A/N: So after a very long writing hiatus, here is my latest work. This was an idea I had that I'm just going with the flow on. I don't tend to plan out entire stories, rather just snippets that I think will be interesting. Since the premiere of The Walking Dead (insert ugly crying), Negan has been on my mind like no one's business. So I gave birth to this lovechild right here. Because I didn't get far in the comics to really get to know Negan, I'm just going off other things I've read to piece together his personality. I hope I can do him justice. So, without further ado, I give you, "Where Angels Die". Please review if you have time to. I'd love to know how successful this story is so I can know if I should keep it going.


Chapter I

"To the gate!"

There was a bustle of activity as bodies ran this way and that, armed themselves with loaded semiautomatic weapons, shoving spare magazines into their belts. They formed a 'V' around the gate as the massive metal doors were cranked open, manned by two men atop the wall, guns raised and ready. An onlooker may have deemed them unnecessary as two bodies, one heavily bleeding from an unseen wound in his side, the other, a woman, not faring much better. Both were filthy, covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime and who knew what else. Beyond them, roamers trailed hungrily, drawn by the scent of fresh blood.

One armed guard moved forward, resting his gun on his shoulder, to relieve some of the weight off the woman's shoulders. Together they shuffled the injured, and possibly dying, man further into the compound as the gates were cranked closed behind them and locked with a wide metal beam. Bodies crowded around the trio as the woman and the guard laid the bleeding man in the dirt. Before the woman could blink the guard had straightened and turned his gun on her. He was a wiry fellow, with stringy blonde hair and an ugly burn scar that took up the left side of his rat-like face.

"He bit?" he asked roughly, his voice muffled by the gun pressed to his face. The woman turned cold, hazel eyes on him, narrowing them only slightly.

"You tell me." And she yanked up the bleeding man's shirt, revealing a cacophony of bullet holes that laid out a game of connect-the-dots across his bloody torso. "I want to know who did this. Who attacked us."

The man smirked and huffed, moving the gun to his shoulder once again. "Honey, it ain't us. If it were, you'd know it." The look in his eyes caused the woman's back to stiffen. Just who were these people?

"Very well," she said tightly, carefully eying the men around them. They looked on with curiosity, but also with mistrust. She couldn't say she very well blamed them. "He needs a doctor."

The rat guard contorted his mouth to the side, weighing his options. "Might be we have one of those. What's your name, sweetheart?"

The woman grimaced at the pet name, wrinkling her nose. "Olivia. Liv, for short. This is Matthew."

"Name's Dwight. Where you from?" Matthew emitted a low groan, drawing Olivia's and Dwight's attention to him.

"Think we can save the small talk, Dwight?" Olivia asked rhetorically. Dwight moved into action, stooping low to take Matthew's other arm. Together they hefted him up and off to the infirmary. Olivia made a point to memorize the route they took in the event she needed to make a quick getaway.

Dwight led them up a small slope, to a worn-down factory building, windows blown out across the front. They took a left and went through a doorway leading to a set of stairs. The trek upwards was slow, as Olivia and Dwight nearly dropped Matthew twice in the tight quarters of the stairwell. Finally, the door to the third floor was opened and the trio filed through, not without some difficulty. Matthew was rapidly growing weaker, forcing Olivia and Dwight to carry more of his dead weight and slowing them down considerably. Blood oozed from his numerous wounds, painting the clean tile floor with bright red specks.

As Dwight, Olivia, and Matthew neared a set of double doors, not unlike a real hospital, they opened, and a woman looking down at a clipboard walked through. Dwight called to her, and the older woman glanced up, her eyes widening in surprise to see he wasn't alone.

"Get Carson," Dwight ordered. The woman turned on her heel and sped back through the double doors, the trio following behind her, attempting poorly to keep up. She disappeared around a corner and a few moments later, a troupe of people wheeling a rusty kitchen table appeared, skidding to a halt in front of the trio.

