Pre-Apocalypse Lyle doing his sillies <3
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Pre-Apocalypse Lyle doing his sillies <3

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"Wellâthanks for the lift home," you said, stepping back up onto the curb behind you.
You were already drifting away from him and Daryl was already feeling it. His sides were still tingling where your hands had been only a few moments before. "Sure. S'nothin'," he nodded.
You gave him a half-smile. "And thanks forâyou know, stepping in at the bar. I'm sorry it got you into trouble."
Daryl waved a hand vaguely and ducked his head. "S'just a fine. Ain't a big deal." He ran his fingers over the swelling on the other hand's knuckles, thinking that he'd do the same thing again and maybe worse.
You sighed. "I'm gonna pay that for you. I promise," you said. You felt a fluttering in your stomach and your nerves suddenly failed you. "Well, goodnight," you said quickly, tearing your eyes off him and turning to head up your walk. But you suddenly realizedâ"Oh! Your jacket!" you said, spinning quickly and starting to tug the weight of the warm leather off your shoulders.
Daryl had an expression on his face that you couldn't quite read. "Ya should keep it. It looks better on you anyhow," he somehow managed.
You walked back to the curb and held it out toward him, shaking your head. "IâI can't keep your jacket. It's your signature look! It has the wings on the backâyour vest!" you insisted. "Besides, it's way too big anyway. But thank you. I was cold before."
He nervously chewed on his bottom lip and reached out to take it back from you. His rough fingers brushed yours as the fabric passed between you. "Ya just ruined my plan, ya know?" he drawled. You gave him a questioning look.
"Your plan?"
"Yeah... I was hopin' ya'd forget ya had it on and that way I'd have a reason to see ya again." He was too nervous to look at you while he spoke, so instead he picked at the edge of his motorcycle seat.
You were stunned for a moment, staring at him with wide doe eyes when he finally looked up again, but then your lips broke into a smile and you stepped toward him again, down off the curb.
"Hmm?" he hummed, anxious.
You held your hand out. "Gimme back the jacket," you said, grinning. Prompt: "Keep it. It looks better on you."
Halfway to Anywhere
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader
Setting: Pre-Apocalypse
Warnings: Allusions to abuse, eventual TWD type blood and gore; angst
Summary: Fleeting moments in a trailer park that somehow became everything.
A/N: First attempt at pre-apocalypse. Neeeervous. Angst ahead! Fluff and angst! Thatâs the story. Definitely listen to the song! As of right now, this is a one shot with no plans of continuing.
đśAnywhere by Evanescenceđś
Forget this life Come with me Don't look back, you're safe now Unlock your heart Drop your guard No one's left to stop you
The old porch swing groaned and creaked with each gentle sway. The thing was older than you were, installed on the doublewideâs too small porch, damned to be more of an eyesore than an amenity. Your dad had never painted it to match the trailer, though heâd have needed several shades and a patience he didnât possess to conquer that feat. The wood was splintered and slivers dug into the back of your legs below your denim shorts as you enjoyed the final tingling sensations of a nicotine buzz.
The grass was overgrown, the warm breeze inspiring the rolling waves of a dark tide in front of the house with lightning bugs acting as stars on a coastline horizon. You were loath for management to enforce the ordinance that lawns must be maintained no higher than five inches, lest they strip you of your late night escape. For someone who had never left Georgia, you had seen your own ocean.Â
You always saw him during those hours spent in your little paradise, skulking around in the dark on the heels of his brother, likely traipsing in after a long night of drinking, drugs, and women. While the older of the two staggered and hollered, the younger walked quietly behind him with unsure strides not born of alcoholic influence. Maybe he had a few drinks in him, but living in that trailer park all your life had shown you the difference between drunk and damaged.Â
You knew of the Dixon brothers. Hell, there wasnât a person in the whole park who hadnât been scorned by Merle in one way or another. The men were threatened, the women degraded, and the children scared. The man had a remarkable lack of decorum. His younger brother, Daryl, was an entirely different enigma. He had a mouth on him that was usually reserved for defending his sibling in situations of the elderâs own making. Otherwise, he was quiet, his face decorated in a permanent scowl.Â
You rarely saw one without the other and had never spoken to either of them, allowing your silence to be your defense in the face of Merleâs advances. Darylâs gruff leave âer alone, man never fell upon deaf ears. He wasnât exactly a knight in shining armor but you appreciated his attempts at granting you a reprieve nonetheless.Â
You heard the uncoordinated cadence of boots on the gravel-ridden pavement before you saw them on their usual path, the pale illuminance of an old street lamp barely enough to light their way. Merle had a half empty bottle of Jack in his hand, waving it like a conductorâs baton as he slurred the lyrics of some song youâd never heard. Daryl was behind him, his gait steadier than that of his sibling. His head was down, his arms swinging at his sides. His stiff shoulders suggested he had little interest in being privy to Merleâs escapades. Come to think of it, you werenât sure you had ever seen him without that coil to his demeanor: quiet but ready to strike should the need arise.Â
Placing another cigarette between your lips, you never considered how the glow of your lighter would give you away. Your eyes were focused on the flame, the blurred silhouette beyond it coming to a halt as your gaze lifted a fraction of an inch. Your thumb released the fork to extinguish the light, leaving Darylâs still form in your sights. You didnât need to see past the shadows that blanketed him to know he had seen you, and Merle was too inebriated to take notice, continuing his trek toward their trailer at the far end of the park.Â
The high-pitched buzz of a mosquito by the shell of your ear was all that could be heard beyond the older Dixonâs bellowing and even that was filtered into white noise as you and Daryl maintained your stances. He didnât move for moments that passed like hours, the stretch of time not exactly uncomfortable though the logical part of your brain said it should have been. You didnât know him.Â
With your vice balanced between your lips, you tapped the cigarette pack against the side of your hand to urge one forward and, before you could take even a second to rethink the decision, you plucked it free and held out the offering toward the man across the way. You briefly considered that he likely had his own, embarrassment blooming as a tight twist in your gut before fizzling out when he took that first step toward your porch.Â
A sudden unease sparked to life within you, exacerbated by each tread of Darylâs boots. What if your daddy woke up? Finding a Dixon at his door would be bad even before you took into account the copious amounts of beer he had ingested before passing out in his Lazy Boy. The ball of your bare foot pressed against the porch to halt the swing as it leveled out. Using that momentum, you pushed off the seat and padded over to the two crooked steps, intercepting Daryl before he could ascend.Â
The cigarette was accepted in continued silence. He didnât ask for a light, but pulled his own from his pocket. When the flint ignited, it was the first time you had seen his face up close. The flame danced in his irises before it was douted, filling you with a foreign disappointment at not seeing their color.Â
And so it continued: periodic draws and billows of smoke dancing through the umbrage over your bowed heads. Flicking ash, you drew your bottom lip between your teeth and gnawed at it. Surely he hadnât walked all the way over just to smoke and stare at his boots. It certainly hadnât been your initial intent to invite him in the first place.Â
You flinched when he cleared his throat, eyes coming up to find him staring at his cigarette, the stick rolling between his forefinger and thumb. âNameâs Daryl.â His voice was a quiet rasp.Â
âI know.â You caught his gaze when he glanced at you, eyes narrowed. It shouldnât have come as a shock that you knew, but his expression was telling. He had to be aware of the reputation the Dixon name carried. When he looked away in the direction of his trailer, the moonlight carved out a section of his face. Blue. His eyes were blue. âIâm Y/N.â
âI know.â He commented without looking back.Â
He knew your name? It shouldnât have been a surprise to you either. Your father had solidified a reputation of his own, instilling in the neighborhood that you were poor, pitiful Y/N. You kept to yourself but the bruises were always dark and profound and your swing was your refuge, leaving the mars on your skin to be public knowledge. No one could begin to understand why you stayed. You werenât a child. But your father couldnât care for himself. Right?Â
âDaddyâs a drinker.â You werenât sure why you volunteered the information. It wasnât his business and he likely didnât care. Still, maybe he would get it. He was no stranger to the unbridled anger of an alcoholic parent.Â
âI know. Mine was too.â When Darylâs father had passed away, it had been a relief to most of the residents. Will Dixon was worse than Merle in his own way. Their first trailer had been further away from the rest of the park, the fire that had claimed it, along with Darylâs mother, not reaching the other homes.Â
Another trailer had been brought in only days later, placed in a closer lot and away from the pile of debris that remained even all those years later. You had been a child but you could still remember seeing the brothers run down the street toward the blaze only to be stopped by officers already on the scene. Will had been at the bar and appeared more inconvenienced than grief stricken when he had finally dragged himself to what was left of his home.Â
âI know.â You hated to admit it but hated the thought of lying to him even more. When your existence sought out the kindness in others in order to sustain itself, honesty was empoweringâeven if it hurt.Â
Daryl nodded and sniffed, but didnât turn your way. It was if he was waiting for something, but what came had his shoulders sagging.Â
âDarylina!â
He stared in the direction of his trailer, the stumbling shadow of his brother silhouetted behind the ragged blinds. Clearing his throat, he held up the cigarette. It was nearly down to the filter. âThanks, uhâthanks for the smoke.â
âYouâre welcome.â
You watched him walk away, the street lamp flickering as he walked beneath the pale halo. As his shadow disappeared and you heard the chaos erupt from the Dixon singlewide, you felt a twinge in your heart of something foreign.Â
âY/N!â
Wincing at the slurred holler of your name, you turned toward the door, casting one last glance over your shoulder.Â
âComing, daddy.â
âItâs easy,â you smiled coolly. âYou just make a loop and interlink it.â You held up the partially constructed pattern for his inspection. âSee?â
Daryl squinted. âNah.â He flicked the ash from his cigarette and placed it back in his mouth to dangle loosely from his lips. âGot no idea what mâsupposed to be lookinâ at.â He shifted his focus back to the object on his lap.Â
Over the last few weeks and several silent smoking sessions, activities such as these had become recurrent: you sitting just beside the railing on the porch with Daryl below. He had never ventured further than the bottom step, but that seemed to be just fine for the both of you.Â
Pursing your lips, you continued crocheting, glancing over to watch his hands work. âWhatâre you working on?âÂ
âHmm?â He hummed, apparently completely absorbed by the task at hand. When you remained quiet, he glanced up and back down, then up again. âOh. Uh, tuning the carburetor for Merleâs bike.â
âAh.â You both resumed your individual pursuits. âWhy isnât he doing it?â You queried, keeping your eyes on the yarn, skillfully weaving the tight, red stitches.Â
Daryl huffed, the sound approaching something spiteful, as he stubbed out his cigarette on the narrow walkway. âCause heâs prolly four beers in on a tab he ainât gonna pay.âÂ
You smiled down at your work. âI must be more fun than drinking if youâre not with him.â You teased lightly.Â
He snorted. âYeah, you anâ your knittinâ.â
You feigned offense, dramatically dropping your current project onto your lap. âHow dare you. Itâs crocheting.â When he shot you an exasperated scowl, you smiled, all teeth and sparkling eyes. Shaking his head, he went back to his tinkering.Â
âWhatever.âÂ
âWhatever.â You clapped back in a mocking tone.Â
When the silence ensued, it was never uncomfortable. It hadnât been from the start. Despite his rough exterior, Daryl was easy when it came to companionship. There were no expectations. Just two people enjoying the stillness of the trailer park after the sun was low enough in the sky to send the youngsters inside for the evening.Â
The rickety step creaked when the younger Dixon pushed on it to get to his feet, bike part and tools in hand. You never said goodbye or even goodnight, always parting like the next meeting was simply a continuation of the one before it.Â
âHold on.â You interjected, seeing him still out of the corner of your eye. He didnât show any symptom of impatience as he waited, something you took as a compliment with how he would always rush his brother when in his company. Once you fastened off the yarn, you placed the supplies aside and held out the finished product. âFor you.â
Eyeing the thing suspiciously, Daryl piled everything into the crook of one elbow so he could accept the offering. âWhat is it?â He turned the thing over and back, his knitted brow something approaching comical.Â
âItâs a hat, stupid.â You punctuated the final word with a dramatic roll of your eyes. Â
A ghost of a smile played at one corner of his mouth, disappearing before you could marvel at the rare glimpse. âWhat mâI supposed to do with this?âÂ
You knew he was teasing in his own way, an act you had picked up on after a few times of mistaking it for dismissal. âPut popcorn in it and go to the movies. What do you think youâre supposed to do with it, Daryl Dixon?â
âSure as hell ainât wearinâ it.â He griped, spinning on a heel to start the journey up the vacant street.Â
Standing and stretching, you dusted off the back of your shorts and leaned against the tottering pillar to cross your arms. He was just past the illuminated patch of pavement when you saw him stretch the material over his head. âI knew you liked it!â You called.
