#angsty fluff

Singapore was a different beast. 

The heat during the day was oppressive but at night? There wasn’t any relief once the intense sun went down either. You were from Michigan though, that midwestern state being famous for its hot and sticky summers so you had thought you’d been prepared.

As you claimed into your sleek red car, lining up P3 behind Max and Lando though you knew you were in trouble before the green flag waved. The thing about sweating in the humidity like this is that there’s no where for the moisture on your skin to go, the air already too heavy so that slick sweat sticks to you, making you even hotter than before. 

“Fuck, this is going to be brutal.” You mumble, hoping that the braid you tied your hair in would stay for the entirety of the race. Suddenly, shaving your hair into a pixie cut like Fred had been suggesting (mostly jokingly) for weeks seemed like a good idea.  

The formation lap is fine. 

The first ten laps are fine, if not a little squirrely thanks to your car being wildly loose. 

The first fifteen laps are fine, if not a bit hot. 

But on lap 23? All hell breaks loose. 

First, your hydration system fails and you’re completely unable to get any water through the tiny straw that you usually flip into your mouth on the straightaway, just like Danny taught you. You’re sweating up a storm with no way to replenish those valuable electrolytes. 

Then, you’re so busy focusing on the fact that you’d give your first born child for a sip of water you nearly slam into the same exact wall that took George out on the last lap of last year’s race. You yank the steering wheel around so hard, you feel something in your wrist pop. The searing pain causes you to over correct and you nearly drive right into your own fucking teammate. 

“Fuck. Tell Charlie I’m sorry.” You groan over the radio, telling your engineer to pass on the message to Charles. 

“Focus on your race.” Your engineer tells you, voice obviously strained just as yours is. “Charles is fine.” 

Well, I sure as fuck am not fine. You think as you fight the car down towards the starting line. 

On lap 45, you’re granted a reprieve when a Sauber goes into the wall, bringing out a yellow flag. The leaders all duck into the pits, including yourself. There’s nothing anyone can do about your water situation and at this point, your instincts have kicked it. 

Max was right and you knew it. Singapore was hell. He had tried to tell you last night, as you had been snuggled up in bed with him, a ritual that you both had become dependent on this season. It seemed cliche, you falling for one of your rivals. You hated it but there was no denying that there was a magnetic chemistry between the two of you that had started the moment you had met last year while you were still driving in F2. 

You had resisted his charm for a while but things had taken a turn the night it was announced you’d be driving for Ferrari alongside Charles. Several of the drivers that lived in Monaco full time insisted on taking you to Jimmy Z’s to celebrate and who were you to say no to a bunch of handsome men paying for your drinks? 

The night ended just as you might expect it: Max drunkenly confessing his year-long crush on you and you drunkenly kissing him in a dark alleyway as you waited for your Uber. What had started off as a drunken confession and your reckless response that wasn’t supposed to mean anything had turned into one of the greatest things that has ever happened to you. Max and you? The pair of you were endgame. 

But none of that mattered now. Not here, in the raging heat and humidity of Singapore. You knew that Max was going to give you shit for not being better prepared the moment you got out of the car. You knew you were in for an ‘I told you so’ lecture on the plane ride back in the morning. You knew Max was right and you had been stupid to underestimate the power this track had over drivers. 

Looking back on your first race in Singapore years later, you don’t quite know how you managed to finish those last laps. Pure determination and stubbornness, Max would insist later on that night. But before you’re able to fully wrap your head around how dangerous of a situation you’d gotten yourself into, the checkered flag is waving and you’ve crossed the finish line in P3, right behind Lando and Max. 

Your third podium of the year. If you had been more coherent, you probably would have been elated. But all you could think about as you pulled your car into parc ferme, right behind that little cardboard 3 sign, was the ice bath you knew was waiting for you somewhere in the paddock. 

Your red racing suit is soaked through and through, you can feel it before you even get out of the car. It takes a mammoth effort to pull the steering wheel out of it’s dock and for a moment, you worry you’re so weak you can’t even do that. In front of you, you see Lando pop out of the car in the P1 spot, elated to have won with a healthy margin of over 20 seconds for the second time that season. 

Max is out of the car too, albeit a bit slower than Lando. There’s a distant buzzing in your ear that sounds eerily like your engineer’s voice asking if you’re okay. But you’re completely unable to focus on anything beyond the tingling sensation in your legs. This wasn’t something you’d ever felt inside a race car in all your years of driving. Everything stung, like a million little fire ants were making a meal out of your flesh. It took every ounce of strength, of which you didn’t have much, to hoist yourself up out of the car. 

Your head swims the moment you stand up straight, and you feel your legs collapse under you. Somewhere off in the distance, you hear Max calling your name but you can’t look up, your helmet suddenly feeling like it weighs 300 pounds. 

Crouching in your car, you desperately try to pull yourself together before anyone notices you’re struggling. You didn’t want to give the media the satisfaction of pulling another ‘look, another woman who thinks she can hang with the rest of the F1 drivers.’ Like they’ve been attempting to do all season. 

Your eyes are closed but you still hear the faint call of Max’s voice somewhere off in the distance. The entire world is reduced down to a singular pin prick of light while you fight to stay conscious, the heat and humidity wrapping their ugly little fingers tightly around your throat. 

Just as you’re about to surrender to the warm quiet of the darkness that seems to be calling out to you, a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist, hauling you out of the car like you weigh less than a bag of potatoes. You go limp in the arms of whoever has come to your rescue, collapsing under the strain of what you just put your body though. 

“Baby, please. Look at me.” 

Somehow, your helmet has been removed and you find yourself blinking up at Max. 

When did he get here? You wonder idly, not realizing it was him that pulled you out of the car. 

Max had gone practically feral when GP told him that you’d gone nearly 3/4 of the race without water. He knew how brutal this race was, and the humidity was unusually high tonight. He had gotten out of the car fairly quickly but had panicked when he saw your helmet tipped forward, resting on the halo device and you not moving. 

You lift your head, still wondering where your helmet was and instantly found yourself staring straight into the baby blue eyes of your boyfriend. “Maxie?” You croak, throat feeling like you just dined on a three course meal of sand and gravel. 

“Hey…” He coos, bringing you closer to his chest. “There’s my girl. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” He rubs soothing circles over your back, not caring that the press is having a field day with this. 

“I can’t…” You stutter, struggling to make the words in your head sound coherent when your mouth tries to form them. “My legs…everything is tingling.” 

