his shoulders right now. With trying to keep all these people calm, and figuring out a way to take out these sons of bitches...I can't imagine the pressure he's being put under." she slightly trailed off as she glanced back over her shoulder, spotting him below us just a couple hundred feet away.

My eyes narrowed just a bit as I watched her, taking note of how she held her gaze on him for longer than I ever expected, the slight twitch of her lip was involuntary at the mere sight of him. The best part was, she didn't even realize she did it. I found myself looking back and forth between them a few times, my own knowing smile returning to my face before silently nodding to myself.

It could just be me reading too much into her commentary, but I needed something a little more positive to talk about anyway. So, I was going to act on this little situation.

"Hm...you're worried about Rick?" I asked, my tone having a slight teasing edge.

Before I could blink she was already giving me a small glare, "Yeah, so?" she shrugged and adjusted the gun strap on her shoulder.

I raised my hands in defense, "It's just nice he has you watching out for him, that's all. Relax."

"I don't like this game, please just say whatever it is you're really thinking."

I smiled to myself and took my sweet time responding, clearing my throat a bit, "Well, I just heard through the grapevine...that he's single..."

"Stop." she protested immediately.

"He is." I countered back.

She gave me a somewhat pointed look, "What he is, is my friend. And that friend has a thing going on with Jessie that I don't think anyone should meddle with."

"Friend?" I repeated in disbelief, "You can't use that excuse with me. Daryl and I were just friends at one point too, and now we have the best sex you could imagine."

"Oh my God- I'm ignoring you now." she stuttered a bit at my blunt comment.

I laughed softly, "Alright, okay, I'm done."

She nodded slightly, "Thank you..."

A brief pause passed as I debated whether or not to poke the bear further. But I felt she had a right to know how serious I was despite my lightheartedness. Even if she didn't want to hear it. "You know, you're about one of the only people around here that make him feel calm during times like this. Safe...and at peace."

Her eyes softened a bit, and she didn't protest or try to interrupt. "I wish I could say the same for me, but really I just stress him out most of the time." I joked to make her laugh, "His kids also adore you...I'm just saying."

I ended it plain and simple, leaving her to process on the obvious information. She nodded to show that she heard every word, yet she didn't say anything else. Not that there was anything else really to say. But by the lack of response I got when telling her just how much she truly meant to him, was all the confirmation I needed.

Although I had no idea she felt that deeply for him, I felt I was already rooting for them far more than I was supporting whatever relationship he was pursuing with Jessie. Not that I would ever tell him that, or try to advise which way he should be leaning. But one thing was for certain, I thought he needed to start looking at what was right in front of him instead of chasing someone he was never meant to have.

It seemed to grow dark fairly quickly, the remainder of the day practically flying by. I spent most of it up on the platform, gripping onto the sniper like it was my lifeline right alongside Michonne who seemed just as anxious as I remained. However, she was much better at hiding it. We talked back and forth after a while, to try and get our minds off of the deadly things. But it doesn't help that the thing you're trying so hard to avoid talking about, is quite literally standing in front of you.

With the amount of pile up those things caused, it was only making the walls weaker if they kept up with it like they were. Trying to avoid thinking about that possibility was one of the hardest things to do right now, but I couldn't let my mind dwell. Not yet at least. We still had time.

Once the hour grew later to the point where I couldn't stop myself from yawning, I began to head back home and turn in, wanting to at least try and get some sleep. Though I couldn't help but notice a figure standing in front of all the many names written on the wall, the sight causing me to slow to a stop. It only took me a second to realize it was Maggie, staring right at Glenn's name without moving so much as an inch. Making me question for a moment if she was even breathing.

My eyes saddened at the briefest image of her slightly grieving over him, the man who was most important to her, who could be anywhere out there. It was something that she should never have to do, having the fear of the unknown eating away at her as all she could do was hope. I watched her closely as she took a rag from the ground and started to scrub his name off the thick sheet of metal. My heart instantly seemed to break. And all I knew to do now, was to be there for her in a moment where she couldn't ask for help.

My approach was hesitant and careful as I stopped at the wall right beside her, not sparing a moment for her to acknowledge my presence before I picked up another towel that was tossed to the side. Silently helping her wash away his name letter by letter.

It began to fade with a little bit of time, the soap and water running through the paint and cleansing it away. Leaving only a brief image of what used to be written there, which to me was far better than how it was before. She turned to look at me once we were finished, her eyes glistening but thankful for the silent reassurance I was willing to provide. My actions speaking louder than my words could in this moment; that I believed he was still out there too.

I laid in bed the rest of the night staring up at the ceiling, nearly giving up on the possibility that I would get a wink of rest. It was almost laughable that I thought I'd be able to begin with.

All day I've been trying not to let my emotions get the best of me while constantly seeming to spiral, yet somehow it was always worse when nightfall hit. When you're able to think the most without any kind of diversion, which led me to believe that's why I hated it the most when I was alone. It caused me to ponder all of the things I could've done differently within the past day, week, or even year. Leaving me with almost too much to think about.

"Rose?"

I practically jumped out of my skin when I heard the hushed voice in the threshold of my bedroom door, instinctively reaching for the nightstand drawer where I had my gun. But then my squinted eyes met Maggie's through the sea of darkness, and I exhaled a sigh of relief. Yeah, don't shoot her.

"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me." I whispered with my hand raising to my chest, feeling how fast my heart was beating.

Her expression grew sheepish as she slowly stepped into the room, "I'm sorry."

I waved her off, "No, no it's okay." I reassured before sitting up on the mattress, "What's going on?"

"Uh..." she hesitated a little, lingering awkwardly by the edge of the bed, "I just...I don't know if I can be alone tonight." her quiet voice admitted.

My eyes saddened a bit, seeing we were both in the same boat with this heavy loneliness. Neither of us wanting to spend it completely alone. I immediately pulled the blankets back for her, patting the space next to me as a silent invitation. She smiled gratefully at my understanding, moving around to the other side of the bed and climbing in comfortably under the covers just beside me. We both laid back in silence, neither one of us feeling the need to fill the void.

I didn't know how much time had passed as we simply listened to the soft sounds just outside the cracked window, but it was clear both of us were still awake. Admittedly it was comforting having someone next to me in a moment like this, especially Maggie whose conflicting emotions matched my own. Knowing at any point, I could speak up about what was surely circling both of our minds. And she would listen.