You saw his middle finger raise above his head before he circled around to the back of his trailer and out of sight.Â
âIâd hate to see the other guy.âÂ
âWhat?â Daryl looked up as you descended with your first aid kit in hand. When you took a seat next to him, it was as if he had seen a unicorn, his mouth hanging open with his eyebrows rising toward his hairline. Just as he had never ventured beyond the bottom step, you had never left the porch.Â
âYou trying to catch flies? Close your mouth.â You teased while opening an antiseptic wipe. You reached for him and he reeled back, giving you pause. You didnât question it, didnât push him. âYou wanna do it yourself?â Flipping your hand, you waited for him to accept the small square.Â
Darylâs eyes darted between your face and the wipe. After what appeared to be careful consideration, he dropped his head and fumbled with a pack of cigarettes. âNah. Itâll keep.â
âDaryl.â You gave him a look, holding it in silence until he finally turned your way. He had a smoke halfway to his lips but lowered it with a sigh. Victory.Â
You were gentle when grasping his chin, gentler still when dabbing the cut across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were lingering toward the right, seemingly avoiding your gaze at all costs. Eye contact wasnât your strong suit either.Â
âWhat happened?â You asked, shifting your focus to a similar injury on his cheek with a light urging to turn his head.Â
âSâit look like?â He had barely moved to scowl at you before you used your grip to correct him. Daryl huffed a breath but made no move to try again.Â
âLooks like you were fighting Merleâs battles again.âÂ
Youâd known of nights like this before, though it was the first time you had witnessed the aftermath of such altercations up close. Why he had come to you that night would likely remain a mystery.Â
You watched his eyes lower with no reply but you didnât need one. Daryl was always in some sort of trouble that wasnât of his own making. The only time he hadnât followed Merle was when the older of the two had gone to prison.Â
Your benign touch returning, you guided him to face you once more before trading the wipe for a fresh one. âWhy do you follow him?â You hadnât meant it any sort of way other than genuine curiosity. Dabbing the split in his lip, you flinched when he lurched backward, his arm coming up between you.Â
âOw, fuck!â He inadvertently licked the area, spitting the antiseptic tinted saliva onto the concrete. âHeâs my brother!â His tone wasnât cruel, but it was the first time that any level of harshness had been directed toward you.
âI just donât understandââ
âYa donât gotta!â He yawped, sobering almost immediately without even sparing you a glance. âYa donât gotta understand.â He repeated glumly.Â
Your hands had lowered to rest on your thighs as you assessed him, unsure whether or not you should continue to engage at all. You settled on a muted âokay.â
Neither of you moved after that. Neither of you spoke. Marking its inception was a feeling of palpable unease. The tension was stifling by the time he rose to his feet with the unlit cigarette still between his fingers, his boots carrying him in heavy steps past the sanctum of the old street lampâs glow where he disappeared into the shadows.Â
The night had never felt more despondent.
Where is it? You stared at the word search, the diluted lambency of the crooked sconce by the front door not doing you any favors when seeking out the elusive string of letters that amounted to locomotive. Your pen and puzzle book balanced in one hand, you lifted your cigarette to your mouth with the other and indulged in a generous draw, letting the smoke billow from your lips before forcing the remainder out through your nose.Â
The rhythmic drumming of the rain on the tin roof was an adequate replacement for your customary moonlight and wind-blown sea of greenery. Never one for The Weather Channel, the storm had been unexpected, but you found solace in the lightning and claps of thunder all the same. The boisterous sonance drowned out your thoughts and veins of luminosity burned away your pensiveness.Â
You had seen Daryl since the night you had tended to his injuries. Each time, he had been doing his customary trailing on Merleâs heels, never sparing you a glance even when his brother cat-called you with a string of degrading expletives. The intentional avoidance hurt. You werenât exactly sure that you could call the thing between you a friendship but it was something. It was tangible and assuaging and you missed it.Â
That train of thought derailed within a peal of thunder. You placed your book next to your hip and leaned to look up at the sky, the old swing creaking beneath your shifting weight. Rivulets of rainwater trickled from the malleable metal and dripped onto your face, your eyes squinting and blinking in defiance.Â
âSâreally cominâ down.â
Your head snapped around to find Daryl standing in your walkway, his hair matted to his head and his clothes clinging to his broad frame. His shoulders were drawn up near his ears. You could only make out his face when pencil strokes of lightning blazed overhead. Standing, you ambled over to the pillar just beyond the railing.Â
âWhatâre doing out there?â You called, your voice lost in the downpour. Daryl angled his head as if straining to hear you. His knee bent slightly, boot lifting as if he were considering a step, but placed back on the ground. âDaryl, youâre drenched!â With a glance over your shoulder, you could see your father still passed out in his chair. Your tongue ran across your lips as you considered your next words carefully. His name was already rolling off your tongue as you turned back to him. âDaryl, come on! Get out of the rain.â He made no move to follow your command. âGet up here or go home!âÂ
He looked over his shoulder then. You werenât sure what was happening inside his head, but the way he looked up toward you before he strode forward to stop at the bottom step, you gathered that there were things happening in his home that he wanted no part of.Â
You looked up as if unable to remember if your porch covered that step. It didnât. âDaryl, get up here.â His hand came to rest on the railing, but he hesitated. âPlease.â You added, watching his fingers bend to press down against the wood. You had to sidestep out of his way when he darted upward, stopping at your side to stare at you down the ridge of his shoulder. His expression was unreadable. âWhat, uhââ You fidgeted under the weight of his gaze. âWhatâre you doing here?â
He seemed to rethink the entirety of the last five minutes, his eyes darting between you and his singlewide. Your throat tightened at the blatant discomfort he was displaying, and for a moment, you thought he would run. He dug through his pocket instead, the pressure of the action wringing water from the fabric. A pack of cigarettes emerged, the outside decorated in thick droplets.
âDo you want one of mine?â You asked, eyeing him as he pulled one free of the pack. Beneath the dim lighting, the paper seemed to be dry, protected by the branded foil.Â
âNah.â He offered it up, watching you place it between your lips. The filter was damp and cool, but not ruined. You turned to fetch your lighter where it was sitting neglected beside your puzzle book. A repetitive grinding click and soft glow of a flame gave you pause, your eyes sliding back before your head turned to position the end of the cigarette over his lighter.Â
âThanks.â The word was accompanied by a thin gray cloud. Daryl nodded, having at some point placed a cigarette of his own in his mouth. He lit it quickly and shoved the lighter back in his pocket, scowling as if offended by the wet feel of his pants.Â
You took a heartbeat to consider his intentions, the silence lingering in the air as you smoked, periodic drags taken in unison, though his were substantially longer. He was wearing anxiety like a heavy cloak, his shoulders tense as if he were battling the weight of it.Â
âYou donât have to, you know.â You sniffed, crossing your arms but holding your cigarette away from you. You looked down toward that street lamp but could feel his eyes on you.Â
âDonât hafta what?â He asked gruffly.Â
You took a heavy draw and exhaled. âApologize.â You heard him huff something akin to a laugh through his nose and pinned him with your gaze just as he looked down at his boots.Â
âWasnât gonna.â The way his brow furrowed, his weight shifting from foot to foot, told a different story.Â
Satisfied with that mere assumption, you smiled and allowed the shared quiet to enclose your porch once more. The rain had never ceased its onslaught, puddles spreading into dark vibrating pools on either side of the walkway.Â
Your cigarette was nearly down to the filter when Daryl flicked his off the porch, the cherry extinguishing with a hiss that went unheard. He turned from you, looking down the steps, his intention to descend clear.
Your fingers were barely touching his hand, a ghost of a caress that spoke the word you dared not give voice to.Â
Stay.Â
You watched as his forefinger moved, a twitch that was perhaps out of nervousness rather than intent. Daring to raise your head, you found him mimicking your actions, your eyes meeting, gazes saying everything and nothing.Â
âY/N!â The front door bounced off the inner wall as it was flung open, your fatherâs anger worn as a red face and wild eyes, his shotgun in his hands. âSâa fuckinâ Dixon doinâ on my porch?!â
âNothing, Daddy!â You intercepted him at the screen door, sliding inside to place your hands on the gun, your cool touch covering his knuckles in hope that your gentleness could persuade him to stand down. Glancing over your shoulder, Daryl hadnât moved, his fingers flexing at his sides. âGo.â You mouthed.Â
There was the smallest, almost imperceptible shake of his head, the lightning painting his eyes a haunting glow of silver.Â
âGo.â You tried again, your expression pleading. You knew what awaited you, but Darylâs fate could be so much worse under the assault of your fatherâs rage. âPlease.â
Darylâs jaw worked back and forth, his hands now curled into tight fists that trembled next to his hips. Finally, thankfully, he moved off the porch, glancing back and pausing frequently as if it physically pained him to walk away.Â
Maybe it did.Â
And when the first hit struck, you knew he had seen.Â
âItâs not that bad.â You winced in anticipation of a touch that never came. Darylâs hand hovered next to your face. You could feel the heat of his skin, almost leaned into it but the lingering ghost of violence from your own flesh and blood had left you fearful. As if a single trace of Darylâs fingertips against your bruised cheek would summon your father from thin air.Â
âSonuvabitch.â His fingers curled into a fist as he lowered his hand, a muscle twitching in his cheek while he looked away at nothing in particular.Â
âIâm okay.â You lied. The sidelong scrutiny he gave you made it clear that he knew better. Dropping your head, you kicked at the rocks with the toe of your sneaker. It was the first time the two of you had interacted away from your porch. What should have felt like a milestone in whatever this was between you and Daryl only felt like a force of hand.
âYa canâtââ He began, looking over his shoulder toward his own trailer, a man you didnât recognize loading gear into the back of Darylâs truck. âLetâs get outta here. You anâ me.â
You blinked at him, eyes wide, but he kept his head down when he turned back. He was waiting for your rejection.Â
âYou mean, like a ride?â You queried, ducking and angling your head to try and catch his eye. His hand came to his mouth, his teeth worrying the side of his thumb. The skin there was already red.Â
âNah.â He cleared his throat. âI mean, letâs get the fuck outta here.â
He couldnât possibly be suggestingâ
âLeave?â You asked, a note of caution in your tone. Daryl dropped his hand, even as he continued to pick at the irritated skin with the nail of his index finger. He nodded, shifting from foot to foot.Â
It was your turn to look over your shoulder, envisioning your father in his chair. You could already feel the next punch, the next kick to your ribs.Â
âOkay.â You said quietly. âOkay.â You repeated a little louder. When you turned back to him, he was already searching your eyes, squinting as if he didnât believe you. âWhere will we go?â
He arched a brow. He hadnât put thought towards anything past the point of asking you to go. Perhaps the offer wasnât even something he had truly considered until he saw the state of you.Â
âI dunno.â He shrugged. âAnywhere.â
You smiled in spite of yourself. âBut what about your brother?â The question was genuine though you felt asking it would bring upon some epiphany that would result in a rescinding of the offer.Â
Daryl shrugged again. âCan fuck up just fine without me.âÂ
Not the answer you had expected, but you nodded anyway, considering where exactly you were supposed to take the conversation from there. You couldnât just up and leave, could you? But exactly was keeping you there? Some twisted sense of responsibility for a man that hadnât really made any attempt to raise you? You should have said that you would think about it. You should have smiled and thanked him before rejecting the offer. But when you looked at himâreally looked at himâyou could see the concern, the sincerity, the hope. âI guess daddy could get his own beer.â You shrugged. Had you just made up your mind? The implication both thrilled and terrified you.