If you had been a bit more coherent, you would’ve seen the look of absolute panic cross Max’s face. He frantically looks around as he lifts you into his arms, one arm under your knees, the other cradling your back against his chest. He knew you were going to absolutely murder him when you come around and see the pictures. You hated being coddled and hated showing affection on the grid even more. You and Max weren’t really hiding the fact that you were together, most fans knew and it was common knowledge around the paddock but the causal fan might be surprised to find out the lore between the two of you. So this outright show of concern, affection, and panic over the state of you that Max was showing right now? It was absolutely not a common occurrence 

“Interviews are going to have to wait.” Max barks at Jensen, this weeks post-race presenter. “She needs medical attention.” 

Jensen simply nods, allowing you to pass. 

Fred and Charles intercept you half way to the tent, insisting that getting you in the ice baths will be the thing to help you the most. Max, nearly delirious with worry because while your eyes were open and you were somewhat alert, follows their instructions and takes you back behind the garage area where the ice baths had been set up. 

It’s all you can do to stand upright as Max unzips your race suit. It’s so heavy with your sweat that it practically peels off of you with no effort, gravity doing the work for Max. And then your left in just your fireproofs. If you hadn’t been in the middle of the paddock with thousands of people and cameras around, Max would have stripped you down to just your underwear, but that wasn’t an option. 

WIth Max and Charles’ help, you’re able to hoist yourself into the waiting ice bath. The shock of the frigid water jolts some awareness back into you the moment your body is submerged in the glacial water. 

“Holy fuck.” You grit out, eyes closing in pain. 

“I know…I know, schatje. But it’ll get you feeling better so much quicker than anything else. 

You nod, still not fully aware of how you got here but thankful for Max’s steadying presence beside you. He’s crouched down so he’s eye level with you as you ball yourself up to get as much heated skin under the cold water and the worry etched all over his face is enough to steal your breath. 

“Max. Holy fuck. That was…you weren’t just Maxsplaining to me last night, were you?” 

A chuckle finds its way out of his lips, despite the state of panic Max is in. “No, I was not just ‘Maxsplaining’ anything last night, silly girl.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You’ve got your fire back, I see. I think you’ll live.” Max leans in to press a kiss to the crown of your head before dropping another kiss on your temple, then your cheek, and finally his lips find their home on yours. Right where they belong. It’s not a lingering kiss, or a passionate one. No. This kiss is filled with gratitude and relief and sheer dumb realization of how much this man loves you. 

Your eyes are open more now, a few minutes in the ice bath doing your heat stroke symptoms good. It takes you a few moments to really grasp the severity of what just happened. How close you came to passing out mid-race. How it was Max that got you out of that car and was at your side before anyone else. 

All around you, the paddock is bustling to life. The scene Max created by hauling you over to Ferrari’s garages has somewhat dissipated. Only a few onlookers are stopped still, but your team remains solidly around you, faces a mask of concern. But the only person you see is Max. 

“Thank you, baby.” You murmur when he leans in for another kiss. 

Truly, you had no idea who he was, or that anyone at all lived in these woods. The villagers spoke of the looming castle as though it were inhabited only by the shadows of demons whose names could not be spoken. A foreign passerby like yourself isn’t privy to the bloody lore contained within the walls of the vampire king’s abode, and a place as traumatized as Wallachia does not so easily offer its secrets to outsiders. 

You were only flitting through on your way to better things. There was no intent to stop at all if you didn’t have to. The choice to dash into the woods where the son of Dracula had made his home was thrust upon you in a moment of mortal peril. 

Alucard was walking along the river that morning, as he had almost every day before that. When he only had one mouth to feed, he opted for foraging whenever he could. There were likely enough provisions still in the castle to feed an army, but if he wanted to eat them, he’d have to find them. The inventory desperately needed to be taken. It would have to wait, though; walking the halls made the loneliness more tangible than he could bear. At least he could find company in the birdsongs when he took his morning walks. 

His ears twitched at the sound of frantic footfalls on the grass some ways away. He hopped up and into a tree in a split second, swift feet pushing him upwards through the branches until he was high enough to observe without being seen. The thumping of boots grew louder fast, and as the sound drew closer, he realized there were more pairs of shoes treading the ground than he’d first picked up on. 

There was one leading, which was what he heard initially. Those steps were quick, but not calculated, stumbling and anxious to get away from something. There were three–no, four other pairs of heavier-set steps following the first. They were much closer together and much more assured in each move without falling too far behind. 

A chase. 

Four to one hardly seemed fair. Something about it made his stomach uneasy. 

The bramble rustled, and a moment later, you appeared from the foliage. Your chest heaved with erratic breaths, and he could even hear the panicked beating of the heart that fueled them. You paused beneath his hiding place for only a second to decide your next move. 

There wasn’t any time to think. You chose a random direction and darted that way, thorns and branches pulling at your clothing as you fled. The fear on your face in that instant struck something deep inside of him, something that should have been smothered into dust, and that was enough for him to decide he would not allow you to be caught. He could not allow it. 

Your pursuers made themselves known then. Vagabonds of some kind, Alucard thought, with nasty scars and weapons too large to have any purpose besides maiming. You couldn’t have fought off those hulking beasts by yourself, even if you did have a weapon of your own. 

How fortunate, then, that they make easy prey for a dhampir. 

Alucard wasn’t trying to kill them. He might have, considering how hard they fell, but all that mattered was ensuring they wouldn’t be giving chase any time soon. Whether or not they ever got up again was of no concern to him. 

He debated whether or not he wanted to chase after you. A strange visitor is more trouble than they’re worth, but he also knew that nature could be fatally unkind. If you got yourself lost, there was no telling what sort of trouble would come upon you. The beasts that wandered in the night could tear you to ribbons in seconds. 

You had been brought together by fate, not intent, and somehow, he found himself trusting that. 

He followed in the direction you ran, moving without a sound between the trees. When you came into view, you were collapsed on the ground, struggling to breathe and unable to stop your head from spinning. Exhaustion was evident on every inch of you. If he had not interfered, you would have been dead by now. 

He waited for a minute or two to see if you’d run again. You were on high alert, but allowed yourself to rest as long as your attackers weren’t gaining on you. You looked ready to pass out at any moment. 

Alucard stepped forward, keeping his voice low and measured when he finally spoke. 

“...Are you alright?” 

You gasped, spinning around to face him with wide eyes and expecting to see the face of your killer. Instead, your terrified gaze met the stoic stare of molten gold that belonged to your savior. 