"You know why I came here?" her tired voice unexpectedly asked.

I looked over, seeing she was on the brink of falling asleep. But I responded regardless out of pure curiosity. "Why?"

"Because...you feel like home to me. I'm glad you're here." she whispered before letting out a small sigh in content.

My heart fluttered with a warmth of comfort, finding I couldn't respond the way I wanted to as I was thrown of guard at her sincerity. So, instead I simply leaned down to press a kiss against the top of her head, smoothing her hair down gently to express how much that meant to me to hear out loud.

~ Thanks for reading!

"This is where it all starts tomorrow!" he continued, "Tobin gets in the truck, opens the exit and we're off. He hops out and catches up with his team at red, staying on the west side of the road. Daryl and Rose get on the bikes-"

But his voice was suddenly drowned out by the loud sound of rumbling coming from just the other side of the quarry.

"You see that?" Sasha yelled.

Our attention was drawn to where one of the vehicles that was blocking the exit, slowly falling into the large open space, giving the walkers an opening to escape from the far side. My eyes widened as the opportunity became greater and greater for them to slip through the cracks, not giving us the chance to wait until tomorrow like we planned. We wanted to be able to control this, to lead them away from the community, and now it was all happening abruptly.

"It's open! We gotta do this now!" Rick called out urgently.

Upon hearing that, the rest sprang into action and headed toward the vehicles we were meant to take for each of our roles in the plan. We all seemed to have the same panicked looks printed on our faces, yet a determination in our eyes, wanting to protect the safeness of our home more than anything.

"Tobin's group, get moving now! Go!" Rick shouted.

"No, Rick we aren't ready!" Carter tried to protest.

He ignored him, "Sasha! Abraham! You meet Daryl and Rose at red. Let them take the walkers through the gauntlet."

"Yeah, we meet at red." Sasha confirmed with a nod of her head before she and Abraham quickly climbed into the maroon painted car.

"Get ready to hit the flares!" Rick yelled right before he gave Tobin the signal to open up the entrance, letting the walkers out.

I saw the red car disappear out of the corner of my eye, keeping my focus solely on the two semis that were slowly being pulled apart by the large pickup and strong chains, the dead clawing their way out the second they had the chance. The magazine of the machine gun I held clicked as I loaded it, firing a few bullets at the first few I saw while slowly backing up, using the sound to draw them closer alongside everyone else. And when I saw the red flares, I knew it was time to move.

The cars around peeled out of the area to head to their selected checkpoints, leaving no more than a cloud of dust behind. I dashed in the other direction with my eyes locked downward, reloading my gun and strapping it across my torso before hopping onto the motorcycle. It loudly roared to life when I started it, sensing Daryl following suit beside me to straddle his own bike, securing his weapon around him. My eyes drifted to the side mirror, revving the engine a few times to train the walkers attention directly onto us. The decaying eyes easily caught onto all of our noise, their snarls intensifying as they dragged their feet in our direction. Leading the pack of them straight toward us.

"Ya ready?" Daryl called out.

I nodded subtly, "As I'll ever be..."

With one last lingering look to one another, the two of us took off at the same time down the dirt road. All of the walking dead following close behind us.

"Sorry I was an asshole. Come to Washington. The new world is going to need Rick Grimes."

I read that last part over and over so it would echo in my mind. The new world. That felt like the right thing to call this period of time, and Rick Grimes just so happened to fit the role.

After introducing myself to the man named Morgan, Rick didn't waste any time taking the two of us, alongside Daryl, back to the house to get everything straight. And partly to be out of such a public eye. I had learned a great deal of things on our journey back, but the one that remained the most important was Morgan was the man that had saved Rick's life in the very beginning of all of this. The first person he came across after waking from his coma. He had sacrificed a great deal for Rick and now just recently saved Daryl from what I had briefly overheard...I liked him already.

The house was quiet as we all lingered in the kitchen, sitting myself at one of the barstools of the island with Daryl practically glued to my side. Loudly slurping some cereal like he hadn't had a real meal in months. Though despite his eagerness to get something in his stomach, he continued to offer me bite after bite even though I insisted I wasn't hungry, he wouldn't stop until I ate. It was like the second he caught a glimpse of my beaten face, he felt guilty he wasn't here to prevent it, and was now trying to make up for it in every possible way.

"You were right." Morgan spoke up, looking toward Rick with a smile, "It wasn't over."

Rick nodded to himself, his eyes glancing around the room as if looking for something to fill the awkward silence in the air. But it was clear he didn't want to get into anything in front of the two of us. "We should talk more about this tomorrow. But listen...I don't take chances anymore."

Morgan hummed in understanding, "And you shouldn't."

Another pause drifted through the room, almost as if Rick didn't know how to act around such a familiar face he hadn't seen in what felt like years. When no one else had the urge to speak I tried to defuse the tension a bit, especially since the man couldn't have walked in at a worse time witnessing Rick blatantly murder someone.

"So, you two go way back, huh?" I questioned.

"Yeah, we really do." Morgan confirmed, "Hardly knew a thing when we crossed paths. Looked like an idiot trying to kill his first walker." he tried to joke.

I bit back a laugh upon seeing Rick's reaction to his comment, "Oh yeah, I'd love to hear about it."

He opened his mouth to speak, but Rick abruptly cut him off, "I don't think we need all this tonight. We should just...rest up."

"Rick, come on." I said, sending him a look, "At least let him get settled a bit."

He just shook his head, "No, we're all tired. Let's just turn in for the night, yeah?"

"Ya look like shit man." Daryl piped up, "Better wash up before anythin."

Rick scoffed, "Right." he muttered, before nodding toward Morgan to follow him to show where he would be staying.

The man seemed to instantly get up to follow him out, not putting up much of a fight considering he was in our territory now. Wanting to abide by the rules Rick was setting in stone. But a part of me felt a little bad for him, knowing exactly what Rick meant when he said he wasn't taking any chances. He would plan on keeping Morgan in one of the cell-like rooms until they talked properly. And after seeing it for myself, it wasn't particularly cozy.

The front door closing brought me out of my head, and I immediately glanced over toward Daryl to find he was already staring at me. "Go ahead." I whispered.