Daryl stepped into your space, his movements slow and calculated. His hand came up again to hover next to your cheek. He was giving you a chance to pull away. You didnât. The first brush of his rough fingertips had your eyes dancing between his, your head tilting to press into his warm palm when he finally rested it against your skin. âGoinâ huntinâ with my uncle. Ya be ready by ten tonight. Meetcha right here. Merleâll be at the bar anâ your daddyâll be passed out.â âIâll be ready.â You nodded, the calluses on his hand scraped minutely over your cheek.Â
For a moment, you thought he would kiss you. Maybe thatâs exactly what he intended to do because when you stepped back, you saw the glimmer of disappointment in his expression. âNot yet.â You teased, watching his brow furrow in the face of your coy smile. âI wasnât gonnaââ Darylâs cheeks flushed, his head ducking and tilting so he could glance at you, his thumb traveling toward his mouth for him to gnaw on the side. Youâd need to get him out of that habit and apparently, youâd have time for that. âLiar.â You walked backwards toward your doublewide. You had some packing to do. The man you now surmised to be Darylâs uncle was moving around the truck at Darylâs place.Â
Darylâs eyes narrowed, but there was a ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it had appeared. âWhen would yaââ When would you let him kiss you? The thought alone sent a thrill up your spine. âI donât know.â You grinned, holding your arms outstretched as you spun around, your spirit unburdened for the first time in as long as you could remember. âWhen weâre halfway to anywhere.â Daryl watched you, his expression unreadable, but there was a certain something in his eyes. A promise. A promise of adventure, of freedom, of things you couldnât fathom to name at that moment. âMâgonna hold ya to that.â He nodded, taking a step back. âSee ya tonight. Be ready.â âIâll be ready.â You watched him go, smiled as he looked over his shoulder one last time before he climbed into the driverâs seat of his truck. The man in the passenger seat was grinning as they pulled away from the singlewide, likely teasing Daryl if the scowl that soured his expression was anything to go by. You watched the truck until it was out of sight. âIâll be ready.â
Merle had left around 8:30 on his motorcycle. You had watched him from the porch swing, thankful he hadnât seen you. You had wanted to enjoy that last cigarette at your childhood home, your feet languidly kicking as the chain creaked and groaned while you swayed.Â
You had discovered around 9:03 that your upright suitcase did not make for a good seat with the handle digging into your left ass cheek. It had been your motherâs, a vintage leather briefcase style trunk with the lockable hasps. If Daryl didnât tease you about it, then youâd be shocked.Â
You had packed your meager belongings early in the day, just after Daryl had left, hiding your suitcase until your father had passed out. You took only your clothes, toiletries, your favorite yarn, and a 5mm hook. Everything else was trivial and could be replaced.Â
When Daryl wasnât home by ten, you didnât panic. You really didnât think much of it at all. If his uncle was anything like Merle, Daryl was likely still trying to coerce him into the truck while a can of lukewarm PBR was being waved in a careless fist.Â
By eleven, you were bouncing your feet and chewing your nails. Maybe they had come across some game, bagged a nice buck. They would need time to field dress and load it up. Daryl was always in a better mood when heâd visit you after a successful hunt.Â
Your eyes flicked over to movement down the lane. A middle aged couple hurried from their trailer, the slams of their car doors loud in the quiet park. A loose belt whined as they accelerated out of the neighborhood before even turning on their headlights. They hadnât even closed their front door.Â
âThat was weird.â You muttered.Â
The night wore on, but still you waited. It was 1:26 when you began to pace. Maybe his uncle had insisted they went to the bar. That would mean corralling both older Dixons into the truck and loading Merleâs bike. It made sense.Â
And it kept you hopeful.Â
Until 5:42, when the birds started to sing and the vast darkness above you began to lose the stars and shift from black to a deep blue. Soon it would be burnt orange but as long as you could still see the moon, you could keep believing that it was still the night you were supposed to run with him.Â
What if something had happened to him? Over your time spent becoming friends, becoming whatever it was you were, you had grown so accustomed to his presence, to his silent support. The mere thought of that being torn away from you made your heart ache and your throat tight.Â
But what if he had intentionally stayed away?Â
No. He wouldnât. And youâd accept no other answer. That was that.Â
Something had kept him away.Â
At 7:13, you placed your suitcase inside your closet. There was no need to tip toe. Your father kept the television so loud that you were sure half the park knew the weekly forecast without access to cable or radio.Â
You blinked aggressively at the sting behind your eyes while you moved around the kitchen, forcing yourself into the routine you had thought you would be leaving behind. Dishes before cooking hot food for your father and a bowl of cereal for yourself.Â
âStrange behavior and aggressive encounters reported in urban areasâŚâ
You glanced at the tv as you scrubbed last nightâs dinner dishes, your eyes narrowing. A female reporter was interviewing a woman with a thick white bandage on her upper arm.Â
ââŚcame outta nowhere and heâhe bit me! He didnât look right, yâknow? Like he was sickâŚâ
Suds dripped from your hands as you approached the area behind your fatherâs chair, his snores nothing more than background noise as you watched the report. Water dripped onto the leather of the Lazy Boy when your hand wrapped around the remote, your thumb pressing the button to scan the channels.
ââŚhospital is in chaos as the bodies of patients earlier pronounced dead roamed the halls..â
ââŚvicious attacksâŚmultiple deaths reportedâŚâ
ââŚcannibalismâŚâ
ââŚofficials advise people to stay insideâŚâ
You flinched when a scream from outside seemed to reverberate down your spine, the remote slipping from your fingers to bounce on the thin brown carpet. You opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch, watching the scene unfold.Â
Your neighbors ran, children and bags in their arms, ducking into their cars. On the sidewalk was Mrs. Haley, her body jerking as two men bowed over her. You had never seen so much blood as the men began to disembowel the poor old woman.Â
Your hand went to your mouth as you listened to the screams. Some people moved with haste while others were slow, their actions jerky and the worst sounds coming from somewhere in their throats.Â
So. Much. Blood.Â
âY/N!âÂ
You jerked when your father grabbed your shoulders. âDaddy, Iââ
âGet in the damn truck, girl!â He barked, giving you a shove off the porch. You nearly tumbled onto the walkway.Â
When you were close enough to reach for the door handle, you found yourself still moving, crossing the pavement beneath that old street lamp. You could imagine Darylâs silhouette way back on that first night, just before that initial shared cigarette.Â
Climbing the steps of Dixon porch, the bottom piece of wood wobbling beneath your feet, you smacked your palm against the door. âDaryl!â You called desperately. His truck wasnât there. Neither was Merleâs bike. But your heart wouldnât believe it. âDaryl, please!âÂ
âY/N, what the fuckâre you doinâ?â Your father cried out. You could hear his boots on the pavement.Â
Your fingers folded into a fist against the door, a single tear sliding down your cheek as a rough hand wrapped around your upper arm, your fatherâs angry voice in your ear as he pulled you away.Â
Your eyes roamed the trailer, committing everything you could to memory. Everything that would remind you of the man who almost set you free, the man who had wanted to run away with you to anywhere. The sideways shutter on the living room window. The motorcycle headlamp on the porchâs faded plastic chair. The crocheted red hat lying on the dresser you could see through the broken blinds.Â
With a smile that was just as broken as your heart, you took in a shaky breath, your hand pressing against the glass when your father slammed the truck door. âGoodnight, Daryl.â
Ladybug
young daryl dixon x original female character
pre and post apocalypse
PART I : BEFORE
-
Stevie St. James was an odd girl.
She knew this.
Everyone else knew it, too.
And they liked to remind her. Often.
"Youâre really weird, Stevie," Daryl said one day.
It was after church, and they were playing on the rusted playground set in the courtyard. The swings creaked, and the metal slide was chipped and worn. Darylâs mama was nearby, chatting with Stevieâs Gran, voices a soft hum against the backdrop of their play. Darylâs mama was always talking to Gran, âcause his mama was real good friends with Stevieâs mama when they were little like them. So, after church, they spent hours gossiping while the kids entertained themselves in the sun.
But why was Stevie so weird? It couldnât have been because of the spider she was holding.
She had found it on the slide, nestled in the cracks of the old metal, its tiny legs twitching. Daryl had almost crushed it, but Stevie had yelled and scooped it up. It wasnât a dangerous one, just a little baby Hobo Spiderâ Tegenaria agrestis, sheâd read in one of her bug books.
She stared at the spider, her small hand cradling it carefully, a focused look in her eyes as she examined its body in the afternoon light. Daryl was still there, his face scrunched with confusion, eyes squinted. She was absorbed in the creature, trying to explain it to him in that serious tone that made adults laugh at her.
âThe Hobo Spider,â she began, her voice taking on the cadence of someone reading from a book, âalso known as Tegenaria agrestis, is a large spider in the Agelenidae family. In Britain, theyâre called âfunnel weaversâ or âcobweb spidersâ âcause of the way they build their webs. Theyââ
âStevie, baby! Time for lunch!â Gran called.
She broke off mid-sentence. She stood up, still holding the spider delicately in her hands. Daryl just stared at her, a mix of awe and confusion on his face, but she barely noticed. The spider had to go back where it belonged.
She walked briskly to the trees, her worn Mary-Janes crunching on the leaves. She placed the little spider gently on a tree, far from the slide and the noisy church. Then, she turned and ran back toward Gran, Daryl trailing behind her in silent bewilderment.
-
They werenât in the same class at school. Daryl was in fourth grade, and Stevie was only in third. But they still sat together at lunch and played together during recess.
It was a crisp fall day, and Stevie was eating the soup her Gran had packed her. Daryl, though, had no lunch. His mom had forgotten to pack him anything. Again. Mrs. Dixon was drunk most of the time, evenon Sundays. Gran said she was a lost soul. Sometimes Stevie wondered how Daryl got by at all.
Gran always made sure to pack extra food for him, even when money was tight. It was just how things were. Gran had taught Stevie to share, even when they barely had enough for themselves. Stevie handed over a ham sandwich, packed just for Daryl, watching him unwrap it without a word. She didnât expect a thanks, not really. Daryl didnât say much, ever. But neither did she.
As Stevie watched him, something caught her eye. There, on his cheek, was a big black-and-blue splotch against his pale skin. Her stomach tightened as she stared at it, her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.
"Daryl," she said quietly, her voice faltering just a little, "What happened to your face?"
Daryl didnât look up. He took a big bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly, eyes on the table. He didnât answer.
Stevie bit her lip, unsure of what to say next. She knew he got hurt a lot. Daryl was a roughhouser, always fighting with his older brother Merle, who was already in high school and had no time for Daryl anymoreâexcept when they were fighting. Then there were the hunting trips with his dad, the ones Stevie didnât know much about.Â
Stevie didnât know much about daddies. Sheâd never had one herself, so she couldnât exactly say what a good one looked like. But she knew Darylâs daddy was no-good.
Sheâd heard the way Mrs. Dixon, with bruises like Darylâs, talked about him in the few moments of clarity she had. Bastard was the word.
She reached out tentatively, touching the edge of the bruise with a soft finger. Daryl winced, pulling away.
âWas it Merle?â she asked. She didnât like Merle, not much at all. He was loud and rude and smoked cigarettes - she hated the smell. And he always tugged at her braids, which Gran had braided just perfectly, and made fun of her for all sort of things.
Darylâs face twisted, and his jaw clenched. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something, but instead, his lips pressed tight together. He pushed the sandwich aside with more force than necessary, his fists curling.
âNah,â he muttered under his breath, his voice low and sharp. âJustâjust leave me alone, Stevie.â
Stevie shrank back. She hadnât meant to make him angry. Daryl was mean sometimes. But he was her only friend.
âI just-â
He shot up, his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh noise that made the other kids in the small lunchroom glance over. Some of them giggled at the outburst, but no one dared approach. Darylâs anger was well known.
âStop beinâ such a nosy bitch!â he yelled at her, his face flushed. His voice cracked as he turned on his heel, his too-small shoes scuffing the ground as he stormed off.
Stevieâs eyes went wide. She hated bad words. And Daryl had started to say them a lot, just like Merle, just like their daddy.
Some of the other kids now turned their attention to Stevie. A few whispered, eyes flicking from Darylâs retreating figure to her. Stevie shrank further into herself, pulling her shoulders up toward her ears, wishing she could disappear.
Her hands trembled as she sat there, the remnants of her lunch forgotten in front of her. Her throat tightened, her face burning with embarrassment. She wanted to call out to him, to apologize, to tell him she didnât mean to be nosy. But she didnât - couldnât.
The bell rang, sharp and jarring, signaling the end of lunch, and the other kids began to scatter. Stevie remained seated, her hands folded tightly in her lap, staring down at the table, willing the earth to open up and swallow her whole.
-
Stevie was a girl who liked routines, the kind of order that made the world feel predictable. Â
Gran braided her hair the same way every morning. Her dresses were always floral and ironed neatly. The ruffles of her socks stayed pure white, and the scuffs on her shoes were polished away. Â
Stevie found comfort in the small thingsâorganizing her books into neat stacks by size, keeping track of the bugs she found in the woods with Daryl, and the way the soft wool of her favorite sweater felt against her skin. Â
When something disrupted that peaceâher routinesâit felt like the ground beneath her feet became unstable.
Daryl disrupted her routines. He didnât mean to; it just happened. He was unpredictable, like people always were. Stevie didnât like being around people much. It wasnât that she disliked them exactlyâshe just found them difficult to understand. That was why Stevie stayed away from people as best she could. But she couldnât seem to stay away from Daryl, even if he ruined her routines. Â
Sometimes, when they were supposed to play in the woods, his daddy would keep him home. Sometimes, when he was supposed to eat lunch with her, he wouldnât come to school. Sometimes, when he was supposed to be nice to her, he would be cruel. Â
When everything felt disturbed, Stevie turned to bugs. Â
When she found a new bug, her heart raced with excitement. She crouched down, her fingers gently brushing the grass or cracked sidewalk, careful not to startle her tiny subject. She would watch it for what felt like hours, her eyes locked on its every movement, her mind cataloging its size, color, and behavior. Â
She had towering stacks of books on bugs from the library, which she read and reread so many times that she could recite nearly everything she had absorbed.