Olivia and Dwight carefully transferred Matthew to their waiting arms, and the team eased him onto the makeshift gurney. Matthew hissed lowly as his wounds stretched and pressed a bloody hand to his torso. He appeared to pass out seconds later.

"Ma'am," said the man who could only be "Carson" to Olivia, "Ma'am, you can let go now." She hadn't realized she'd had a death grip on Matthew's arm until Carson was peeling her fingers away. "We'll take good care of him."

And then Matthew was gone, disappeared around the corner to a no doubt waiting surgeon. Olivia stared after him, rooted to the spot, her mind blank.

Dwight cleared his throat. "Can I get you some water?"

Olivia shook her head sharply, though her throat felt like sandpaper. When had been the last time they'd drank anything? Dwight was waiting, clearly not taking no for an answer, so Olivia pursed her dried lips and nodded slowly. Mirroring the nod, Dwight stepped away and strode down the hallway. He returned to her side with a fresh water bottle, cracking the top and handing it to her. The water felt good on her hands as it spilled over the open top, and the better part of Olivia told her to drink slowly. She almost moaned at the feeling of the water on her poached throat, opted for a sigh through her nose instead. The water bottle was nearly empty by the time she paused to take a breath.

Her eyes slid to Dwight, who was looking at her with a combination of sympathy and confusion. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, capping the water bottle and moving to hand it back to him.

"Finish it," he said with a shake of his head. "Lord knows you need it. And we have plenty more."

"Thank you," she murmured before downing the rest of the water bottle. Dwight took the empty plastic from her hands and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. Olivia huffed through her nose. Trash cans at the end of the world.

"You never answered my earlier question. Where you from?" Dwight asked, leaning his weight onto one foot.

Olivia cast her eyes down, shrugged a shoulder. "Does it matter anymore? Matt and I were the only ones left."

Dwight felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman, though her voice and eyes remained stoic. The woman had been through hell, he determined.

"Wanna tell me what happened?" He'd plastered 'business' to his voice, straightened his shoulders to peer down at her through his stringy hair. If there were more dangerous people out there then he had a damn right to know. Olivia's eyes snapped to his, not missing the sudden change in demeanor.

"By the look of that artillery your men were carrying, I'd say you already know," was her short, but heated reply. Dwight clenched his jaw and her eyes followed the movement.

"Like I said, if it had been The Saviors, you'd know it." Olivia's light eyebrow quirked.

"The Saviors? You plannin' on saving the world?"

Before the two could engage in a verbal lashing, Carson reappeared, a solemn look on his face. Olivia regarded him stonily.

"He doesn't have long. We tried removing the bullets but one of them lodged deep in his lung and we can't touch it. You can see him, say goodbye."

She followed Carson without a second glance back at Dwight, but he followed too. Carson led them to a small, dimly-lit room. It was cold, despite the summer heat outside.

Matthew was laying on the kitchen-table-turned-gurney, pale and breathing with difficulty. They had stripped away his shirt, leaving his bleeding torso bare. Fresh blood still seeped from the wounds. Olivia's mind was blank as she stared at him. Matthew slowly opened his eyes as Olivia came to a stop at his side.

"Hi." It came out as a hoarse whisper, thanks to the bullet lodged in his lung.

"Hey. Doc said you're gonna be fine," she said with a straight face. The corner of Matthew's lip upturned just slightly.

"You never could lie to me. Not gonna be long now." Matthew blinked slowly, the light in his eyes beginning to fade. He smiled one last slow smile that she didn't return. "Don't forget to be, Liv."

"Stay gold, Ponyboy," she murmured. Matt breathed out an attempt at a laugh, and then his breathing labored again and he stilled.

The light dulled in Matt's eyes, and he was gone. Olivia blew a sigh out through her nose and straightened her shoulders. Her throat felt tight, but her eyes remained dry. Turning on her heel, she strode from the room, drawing the curious gazes of Dwight, Carson, and his assistants. Like she expected, Dwight followed her.