His eyes saddened the longer he looked, but he couldn't quite open his mouth to speak. I shifted myself off of my seat to come closer and stand between his legs, raising my hand to move some of the hair that was stuck to his face. "Come on. Ask me."  I tried again.

A heavy breath escaped him as he felt my touch, "What happened?"

"I'm glad you asked," I said lightheartedly which earned a scoff from him, "There was a fight that got a little too out of hand. The doctor here, he was abusing his wife. His family. And the second Rick and I tried to stop it; he obviously lashed out and did some damage. But everything's fine...I'm fine."

He studied me. Hung onto every word I was saying as if trying to decipher if I was telling the whole truth. Gripping onto every last detail. "Same asshole Rick just shot?"

I nodded, "That's the one."

"Would've taken care of the son of a bitch myself." he spoke lowly.

"Oh, I'm sure you would've, honey." I said sweetly, taking the time to brush his hair back again, "But don't worry about it, okay? It's done."

He studied me for a moment longer before reluctantly nodding his head, his arms coming up to wrap around me and draw me in even closer, "I missed ya." he mumbled into my shirt.

I laughed softly, "You have no idea." I muttered as I ran my fingers through his hair soothingly.

It didn't take long for us to trail back to our own home and stay within each other's reach for the rest of the night. Talking nonstop for what felt like forever as we each swapped stories about how terrible the past couple days had been for the both of us. While he was out there dealing with a group of dead ones that trapped him and Aaron in a car for hours, I was stuck in a different sense dealing with something just as dangerous. In hindsight it all seemed pretty dreadful, but I felt it was worth it just to be in this moment with him again.

I missed this. And I found comfort in knowing that I would sleep soundly tonight, not worried about the dangers lurking outside as long as he was right here.

The sound of Rick's voice roughly came through the walkie that Daryl had attached to his jacket, reminding everyone of what their job was as we all spread out in different directions. I could still feel my heart racing at how unexpectedly things had gone downhill, feeling not at all prepared for the turn of events. But we didn't have much of a choice now, just a very long and dreadful drive onward.

My eyes briefly flickered down to the speedometer to see we were going about fifteen miles an hour, just fast enough to stay out of reach of the dead continuing to trail on our asses. I kept checking my mirrors every few seconds, a little paranoid that something would go wrong even though things seemed to be running smoothly thus far. Well, as far as smoothly could go considering the walkers managed to get out a whole day earlier than we had anticipated.

"How ya doin?"

I looked over when I heard Daryl's voice cut through all the noise, nodding my head reassuringly. "Fine...just still a little shook up. I hope everyone's alright."

"Yeah, me too," he agreed with a shake of his head, glancing back at the horde with a furrow of his brow. It seemed to be doubling in size already, there had to be thousands that were stuck in that quarry until they were starving. The two of us probably looked like two giant pieces of steak that they just couldn't get a hold of fast enough.

He glanced back over to me after a moment, eyeing the motorcycle I rode, "The bike runnin okay?"

I sent him a knowing look, "Yes, it's running fine. You know, I think the guy who fixed it up has a little crush on me. He did it for free."

He grinned, "Nah, I think it's gonna cost ya."

"Oh, yeah? How much?"

He thought to himself for a moment, tapping his fingers on the handles before saying, "Fifty kisses...and a massage." he quickly added at the end.

I laughed and nodded along to his terms, "Alright, done. I guess I'll have to start paying up by the time we get back."

"Guess so." he shrugged, sending me a wink before looking back at the road in front of us.

I woke the following morning feeling sore and a little disoriented, my lower back especially throbbing from the extra weight of uncertainty that I still continued to carry. Blindly I reached out to the other side of the bed to try and feel for him, but the space beside me was cold and empty. Not that it surprised me much, that man always woke up at the crack of dawn.

My brows furrowed a little as I opened my eyes to see if he was anywhere around the room, until I spotted what was sitting on the nightstand. It was a little piece of torn paper with my name scribbled across it, accompanied by a pretty yellow flower. I smiled to myself before reaching out to pick it up, reading over what he had wrote.

"I'm outside working on the bike. Take your time waking up, come out and keep me company.

-D <3

P.S. Saw the flower and thought of you."

His sweet words only made my smile soften. I really had missed him beyond what I could fathom.

It didn't take me long then to get up and put on some real clothes so I could head outside and join him. The house was filled with a comforting kind of silence as I headed through the kitchen, not at all like the sinking feeling that had been present the past couple days. With everything going on and the high tension flooding the community, it felt nice to sense that things were actually moving forward now for the better. I pulled a couple granola bars from the pantry before heading out the front door, seeing him hunched over in the driveway working on his prized possession.

My approaching footsteps caught his attention almost immediately, his head turning to glance over his shoulder at me with a scrunch of his face that could only be caused by the blinding sun. "Mornin." he greeted.

I smiled, "Goodmorning." I repeated before sitting myself down beside him, extending one of the bars out to him, "You hungry?"

"Oh, uh..." he trailed off before raising his hands to show they were coated with grease and other kinds of disgusting grime. I shook my head in amusement before opening the wrapper myself, holding it up to his mouth so he could take a bite without touching it.

"How does she run?" I asked as I gestured toward the bike.

"Great," he mumbled with his mouth full, "Was makin a weird noise towards the end of the trip, wanted ta take a look before we go back out."

My brows furrowed a little in concern, but I shook it off quickly before he was able to notice, "Right..." I nodded, "You guys are leaving again soon?"

He glanced back at me again, offering a small shrug, "Dunno yet, Aaron hasn't said nothin. Why, you tryin to get rid of me?" he joked.

"No," I huffed softly, "I'm just asking. I'd like to know how much time I can get with you before you're off out there again."

I noticed how his gaze softened a bit before turning to face me properly, "If ya didn't want me doin this...you would tell me, right?"

"Hey, I was the one who encouraged it." I assured softly, "I want you to get out there as much as you want. I want you to put yourself first for a change."

He scoffed with a shake of his head, "Ain't ever gonna put myself first as long as yer around, baby."

My eyes rolled playfully but I couldn't stop myself from smiling, "Fine. Do whatever you want, I give up." I mumbled sarcastically.

I heard him chuckle deeply before he wrapped an arm around my frame to tug me closer, leaning down to peck my lips a few times. Each one a little bit longer than the last to melt the fake frown right off of my face.