Gran always smiled when Stevie talked about her bugs, even if she didnât quite understand why her granddaughter cared so much about them. "You gotta eye for the lilâ things, Stevie," Gran would say, patting her head affectionately. "The world needs more folks who pay attention to the small stuff." Â
The night after Daryl yelled at her at lunch, when the sun hung low and painted the sky in streaks of pink and gold, there was a knock at the door. Stevie peeked through the lace curtains and saw Daryl standing there. He looked dirty and out of breath, like he had ran the mile all the way from his trailer to her little house. A dark bruise shadowed his cheek, deeper in color than it had been earlier in the day. Â
Gran answered the door, her smile warm.Â
"Hi, maâam," Stevie heard Daryl mutter. "UhâŚStevie âround?" Â
"She is," Gran said, stepping aside to let him in. Â
When he entered, his eyes locked on Stevieâs where she sat on the couch, a mason jar in her lap. She gave him a small smile and a wave. Â
"Why donâcha stay for dinner, hmm? Youâre lookinâ too thin again," Gran said. Â
Daryl hesitated. "I ainât wanna be a botherâ" Â
"Nonsense," Gran interrupted, already heading to the kitchen. "Sit yourself down. Iâll make somethinâ you like." Â
âWhatâs that?â Daryl asked Stevie, pointing at the jar. Â
âLadybugs,â she said, holding up the jar for him to see. He took it and brought it up to his eyes, watching the little red-and-black bugs wander around on a stick she had placed inside. Â
âAre you gonna keep âem?â Â
Stevie rolled her eyes. âNo. I told you already. Theyâre meant to live outside. They just come on vacation in my jar sometimes.â Â
Gran bustled in. "How âbout some fried chicken? I know how you love it, Daryl." Â
His ears turned red. "You ainât gottaâ" Â
"I want to," Gran said firmly. "Go wash on up, the both of you." Â
Dinner was a quiet affair, at least by most peopleâs standards. Stevie ate in her usual deliberate way, savoring each bite and watching Daryl out of the corner of her eye. He didnât talk much, but she could tell he liked the chicken; he ate every piece Gran piled on his plate, right down to the bone. Â
When the meal was done, Gran brought out a pie she had baked that morning, the scent of apples and cinnamon filling the room. "Daryl," she said, her voice softening, "youâre welcome here anytime. Donât you be a stranger now, you hear?" Â
Daryl nodded, mumbling a shy "Thank you, Mrs. St. James." Â
"I been tellinâ you, call me Gran." Â
Stevie watched him as he scraped the last bit of pie crust from his plate, and for once, she didnât mind the disruption. Daryl might not have made sense to her, but he didnât need to. He was just Darylâunpredictable and sometimes cruel, but sometimes kind and comforting in ways no one else ever was. Â
As the night settled in and the dishes were done, Gran sent Daryl home with a warm hug and a Tupperware full of leftovers. Stevie sat by the window, watching as he disappeared into the dark woods. Â
âGran?â she asked softly. Â
âYes, sweetheart?â Â
âDid Darylâs daddy hit him? Like he hits Mrs. Dixon?â She knew Gran had noticed the bruise. She had caught Gran staring at it with those puppy-dog sad eyes. Â
Gran was quiet for a moment. âI donât know, Stevie,â her voice low and sad, very un-Gran-like. âI donât know. But I do know we gotta give that boy love, you hear?â
-
As Stevie grew older, she began to look more and more like her mother. Â
She had never known her motherânever even met her, except for the day she was born, she supposedâbut Gran kept the photos of her daughter up. Stevieâs mamaâs school pictures lined the walls, along with scattered Polaroids on the fridge. Â
They shared the same shade of curly golden hair, the same smattering of freckles across their cheeks, the same wide gap between their front teeth, and the same round face. But Stevieâs eyes were brown, not green like her mamaâs. She must have gotten them from her daddy, though she had no idea who he was. Gran didnât have any pictures of him, because Gran didnât know who he was either. Maybe he had brown eyes. Maybe. Â
Mrs. Dixon used to love telling Stevie how much she looked like her mama. Mrs. Dixon and Stevieâs mama had been the best of friends once upon a time. But Stevieâs mama was gone, and now Mrs. Dixon was tooâshe had died in a fire a year back. A few months after that, Merle enlisted in the army. After that, Stevie saw less and less of Daryl. He started missing school, and when he did show up, he barely spoke to her. Even though she kept inviting him over for dinner, he stopped coming. She didnât know what he was up to these days. She didnât even know if he would show up for school. Â
She hoped he would. She felt utterly aloneâno friends, no one. Well, except for Gran and a few of Granâs church and bingo friends. All old women who liked to pinch her cheeks and offer her baked goods. Â
She spent the summer doing what she always did when there was no school to keep her busy. She read books about bugs, searched for them in the woods, and spent hours on the library computer bidding on taxidermy bugs with her chore money. She meticulously prepared her bug displays, knitted with Gran, went to church with Gran, attended bingo night with Gran, cooked with Gran, tended to Granâs garden, and watched old westerns with Gran. Â
Bugs and Gran. That was about it. Â
On the morning of her first day of high school, Stevie stood in front of the living room wall, staring at her mamaâs school pictures. It was almost like looking into a reflection. Gran found her there, silent, and didnât say anything. She just gave Stevie that sad smileâthe one she always wore when Stevieâs mama came up. Â
Stevie was good at reading people. She noticed things others didnât. She knew that Gran missed her mama terribly. She knew that Gran carried so many regrets. She also knew that in Stevie, Gran saw a second chance at raising a daughter. Â
Mrs. Dixon had told Stevie so many stories about her mama. "She was a total hippy," she would say. She wore long skirts and sandals, piled on layers of jewelry, and always had music from the seventies playingâespecially Fleetwood Mac. That was her thing. It wasnât just the music, either. It was the way she carried herself, carefree and wild, with a spirit that seemed to float just above the ground. Â
The one thing Stevieâs mama had done for herâthe only thing that tied them togetherâwas give her a name. Stevie Nicks, her mamaâs favorite singer. That was her gift. She passed it down before handing Stevie over to Gran and skipping town, leaving without a word or a trace. Never to be seen again. Â
Gran didnât talk much about Stevieâs mama, except to tell stories of how wild she had been, how full of life. Mrs. Dixonâs stories painted a picture of a woman who was always searching for somethingâsomething bigger than herself, something that couldnât be found in a small town like this. Stevie often wondered if her mama had ever found whatever it was she was looking for. Â
As Stevie grew older, she started to understand why Gran didnât talk about her. The absence was painful. Stevieâs mama was a ghost in their lives. For Stevie, her name was the one tangible connection to her. As soon as she could, she started playing her namesakeâs songs over and over, searching for a thread of connection to the woman in the photos on the walls.
-
The first day of high school was already shaping up to be one of Stevieâs least favorite days of the year. She hated crowds, hated the noise of everyone shouting over each other in the hallways, hated the way the fluorescent lights hummed overhead and cast an unflattering glare on everything. The air smelled like cheap cologne and cafeteria food, and the sound of lockers slamming felt like tiny earthquakes rattling her nerves.
She found her first classâa cramped, stuffy room with mismatched desks and a chalkboard that still bore the faint ghost of last yearâs lessons. Stevie picked a seat near the middle of the room, close enough to hear the teacher but not so close that sheâd draw attention to herself. She took out her notebook and smoothed the edges of the pages, focusing on the familiar rhythm of straightening everything just so.
The bell rang, and the last few stragglers shuffled in. Stevie kept her head down, staring at her notebook, until she heard the scrape of a chair behind her. She glanced back cautiously and caught a flash of someone sitting down. When she turned slightly, she froze.
Daryl Dixon was sitting directly behind her.
Of course. It was an incredibly small school, and it seemed like Daryl had been held back, so it would make sense that he was placed in this class.
He looked about the same as the last time sheâd seen himâmessy brown hair that stuck out at odd angles, faint bruises that hadnât entirely faded, and that same scowl that made him look like heâd rather be anywhere else. He didnât seem to notice her right away, slumping into his chair and tapping a pencil on the desk.
Stevie felt her stomach flip. She wanted to say somethingâanythingâbut her tongue felt heavy, and her thoughts tangled into a knot of panic. What was she supposed to say? Hey, long time no see? Howâs your summer? Why did you stop coming over?
The teacher started talking, sparing her from having to figure it out. She kept her head down for most of the class, her mind half on the lesson and half on the boy sitting behind her. When the bell finally rang, she gathered her things as quickly as possible, hoping to slip out before he noticed her.
âStevie?â
His voice stopped her cold. She turned slowly, clutching her notebook to her chest.
âHi,â Daryl said, his voice gruff but quieter than she remembered. He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking just as awkward as she felt.
âHi,â she mumbled, staring at a spot on the floor near his feet.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.
âYou, uhâŚyou look different,â Daryl finally said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Stevie blinked at him, unsure if that was supposed to be a compliment or just an observation. âSo do you,â she said softly.
He shrugged, glancing away. âHowâs Gran?â
âGood. Sheâs good.â She missed you. Asked about you all the time.
He nodded. âYou still, uhâŚyou still got all those bugs?â
Her heart fluttered a little at the question. âYeah,â she said, her voice picking up a bit of enthusiasm. âI got a whole new case. I found a Harlequin beetle on ebay. Spent all summer reorganizing my collection.â
Daryl gave her a small, lopsided grin. âSounds like you.â
Stevie wasnât sure how to respond to that, so she didnât. The silence crept back in, and she shifted on her feet.
âWanna hang out sometime?â Daryl blurted.
Stevieâs eyes snapped to his, wide with surprise. âUhâŚIâŚsure. I mean, if you wanna.â
âYeah,â he said, shrugging like it wasnât a big deal, but she noticed the way he shifted awkwardly. âAfter school, maybe. We could go to the woods or somethinâ.â
Stevie hesitated, her mind racing through the possibilitiesâwhat theyâd do, what theyâd talk about, whether it would mess up her routine. But then she nodded. âOkay. After school.â
Daryl gave her a quick nod. âCool. See you then.â
As she watched him walk away, a strange mix of nervousness and excitement bubbled in her chest. For the first time in a long time, she didnât feel quite so alone.
-
Stevie had never given much thought to kissing. She read about it in books and saw it in movies, but the idea of actually doing it herself always felt foreign, distantâlike something other people did, not her. Â
She was a sophomore when it happened, on a Spring evening in the woods behind her house.Â
Daryl had been quiet all day, quieter than usual. Stevie noticed the way he kept stealing glances at her, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his old jacket. He hadnât teased her about her bugs, hadnât made any sarcastic comments about the way she was still wearing her favorite dress even though it was full of holes. Â
âYouâre actinâ weird,â Stevie finally said, stopping in her tracks. She turned to face him, folding her arms across her chest. Â
Daryl kicked at a rock on the path, avoiding her gaze. âI ainât actinâ weird.â Â
âYou are,â she insisted. âYouâve barely said anythinâ all day. Did I do somethinâ?â Â
âNo.â His voice was quiet, and he shifted uncomfortably. âYou didnât do nothinâ. I justâŚâ He trailed off, finally looking up at her. Â
Stevie tilted her head. âWhat?â Â
Daryl scratched the back of his neck, his face flushing red. âI was just thinkinâ âbout somethinâ.â Â
âWhat?â she asked again.
Instead of answering, Daryl took a step closer. He hesitated, his hands twitching like he wasnât sure what to do with them. âCan IâŚCan I try somethinâ?â Â
Stevieâs heart thumped in her chest. She blinked at him, the weight of the moment sinking in as she realized what he was asking. âO-okay,â she stammered, unsure what else to say. Â
Daryl leaned in slowly, his movements awkward and uncertain. Stevie stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. When his lips finally brushed hers, it was soft and hesitant, like he was afraid of doing it wrong. Â
The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like time had stretched, the world narrowing down to just the two of them. When Daryl pulled back, his face was even redder, and he couldnât quite meet her eyes. Â
âSorry,â he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. âI probably shouldnâtâveââ Â
âItâs okay,â Stevie interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her cheeks were burning, but she couldnât stop the small, shy smile that tugged at her lips. Â
âYeah?â Daryl glanced at her, relief flickering across his face. Â
âYeah,â she said, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. She wasnât sure how she was supposed to feel after something like that, but her chest felt warm, like sheâd just taken a deep breath on a chilly morning. Â
They stood there for a moment, the woods quiet around them. Then Daryl gave her a lopsided grin and nudged her arm with his elbow. âCome on. I bet thereâs still some frogs by the creek.â Â
Stevie laughed, the sound soft and light. She followed him down the trail, her heart still fluttering from the kiss. For the first time, she thought maybe kissing wasnât so strange after all. Â
âDaryl?â
âHmm?â
âAre we goinâ steady now?â
ââŚGuess so.â
-
âCall me when my dad ainât home,â Daryl had said that morning while he was driving her to school. He did that almost every morning - pick Stevie up, drop her off at school, and go to work. He had dropped out, leaving her unfortunately utterly alone at school. But she didnât mind much. âHe wonât be back âround till late.â Â
Stevie had nodded, then she pressed a kiss to his lips before hopping out of his truck.