“B-Bandits,” you stammered, rising on shaky legs, “a gang, t-they tried to rob me…!”

He stepped closer, allowing you to lurch forward and fall into his arms. Your legs burned from running harder than your body could handle. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t let them get you,” he assured you. With your arm draped over his shoulder and his wrapped around your waist, he led you back to the castle, though he made the strategic choice not to use the front entrance. You were scared enough as is. Suddenly, his special little lawn ornaments seemed rather tacky. 

You spent the rest of that day in the guest bedroom, nursing the scrapes and knicks you got running through the bramble and trying to calm down. Alucard left you to your own devices for the most part, not wishing to disturb you or aggravate you further. The most you saw of him was when he brought you meals. He never thought he’d find himself cooking for someone else again.

He fully intended to give you an ultimatum once you were well again. ‘You have three days to leave, human, unless you’d like to see the same fate as my last visitors,’ or something just as foreboding. The issue is that he only ever remembered that when you weren’t around. It was hard to want you gone when you were as much of a threat as a kicked puppy. 

You tried very hard to shrink yourself in his presence. When he spoke, you bowed your head, like you were being addressed by a tyrant king. You never asked for anything, even when you really needed it, to the point that you slept without a pillow the first couple of nights. You only got one because Alucard happened to pass by your room and realized how naked your bed was. It was almost comical. 

Slowly but surely, he did manage to work you out of your shell. He invited you to eat at the table with him instead of shutting yourself in your room for supper, and although you did hesitate, you accepted. Few words were exchanged over the table, but to say the silence was uncomfortable would be misleading. There wasn’t much to talk about, anyway. You were both content with observing each other. 

There were times when he questioned if your sheepishness was an act. It was a survival instinct to doubt such a modest demeanor, to search for the threat lying beneath, but he found none within you. You startled when he came around the corner too fast, and there was a sincere disquiet in your eyes that could not be faked. You conducted yourself as though one wrong move might prompt the floor to fall out from underneath you. 

He couldn’t help but be intrigued by that. In his experience, the meek did not survive very long. 

It was a calculated effort to get you to open up, but it paid off. You relaxed a little more with each day that passed, and shared meals became a regular occurrence between the two of you. Small talk over dinner settled into a pleasant routine. Meeting his eyes didn’t feel like such an offense. You could wander the halls without worry for the most part. 

There was only one hard and fast rule Alucard set for you:

“Under no circumstances are you to come into my room.”

You nodded without argument. He was content to leave it at that.

You were only supposed to stay for a few days. You’re coming up on almost a month in the castle now. There have been offhanded mentions of wherever you intended to go before the events that brought you here unfolded, but it didn’t matter all that much anymore. You had no reason to venture back out into the unforgiving world when no one was waiting for you.

Besides, the cold moves quickly in Wallachia. The land has frozen overnight, giving you all the more reason to stay where the warmth is. Just the sight of the trees whipping in the icy gale is enough to make you shiver. 

It’s nights like these that Alucard’s sleep suffers. He’s not so sensitive to the cold, not as much as any regular human would be, but the wind screaming outside his window keeps him awake. The longer he’s awake, the more time he has to think, to stew in his own memories, and after a certain point, he loses hope of sleeping at all. There’s still a bit of hope yet, but he’s not inclined to chase after it. 

He should take the guest bedroom instead, he posits to himself, and give you this one. You’d be able to sleep just fine here, blissfully unaware of the atrocities committed therein. You wouldn’t trick yourself into seeing figures in the doorway or jump awake when the death masks of your attackers flashed in the dark of your mind. In fact, you’re probably fast asleep by now. How lucky you are to find such peace. 

He crosses his arms over his chest in a pointless attempt to find comfort. It doesn’t matter which way he tosses or turns; nothing will ever feel quite right, not in this place. His arms move back down again, fidgeting with the blankets and pulling at the bottoms of his breeches. 

He wears pants to bed now. It’s the worst sensation in the world. 

A frustrated groan leaves him as he rolls over onto his side, watching as the moonlight between the trees creates shapes along his bedroom floor. He can will himself to be tired all he likes, but it won’t quell the anxiety now. 

There’s a quiet urge to scold himself that never fully dissipates. It makes him feel foolish to be so afraid, to wonder about every little noise the old castle makes, to think up shadowy figures of malice that only drive him further away from sleep. He’s had this same fight with himself more times than he can count. 

Sumi and Taka are dead. 

He has the impaled bodies to prove it. 

There is no one in this castle except a mousy little human who couldn’t frighten a mangy dog off a pile of garbage. No one would be foolish enough to intrude, and if they were, he would kill them before they even realized he was there. 

No amount of rational thought is enough to calm him, but it’ll have to do if he wants to rest any time soon. He forces himself to shut his eyes and keep them closed. Sleep will have to take him eventually. 

A particularly firm creak of the floorboards makes his heart jump. 

His eyes fly open, staring straight forward as he listens hard for any other noise. There’s none. 

He has to stop doing that, he thinks. Old places make strange sounds that don’t mean anything. That’s all it was, surely. It couldn’t have been anything else. 

It wasn’t anything else. 

Except, it was. 

“...Sir Alucard?”

Your voice is as soft as the coo of a dove, and alarming enough to have him jumping out of his skin. He shoots straight up, raising a hand and summoning his sword to his side in an instant. The blade shakes and glimmers with a silent threat in the pale moonlight. 

You gasp and stumble back from where you’re standing in the doorway, and you’re just as frightened as he is, maybe even more. He finds the slightest relief when he recognizes who he’s looking at, but doesn’t let down his guard. He stays prepared to strike if you make one wrong move. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” He hisses, sharp eyes studying every inch of you with suspicion. There’s no sign of a weapon on your person, at least not that he can find. Still, that possibility doesn’t leave his mind. 

“I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t mean to wake you,” you replied. His expression only hardens further. 

“Answer me. Now.” 

You swallow hard, keeping your hands clutched tightly against your chest as your attention darts back and forth from his sword to his face.

 “I-I just had to make sure you were alright…”

That gives him pause. He lowers his sword by a fraction of an inch. Your voice trembles like the branches rapping against his window, and the longer he looks at you, the more evident the fear in your face becomes. It’s the same expression he saw the day he saved you. Something is wrong. 

“What do you mean?” He asks, and it sounds more accusatory than intended. He reins himself in a bit and tries again. “Is something the matter?”