"M' gonna keep doin it," he murmured as he brought his forehead to rest against mine, "But trust me, m' plannin to be here a lot more than out there."

His reassuring tone brought a sense of relief to me, nodding my head in agreement. I just wanted him happy, no matter what the cost was. But what I really needed to do was accept the fact that I was a big part of his happiness, still finding it hard to convince myself of that at times. It might seem ridiculous, but I was continuously in disbelief of the luck I was given in receiving a man like him.

He placed one final kiss on my lips before pulling back a bit, "Alright, now gimmie another bite." he said playfully before leaning down toward my hand to eat more of the granola bar.

I laughed softly as he turned back to continue to tinker with the motorcycle in front of us, picking up a new tool with a quiet grunt. The wheels were turning in my head while my gaze lingered on him, finding I had an idea.

"You should let me drive this one sometime." I stated casually.

His movements halted momentarily before he turned back to raise a brow at me, "It don't work exactly like the last one."

"I know." I nodded confidently, "But I think I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah, why's that?"

"I have a pretty good teacher." I winked.

He glanced at me once again with a somewhat bashful grin on his face, "Stop..." he muttered in slight embarrassment, his neck flushing a bit red.

A small silence settled over us again while he continued to work, leaning back on my hands and crossing my ankles out right in front of me comfortably. I took in the surroundings of the settlement, watching people out and about this morning yet it was a little different than what we had gotten used to. After everything that happened last night, it was clear that the people were still a bit shaken at how it all escalated, and I couldn't even imagine how Deanna was handling it at all.

She was finally starting to see the harsh reality of the real world, but at the cost of losing yet another person she loved. I couldn't predict what she planned to do now; continue to run this place? Or have Rick take over like we've been pushing for since the beginning? He could do it, but it all seemed like a lot. Especially since he hasn't tried to lead a large group like this in...well, ever. The prison didn't really count in my eyes considering he just mostly kept to himself and the crops, while everyone on the council made all the big decisions. I couldn't help but wonder how he was handling all this as well.

"What if we get cha one?" Daryl asked suddenly.

I snapped back into reality, "One what?"

He gestured to the motorcycle in front of him, "A bike. What if I found ya one and fixed it up for ya? Would ya ride it?"

My eyes brightened with excitement, "You'd really do that?"

"Yeah," he said with a shrug, "Noticed there's a dump not too far from here, that place is probably a goldmine for hunks of junk."

"But you'd make it really pretty and shiny for me, right?"

He chuckled, "Course...anythin for ya."

I smiled sweetly at him before leaning in to leave a quick kiss on his cheek, only to pull away with a scrunched up nose when I tasted whatever kind of dirt had gotten on his skin. He chuckled in amusement as I wiped my lips off a few times, turning my head to spit whatever had gotten in my mouth. "Gross."

"I'll wash up before I come back inside." he promised.

"Yeah, you better." I muttered, taking my sleeve to wipe my lips one last time, "I don't want a trail of mud to follow you on our nice clean floor."

He hummed in amusement as he unscrewed another bolt, "Yes ma'am."

My hand reached out to gently nudge his side, before instinctively glancing up at the sound of someone's approaching footsteps that came from just down the street, seeing Rick heading over with a serious expression on his face. That alone caused my heart to sink a little. Leave it to him to always ruin my mood.

He nodded to us in greeting before resting his hands on his hips, "Morgan's all settled in." he announced.

"He okay with it?" Daryl grunted.

The man shrugged, "It was pretty much his idea. He gets it."

"I don't know...I don't really like the fact that we had him sitting in there like a caged animal overnight." I muttered as I glanced up at him.

"He gets it." Rick repeated, "He wasn't stable the last I saw him...I want to make sure he's okay before I put my trust in him again."

The two of us nodded in reluctant agreement, understanding his reasoning. Though clearly not expecting this kind of welcome. "You know, he told me what happened out there with the trucks."

"Did he tell ya about the guy's he saw...with the W's." Daryl gestured on his forehead.

"Just like the walker I saw out there, yeah. We need more watch points. And I'm going to tell Deanna we don't need to go looking for people anymore."

My brows furrowed, "But they just started recruiting again, why would you want them to stop now?"

"It's not safe." he said simply, "People out there, they gotta take care of themselves." There was a beat of silence between us as he chewed on his lip in thought, but seemingly came to terms with the decision he made in the end. "I'm gonna take Morgan out of there. Shouldn't leave him longer than we have to."

My eyes narrowed a little as I watched him walk away, feeling my good mood suddenly drift away just as I expected.

"Well, that's that." Daryl said with a small shrug.

I frowned slightly before reaching down to squeeze his arm, "I'm sorry, love...I know how much you liked that job."

"Pfft, you kiddin?" he scoffed, "Now I can spend more time here. Hang around and bug ya whenever I want."

I paused for a short moment, "...Is it too late to try and change Rick's mind?"

"Hey!" he laughed at my dry response, reaching over to gently pinch my side which caused me to squeal.

I looked ahead to see the familiar red balloons coming into view, the same ones we had set up merely hours ago to the selected spot where we needed to meet. The walkie abruptly clicked on once more, hearing Sasha's voice breaking through the mild static, "We're at red, at the bottom of the hill."

Daryl reached up to speak into the device, "Alright. Here comes the parade."

The two of us began to pick up speed slightly as we came down the decline, still keeping a safe distance away from the walkers. I could almost feel their cold, dead fingers trying to grasp at us every time I checked back to see how far away they remained. But as I took another glance at my right mirror, I could spot a handful of them trailing off into the woods.

My hand retracted to make the engine grumble again in hopes it would draw them back onto the road to follow the rest, needing to keep them all in line. And while it grasped their attention again, I couldn't help but notice something strange while I was distracted with the ones who wandered. I squinted my eyes to see a specific corpse had what looked to be the letter "W" carved into its forehead, the same marking we were briefly discussing not long ago. Although I couldn't put a finger on why, something about seeing it made me oddly uncomfortable.

Our bikes smoothly glided onto the main road once we reached the bottom, seeing the car Sasha drove pulling out in front of us once she saw we were close enough. Daryl nodded to them wordlessly before we began to follow behind the vehicle toward the next color of balloons lined up.