Later, sheâd dialed the Dixonâs number.
It rang twice before someone picked up. Â
âWhat?â A gruff voice snapped on the other end of the line. Â
Stevie froze. That wasnât Daryl. Â
âUh⌠umâŚâ She stammered, panic rising in her chest. Â
âWho is this?â The voice barked. Â
âItâs Stevie St. James, sir. Is Daryl there?â
She got no response. Only a huff, and then the cut-off slam of the phone.
That evening, she heard a knock at the door. Stevie jumped up from the couch, her heart leaping as she ran to answer it. Â
Daryl stood there, slouched and battered. His right eye was swollen shut, his lip split, and there was a cut along his cheekbone that looked like it hadnât stopped bleeding yet. Â
âDaryl!â Stevie gasped, reaching for him. Â
âMâfine,â he muttered, brushing past her into the house. Â
âYou are not fine,â Gran said firmly, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hands on her hips. Her eyes softened when she saw the state of him. âLord, child. Sit before you fall down.â Â
Daryl hesitated but obeyed, collapsing onto the couch with a wince. Stevie followed him, hovering nearby, unsure what to do. Â
âGo get the first aid kit,â Gran said, her voice calm but urgent. Â
Stevie nodded and dashed off, returning moments later with the kit. Gran knelt beside Daryl, opening it and inspecting his injuries with the practiced care of someone whoâd done this too many times. Â
âThis ainât nothinâ,â Daryl mumbled as Gran dabbed at his cheek with a damp cloth. He flinched but didnât pull away. Â
âDonât you dare,â Gran scolded gently. âNow, you wanna tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?â Â
Daryl looked down at his hands, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. âHe was mad âbout the phone,â he admitted quietly. Â
Stevieâs heart sank. âIâm sorry,â she whispered, her voice trembling. Â
âDonât,â Daryl said quickly, glancing up at her. âAinât your fault.â Â
Gran sighed, shaking her head. âThat manâs got no business puttinâ his hands on you. You hear me?â Â
Daryl didnât respond, his jaw tightening. Â
âYouâre stayinâ here tonight,â Gran said firmly. âNo arguments.â Â
Daryl looked like he wanted to protest but thought better of it. Instead, he nodded, his shoulders slumping in relief. Â
Stevie sat beside him on the couch, her hands twisting together in her lap. She wanted to say something, to tell him how much she hated seeing him like this, how much she cared about him, but the words wouldnât come. Â
Instead, she reached out and took his hand. He didnât pull away. Â
Gran finished patching him up and stood, patting his shoulder gently. âIâll make you some tea,â she said, heading back to the kitchen. Â
For a moment, it was just Stevie and Daryl, the room quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Â
âI hate him,â Stevie whispered, her voice shaking with the weight of emotions she didnât know how to express. Â
âI know,â Daryl said softly, his fingers tightening around hers. âBut Iâm all right.â Â
She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. âNo, you ainât.â Â
âWill be. âCause I got you.â
-
Stevieâs senior year was a whirlwind of heartbreak and change.
Granâs death in the early months hit her harder than anything ever had. One moment, Gran was bustling around the house like always, scolding Stevie for forgetting her umbrella on a rainy day, and the next, she was goneâslipping away quietly in her sleep.
Gran had left everything to Stevie: the house, the small savings account, even the old Volkswagen sheâd loved so much.
Daryl was her anchor through it all. He spent every free moment at the house, fixing broken pipes, mowing the lawn, and making sure Stevie ate when she forgot. But he was struggling too. A few months after Granâs passing, Darylâs father died of a sudden heart attack (no doubt caused from years of alcohol abuse), leaving behind a mountain of debt and a broken trailer. Merle was nowhere to be found, not that Daryl expected him to step up.
Stevie offered what little support she could. She watched Daryl sell the trailer and everything his dad had left behind, just to make ends meet. And when he had nowhere else to go, she told him he could live at Granâs house, with her.
One evening, long after the sun had set, they found themselves sitting together on the old couch in the living room. Stevie had been cleaning out some of Granâs things earlier in the day and had stumbled across an old quilt. Now, it was draped over them as they watched a rerun of some black-and-white Western that Gran had loved.
Daryl was quiet, his arm stretched across the back of the couch, his fingers idly brushing against Stevieâs shoulder. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest.
âYou okay?â he asked softly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.
She nodded, her hand clutching a corner of the quilt. âI think so.â
âYouâre doinâ good, Ladybug,â he said, using his nickname for her that he oh-so cleverly came up with a few years back, his hand moving to rest on her arm. âGran would be proud of you.â
The mention of Gran made her chest tighten, but she didnât cry. Instead, she tilted her head up to look at him. His face was lined with exhaustion, the weight of the past year visible in every angle.
âYouâve been good to me, Daryl,â she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
âYouâve been good to me, too.â
The air between them shifted, a quiet tension settling in as their eyes met. Stevieâs heart pounded in her chest, a mix of nerves and something deeper. She didnât know who moved first, but his lips were on hers, soft and warm and hesitant.
Stevie loved kissing Daryl. They did it often. It only went past kissing a handful of times, but never all the way.
She straddled him, grinding down, making him gasp and clutch at the back of her sweater.
âStevie,â he murmured breathlessly against her lips,
âI want it,â she whispered back, pulling at the hem if his shirt. âI want it. I want you.â
They moved slowly, carefully, as if afraid to break the moment. Darylâs hands traced the curve of her back, his touch reverent, while Stevieâs fingers tangled in his hair.Â
âAre you sure?â Daryl asked, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm against her skin.
Stevie nodded, her voice steady despite the rapid beat of her heart. âIâm sure.â
What followed was quiet and tender, filled with whispered reassurances and gentle touches. It wasnât perfectânothing ever wasâbut it was theirs, a moment carved out of the chaos of their lives where nothing else mattered but each other.
Afterward, they lay tangled together on the couch. Stevie rested her head on Darylâs chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as his fingers ran through her hair.
âI love you,â he said quietly, almost as if he was afraid to say it too loudly.
Oh.Â
He loved her.
Stevie grinned. âI love you, too.â
In the weeks that followed, Daryl moved his few belongings into the house. It was a bittersweet arrangementâborn out of necessity, but filled with a quiet hope for the future. Together, they started to rebuild, turning the house into a home for both of them.
-
Stevie kept her head down as she wiped the counter. Ever since Darylâs proposal on her nineteenth birthday, she felt like everyone who looked at her could see the ring on her finger. It wasnât big or flashyâsomething small and gold from the pawnshopâbut it was perfect. Just like the butterfly heâd given her, a Ulysses butterfly, encased in glass with vibrant blue wings that seemed almost alive. Sheâd never felt more loved in her life.
Charlotte, a fellow waitress a few years older than Stevie, leaned on the counter beside her, smile warm and easy. âSo, Mrs. Dixon, whenâs the big day?â
Stevieâs cheeks turned crimson. âI...donât know. We havenât talked âbout it yet,â she mumbled, keeping her eyes on the coffee pot she was refilling.
Charlotte chuckled. âWell, you better start talkinâ. Weddings donât plan themselves, Vie.â
She wanted to say that there wasnât going to be a wedding, not in the traditional sense. Who would come? Both of them had no family around, hardly had any people they considered friends. They would mostly likely just go down to the courthouse the next day they had free.
Before she could say that, the door jingled, and Stevie stiffened, instinctively shrinking into herself as a group of men walked in, loud and boisterous. One of them, the same man who had been giving Charlotte trouble, looked around the diner and grinned.
âWell, if it ainât my favorite waitress,â he drawled, his eyes locking on Charlotte.
Charlotteâs smile didnât falter, though her eyes hardened. âWhat can I get for you today?â she asked, her tone cool but professional.
The man leaned on the counter, far too close for comfort. âHow âbout a smile to go with my coffee? Black. Just how I like my women.â
Charlotte, ever the professional, kept her cool. She just smiled largely, sarcastically. âRight on it.â
Stevie wasnât brave like Daryl, but she couldnât let this slide. She had only been working at the diner for a few months, but already, Charlotte  became her friend. Her first friend in her whole life, besides Daryl. Charlotte didnât mind her oddness, her quietness, the way she always seemed off in another world internally.
So, when the men finished ordering and went to sit, Stevie got started on the coffee. She fixed up a tray, and turned, facing Charlotte. Locking eyes with her friend, Stevie spit directly in the mug of black coffee, before turning back around and serving the men the drinks. She could hear Charlotte attempt to cover her laughter behind her, making Stevie smile to herself.
-
Stevieâs hands trembled as she set a coffee cup in front of a customer. The morning sickness wasnât too bad today, but her nerves were on edge. Daryl had been quiet since she took the pregnancy testâshe could tell something was eating at him.
She didnât blame him. The idea of becoming parents scared her too, though her fear felt differentâless like dread and more like a worry. She always wanted a baby, and she wanted Daryl to believe he could be a good dad.
The diner door jingled, and Stevie glanced up. A wiry man with a swagger that immediately put her on edge walked in. His eyes scanned the room before landing on her. His face broke into a wide grin.
Oh. She knew that grin.
âWell, if it ainât lilâ Miss St. James,â he drawled, his voice too loud and too familiar.
Stevie stiffened, gripping the coffee pot tighter. âItâs Dixon now,â she said, her voice quiet, as she rounded the bar, putting a blockage between them.
Merleâs grin widened as he sauntered over to the counter and sat down. âDixon, huh? So you actually went and hitched up with my baby brother. Always knew he had the hots for you. Why else would he follow you âround everywhere like a lost dog?â
Stevie forced a tight smile. It was awkwardly silent for a moment, Merle just grinning at her. âGot married a few months back,â she said, feeling uncomfortable.
âWell, congrats, Mrs. Dixon. Welcome to the fuckinâ family. Whereâs my little brother, anyways? I went by that dump of a trailer, and some strangers were there. What the hellâs that âbout?â
Stevie hesitated. She didnât owe him any explanations, but she also didnât want trouble. âDaryl sold it.â
Merleâs expression darkened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. âSold it? That trailer was our dadâs. Daryl didnât have no right to do that.â
âIt was fallinâ apart. He needed the money. He couldnât get ahold of you. He tried.â
âExcuse me, I was busy servinâ our fine country. That trailerâs got history. And you come along, and now Darylâs sellinâ off family stuff like it donât mean nothinâ?â
âDaryl made the decision. If youâve got a problem with it, take it up with him.â
Merleâs face twisted in anger as he leaned closer to Stevie, his voice dripping with disdain. âTake it up with him, huh? You think youâre real smart, donât you? Bet youâve got him doinâ whatever you say, like a damn puppet. You donât know the first thing âbout family, do you? Youâre just some dumb little bitch whose slut mama ran out on her the second she shot you out  her pussy.â Merle laughed harshly, his eyes narrowing. âBet you donât even know how to take care of yourself, let alone him. Hell, you probably got the whole town thinkinâ heâs gone soft, runninâ around with some retard-â
âExcuse me,â Charlotte said, suddenly, appearing behind Stevie, tone sharp. âI think itâs time for you to leave.â
Merle snorted, leaning back slightly but still smirking. âOh, now the cavalryâs here? Look, lady, this is between me and my sistah-in-law.â
Charlotte didnât flinch. âUnless youâre planninâ to order somethinâ and sit down quietly, you can get the hell out.â
Merle stared at her for a moment, his smirk faltering under her unrelenting gaze. âWhatever,â he muttered, stepping back. He turned to Stevie, pointing a finger at her. âThis ainât over, lilâ girl. Tell my brother I need to talk.â
He stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.
âWhat a fuckinâ prick,â Charlotte scowled.
-
The smell of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove filled the small house. Stevie was curled up on the couch, absently running her hand over the small swell of her belly. Daryl shuffled in from the kitchen, carrying two plates piled high with spaghetti and garlic bread, handing one to her before collapsing onto the couch beside her.
"Thanks, Dar," Stevie said with a smile, already twirling a forkful of pasta.
Daryl grunted in response, though the corner of his mouth twitched up. He started eating, his knee bumping against hers on the cramped couch.
âMerle find a couch to crash on tonight?â Stevie asked between bites.