Your gaze falls to the floor as you search for an answer. Your bottom lip trembles, and as you bring your arms up to wrap yourself in a tight hug, the reality settles over Alucard that he has wildly misplaced his apprehension. His sword remains hovering by his side, still within reach if need be, but he releases a bit of tension from his shoulders. 

Something is very wrong, and it’s a deep-rooted sort of trouble he’s tried to ignore in himself. A feeling he might call empathy turns over in his stomach. 

He slides down against his headboard and lets his hands rest in his lap. “You’re upset,” he observes, as if it weren’t the most obvious thing in the world. “What could be bothering you at this ungodly hour?”

His not-so-gentle coaxing earns him your eyes once more. You look up at him through tear-brushed lashes, and when you manage to speak again, the emotion bubbling up your throat makes itself known. 

“Sir Alucard, do you… d-do you ever have nightmares?” 

Now it’s his turn to be at a loss for words. 

He stares back at you without a word, waiting to see if you’ll say anything else. You don’t. You only stare back in anticipation of his reply. 

His sword begrudgingly lowers itself back to its place against the wall, and Alucard tilts his head with cautious interest. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged. “You know, a nightmare. Like, when you have a bad dream, and–”

“I know what a nightmare is,” he interrupts, “but why are you asking?”

Your silence at that says enough. So many questions, and no one seems to have any good answers. 

He heaves a heavy sigh, pulling the covers off his legs and moving to sit on the edge of his bed. His shoulders slump as he looks at you from behind a messy curtain of ash blonde locks. A hand reaches out to pat the space next to him, a wordless invitation to join him in his midnight brooding. 

“Come here, then.” 

You’re far more taken aback by that than he expected; you’d think he just asked you to throw yourself into a ravine. He’d laugh if he weren’t so bloody exhausted. 

“What,” he drawls, “afraid I’ll bite?” 

You shake your head. “I-I don’t want to intrude, sir–I really only wanted to check on you. You told me I was never to step foot in your room, and I wouldn’t cross you that way, honest…”

He blinks. “Oh. Right. I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Oh, it’s alright, I figured you had a good reason.” 

Indeed, he has about the best reason anyone could have for barring you from his chamber. You have no business here, and if he has half his right mind, he’ll send you right back to your own bed where you belong. 

Well, he’s survived the endless number of terrible choices he’s made thus far. What’s one more?

He pats the bedside again. 

“I’ll make an exception, just this once.”

He watches as you waver in the doorway, leaning forward like you’re about to take a step, only to pull back again, as though the threshold itself is a danger. If you were anyone else, he would scold you for such needless vacillating when his psyche is already strained. He thinks better of it before he opens his mouth. 

It feels like watching a feral cat encounter a human for the first time when you finally make it through the doorway. Your bare feet pad along the floor without a sound, the soft groaning of the wood beneath your weight encouraging you to take one more step each time you pause until you’ve at long last come upon him. When you take your seat on the mattress, you put as much space between yourself and Alucard as possible, keeping your arms tightly tensed at your sides and your legs drawn inward. It seems you haven’t yet dropped the habit of making yourself small. What a shame, he thinks, that something has made you so determined to take up as little space as possible. 

“I really am sorry for waking you,” you mutter, keeping your head bowed with guilt. The sight turns his lips downward in a frown. He thought you were past this. 

“You didn’t. I was wide awake. I don’t see how anyone could sleep with that wind raging outside.”

You give a brief nod of agreement, and then no one has anything more to say. 

Alucard has never been good at consoling others. He rarely receives such treatment himself, and there are many more important things in life than bandaging emotional scrapes, but he’s not used to feeling this inept at anything. Even so, he can’t ignore this. You deserve a good-hearted try, at the very least. 

He slides a bit closer to you, keeping his movements slow so as not to frighten you off, the way one might approach a wild animal. You open your mouth to say something, only to decide against it at the last second and close it again. You’re still unsure if you want to talk.

He slides a little bit closer. 

“You asked me if I have nightmares.”

You don’t move away. 

“Yessir.”

You let him get close enough for his pinky to brush yours. The wind outside doesn’t seem so loud now.

He’s about to tell you something he’s never told anyone. 

“I do,” he admits, and the words taste bitter in his mouth. “I have them often, actually, and I have for a long time. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be rid of them.” 

The surprise on your face is unexpected, but not unpleasant. It’s nice to see you looking up at him again. Whatever he’s doing must be working. The bitter taste starts to fade, and his tongue feels a bit lighter than before. That wasn’t as shameful as he thought it’d be.

He leans in, moving himself into your line of sight and turning your attention away from the floor. 

“But you’re not here because I have nightmares, are you?”

He watches as your tongue runs over your dry lips, and you gulp before giving your answer. 

“N…N-No, sir.” 

Took you long enough. 

That brings him to another dead end. He doesn’t want to pry into woes that aren’t his business, but he also doesn’t want you to clam up, either. You came to him because you’re desperate for someone to soothe your worry. He ought to make it worth your while. 

He shifts to lean back on his hands, letting his head roll back in feigned nonchalance. He gives a soft hum as though in thought. 

“Perhaps,” he starts, and he lets that word hang in the air for a beat, “if you tell me what’s wrong, we just might be able to get a wink of sleep tonight, hm? Unless you’d prefer to sulk with me until sunrise, I’m not picky.” He crosses one leg over the other and bounces his foot with as much absentmindedness as he can manage. Maybe you won’t act so closed off if he doesn’t give you a reason to be. 

He glances back at you before looking away again. He doesn’t want to look at you too hard, just in case you feel his eyes. 

You let out a shaky breath. “I just…I-I feel so stupid,” you sniffle. “I’m too old to still be scared by bad dreams. It shouldn’t be this big of a deal. I should be better than this, shouldn’t I?”

Oh. 

Each word further tightens some invisible ligature around his heart. A nerve he didn’t know was there has just been struck like a mallet against a gong, and his chest trembles when he takes in his next breath. When you’re taught to be alone, that you are alone, whether you like it or not, it doesn’t often occur to you that someone else may have the words to match your thoughts.

In an instant, a thousand sleepless nights flash before his eyes. He sees the four walls of this room in endless dimensions, and he feels the despair that’s been hanging over him by a thread drop all at once and crash to the floor in infinite, splintering shards. 

It’s a relief. 

“No,” he replies. The word feels so far away. 

You just about gape at him in confusion. “What?” 

“No, I don’t think that at all. You asked me, didn’t you? What did you expect me to say?”

“Well, I…I don’t know. I-I just didn’t think you’d say that.”