I glanced over at Daryl once we were safely on the steady road, deciding to speak up. "Hey," I called to grasp his attention, "When you guys were talking about the guys with the W's. What exactly was that all about?"

"I dunno," he answered honestly, "Aaron and I saw some dead bastard with that marking on him. Thought it was nothin...til Morgan mentioned he had a run in with a guy that had the same thing carved into his head."

I nodded slowly, "You think it's a cult or something?"

"Could be." he agreed, briefly glancing ahead to make sure he was driving straight.

I went quiet for a moment, almost not wanting to say what I was thinking out loud. "Should we be worried?"

His gaze softened a bit upon hearing my obvious concern, "Nah. Even if something happens, we can handle it."

Nodding my head again, I managed to flash a little smile before looking forward again. I didn't want to worry about the potential outcome for any longer than I had, knowing we had much more important things to focus on.

Sitting in one of the far corners of the room, I scanned around thoroughly at the people that were crowding one by one into Deanna's living area. Needing to discuss a new problem that had unexpectedly occurred.

A man named Heath had just returned from a two weeklong supply run alongside his friends Annie and Scott, only to come back and report that something serious was building to the point of no return. Thousands of walkers had allegedly been trapped in a quarry not too far away from here, and the pressure was getting dangerously close to cracking. He went onto explain how people in the past must've tried to block the exits the best they could, but it just wasn't working, and the amount was just getting too high to ignore anymore.

So of course, we needed to take care of it. Why is it always something?

"So, all the while the walkers have been drawn by the sound and they're just making more of it. Drawing more in." Michonne had concluded.

"And here we are," Rick said, "Now, what I'm proposing I know sounds risky, but walkers are already slipping through the exits. One of the trucks keeping the walkers in could go off the edge any day now. Maybe after one more hard rain. That exit sends them east. All of them. Right at us. This isn't about if it gives, it's when. It's gonna happen, that's why we have to do this soon."

There was silence all around us and Daryl and I shared a nervous glance as we stood side by side up against the wall. I knew we could take care of this once we had the plan settled out, but I was more anxious that everyone around us would underestimate themselves, which could ultimately cause us to fail. We couldn't be weak when it came to things like this.

Carol was the first one to break the tension, "This is...I don't even have a word for it- this is terrifying. All of it. But it doesn't sound like there's any other way."

"We're going to do what Rick says." Deanna spoke up, "The plan he's laid out."

I smiled a little to myself. She was trusting him.

"I told you all, we're going to have Daryl and Rose leading them away on the bike," Rick continued.

"I'll help too." Sasha spoke up, "I'll take a car, ride next to them. It can't just be those two. I'll keep them coming, they keep them from getting sloppy."

Abraham stood, "I should go with her. It's a long way to white-knuckle it solo."

Rick nodded, "We'll have two teams. One on each side of the forest helping manage this thing. We're gonna have a few people on watch from now on, so Rosita, Spencer, and Holly are out. So, who's in?"

"Me." Michonne said almost immediately.

Glenn and Maggie seemed to have a small, hushed discussion on the couch before Glenn nodded his head towards Rick, "I'm in."

"I'd like to help as well." Gabriel piped up quietly.

"No," Rick shut down without missing a beat, "Who else?"

There was a brief pause as everyone glanced around the room to see who would speak up next, before a man named Carter put himself forward, "There's gotta be another play. We can't control that many."

"I said it before; walkers herd up. They'll follow a path if something is drawing them. That's how we can get them all at once." Rick explained.

"So what? We're just supposed to take your word for it? We're all supposed to just fall in line behind you after..." Carter trailed off, suddenly seeming to regret his choice of words.

"After what?" I challenged, daring him to say something else.

His gaze snapped back up when he heard my unexpected comment, "After he waved a gun around, screaming and pointing it at other people. After he shot a guy in the face. After he-"

"Enough." Deanna snapped.

Her words put an end to our bickering, leaving another quiet moment lingering in the room. "...I'll do it." Heath suddenly offered.

"Me too." Serena spoke up.

"Whatever you need, I'm in." Tobin said.

People from all corners of the room then began to join in to my surprise, even Nicholas stepped up and said he would gladly come along. I didn't know if I trusted him, hardly at all after seeing how beaten and bruised Glenn was after spending last night with him alone. But in this kind of situation, everyone counted.

"The plan, go through it again." Carter requested.

Daryl huffed, "Man, he just said it."

He brushed him off, "Every part again. The exact plan."

I sighed and leaned my head against the wall behind me. This was going to be a long ass meeting.

The group of us had managed to make it a few miles out which only left my mind drifting. No one really warns you when you sign up for these kinds of things that it can slowly become mind numbingly boring. Your eyes scanning over the same things repeatedly as time seemed to go by impossibly slower.

The only thing that was really keeping my spirits high now was the fact that I was able to take out my new bike. I don't know how, but within the week of trying to plan this entire thing, Daryl had actually went out time and time again until he managed to find a motorcycle to fix up for me just like he promised. It was an older model and a little beat up, but I loved it. And I loved the look on his face even more when he proudly presented it to me for the first time. It warmed my heart how much he beamed with pride just by bringing me back something special.

"You seein this?"

My attention diverted from the road to where Daryl was gesturing, seeing that a small group of walkers were slowly veering a little too far off to the right. Again, seeming to have more interest in the woods than continuing on with the herd. I tried to make some noise to get them back in place, but this time it didn't seem to work. Like they were already too far out to care about where we were attempting to lead them on.

I racked my brain on how to try and get them back before they ran into another one of our groups within the trees, but the sound of the car door opening in front of us made my thought process come to a complete halt. Abraham abruptly swung the passenger side door open and leap out in some kind of rush, before heading straight in the direction of the forest to chase after the walkers. My brain almost couldn't even fathom what he was doing.

"Hey-" I tried to warn as he sprinted past me, but he didn't listen.

Instead he kept going, waving his arms around and screaming like a goddamn lunatic trying to get their attention. "Abraham! What the hell are you doing? Get your ass back here!" I yelled after him, but he couldn't seem to hear me over his own yells and laughter.

I huffed in irritation and tried to keep an eye on his figure to pinpoint how far he was willing to go, spotting him weaving through the trees. All the sound he was making eventually grasped their attention again, getting them to follow behind him as they obviously picked up their pace to try and reach for him. He swerved through the ones in his way, having to kill about one or two before making a complete break for it back to the car.