"Stay gold, Ponyboy?" he asked mockingly. Olivia pinned him with a cold stare but before she could retort, commotion down the hall pulled their attention away from one another.

A man in a blue denim button up and jeans, with a Burt Reynolds mustache and a receding hairline, marched down the hall, a trio of armed men at his sides. He held out his arms as he came to a stop before Dwight and Olivia.

"What's this, Dwight?" the newcomer asked. "Inviting in outsiders without consulting the big man first? He already punished you once, Dwight. I'd hate to see what strike two gets you." It didn't take a genius to see the tension between the two men as they stood nose to nose in the hallway.

"What was I supposed to do, Simon? Let them get torn apart?"

"Aww," the man called Simon cooed. He took one more menacing step towards Dwight. He was considerably shorter, but it was clear to Olivia that this Simon had more power than Dwight did. "I'm starting to think you don't have the balls to be a Savior, Dwight. Perhaps we'll see what he has to say. Now, who is this gorgeous thing?"

Olivia steeled herself as Simon turned his beady eyes to her, a wicked grin on his face. He whistled low.

"I have to say, Dwight, I can't say I blame you. Would've been a shame to let the roamers get this one. But you're here without permission. That's a big no-no. He's heard all about your little charity case."

Dwight visibly swallowed as Simon took a rough hold of Olivia's upper arm. "Time to meet the man."

She was dragged roughly across the building and up four more flights of stairs. When she tripped, Simon tugged her hard to pull her to her feet. He shoved her through the seventh-floor doorway into a new hallway. This one was carpeted and may have serviced as an office floor in another life. The walls were bare, painted a boring tan color. The wood doors lining the hall were splintered in places, falling off the hinges in others. Some, such as the one Simon shoved her through, were completely intact.

Olivia was shoved roughly into a hard-backed chair that sat before a massive oak desk. A bookshelf stood, full of books, to the left. A mini bar waited next to the door, a decanter and a pair of glasses sat on the silver tray. Laying on the desk before her was a Louisville Slugger, around which a string of barbed wire had been wrapped tightly. Olivia stared at it ominously, wondering why someone would need to do such a thing. Movement to her left caught her attention.

A man in a black leather jacket was running his hand across the bindings of the books on the shelf. He wore a pair of what looked like worn grey slacks and combat boots and he didn't turn even as Simon acknowledged him.

"This is her, sir."

The man in black waved his hand and Simon turned and left the room. It was silent in the small space as the man in black continued to scan the titles on the shelves. Finally, he spun away from the shelves with the grace of a ballerina and eased into the chair behind the desk.

"So, you're the one who's been wasting my fucking resources." His voice was smooth, a bit raspy. His hair was dark, peppered with grey, and slicked back against his head. A beard of the same color painted his face. He was smiling, but in his eyes shone something darker, something sinister. "My, you're a fucking pretty one."

Olivia sat unmoving and unwavering in the chair. She met and held his gaze steadily, and this only made the grin on his face widen.

"Where's our manners? Here, I'll start. I'm Negan, and I run this little fantasy factory. This," he leaned forward and picked up the bat, twirling it in his hands, "is Lucille. You are?"

"The bitch who's been wasting all your resources?" she replied hotly, narrowing her eyes. She leaned back in the chair and even went so far as to cross her legs. Something dangerous flashed in Negan's eyes.

"You've got quite a mouth on you. I fucking like it." He leaned across the desk, waving the bat for emphasis. "Come now, what's your fucking name, sweetheart? Don't make me beg." Olivia didn't think for one second that this man would get down on his knees and beg.

"Liv."

Negan grinned again. "That's more like it. Now, where's your little buddy? The one full of fucking holes?"

"He's dead." She said it so flatly, so blasé that Negan's face faltered, but only for a moment. As quickly as it was there, the minor shock was gone, and his expression took on that casual, amused look again.

"Wow, not even a blink. Tell me, were you the one who put the holes in him?"