A sardonic grin ghosts across his lips before he pulls his expression back into a mask of sober patience. 

“Ah, I see,” he chuckles, “you wanted me to grab you by the shoulders and tell you to snap out of it, to get it together, and to stop acting like such a baby. Am I right?”

You scoff in annoyance. He must be right on the mark. 

“It would make more sense,” you reply, “you’re dealing with it a lot better than I am.” 

“What makes you think that?” The question comes out half-genuine, half-amused. It’s such a human thing to presume everyone else must be getting on so much easier than you, but then again, he’s just as much human as he is vampire, isn’t he? 

“Oh, please. Just look at you,” you huff, vaguely gesturing in his direction. “I can’t imagine a man like you being afraid of much of anything, let alone bad dreams. You live in a haunted castle, for god’s sake. N-No offense, sir.”

He can’t stifle a laugh at that. The villagers must have filled your head with crazy stories after all. 

“First of all, it’s not haunted, just damn old,” he corrects with a wave of his hand, “and second of all, you’d be surprised.” 

You look back at him with disbelief, but you also sit up a bit straighter than before. He gives you a soft smile that warms a bit of the chill nipping at your fingertips. A quiet understanding settles between you two that he’s never felt with anyone before, and he wonders for a moment how much time he’s wasted trying to string together words that would never earn any appreciation from those who haven’t undergone the same misery.

He doesn’t hear the wind anymore. 

A strange request crawls its way up his throat, seemingly from nowhere, and although he wrestles with it briefly, he lets it speak. 

“May I touch your back?”

There’s a faded memory in the back of his head that makes it feel like an appropriate ask. You’re not so convinced, but you nod nonetheless. 

A pale hand reaches up to press its cool palm into your back. The gentle touch remains still at first, and then starts to work into slow circles over the fabric of your nightshirt. His skin warms up against yours, and he watches as the anxiety keeping your muscles taut begins to melt away. 

“That feels nice,” you whisper. The words fall from your lips like running water, like they weren’t meant to come out, but you didn’t bother to stop them either. 

“I know,” he says, “my mother used to do it for me when I was a boy. Granted, the things that scared me back then were little more than tall tales, but the feelings are quite the same.”

“Mm…”

For the first time that night, you’re at ease enough to let the tiredness show. A lazy yawn meanders across your lips and makes your eyelids droop. Someone is long overdue for sleep–two someones, actually. Alucard barely manages to bite back a yawn of his own. 

He gives a few final strokes to your back before he has to pull his hand away. The loss of contact prompts you to turn to him, and he’s already slipping under the covers. He hasn’t asked you to leave, but you must think that’s his subtle way of telling you to get lost, because you rise from your seat and turn towards the door without a word. 

“Where are you going?” He asks, and you stop dead in your tracks. 

“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” you murmur. “I should get back to my room.” 

“I wasn’t going to make you do that. I was actually enjoying having you here.” 

“...Really?”

He nods and moves over to one side of the bed. Much like he had before, he pats the space next to him. 

“Would you like to stay for the night?” 

You curl in on yourself like a scolded child, fidgeting with your hands and shyly glancing back at him. You really are just like a stray pet he took in off the street. 

He pulls aside the covers for you, extending his arm and making his offer clear. With your tail still tucked between your legs, you return to his bedside. 

“Maybe we’ll both feel better with some company,” he ponders aloud as you climb onto the mattress next to him, “or at least we can wake up screaming together.” 

That at least makes you smirk at the utter absurdity of the thought. 

You settle in next to him, making sure to keep as respectful a distance as you can without rolling off the side. You lie down on your stomach and clutch one of the pillows in your arms under your head. Alucard turns over onto his side to face you. 

“Comfortable?” 

“Yessir.” 

“Good.” 

Another yawn leaves you, and this time, he returns it. The weariness is setting in fast. His bed feels so much cozier than before.

Just before his eyes fall shut, he reaches out to lay a tender hand across your back, fingers splayed over your spine. You don’t tense under his touch. He likes that. 

“Goodnight, Sir Alucard,” you mumble, already drifting off. 

He sighs. “It’s just Alucard.” 

“Ah. Goodnight, Alucard.” 

“Mm. Sweet dreams.”

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When you said yes to being Noah’s girlfriend a year ago, you knew what you were getting yourself into. Long stretches of time spent apart, random moments of inspiration in the middle of dates, tons of online speculation from fans, and even more. 

It doesn’t really bother you since you tend to stay in your own bubble and somewhat off social media but this time? Everything seems to be going wrong all at once. 

Bad Omens are at the halfway point of a headlining tour in Europe. From what you can piece together, it seems to be going as well as it can. Usually, you’re far more in the loop but Noah has been a little…distant, to say the least. 

He’s all the way across an ocean, performing for thousands of people who love him more and more with every new note of his siren songs. And you don’t blame them. He’s simply mesmerizing in every way. But he’s yours. You hate having to share him—especially when he barely feels tangible.

He’s just as far away mentally as he is physically—thousands of miles and stretches of silence separate you. It’s maddening—not knowing what he’s up to or how his day has been. Dread and desperation dance with your anxiety, making you overthink and second-guess everything. 

His texts and phone calls have been sparse. When he does actually pick up, he’s short and finds a very convenient excuse to hang up. Sometimes he even forgets to say ‘I love you’.

Weekends are typically your favorite part of the week. Except today is Saturday and you’re desperately wishing for a distraction—hell, you’d even work right now instead of whatever this wallowing is. 

You pull the covers over your head to create some barrier from the rays of warm and bright sunlight peaking through the blinds. On days like this where you feel the weight of anxiety pushing down on your chest, you’d do anything to live in a cave. One where you could hide away in the dark and be bothered by no one and nothing. 

It’s only 8:30 AM. While you really do want to go back to sleep, your mind is racing far too much to even try. Plus, this may be your only chance to talk to Noah before the show starts. You reach a hand out of your blanket cocoon and blindly search for your phone. When you find it, you pull it through the tiny opening and click it on, practically hissing when the brightness stings your eyes.

There are the inevitable morning notifications to look through like texts from your group chat, reminders from the health app, and endless TikTok’s from your friends. You go for the group chat first, clicking into it and scrolling through to try to catch up with the chatter as much as you can. 

It doesn’t take long for you to realize something is wrong. 

Your friends are sending links back and forth—some articles from alternative new sites and pages but mostly poor quality images and screenshots of tweets. Every single thing sent has one person in common: Noah. 