I wanted to stop this bike, stop the whole thing and just beat the shit out of him for doing something like that. Nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack while Daryl watched the whole thing in amusement.

He quickly ran past me, "I'm gonna kick your ass! Don't do that!" I yelled after him.

"I'm still alive, Missy!" he called back.

"Not when I get my hands on you!"

He smiled at me while he laughed in pure delusion, before hopping back into the moving car, allowing myself to let out a breath of relief knowing that he was okay. Although I looked over to Daryl in slight disbelief, he however didn't look phased in the slightest.

"Ginger's are crazy." he put simply.

"Yeah, batshit crazy." I agreed.

The plan was set in stone; all that needed to happen now was to execute it.

A few small groups began clearing the areas, setting up the number of checkpoints where the others would eventually meet. Their jobs were simple, set up the right color of balloons so people would know which is which and make sure it was free of walkers, prepped with supplies just in case an emergency happened and they needed to hunker down. All while we would be leading them away from Alexandira.

It was pretty simple to some of us how this was supposed to go down, but others obviously had their doubts. I understood that everything was happening very quickly, but this couldn't wait. We couldn't just brush this off. So, personally I wanted to tell them to suck it up and move on.

A few of us were heading to the armory to check and see how many spare weapons and ammo we had for when we would do this. If everything worked out the way we anticipated, we could get this done and over with within a week.

Rick opened the door for the rest of us to pile in, only to pause in surprise when we saw Eugene on the ground with a fearful face, Carter pointing a gun straight at his head from above. Once he heard the door open, his head whipped over to our direction, his skin instantly growing pale.

"What the fuck is going on?" I asked in disbelief.

But he didn't answer me, causing me to glance around the corner to see Spencer, Annie, and Tobin standing off to the side near where the guns were perched. Looking like a bunch of deer in headlights.

"What are you doing?" Rick asked lowly as he fully stepped inside to analyze the situation.

"I'm taking this place back from you." Carter said, his grip tightening on his gun and a slight quiver lacing his voice.

Rick looked a little taken aback, his gaze turning towards the others who were present in the room, "That's what you were talking about in here?"

"It's what he was talking about." Spencer said with his hands raised in defense, "The rest of us didn't want any part of it."

Rick just simply nodded his head, "See, I would have set up some lookouts. That would've been the smart thing. You know...if I happened to-" he suddenly cut himself off and snapped Carter's arm back to snatch the gun back from him before the man could do any damage.

Once he had it in his hands, he shoved the man onto the floor and pointed the weapon at his face while tilting his head at him. I took a subtle step back to offer Eugene a hand, helping him back up to his feet as we all watched the ugly scene unfold.

"You really think you're gonna take this community from us?" he asked with an edge to his tone.

The man couldn't respond, looking up at him with wide eyes and now looking more like a kicked puppy than the whole tough guy thing he was trying to pull off. "From Michonne? From Daryl? From Rose? From me? ...Do you have any idea who you're talking to?" Rick continued to question.

"It was just me." Carter whispered. "It- it was just me. Just- just kill me." he muttered in fear.

I looked up at Rick once he said that, seeing that a part of him looked to be considering it. But I knew that couldn't happen. Not when he had killed Pete just last night, and these people were still holding some kind of grudge for it. And by "people" I meant Carter. The room was thick with tension, and nobody wanted to breathe a word as they watched the two men with anticipation. Rick had that same far off look in his eyes, one that was all too familiar for me to recognize, and I didn't want him to do something he regretted later.

"Rick..." I voiced to get his attention.

He met my eyes for a beat, before nodding his head, "Yeah, I'm good...I'm good." he reassured before lowering the gun from his skull to hand it over to me.

I took it from his grasp and quickly tucked it behind my back, "You can try to work with us." Rick told him, "You can try to survive. Would you do that?"

All the man could do was nod his head.

I could tell we were less than a mile away from seeing our next checkpoint, the first real accomplishment we had come across. After the four of us had drew them out to this point, the rest were in the clear to head back home as they had done their part. While we would continue on about twenty more miles to ensure they wouldn't be making it back to the shared community. It seemed like we were in the clear now.

That is until an unexpected sound ripped through the air that made my blood run cold. A car horn blaring through the silent air behind us, distracting almost half of the herd. Son of a bitch, I had to jinx it didn't I?

Daryl immediately pulled out the radio to try and get a hold of someone to see what was happening. Each channel he turned to, no one was there to respond or report back. And right now it seemed impossible to stay calm.

"Rick!" Daryl yelled into the walkie.

A few seconds later, it finally clicked, "I'm here." he said, his voice barely registering over the static.

"What's goin on back there?" he asked.

"Half of them broke off, they're going towards Alexandria." he said with a shaky voice.

My head whipped over to Daryl upon hearing Rick's words, watching his face drop upon processing the one thing we dreaded to hear. And in an instant, I felt that same sense of worry I had brushed off before, somehow knowing from the very beginning that something would go wrong out here.

"Mother dick." I heard Abraham mutter under his breath.

Yeah...mother dick.

~ Thanks for reading!

Falling for Steve Harrington was not something you expected. Back in high school, you hated him. Well, hate may be too strong of a word, but you didn’t like him. He was arrogant, rude at times, and all around only seemed to care about himself, but that was before everything in Hawkins turned upside down, no pun intended.

You worked with him and Robin at Scoops Ahoy and later at Family Video. You saw how protective he was of his friends, how goofy he could be, and just how kind-hearted and caring he was. Before you even realized it, you were head over heels for him.

Steve had really proven himself time and time again that he had changed for the better, but there was one thing you knew would never change,

his feelings for Nancy.

Nancy Wheeler was perfect. Smart, ambitious, creative, driven, brave, beautiful, you could go on. Not to mention she was a complete badass. She truly was perfect, and it was no surprise that Steve fell for her, hard. And despite what your friends told you, you knew you were nothing like Nancy, not even in the slightest.