âYeah, some guy he used to run with back in the day,â Daryl muttered. âAinât gonna last long if he donât keep his mouth shut.â
Stevie rolled her eyes. âTypical.â
Daryl hesitated, swirling his fork through his spaghetti. âI got him in with that guy over at the junkyard. Said heâd give Merle a trial shift tomorrow. Itâs somethinâ.â
âThatâs good,â Stevie said, her tone careful. She didnât care for Merleâheâd been nothing but trouble since heâd shown up in townâbut she saw how hard Daryl was trying to help his brother after he was discharged. Still, she refused to let him in her house. Daryl agreed.
They ate and talked idly about their days, Stevie scarfing down spaghetti, her feet in Darylâs lap, the news on the TV humming in the background. She paused her recounting of seeing some Cicadaâs in the backyard earlier when she hears the newscaster start to speak urgently.
âReports are coming in of a mysterious illness spreading rapidly across parts of Europe and AsiaâŚâ
Stevie glanced at the screen, frowning. âThatâs...weird,â she said, voice uneasy.
âEh, prolly just some flu thing,â Daryl said, reaching for the remote. âAinât our problem.â He changed the channel to some sitcom, discarding his plate and melting into the couch, resting a hand on her ankle. âSo, uhâŚyou thinkinâ âbout names any?â
Stevie grinned. âOh, yes. I have a list, actually. Up here.â She tapped her temple.
âA list?â Daryl raised an eyebrow.
âOf course.â
âPlease donât say no bug name.â
She rolled her eyes. âNo Ladybug for a lilâ girl?â
âI already gotta Ladybug.â
-
PART II : AFTER
-
The diner buzzed with the comforting hum of a normal day. The smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee filled the air as Stevie wiped down the counter, her movements almost mechanical. The lunch rush had yet to hit, but the small-town chatter of a few regulars made the space feel alive. Charlotte, balancing a tray of plates, breezed past her.
âTable four needs a coffee refill,â Charlotte said, flashing Stevie a quick grin.
Stevie grabbed the coffee pot and made her way to table four, nodding politely at the older couple seated there. âRefill?â she asked, tone cheerful.
Before they could answer, a man stumbled in through the front door. His clothes were torn, and his skin was pale, almost gray. His eyes, wild and unfocused, darted around the room.
âSir, are you okay?â Stevie asked, concern lacing her voice.
The man didnât respond. Instead, he lurched forward, his movements jerky and unnatural. Stevie froze, the coffee pot trembling in her hand.
âHey, buddy, you lost or somethinâ?â one of the regulars called out from the counter.
The man suddenly snarledâa guttural, inhumansoundâand lunged at the nearest person, sinking his teeth into their neck.
Like a damn animal.
Blood sprayed across the diner as screams erupted.
Stevie dropped the coffee pot, hot liquid splashing across her shoes. Her heart pounded as chaos unfolded around her. More figures stumbled into the diner, lifeless eyes locking onto the living.
âStevie!â Charlotteâs voice cut through the noise. She was standing by the kitchen door, and eyes wide. âRun!â
Stevie snapped out of her daze and bolted toward Charlotte. A man with blood dripping down his chin grabbed at her arm, but she twisted away, nearly slipping on the blood-slick floor. Charlotte grabbed her wrist and yanked her into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind them.
âLock it!â Charlotte shouted.
Stevie fumbled with the lock, her hands shaking violently. She managed to secure it, and the pounding started almost immediately. People threw themselves against the door, growling and snarling.
âOh my God,â Stevie whispered, backing away from the door. Her breathing quickened, her chest heaving. âOh my God, what is happeninâ? Whatâs wrong with them?â
âMust be that thingâthat disease.â
âThought it was overseas?â Stevie could hardly breathe. There was blood all over her crisp blue uniform. Â Hot coffee all over her legs and pearly white sneakers. She felt dirtyâso dirty.
âStevie, breathe,â Charlotte said, grabbing her shoulders. âLook at me. Breathe.â
âIâI canât!â Stevie gasped, clutching her chest. âLottie, I canâtââ
âYou can,â Charlotte said firmly, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. âYou have to. Come on, breathe. That door is solid. Youâve gotta calm down, or youâre gonna pass out. It ainât good for the baby.â
Stevie tried to focus on Charlotteâs voice, but the noise outside was deafening. Those peopleâwhatever was wrong with themâ were relentless, their pounding like a drumbeat. Her vision blurred as tears spilled down her cheeks.
âI want Daryl,â she cried. âI canâtâI canâtâI needââ
âOkay, okay,â Charlotte said, pulling Stevie down to sit on the floor. âWeâll do this together. Look at me. Breathe inâone, two, three. Outâone, two, three. Come on, Stevie.â
Stevie tried to follow Charlotteâs lead, her breaths shaky and uneven. Slowly, the tightness in her chest began to ease, though the panic still hovered.
âThatâs it,â Charlotte said softly, squeezing Stevieâs hands. âYouâre doinâ good. Keep goinâ.â
Stevie nodded, her eyes darting toward the door. âWhat if they get in?â she whispered.
âThey wonât,â Charlotte said, though her voice wavered slightly. âNot right now. And if they do, weâll figure it out. Weâre not dyinâ in this damn diner, you hear me?â
âOkay,â she said, her voice barely above a whisper. âOkay.â
Stevie reached in her pocket, pulling out her flip phone. Charlotte did the same. Stevie tried to call Daryl, but the phone wouldnât even ring.
âAinât workinâ?â Charlotte asked, and Stevie shook her head. âMine neither. Shit.â
They sat together on the cold kitchen floor, clutching each other, the horrid sounds outside continuing.
-
Every thud against the door made Stevie flinch, but she clung to Charlotteâs steady presence like a lifeline.
Then, soon, the noise began to fade.
Charlotte lifted her head, her brow furrowing. âDo you hear that?â
Stevie wiped at her tear-streaked face. âWhat?â
Charlotte tilted her head, listening intently. The pounding had grown sporadic, the growls quieter. After another agonizing moment, the sounds outside the door vanished altogether.
âWhere did they go?â Stevie whispered, voice hoarse.
Charlotte shook her head. âI donât know. Maybe they found somethinâ else to chase.â She stood cautiously, her hand gripping the nearest kitchen knife. âStay here. Iâm gonna check.â
Stevie grabbed her arm. âNo! What if theyâre still out there?â
âWe canât stay locked in here, Stevie. If the coast is clear, we needa get out while we can.â
Stevie hesitated but nodded, her hand going to rest protectively on her belly.
Charlotte unlocked the door slowly, the sound of the bolt sliding back deafening in the silence. She cracked the door open and peeked out.
âTheyâre gone,â Charlotte whispered, pushing the door open further.
Stevie followed, her heart hammering as she stepped into the dining area. The once-bustling diner was now a blood-soaked nightmare. Overturned chairs and shattered dishes littered the floor, and the air was thick with the tang of death.
âLetâs move,â Charlotte urged, her voice low.
They crept toward the front door, their footsteps careful. Just as they reached the exit, Stevieâs foot caught on something, and she stumbled. She looked downâand screamed.
It was the older couple from table four. Their bodies were crumpled on the floor, broken and torn apart. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and sticky.
âOh God,â Stevie choked, stomach lurching.
Charlotte grabbed her under the arms and hauled her up. âCome on! Donât look. Letâs go!â
Stevie tried to avert her gaze, but the image was burned into her mind. She let Charlotte drag her toward the parking lot, her legs wobbling beneath her.
Charlotteâs car was parked a few feet away, splattered with blood but miraculously intact. Charlotte yanked the door open and shoved Stevie inside before scrambling into the driverâs seat. She started the engine, her hands shaking, and threw the car into reverse.
âBuckle up,â Charlotte barked, glancing in the rearview mirror as she sped out of the lot.
Stevie fumbled with the seatbelt, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. âWhere we goinâ?â
âNo fuckinâ clue,â she replied, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. âYour house. Then mine, I guess.â
Stevie tried her phone again, only to find it dead.
-
They had gone to Stevieâs house first.
It was silent, the front door still locked. There was no sign of Daryl, either. Heâd left for work that morning, planning to come home at noon for lunch. It was nearing sundown, and he was not there.
Stevie had searched every room, calling out his name until her voice cracked. She found his hunting rifle and ammo in the closet, the sight of it hitting her like a punch to the gut. He hadnât been here; he wouldnât have left that behind, with everything going on out there.
Stevie went to their bedroom, breath hitching as she looked around. The walls and shelves were lined with the collection sheâd spent her life creating. She couldnât take them all, of course. There wasnât room, and there wasnât time.
But she could bring one, maybe. One could certainly fit in her bag. Charlotte said to get necessities. Stevie felt this was one.
On her bedside table sat the Ulysses butterfly Daryl had given her for her birthday just months earlier. She slipped the case into her backpack carefully before zipping the bag shut.
Charlotte had been quiet, standing guard and giving Stevie space as she packed what she could. Clothes, toiletries, her prenatal vitamins, whatever food was left in the pantry. She wrote a note for Daryl and left it on the kitchen counter.
âLetâs go,â Charlotte called from the doorway.
Stevie lingered for one last look at her granâs house, the one she grew up in, before following Charlotte out.
From there, they went to Charlotteâs house. It was empty too, but not untouched. A few drawers had been pulled open, and the back door swung slightly ajar, creaking on its hinges.
âThey left in a hurry,â Charlotte murmured, her brow furrowed as she looked around.
But her parents and her older brother Theodore were gone, and the heaviness in her chest was evident as Stevie watched her friend stare at the empty dinner table.
-
The search continued.
They checked the police station and the firehouse, hoping to find survivors or some kind of authority. Instead, they found chaos. The places were crawling with peopleâonly, they werenât people anymore. They were sick with something, their skin pale and torn, their eyes vacant and hungry.
Stevie had sobbed and sobbed that night, crying for Daryl, clutching her stomach as if holding her baby could keep her grounded. Charlotte sat beside her in the car, staring out at the darkness, holding Darylâs rifle. She didnât say much, but her presence alone the only thing keeping Stevie from falling apart entirely. She couldnât do this alone.
-
For weeks, they drove through the town and its outskirts, searching for Daryl and Charlotteâs family. Every house, every store, every quiet road was the sameâempty of answers, full of the sick.
They slept in Charlotteâs car, curled up under thin blankets. Nights were restless, full of the sounds of the sick shuffling outside or distant screams that neither of them dared to investigate.
One night, Stevie whispered into the darkness, her voice trembling. âWhat if theyâre gone?â
Charlotte didnât answer right away. When she did, her voice was quiet but firm. âThen we keep goinâ. For you. For the baby.â
Stevie nodded, tears slipping down her face.
-
After weeks of searching, they were beginning to believe that they weâre the only living people left in Georgia. But then, one day, they heard itâa crackling message over a battery-powered radio theyâd scavenged from a gas station.
âThis is a message for any survivors. The CDC in Atlanta is offering refuge. Repeat, the CDC in Atlanta is offering refuge. Bring food, water, and any medical supplies you can carry. Stay safe.â
Charlotte looked at Stevie, then down at her belly, growing bigger as the days went by. âAtlanta ainât a long drive.â
As they drove away from the town theyâd once called home, neither of them looked back. Their hearts ached with the weight of what theyâd lost, but the road ahead held a sliver of hope, and that was all they had left.
-
The CDC was destroyed.
Blown upârecently, based on the small active fires among the desolated building.
Charlotte stood beside Stevie, her shoulders squared but trembling slightly as they stared at what had once been their last hope. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of the wind rushing past the car and the distant groans of the sick filled the silence.
Charlotte broke first. Bowing her head, she whispered a prayer under her breath, her lips moving in words Stevie couldnât quite make out.
Stevie glanced at her, biting back the bitter remark that rose to her lips. Sheâd grown up in church, mostly to make her Gran happy, but sheâd never believed in any of it. Especially not nowânot when the world had turned into this nightmare.
She looked back at the smoldering ruins, her heart sinking deeper. There was nothing left. No CDC. No rescue. No answers.Â
âWhat are you doinâ?â Stevie asked, voice sharper than she intended. Perhaps it was the hormones, or perhaps the dread.
Charlotte didnât look up, her voice low and steady. âPrayinâ.â
âFor what?â Stevie snapped, throwing her hands out at the ruins. âFor a miracle? For some answer? Because thisââ she gestured wildly at the destructionââthis ainât look like the kinda thing Godâs gonna fix anytime soon!â
Charlotte slowly raised her head, her face calm but weary. âI ainât prayinâ for answers, Stevie. Iâm prayinâ for strength. For both of us. For your baby.â
-
The drive back out of the city was silent. Stevie kept her eyes on the road, knuckles white as she gripped the wheel. Beside her, Charlotte stared out the window, face gloomy.