In some of the photos is a tall, blonde haired girl you’ve never seen before. They’re all quite low in resolution so you can’t make out her features exactly but there’s no mistaking the fact that she is beautiful. Her and Noah aren’t exactly touching in really any of them. The only time it’s questionable is when he has a hand gently placed on her back—almost as if he’s attempting to lead her somewhere.

He does that with you when he’s trying to be protective. 

Your heart sinks as you shoot straight up in bed. The blankets fall, removing your shield and leaving you to the elements in your room. The cold air nips against your bare skin and the sun hits your eyes, forcing you to squint down at your phone as you try to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

You want to text your friends back to show some signs of life and to make sure no one thinks to call in a wellness check but you ignore them simply because you’re so sucked into the endless stream of social media bullshit. You open Instagram first and are immediately met with dozens of notifications. You’ve been tagged in posts and comments with the same images that your friends sent—except now the comments attached are rather accusatory and awful. 

His poor girlfriend is at home while he’s fucking someone else in Europe!

This girl is way prettier than the one I’ve been seeing him with lately. He should stay with her

Oh they are such a perfect couple he needs to dump that frumpy bitch at home LOL

Your heart sinks further and further the more you check different apps and scroll through. Mind racing, your hands begin to shake and your breathing becomes a haphazard attempt—ragged and uneven. 

Your fingers move before your brain has any chance to keep up and suddenly the ringing of your call fills the space. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Noah’s voicemail tone is all that answers. Hearing his voice—even recorded and automatic like this—pulls a choked sob from your throat. It’s a raw, agonizing sound that echoes in the empty space of your room and you’ll think of this pain even weeks from now.

You hang up the call and try again. In fact, you try three more times. Every attempt is more desperate and torturous. 

Finally, on the fifth call, he answers.

“Angel?” 

His voice has been your solace since the moment he stepped into your life. Whether he is singing or talking, it always soothes you. Except, hearing it now, when everything is falling apart, makes another uncontrollable sob rip from your throat—visceral and so full of sadness. 

“Noah.”

“What’s going on?” He asks, voice now filled with panic. 

There’s shuffling on his end and some background noise that sounds like the chatter of a green room. 

“I think I should be asking you that.”

“What?” He asks. “What are you talking about?” 

You run a hand through your hair to try to pull some strands away from your face but they’re sticking due to the sweat and tears and overwhelming you even more. 

You just can’t calm down no matter what you do. You’re just in your room—in your bed—and yet, it feels like you’re in the middle of an ocean and it's an angry tide, forcing you to swallow salt water until it weighs you down. 

“Why have you barely spoken to me since you left?”

You pretend you can’t hear his sigh over the phone. But you can. And it makes your heart break. 

“Tour has been insane,” he explains. “The time difference is hard to navigate and we’ve been doing extra promo and interviews to get ready for the new album cycle. I’m just busy. It’s nothing else.”

Sure, you hear him, but his words feel so fabricated, so carefully crafted to only tell you just enough so that there is no real room to question him. 

You laugh, cold and loud and full of frustration. “Who’s the girl, Noah?”

All the voices and noise filling the empty space on the other side of the phone are suddenly completely gone. Only silence remains. You even look down at your phone to make sure he hasn’t hung up. 

“What are you talking about?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m talking about the photos and articles and tweets saying you’ve been spending all your free time with some fucking girl.”

You can imagine him running a hand through his hair and clenching his jaw. 

“Since when do you believe what you read online?”

“Since you’ve barely spoken to me in almost two weeks and every time you do, you’re short and weird. All of my friends saw the photos before I did. It’s fucking embarrassing. You go on tour for a few weeks across the world and suddenly become a different person? What the fuck is that?”  

“That’s not what’s happening,” Noah groans. 

Unbelievable. Here you are, calling him out for barely giving you anything and yet he continues, only explaining himself in short sentences like it’s enough. It’s not. It never will be. 

“Are you going to explain any more than that or am I just going to have to keep finding out from the internet? Who is the fucking girl?”

“A friend—” 

“Yeah, right. Am I supposed to believe that?” You cut him off to scoff.

“Baby, you’re not listening to me,” his voice crackles through the phone speakers and your heart feels the same—all broken and not quite understood.

“I am,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut in a desperate attempt to stay calm. 

It feels like time is moving in slow motion and yet, you still can’t get a grasp on it to find any semblance of control. It’s slipping through your fingers and taking Noah along with it. 

“You’re not,” he argues. “She’s an industry friend. Literally works for our management. I would—” A sigh full of exhaustion. “I would never cheat on you.” 

“I know that, Noah.”

“Do you? Because you’re accusing me of it right now.”

“No, I’m not. I’m saying that you’re neglecting our relationship and treating me poorly. I’m saying that I feel completely out of the loop. Normally you’d call or text me and make sure I was fully aware of who someone was before the internet got ahold of it. I’ve never had any reason to doubt you before. Why is this time different? Why are you hiding from me?”

“I’m just busy!”

“You expect me to believe that?” 

You’re shouting, voice loud and full of emotions in a way you can barely control. 

“Yes!” He shouts back. “I expect you to trust me.”

“This isn’t about trust.”

“It is. It absolutely is. You’re worried I’m cheating on you and I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Doing your job so well that you don’t have time to talk to me but you have time to wrap an arm around some blonde girl I’ve never seen before.” 

Noah lets out a noise and you aren’t sure you hear it right over the phone. It’s pained, sure, but it’s so full of sadness that you can’t fucking breath. 

“I’ve already told you. I’m fucking busy,” he says. 

“We’re just going around in circles, Noah,” you groan. “Stop with the excuses and just be honest with me.” 

“Okay,” Noah murmurs. “Okay.”

You plop your phone down onto the mattress and lean back into the pillows, trying to calm and ground yourself. Digging your palms into your eyes and creating a sky of stars in the darkness helps enough and when you drop your hands to your sides, playing with the stitching in your comforter, Noah’s ready to talk. 

“This is the hardest tour I've ever been on. Because you're home and so fucking far from me,” he admits. And your heart breaks. “I'm just shutting down.”

“Noah…”

“No baby, listen. Really fucking listen to me.” 

“I promise I am,” you murmur. 

“I've had girlfriends while on tour before, you know that.” You hum in response but let him continue. “But I love you so much that my chest hurts when you're not with me. And that scares me. I've never felt that way about anyone before. I don't know what to do with myself. Normally I'd write to release some of that energy but with long travel days and the time difference, I can't fucking focus on anything. Except for you. It's always you.”