A sting echoed in your chest whenever you saw the way he looked at her, with such love and admiration. You wished you could talk to Robin about it, but to you it seemed that she was rooting for the two of them to get back together, so you wallowed in self-pity instead, allowing yourself to get lost in your daydreams of what it might be like to gain Steve’s affection. There were times when he would smile at you that you thought, if only just for the tiniest moment, he might have feelings for you, but once Nancy was even mentioned, Steve would go all moony-eyed. Lately, it seemed he was in some sort of competition with Jonathan to gain her favor. Your only saving grace with that was Nancy seemed more annoyed by it than flattered, which you didn’t blame her, there more pressing matters at hand.

One such example of Steve and Jonathan’s feud happened when you, Dustin, Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan all got to Hawkins Lab in the Upside Down.

Dustin told you all his theory of there being a shield generator somewhere in the lab that would take down the wall, so you set off to look for it.

When you opened the door to the stairwell, you looked over towards the others, “Up or down?”

Nancy answered right away with a sense of determination, “I say both. Search in two teams. Cover more ground.”

“Yeah, that’s cool with me, but can we just switch the teams up? Nance, you and me go up?”

“Really, Steve?” You released a huff of air, trying not to take offence by Steve’s suggestion, but it went unnoticed when Jonathan responded to the idea in clear annoyance.

“Are you serious?”

“Me and Henderson need some space.”

“Please.” Dustin begged.

“Fine. How about me and you?” Jonathan suggested.

“I think we need some space too.” The tone of Steve’s voice shifted, and you wanted to roll your eyes

“Fine, then how about Dustin comes with us, and you go with Y/N?”

“Uh…um,” Steve hesitated, not able to come up with an answer, and it left a bitter sting in your heart.

Jonathan laughed, “What, you need space from her too? So, everyone but Nancy. That’s just convenient.”

“I don’t need space from—” Steve was cut off by Nancy.

“Hey! We don’t have time for this. Let’s just keep it simple, stick to the usual teams,” both Steve and Dustin tried to protest, but Nancy shut them down, “End of discussion.”

As Nancy and Jonathan made their way up the stairs, you turned to Steve, “Well, guess you’re stuck with me. Sorry. Let’s go.”

Steve gave an exasperated sigh before following you and Dustin down the stairs, “Just awesome.”

~

Your descent to the basement of the lab was silent. The tension between Steve and Dustin could have been cut with a knife, and a dull one at that, and the tension between you and Steve was only getting thicker, though that may have been more one-sided on your part. The silence was killing you. You just hoped that you would find this shield generator thing, so you could leave as quickly as possible before any of the tension escalated.

But things never seem to work out the way you want them to.

You had gone with Dustin to continue searching in the basement, leaving Steve in the rainbow room, much to his disappointment. The almost sad look in his eyes when you told him you were going to go with Dustin made you want to run over to him and apologize, but you didn’t feel like being alone with him. Unfortunately, your search came up empty, and when you returned to the rainbow room, you found Steve struggling to solve a Rubik’s Cube.

“Really you’re actually playing in here?” Dustin asked snidely.

“I’m just following orders, dude,” Steve threw his hands up in exasperation, the only mood he seemed to have towards Dustin lately, “Judging by your pissy look, I assume you didn’t find the shield generator.”

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere.” You answered.

“But you didn’t find it.” Steve’s cynical tone made you want to slap him; you really hated when he was like this.

“Yeah, not on this floor.” Dustin bit back in an equally irritated tone.

“Dustin’s right, let’s just head back up and catch up to Nancy and Jonathan.” You turned to head for the stairs but stopped when Steve stood up and continued berating Dustin.

“So, you were wrong.”

Dustin rolled his eyes, “You would just love that, wouldn’t you?”

“Guys,” you released an annoyed huff and muttered to yourself, “this really isn’t the time for this.”

“No, I’m just stating a fact.”

“No, you’re gloating,” Dustin countered, “Despite the fact that if I am wrong, we don’t reach past the wall, and don’t find Holly and the other kids. Do you understand how selfish you’re being?

“Okay, Dustin—” You attempted to try and deescalate, but Steve cut you off.

“Me? Selfish?” he pointed to himself then to Dustin, “You wanna talk about selfish? How about when we finally reach Hop and El, we promptly ditched them to pursue this bullshit theory of yours? Not to mention, you’re the reason that we lost contact with them in the first place because of your no-show at the crawl. So, this whole mess is actually your fault. And I haven’t heard so much as a sorry.”

“Steve—” You were cut off again by Dustin.

“Shit. Again, it’s not like I just didn’t show up, Steve. I was attacked.”

“No, you wanted a fight, and that’s exactly what you got. Just look at your face, man,” Steve stepped closer to Dustin, “You’ve done some stupid shit in the past, but this? Man, this takes the cake.”

“You wanna talk to me about dumb shit? How about chasing somebody else’s girlfriend while the world is ending?”

And with that, you admitted defeat to yourself and leaned against the wall with your arms crossed, figuring that once this long overdue argument blew over, you all could get back to the task at hand.

Steve quickly glanced over at you, then back to Dustin, “Nancy is a friend. She’s a friend, okay? You remember what that’s like? Having friends?”

“Yeah, I do remember what it was like to have a good friend, a real friend who actually believed in me, and who was actually kind to me.”

“Aha!” Steve exclaimed, wagging his finger as if he had just pulled the truth out of Dustin, “Aha!”

“What?”

“There we go. What this has all been about, really, is Eddie. All your bullshit, pushing everyone away, it’s because no one could ever be as perfect as he was.”

You noticed Dustin tense at the mention of Eddie. It was clear that Eddie’s death took a toll on Dustin. He hadn’t been the same since, and everyone moving on, even if it was just for the sake of appearances, didn’t help him with his grieving.

“He wasn’t perfect, but at least he knew that, unlike you.” Steve scoffed but Dustin continued, “He was never fake. He didn’t care what other people thought about him. He was just himself. And you know what? He was the smartest, kindest person I’ve ever met. And he would’ve solved this,” Dustin held up the Rubik’s Cube Steve had been working on, “in thirty seconds flat.

“Well, if I’m such a goddamn idiot, how come I’m the one still standing here?”

Your head snapped in Steve’s direction, and you spoke to him with urgency and sternness “Steve, don’t.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“That night, I told you not to be heroes. I told both of you. What did Eddie do? He charged into a swarm of killer bats.”

“To save my life!”

“He saved no one.”

“Steve!” You interjected.

“He saved everyone!”