They pulled over just before sundown, parking on the shoulder of an overgrown highway. The car was nearly out of gas, and neither of them had the energy to go any farther.
Charlotte climbed out, rifle slung over her shoulder. âIâll check the area,â she said, her voice brisk. âStay here.â
Stevie didnât argue. She sat in the car, her hands resting on her swollen belly.
What were they going to do now? Where would they go? Would they ever find Darylâor anyone?
Charlotte returned a few minutes later, her face unreadable. âItâs clear,â she said. âWeâll sleep here tonight.â
As they sat together, the silence stretched on until Stevie couldnât take it anymore. âDo you think itâs even worth it?â she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Charlotte looked at her sharply. âWhat?â
âThis,â Stevie said, gesturing vaguely around them. âSurvivinâ. Tryinâ. Whatâs the point if everythinâs just gonna fall apart?â
Charlotte stared at her for a long moment before answering. âThe point is the baby,â she said simply. âThe point is you. And me. We keep goinâ âcause thatâs what we do. We survived, and we will survive. Thatâs all we can do.â
Stevie blinked back tears, her throat tight.Â
Charlotte leaned back in the seat, Â rifle resting across her lap. âI ainât sayinâ itâs gonna be easy. Fuck, it ainât been easy since day one. But if we give up now, then whatâs all this been for?â
Stevie nodded slowly, wiping her eyes. âOkay,â she said softly. âWe keep goinâ.â
Charlotte gave her a small, reassuring smile. âYeah. We keep goinâ.â
-
More days blurred into more weeks which blurred into more months. Stevie and Charlotte stayed on the move, hopping from town to town, scavenging for supplies, and avoiding the sick as best they could.
Charlotte was the protector. Her father had been a hunter, and sheâd grown up learning how to handle firearms. The rifle slung over her shoulder and the pistol at her hip had practically become extensions of her.
Stevie, on the other hand, avoided guns whenever she could. Sheâd grown up watching Daryl hunt, even shooting at cans for practice in the woods, but the thought of pulling the trigger on somethingâeven something already deadâmade her stomach turn. Charlotte never pressed her, instead taking it upon herself to handle the sick whenever they got too close.
âDonât worry,â Charlotte said. âIâve got us.â
Stevie nodded, hugging her knees to her chest. âI hate feelinâ useless, though. Iâm slowinâ you down.â
Charlotte shook her head firmly. âYou ainât. You gotta sharp mind, youâre smart. The way you spot things, the supplies you findâthat keeps us alive. Weâre a team.â
The next morning, Stevie proved Charlotteâs point when she spotted a sick person lurking near an abandoned gas station before Charlotte did.
âTwo oâclock,â Stevie whispered, pointing to the shadow moving between the pumps.
Charlotte nodded, her hand already on her pistol. She crept forward, her steps silent and deliberate. Stevie stayed back, gripping her knife tightly just in case. With one clean shot, Charlotte put the sick man down, and the area was silent once more.
âSee?â Charlotte said, grinning as she holstered the gun. âA team.â
Stevie often thought about Daryl. Where was he? Was he even alive? The questions haunted her.
One evening, as they sat in a dusty motel room theyâd claimed for the night, Stevie turned to Charlotte. âDo you think itâs always gonna be like this? Just us, runninâ from place to place?â
Charlotte shrugged, cleaning her pistol. âMaybe. Maybe not. I ainât much for thinkinâ that far ahead.â She glanced at Stevie. âBut Iâll tell you thisâif itâs just us, Iâm good with that.â
Stevie smiled faintly, her heart aching with gratitude and guilt. âThanks, Lottie. For everythinâ.â
Charlotte gave her a small, wry grin. âDonât get mushy on me now, Vie.â
As the months dragged on, they grew more efficient, slipping through ghost towns and taking only what they needed. They avoided other survivors when they could (upon concluding that they werenât the people they were searching for), figuring that people could be just as dangerous as the sickâif not more so. They were two young women against a shattered world, but theyâd made it this far together.
Even in the worst of times, Stevie couldnât help but hope that somewhere out there, Daryl was alive, looking for her.
-
The house was their sanctuary. A big, two-story farmhouse surrounded by a sturdy iron gate, perched on the edge of a quiet wooded area. Theyâd stumbled upon it weeks ago, finding it intact and mercifully sick-free. The gate had been an old relic, likely once decorative, but it had held strong against any stragglers that wandered too close.
Charlotte had become the protector in every sense of the word, fiercely guarding their little corner of the world. She set traps around the property, patrolled the fence daily, and made frequent supply runs into nearby towns. Stevie, whose stomach had grown round and heavy in recent months, had tried to go with her at first, but Charlotte put her foot down.
âYouâre stayinâ here,â Charlotte had said firmly one morning as Stevie tried to lace up her boots. âYou can barely tie your shoes without gettinâ winded. Iâll be fine.â
Stevie had wanted to argue but relented, knowing Charlotte was right. Instead, she turned her focus inward, spending her days tending to the house and preparing for the baby.
The bookshelf in the living room was now packed with dog-eared books on childbirth and parenting, scavenged from libraries and abandoned houses. Stevie and Charlotte had poured over them endlessly, trying to absorb every detail, every bit of advice.
âYouâre gonna be a good mama,â Charlotte said one night, her voice breaking the silence as they sat in the candle lit living room.
Stevie glanced up from the book in her lap, surprised. âYou think so?â
Charlotte nodded without hesitation. âYeah. Youâve got the heart for it. And the kidâs gonna have both of us. Weâll make it work.â
Stevie blinked back tears, her hand resting on her belly. âI donât know what Iâd do without you,â she said softly.
Charlotte smiled. âGood thing you ainât havta find out. Weâre sisters now, âkay?â
-
The early hours of the morning brought a bitter chill that seeped through the farmhouse walls. Stevie sat on the couch in the living room, staring out at the darkened yard beyond the window. Sheâd been restless all night, her body aching with a heaviness that she couldnât shake.
Charlotte came in from her patrol, setting her rifle down by the door. âYou good?â she asked, her voice soft but alert.
Stevie nodded absently, her hand rubbing small circles on her back. âI think so. Just⌠uncomfortable.â
Charlotte frowned, walking over to crouch beside her. âUncomfortable how?â
Before Stevie could answer, a sharp pain shot through her abdomen, forcing a gasp from her lips. She gripped the armrest of the couch, her knuckles white.
âLike that,â Stevie said through gritted teeth.
Charlotteâs eyes widened. âOkay, okay. Letâs get you to the room.â She slipped an arm around Stevieâs back and helped her to her feet, her voice calm but firm. âWe knew this was cominâ. Youâve got this.â
Stevie let herself be guided to the bedroom theyâd prepared weeks agoâStevieâs birthing chamber, Charlotte had dubbed it. It wasnât muchâa clean bed, a pile of blankets, and a few supplies Charlotte had scavengedâbut it was all they had. Stevie lay down, the pain coming in waves now, each one stronger than the last.
âLottie,â Stevie gasped, face slick with sweat. âI ainât ready. I canât do this.â
Charlotte knelt beside the bed, gripping Stevieâs hand tightly. âYes, you can. Youâre strong. Just breathe, okay? Focus on me.â
Hours passed, her water breaking and the contractions growing closer together, each one stealing Stevieâs breath and filling the room with muffled cries of pain. Charlotte stayed by her side, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth and whispering words of encouragement, as Stevie cried for Daryl and Gran, who she desperately wished for.
âPush, Stevie,â Charlotte urged when the time came, her voice steady but edged with worry.
âI canât,â Stevie whimpered, her entire body trembling. âIt hurts too much.â
âYou can,â Charlotte insisted, her hands gripping Stevieâs knees, pulling her legs apart. âYou can. You gotta.â
Stevie gritted her teeth and bore down, screaming through the pain. The minutes dragged on like hours, each push feeling like it might tear her apart. She felt like she was drowning, the world blurring around her. She never knew pain like this.
âAlmost there,â Charlotte said. âJust one more, Stevie. One more.â
With a guttural cry, Stevie gave one final push, collapsing back against the pillows as a thin, wailing cry filled the room.
Charlotteâs face broke into a tearful grin as she held the tiny, wriggling baby in her hands. âYou did it,â she said, her voice choked. âYou did it, Stevie.â It was a boy. A baby boy.
Stevie sobbed with relief, her body heavy with exhaustion. âIs he okay?â she asked weakly, eyes fluttering.
Charlotte nodded, before she cut the umbilical cord and suctioned his little mouth a bit. She wrapped the baby in a clean blanket. âHeâs perfect,â she said, laying him gently on Stevieâs chest.
Stevie looked down at her son, her heart swelling as his cries quieted and his tiny fingers curled against her skin. âHi,â she whispered, tears streaming down her face. âHi, baby.â
Charlotte sat back, watching with a soft smile. âHeâs got your stubbornness already. Took his sweet time gettinâ here.â
Stevie laughed weakly, cradling the baby close.
The room fell quiet, the weight of the moment settling over them. Outside, the world was still as dangerous as ever, but inside this little house, there was a new kind of hope.
âSoâŚwhat do we call him?â Charlotte asked after a while.
They had been talking about names for a long time, going back and forth. Stevie wanted the baby to have a strong nameâsomething solid, something that would carry them through this broken world.
Sheâd thought about naming the baby after Daryl or her Gran, Clara. But every time the names crossed her mind, they felt like too muchâtoo heavy, too painful. Still, she couldnât let them go entirely.Â
Stevie smiled down at the baby, her voice trembling. âI thinkâŚI think Iâll go with Charlie.â
âCharlie? That wasnât on the list?â
âI know. I wanted to suprise you. Charlie for Charlotte. My savior, my sister.â
âReally?â Tears poured down her cheeks.
Stevie nodded enthusiasticly. âCharlie Daryl Dixon.â
-
The storm raged outside, its winds battering the house as if trying to tear it apart. Stevie sat in the rocking chair by the fireplace, cradling Charlie against her chest. His tiny face was scrunched up, his cries soft but insistent as if he could sense her worry.
Stevieâs eyes kept flicking to the door. Charlotte had been gone too long, on a run to find food.
âSheâs fine,â Stevie murmured to her crying baby, trying to convince herself. âSheâs fine. Sheâll walk through that door any second.â Since his birth four months ago, Stevie and Charlotte had both taken to talking to him as if he could understand their words. It made them feel a little less alone.
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the emptiness outside. No sign of Charlotte. Just wind and darkness and the gnawing silence that probably meant something terrible was waiting. Stevie hugged Charlie closer.
Another minute passed. Then another. Stevieâs chest felt like it might cave in.
Finally, the front door unlocked.
Stevie shot up, clutching Charlie to her chest. Relief surged through her, crashing over her like a wave.
âLottie!â she cried.
But her joy was fleeting.
Charlotte stumbled into the house, soaked to the bone, face pale as death. Her hand was clutching her shoulder, blood seeping through her fingers. The door slammed shut behind her, blown shut by the wind.
Stevie froze.
âStevie,â Charlotte croaked, her voice trembling.
âWhereâŚWhere were you?â Stevie stammered, taking a shaky step forward. Then she saw the wound. A jagged, unmistakable bite, leaking blood.Â
âNo,â Stevie whispered, her knees wobbling. âNo, no, no! Tell me that ainât...â
Charlotte leaned against the wall, strength failing her. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the rainwater. âI tried, Stevie. I tried to get back. But there were so many sick people, and the rainâŚI couldnât see them until it was too late.â
Stevieâs legs gave out, and she sank to the floor, clutching Charlie tightly. Her tears came fast and hot, her chest heaving as the reality of the situation crushed her.
âYou canât do this to me!â she screamed, her voice raw. âYou canât leave me and Charlie! We need you, Charlotte!â
Charlotte knelt down in front of her, her own tears falling freely. She reached out, her shaking hand brushing Stevieâs cheek. âI ainât wanna leave you,â she choked out. âGod, Stevie, I ainât wanna leave. But itâs already happeninâ, I can feel it. Iâm sick. You know what you gotta do.â
Stevie shook her head violently. âNo. Donât say that. Donât you dare say that! There has to be somethinââsome wayââ
âThere ainât,â Charlotte sobbed. âYou know that. I ainât got much time.â She glanced town at Charlie, who was now wailing in Stevieâs arms, his tiny fists flailing. âYou have to protect him, Stevie. You have to keep him safe.â
âI canât do this without you,â Stevie cried. âYouâre all we have, Lottie. I canât do it  alone.â
Charlotte leaned her forehead against Stevieâs, her tears falling onto Charlieâs blanket. âYou can do this. Youâre the strongest person Iâve ever met. Youâre gonna make it through this, for him. For me.â
They stayed there, clinging to each other as the storm roared outside. Stevieâs sobs shook her entire body, her chest burning as she tried to breathe.