His jagged breaths make you imagine him hunched over, chest heaving. You'd do anything to wrap your arms around him and trace patterns into his skin—anything to soothe him. 

“I don't know what to say,” you admit softly. 

“I know I've been distant and I'm sorry. I haven't been coping well with the the literal fucking ocean between us.”

“It's okay,” you whisper. 

“It’s not. I shouldn’t have treated you like that. I should’ve been honest from the start. I know how this looks, baby, and I’m so fucking sorry that I put you through this.”

You listen to his words and truly soak them in. There’s a genuine, apologetic tone that rings through the phone. You know, deep down in your heart, that this is just a misunderstanding, exaggerated by the distance and time between you. 

“I forgive you,” you practically whisper, unsure if the phone even picked it up. 

“Do you?”

You rub your hands over your face. 

“I don't know. We spoke about it before you left and you promised me you wouldn't get like this. But it's been like pulling teeth to get you to text or call me back. And I've been going fucking crazy. I've barely slept and I can't even remember the last time I could stomach a full meal. And then my friends sent me dozens of photos this morning, Noah. Just different photos and angles of you and some gorgeous girl I've never seen before. What was I supposed to think?”

“I know how it looks,” he croaks. “But I promise, angel. I haven't thought of another girl since I met you.” 

“Who is she then?”

“She works for our UK team. She’s been helping us a ton over here.”

“Okay. I’m glad she’s helping.”’

“I’ve missed you so much that I’m pretty sure all I’ve even talked to her about is work and you,” he admits. 

You just hum in response. 

“I swear, people have no fucking lives and nothing better to do than try to ruin mine.” Noah sounds defeated, broken—the same way you feel. But your heart is already mending the more you speak to him. 

“Are you okay?” You ask gently. 

He chuckles sadly and you picture the way his entire chest rumbles along with the sound. 

“I should be asking you that. I don’t like hearing that you aren’t eating.” 

“I think the most I’ve had is half a bagel for dinner last night.”

“Was it at least an everything bagel?” His voice is soft and little and for just a second, you actually feel the corners of your lips tug upward. 

“Obviously.” 

“Good,” he hums. “Can you get up and eat something? For me?”

For me?

It rings in your ears. Noah knows it’s the ultimate weapon since you’d do anything for him. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Okay.”

With that, you finally slink off the bed and stand up. With a long, slow stretch, you feel bones pop and muscles strain—all feelings you welcome as you come back into your body and release all the anxiety. 

You grab your phone off the bed and pad over to the kitchen of your little one bedroom apartment. It's not the cleanest it's ever been and you have to throw empty water bottles and soda cans out as you go. 

Eventually, you make it to the fridge and pull it open, examining its contents. There's a half pound of egg salad that immediately calls your name and you grab it, closing the fridge with your hip. 

“Found something,” you announce to Noah. 

“Oh yeah? What're you gonna have?”

“Egg salad,” you explain proudly. 

“No bread? Just gonna eat it out of the container?”

“I'm pretty sure the bread I have is weeks old and moldy,” you answer, looking over at the very sad and stale bread on the counter. 

“Hey baby,” Noah calls out, making you look down at your phone. 

“Mhm?”

“Wanna eat together?” 

You perk up, smiling widely. “Yes!”

Your phone rings with the FaceTime notification before you even finish responding and you don't hesitate to accept it, already propping your phone up on the counter. 

When the call connects, your heart practically beats out of your chest at the sight of Noah. He looks exhausted with soft, narrowed eyes and downturned lips. A few strands of hair have fallen in front of his face and he leaves them there in an attempt to keep some of himself hidden. There’s a hint of stubble on his chin and you know he doesn’t care to shave much when he’s on the road so by the time he gets home to you, it’ll be even more grown out. 

He’s close to the camera but you can somewhat make out the fact that he's inside the bus. 

“Why aren't you in the green room?” You ask as you pop open the container. 

“I didn't want everyone else hearing our conversation,” he explains and you nod in understanding, mouth now too full of egg salad to say anything. 

Noah watches you for a moment with fondness in his eyes before reaching over and grabbing a bag, pulling out its contents. There’s several variations of snacks you’ve never seen before and he opens a bag of chips, popping one in his mouth. 

You two sit in silence, eating contently and watching each other. If you were actually together, you’d make small talk but right now, you just want to enjoy the little time you have. There’s still some anxiety and negativity energy nestled into your bones but the longer you sit like this with him, the more it fades.

“How’s your food?” He asks. 

“Good,” you answer between bites. “What kind of chips even are those?”

Noah shrugs as he pops another one in his mouth. “No idea. They’re good though.”

“Should you be eating that right before a show?”

He leans forward, taking up the entirety of the camera with his handsome face. “Should you be eating egg salad at like 9 AM?”

You narrow your eyes at his challenge. “Touché.”

Giggles and chuckles come from both ends of the phone. You both slowly stop eating and look at each other with fondness and love.

“I love you,” Noah calls out, right as you open your mouth to say the same. 

“I love you too.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I’m going to make it up to you, okay? For the rest of the time I’m here, I’m going to be so annoying. You’ll know everything I’m doing at all times.”

You smile happily for the first time in days and it feels so right. 

“Is that a threat? Because it sounds good to me.”

Now, your ex-boyfriend was stoking the fire while you went over the supplies in the kitchen. Daryl had caught some rabbits the day before, so you’d been able to have dinner. This couldn’t go on forever, though. The whole point of this pit stop was to shelter from the storm and then trade with one of the neighboring communities.

Daryl was adding more wood to the fireplace when he glanced over his shoulder at you. The silence was tense, but less suffocating than when you first arrived. The breakup had been entirely his fault, and he knew that. You deserved better, and he could never be that man for you. At least, that’s what he had convinced himself.

You made eye contact with him, and it took everything in you to not look away. This was the man who had been inside of you. Daryl had seen you in a variety of vulnerable positions. Why was the idea of sharing a bed again so anxiety inducing? It wasn’t like it would be a big deal. It was just one night. Taking a deep breath, you shifted on your feet and finally spoke up.

“You ready for bed?”

“Might just keep watch or somethin’.”

“The doors are barricaded, Daryl. There’s no reason to keep watch. Besides, you’ve been lettin’ me sleep. You should rest.”

“M’fine.”

God, he always did this. You wanted to grab him by the shoulders and remind him that he didn’t always have to be the martyr. Daryl would never listen, so that would be pointless. Running a hand over your face, you stared at him for a moment and sighed.