“You can keep telling yourself that, Henderson, but deep down, the reason you’re so goddamn pissed is because you know the truth. Eddie wanted play hero, and he made a dumb call, and he got himself killed.”

“Shut up!”

Dustin threw the Rubik’s Cube at Steve, then lunged at him, backing him up against the wall. Steve tried to pull him off, taking the punches that Dustin landed on his side.

“Dustin, stop!” You ran over towards them, hoping in vain that Dustin would give up the fight.

“What the hell, man? Stop it!” Steve managed to shove Dustin off, causing him to fall to the floor, but Dustin grabbed a nearby chessboard and started hitting Steve in the legs. Steve was on the defensive, only blocking Dustin’s hits and punches, not wanting to hurt him. Right as Dustin was about to land another hit, you grabbed his arm, telling him again to stop. He shoved you back with enough force to make you crash into one of the shelves of toys and games and fall to the floor. You heard Steve scream out your name before Dustin landed another blow, this time to his face.

“Enough, man! Enough!” Steve grabbed Dustin, trying to pin down his arms, “Stop!”

Dustin drove Steve back into the wall again, and they both fell to the floor.

As Steve began to stand up, he looked at Dustin with a pained expression, “You know what, man? I’m done,” he walked over to you and crouched down, “You good?”

You nodded, allowing Steve to take hold of your hand and help you stand.

“I’m done.” Steve said again as the two of you left the room.

“Alright, yeah, just go and crawl back to Nance!” Dustin yelled, “You dumb…fake asshole!”

The sadness in Dustin’s voice broke your heart. You wanted to stay and make sure he was alright, but Steve pulled you along until you were back in the stairwell.

He sat you down on the stairs and crouched down in front of you, looking over your face for any injuries, “Where did he hit you?”

“Steve, I’m fine, really.” You pushed his hands away.

“No, he hurt you, let me make sure you’re okay.”

“Steve!” you stood up, “I’m fine. Let’s just go up.”

You started up the stairs, but he got in front of you and blocked you from going up any further, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“What the hell’s wrong with me? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Steve deflated, sitting down on the steps. “Great, so now you’re mad at me too?”

“Why would you bring up Eddie? Do you not get that Dustin is grieving? He lost someone important to him, and everyone just expects him to be able to move on, and pretending everything’s okay? Do you seriously not understand that?” you tried to stop yourself, but once you got the ball rolling it was like word vomit, “Oh, no, of course you don’t, because you don’t understand anyone’s emotions, even when someone makes them crystal freaking clear, unless it’s Nancy, then you understand everything, like you have a fucking PhD in Nance-ology.”

Steve’s brows pinched together in confusion, “What does Nance have to do with this?”

“Oh my god! She has to do with everything! Do you think we don’t see this stupid, macho, he-man competition you’ve been in with Jonathan? You have been so busy chasing after what could have been with Nancy, that you have become blind to the person who has been pining for you for two years!”

In the silence that followed your outburst, you wanted to fade away, faze into the floor or just be swallowed by it. You never meant to tell him, and even if you had one day been brave enough to, you never wanted to tell him like that.

The sting of tears filled your eyes, and you looked down to avoid Steve’s gaze.

“Um,” Steve cleared his throat, “you and I both know Robin hasn’t been pining for me.”

You couldn’t help the pathetic laugh that bubbled up from your chest; you should’ve known he wouldn’t get it. With a deep, calming breath, you plucked up your courage, “I wasn’t talking about Robin, dingus.” You sat down on the steps next to him.

You watched as Steve’s face contorted into expressions you had never seen before as he tried to work this out in his head, “Well, then who?”

“Steve, how long have we been friends?” You said, offering him assistance.

“Two yea—” he cut himself off, “oh!”

“Yeah.” you nodded, “And I feel so stupid being so jealous about Nancy, but I can’t help it. You’re in love her, and I’m nothing like her.” You buried your head in your hands and waited for the rejection, one way or another, you knew it was coming. You just wished Steve would be kind and not laugh in your face.

“I’m not in love with Nancy.”

“What?”

Steve took hold of your hand and pulled it away from your face, “I may have been, but I’m not anymore.”

“I don’t understand.”

He chuckled, “Listen, when Nancy and I were together, I did love her, and I’ll admit, for a while, I wasn’t sure if I would ever get over her. But then this one crazy summer, I got a job with two of the coolest people who ended up becoming my best friends,” he squeezed your hand in his, “And as we grew closer, one of those friends, I realized, was the funniest, most kind-hearted, and caring people I’ve ever met, and before I even really realized it, I fell for her, hard.”

“Steve…”

“I’m sorry for being…what’s the word Robin’s used before?”

“Obtuse?”

He snapped his fingers, “That’s the one, thank you. I’m sorry for being obtuse and not realizing how you felt.”

You squeezed his hand, “You don’t need to apologize for that.”

“Well then, I’m sorry for not telling you how I felt sooner.”

You watched Steve’s eyes glance down to your lips and butterflies filled your stomach. He began to lean in and you felt yourself lean in as well. Just before his lips could brush yours, you pulled back.

“Everything okay?” Steve asked, his voice just above a whisper.

You sighed, a single tear rolling down your cheek, “I just…I wish I could be more like Nancy.”

“Hey,” Steve wiped the tear away and gently cradled your face, “You don’t need to be like Nancy. You just need to be you. And I think you is pretty great.”

A quiet laugh fell from your lips, “I don’t think that was grammatically correct.”

“Oh, shut up.” Steve moved his hand to the back of your neck and pulled you forward, placing your lips on his. You instantly wrapped your arms around his neck and allowed yourself to get completely lost in the kiss. When Steve started to pull away, you pulled him right back in, both of you smiling as you continued.

When you finally separated, both breathless, Steve placed a quick kiss to your cheek, then leaned his forehead against yours.

“I think you need to apologize to Dustin.”

With a slightly annoyed huff, Steve leaned back, moving his hand into yours, “Are we seriously talking about Henderson right now?”

“Steve, he’s hurting. Be the bigger man. Plus, I know you are incapable of staying mad at him.”

He sighed heavily, “You’re right. But I think I need a few minutes, the little jerk packs quite the punch.”

You examined the red mark on his cheek before placing a gentle kiss to it, “That make it feel better?”