âIâm scared,â she whispered. âIâm so scared.â
Charlotteâs hand cupped her face, her thumb brushing away a tear. âI know. But youâre gonna be okay. And Charlieâs gonna grow up knowinâ how much you love him. How much his Aunt Lottie loved him.â Her voice broke, and she pulled Stevie into a hug, the baby between them.
When Charlotte finally pulled back, her face was pale, her eyes heavy with sorrow. âItâs time.â
Stevie shook her head, trembling. âI canât.â
âYou gotta,â Charlotte whispered. âI ainât wanna to hurt you, Stevie. I ainât wanna hurt Charlie. Please. Do it before I lose myself. Iâm sick, Vie, Iâm hurtinâ.â
Stevie trembled as she placed her crying baby in the playpen, before she reached for a knife on the table. Her vision blurred with tears, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Stevie crouched back down to where Charlotte now laid on the ground, practically convulsing, clutching the knife with trembling hands.
âI love you,â she sobbed, voice barely audible.
âI love you too,â Charlotte whispered. âMy sister.â
She looked at Charlotte one last time, committing every detail of her face to memoryâthe curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, even now, even at the end.
Charlotte closed her eyes, her tears streaming down her cheeks. âSâokay, Vie. Sâokay.â
With a sob, Stevie jammed the knife into Charlotteâs temple .
-
Stevieâs face was pale and gaunt. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame, and the dark circles under her eyes told the story of too many sleepless nights.
Charlie squirmed in her arms, his cries weak.
âI know, baby,â she whispered, her voice hoarse. âMamaâs tryinâ.â
Her milk had nearly dried up. The food Charlotte had stalked up on was mostly gone. The sparse handfuls of nuts, fruits, and the occasional squirrel Stevie managed to catch werenât enough to sustain her. She knew she couldnât keep this up. If she didnât find food soon, she wouldnât be able to feed Charlie.
With trembling hands, she wrapped Charlie against her chest in the makeshift sling. He nuzzled into her, his tiny body warm against her own. She kissed his head, a tear slipping down her cheek.
âIâm sorry, baby,â she murmured. âI hate leavinâ here, but we ainât gotta choice.â
Grabbing the gun and the last few bullets she had, Stevie stepped out into the cold morning.
The car groaned to life, and she winced at the noise. She hated the way it echoed, hated how it might attract the sick.
The drive to the nearby town was nerve-wracking. Every shadow seemed like it could be death lurking just out of sight.
When she arrived to the marked area on the map (which Charlotte had luckily annotated months prior), the streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional moan of a sick person shuffling in the distance.
She parked and took a deep breath.
With Charlie strapped to her chest, Stevie stepped out, gun in hand. She hadnât gone more than a few feet when a sick person lunged at her from behind a rusted car. She screamed, the sound startling Charlie, who began to cry. She fumbled with the gun but managed to fire a shaky shot, hitting the sick woman in the chest.
âDammit!â she hissed, aiming again. This time, the bullet hit its head, and it crumpled to the ground.
More were coming. She could hear them. Stevie wiped sweat from her brow and forced herself to keep moving. She didnât have the luxury of fearânot now, not with Charlie depending on her.
Inside a small grocery store, she searched frantically for anything edible. Most of the shelves were empty, picked clean long ago. Still, she managed to find a few cans tucked behind a stack of dusty boxes. Her relief was short-lived when she heard footsteps behind her.
Stevie whirled around, raising the gun with trembling hands. A woman stood in the doorway, a long sword-looking weapon in her hands.
âStay back!â Stevie shouted, her voice cracking.
The woman raised her hands slowly, her face remaining calm. âIâm not here to hurt you,â she said evenly. Her eyes flicked down to Charlie, who was whimpering softly in his sling. âI see youâve got a little one. I mean no harm.â
Stevieâs chest heaved as she kept the gun trained on the stranger. âWhat do you want?â
âMy name is Michonne,â the woman replied. âAre you alone?â
âNo,â Stevie snapped. Charlotte warned her how people could be in this new world. Cruel and merciless. Stevie couldnât let her know she was alone - utterly alone.
The woman nodded. âYou have a group?â
âYes.â
The woman gave her a small, knowing smile. Stevie never was a good liar. âWell, Iâm also with a group. Weâve got a community not far from here. Weâve got food, shelterâŚkids. Your group could come, talk to our council.â
Stevieâs heart ached at the mention of food. Her instincts screamed not to trust anyone, but when she looked into Michonneâs eyes, she saw no deceit. She was always good at reading people. With her nerves slowly calming, Stevie could sense that this woman seemed genuine.
âActuallyâŚI am alone. âSides him.â She nods at the baby strapped to her.
-
Back at the farmhouse, Stevie hurried to gather her few belongings. She packed clothes for herself and Charlie, the few belongings sheâd gathered. Her hands lingered on the Ulysses butterfly on the nightstand. She wrapped it carefully in cloth and placed it in the bag.
Micchone was waiting for her outside. When she was ready to leave, Stevie looked around the farmhouse one last time. This place had been her world for over a year. This was where Charlie was born, ten long months ago. In the backyard was where she had buried Charlotte.
But she couldnât stay. Deep down, she always knew this. She knew she couldnât survive in her own, that she wasnât strong enough.
Michonne waited by the truck. âYou ready?â she asked when Stevie emerged.
Stevie nodded, adjusting Charlie in the sling.
The drive to the prison was tense. Michone asked her questions about herself, which Stevie responded to shyly.
When they reached the gates, Stevie nearly gasped. It was a prison, its fences lined with guards. She could see children playing in the yard, their laughter faint but real.
-
As the gates to the prison creaked open, Stevie stepped through hesitantly, clutching Charlie in his sling, Michonne having graciously taken her bag. Her eyes darted around, taking in the sight of peopleâmen and women walking about, children playing under watchful eyes.
âThis way,â Michonne said, motioning for Stevie to follow.
Stevie clutched Charlie close as she trailed behind Michonne, heart pounding. She hadnât been around this many people in so long. It was overwhelming. It made her skin crawl. She was suddenly very conscious about her appearance. She had always prided herself in her cleanliness and upkeep. She mustâve looked terrible, insane, to these well kept people.
They entered a building, where Michonne gestured toward a small group of people.
âRick, this is Stevie,â Michonne said to a man apporaching them. âAnd her son, Charlie.â
Rick stepped forward, face softening when he saw the baby. âWelcome,â he said warmly. âYouâre safe here. Weâll get you settled in.â
Stevie nodded, throat too tight to speak.
She was introduced to a few others who lingering in the space. A young boy, Carl, who gave her a shy smile, eyes curious. An older woman named Carol greeted her gently, cooing at Charlie.
Michonne and Rick guided her to a prison cell. She almost let out a hysterical laugh. She never imaged she, of all people, would end up living in a prison cell, least of all with a baby, at just twenty years old.
The two people helped her set down her belongings, and Rick even brought her a cradle. He had a daughter, he told her, only a few months old. They were stocked up on baby supplies. This fact alone made her believe she made a good choice.
They even brought her food. Real food. Which she scarfed down embarrassingly fast with red cheeks.
They tried to talk to her some more, but Stevie hardly heard their words. Her nerves were fraying, exhaustion catching up. The bide her a goodbye, sensing her tiredness.
Stevie fell alseep in a prison cell after breast-feeding her baby, her stomach full for the first time in months.
-
She woke up to someone shaking her shoulder, making her gasp awake in fear and grab onto Charlie, who slept curled into her side.
âSorry!â A voice said. âItâs just me. Carol, from earlier.â
Stevie sighed deeply as she sat up in bed, locking eyes with the older woman. âMâso sorry, maâam,â she whispered.
She shook her head with a small smile. âItâs okay, no need to apologize. I wanted you to eat while dinner is still hot. You need some meat on those bones.â She held up a plate stacked high with steaming food.
Stevie offered a polite smile. âThank you, maâam.â Tentatively, she placed Charlie, still dozing, into the cradle and took the plate, her stomach growling at the smell.
Carol pulled up a chair from the small desk, sitting across from her, as Stevie began to dig in. âYou doing okay?â
Stevie hesitated, glancing over at Charlie. âI think so. Itâs justâŚa lot.â
Carol nodded. âI get that. Coming here, being around so many people againâitâs not easy. You and your baby are safe here. I promise.â
Stevie nodded. âItâs hard to believe that after everythinâ.â She paused, voice trembling. âIâve been alone for awhile. Just me and Charlie. I didnât think Iâd ever find other people. Nice people.â
Carol leaned forward slightly. âDonât worry. Weâre nice people, I swear.â She smiled at Charlie. âHow old is he?â
ââBout ten months, maâam.â
âYou donât have to call me maâam. Call me Carol.â She gave a warm smile. âYou gave birth alone? All by yourself?â
âNoâŚâ Stevie trails off, looking away from Carolâs tender gaze. âI was with someone. My friend, a waitress I worked with before. She died a few months ago. She got, you knowâŚbit by one of the sick people.â
There was a beat of silence before Carol said, âIâm so sorry. His dadâwas heâŚ?â
Stevie swallowed hard. She didnât see the harm in opening up to this woman. She seemed very nice, and sort of reminded her of a younger Gran, warm and motherly. âMy husband and I were separated right at the start. I was a few months pregnant when everything happened. I thinks heâsâŚgone.â
Carol tilted her head, studying her closely. âDid you try to find him?â
Stevie nodded. âLottie and I - that was my friend- we searched and searched all through town. Couldnât find nobody. We justâŚkept movinâ. Kept survivinâ.â
Carolâs eyes narrowed slightly, her expression shifting as if something had clicked. âWhat was your husbands name?â
Stevie hesitated, as if saying it out loud would break something inside her. âDaryl,â she whispered.
Carol froze, her breath catching. âDaryl?â
Stevie nodded slowly, her brow furrowing at Carolâs reaction. âYeahâŚwhy?â
Carol leaned back, her expression stunned. âWhatâs your full name, Stevie?â
Stevie frowned, confused. âStevie Dixon.â
The room seemed to go silent, the weight of Stevieâs words hanging in the air. Carolâs mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out at first. Finally, she stood abruptly. âStay here. Donât move.â
Stevieâs heart began to race. âWhatâs goinâ on?â
âIâll be right back,â Carol said, voice tight with urgency. Without another word, she hurried out of the cell, leaving Stevie staring after her, bewildered.
A few minutes later, Carol returned, but this time she wasnât alone. A man was behind her.
A man she knew.
Daryl Dixon.
They locked eyes.
He stepped into the cell, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Stevie stood slowly, legs trembling beneath her. âDaryl?â she breathed, voice breaking.
He froze, his hand gripping the doorframe as if he needed it to hold himself up. âStevieâŚâ His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
Her hand flew to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. âOh my GodâŚI found you.â
Daryl took a step forward, then another, until he was standing right in front of her, his hand hovering near her shoulders, as if scared to touch her. As if she might fade away like a ghost if he did. âI thoughtâŚI thought you were gone. The dinerâŚâ
âI thought the same about you,â Stevie sobbed. âI looked a looked. I didnât think Iâd ever see you again.â
Daryl cupped her face with both hands, staring at her like he couldnât believe she was real. âI looked for you. For so long.â
Then, finanly, she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed into him, his arms instinctively wrapping around her. Her feet were off the ground, as he clutched her and cried just as she was.
âStevie, Stevie, Stevie-â He whispered, voice wet with sobs. âYouâre okay. Youâre okay. Youâre here.â
A confused cry broke the moment.
Charlie had woken, and he was standing up in the cradle, holding onto the side, looking up at them.
Darylâs leaned back from Stevie and looked down at Charlie. âIsâŚis thisâŚ?â
âOur baby boy. Charlie. I listened to you â didnât pick no bug name.â
-
TJ (Left) and Tyler (Right) Jorrey Pre-Apocalypse (2005) On the back of the photo it reads "To many more bright days with my awesome little sister"

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LD+G Prequel Oneshot - Pin Feathers and Party Poppers
It's been 84 years... (almost two months) but I have not forgotten about this series! I am back with more words. And these words are cute, so I hope you like them.
A silly prequel oneshot where Grian and Mumbo come to surprise Jimmy for his birthday:
âHappy early birthday, baby brother.â Grian punched Jimmy in the shoulder. âYou,â Jimmy spluttered. His heart was ready to explode out of his chest. âYou know I hate surprises.â âBut we have cake!â Grian said the fact like it excused every transgression heâd ever made.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
SFM Request: Zoey listening to any Songs from any Artists and Bands while laying on her Bed
Her ass ain't doing Homework btw))
The One That Got AwayÂ
The Reader returns back to her hometown after many years, old flames soon start to rekindle. She now finds herself battling with a guilty conscience as she tries to fight temptation.
Part One