“Just stay in the bed with me. Please.”

You hated the slightly pleading tone of your voice, but the words were already out there. This shouldn’t be so difficult. Daryl was the man that you had once loved. If you were being honest, you’d probably always love him. The most frustrating part was that you knew that he felt the same way. He just wasn’t allowing himself to be happy. You must’ve gotten through to him because he chewed on his lower lip before nodding.

“Okay. Why don’t you get in bed, and then I’ll join you in a minute?”

“You better not make me get out of bed to come find you.”

“Jesus. I just gotta piss ‘fore bed, woman.”

Already settled into the bed, it was instantly more comfortable than the couch and your aching muscles were finally able to relax. You were still on edge, though. Daryl hadn’t been in the same bed as you in months. The idea of being near a warm body, his warm body, wasn’t entirely unappealing. You’d always slept better with someone lying beside you. Your thoughts were interrupted when he stepped into the bedroom. He looked as tense as you felt.

Daryl saw that you’d given him the side closest to the door and his chest tightened. Of course, you’d remember his sleeping preferences. As a child, he’d developed the habit of sleeping facing the door, so that he could go check on his mother. He wouldn’t be able to sleep any other way, and you knew that. This just solidified his idea that you were too good for him.

You immediately picked up on the way that your ex-boyfriend had frozen by the foot of the bed. Had you done something wrong? You raised an eyebrow and shifted beneath the sheets.

“What? You want me to stick a pillow between us or somethin’?”

“Hm? No, we ain’t children.”

“Right. Well, don’t just stand there.”

Noticing that Daryl hadn’t undressed for bed, you rolled your eyes a little and stared at him expectantly. The man could sleep in anything, but there was no way those jeans would be comfortable. He noticed your gaze and cocked an eyebrow.

“What’re lookin’ at me like that for?”

“I mean, you’re free to do whatever you want, but jeans ain’t comfortable to sleep in.”

He wanted to brush off your concern, but you had a point. The denim would rub against his skin, and it would likely end up bothering him. Daryl wasn’t even sure why he was hesitant to take his pants off. You had seen him naked plenty of times. He just wasn’t ready for that level of intimacy again. On the other hand, remaining fully dressed would be uncomfortable, and he didn’t want you to feel like he didn’t trust you. He huffed and undid his belt.

“Yeah, okay.”

Once he was out of his jeans, he peeled back the covers and joined you on the bed. Daryl’s heart was racing, and he could tell that you were also nervous. For two people who were still in love, you guys were acting awkward as fuck. He could see the way that you kept avoiding his gaze. This was all his fault and he knew it.

You shifted on the bed and picked at the hem of your shirt. Despite feeling uneasy, you realized how much you’d missed this. Daryl’s presence provided you with the sense of safety and familiarity that you had been craving. You could hear the way that his breathing was ever so slightly quicker than usual. Breaking the silence, you finally faced him and spoke quietly.

“You comfortable?”

“Mhm. How ‘bout you? Too cold?”

“Nah, I’m okay.”

“Right.”

Jesus, when did you both become so stiff? Unable to stand the tension anymore, you mumbled a quick “goodnight” and rolled over. You shut your eyes and forced your breathing to even out. Daryl was messing with the edge of the sheet, and you knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep until you’d drifted off. He’d always done that.

Surprisingly, you were able to fall asleep and your whole body relaxed. Daryl could see the moment that your body finally gave in. Now, he was watching you sleep. He felt like a loser, but he couldn’t help himself. In the past, he would’ve held you all night and watched over you. Things were different now.

At some point in the night, you’d rolled over and ended up with your head laying on your ex-boyfriend’s chest. The movement had awoken him and he froze. This had always been your preferred way to sleep, but he was shocked that you were still seeking him out. Even if it was subconsciously. He decided to try his luck and his fingers glided over your hair. You hummed in your sleep and made no effort to move. Daryl was so at ease that he also went back to sleep.

The next morning, your eyes fluttered open, and you felt something solid beneath you. You didn’t move for a moment before it hit you. It wasn’t clear when, but you’d rolled on top of Daryl. You were completely mortified. This entire situation was already complicated enough. You quickly moved over and prayed that he wouldn’t wake up. Of course, he did. His gravelly voice spoke up, and he rubbed at his face.

“You sleep okay?”

“Oh, yeah. I slept good. Did you?”

At least you sounded somewhat confident. It would’ve been even worse if you’d dissolved into a stuttering mess. Despite your cheeks being a bit flushed, you were holding it together fairly well. Daryl sighed deeply and stretched his legs. Whatever had happened last night hadn’t bothered him. At least, he wasn’t acting as flustered as you were.

In reality, Daryl was also running over the past few hours and trying not to outwardly show his nervousness. He’d been missing you in ways that he didn’t even know were possible. You sleeping on top of him had only made that more apparent. He needed to get out of this. Sitting up, he stretched again and started getting dressed. His voice was slightly dismissive when he answered your question.

“Slept fine. M’gonna go see if the snow’s cleared any. We should head out soon.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Daryl exited the room like his ass was on fire. Did you really bother him that much? No, that wasn’t the case and you knew it. He was just trying to set some boundaries. That’s how this whole being broken up thing was supposed to work. You just weren’t good at it. Since you couldn’t stew in your thoughts any longer, you got up and redressed yourself.

By the time you got to the living room, Daryl was already packing his bag and making sure that the pantry had been cleared out. He seemed way too eager to get out of this cabin. The thought stung more than you’d like to admit. You approached him and grabbed your own bag.

“The snow’s all cleared?”

“Yeah. We can keep movin’ to The Sanctuary. The roads might be a little slick, though.”

“That’s okay. You’re a good driver.”

The compliment had slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You watched the way Daryl’s ears tinged pink, and he grunted in agreement. His bashfulness never failed to amuse you. You’d think the man had never been complimented before.

He shrugged it off and rolled his aching shoulders back. Some part of Daryl’s body was always sore, these days. When the two of you had been together, you gave him the best back massages. He’d kill for one of those right about now, but he’d never ask. Instead, he readjusted himself and looked you over.

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah. Let’s head out.”

Opening the door for you, Daryl motioned for you to go forward and had to resist the urge to rest his hand on your lower back. It had been such a part of his routine that it took everything in him to not act on it. That wasn’t his place anymore. He had made sure of that. All he wanted was to go back to Alexandria and to pretend this didn't happen. That was never going to work, though.

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