"I was thinking that was more your area of expertise," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. Negan's eyes watched the movement, watched as her arms pressed her breasts together and up, so that the creamy flesh just peeked over the neckline of her t-shirt. It didn't go unnoticed, nor did the way he bit his lip.

She was a gorgeous creature, one Negan wouldn't mind adding to his harem of wives. She was skinny, but the end of the world was probably to blame, but tall from the looks of those long legs of hers. Despite her slimness, her shirt fit her snugly and her ample breasts seemed to be unaffected by the lack of food. Her dark auburn hair was tied back in a tail with a Dodgers ball cap shoved over her eyes. Her eyes. The clearest hazel he thought he'd ever seen. When she looked at him, he saw a nothingness in her eyes, a vacancy that told him everything he needed to know about her, about who she was.

Slowly he rose from the desk and took two steps around it, propped a slim hip against it. "If I were you, I'd be thinking the same fucking thing. However, if I wanna make a point to people, I don't use fucking guns." He rolled Lucille across the desk for emphasis, the barbed wire creating nicks and chips in the dark mahogany wood. Olivia watched it with boredom, but she'd be damned if she wasn't just a little bit panicked on the inside.

She looked up at him with the same expression of boredom. "Then if it wasn't you, I have no fucking idea who blew up our entire compound." The anger in her voice almost surprised him; she'd acted so careless when her companion died. Now he was getting the first sign of real emotion.

"Seems to me you and I may have a common enemy." Negan ran his fingers over his beard, thinking. Before she could think about it, Olivia leaned forward in the chair just slightly, her interest piqued.

"You know who could have done this?" she asked hastily, her earlier movement giving Negan a bird's eye view down the front of her shirt. When she caught him staring, she leered and pulled the neck of her t-shirt up. Negan just grinned that unnerving smile again.

"Boys will be boys, eh sweetheart? Now, tell me, how does a fucking sweet piece of ass like you wind up nearly Swiss fucking cheese like your boyfriend?"

Olivia lifted her chin, her face stoic. "He wasn't my boyfriend."

Negan's eyebrows lifted into his hairline. "Well, if it ain't my fucking lucky day. Anyway, you didn't answer my fucking question."

"I don't know." She crossed her arms again and bounced her foot. "One moment, everything is routine, I'm doing inventory, then the next it was like the fucking Alamo. Gunfire, a lot of it, screaming, blood, roamers. Matthew and I were the only ones who made it out. Do you know who did this?"

Negan's jaw clenched. "I have a hunch, and I've warned his punk ass what would happen if he fucking fucked with my men again." He paced in front of the bookshelf again.

"Seems to me your message didn't get across." Olivia casually inspected her nails while a grin stretched across Negan's face.

"Seems you're fucking-a right, dollface." He chuckled as a grimace wrinkled her face and she leered up at him. "Guess I'll have to pay the little prick a personal fucking visit."

"You feel free. Am I free to go or what?"

The leather of the chair squeaked as Negan sat himself down again. "Now, where would you fucking go? You said you're the only one left."

She shrugged one shoulder. "I'd find my way. Always have. It's the one certainty I have in this new world of ours." Negan tilted his head to the side, regarded her with silent admiration and a fully-piqued interest.

"You know what? I've decided I fucking like you. So fucking much, I'll offer you a room here. Now, keep in fucking mind, anyone who stays at the Sanctuary works for the Sanctuary. Tit-for-fucking-tat, if you will. Everyone's got a job to do, and there's plenty of fucking work to go the fuck around. Now, tell me, Liv, and I don't do this for just fucking anybody, what sort of skills do you possess?" Liv was wary of the way he'd said skills, as if there was some double entendre she was missing. At her hesitance, he grinned again. "I'm giving you pick of the fucking litter, doll."

"Ammunitions. Or medical," was her immediately reply. She didn't miss the slight surprise that passed over Negan's features. He tilted his head and the gesture made him younger, a little more naïve. She already knew better. Knowing she'd regret it, she followed up with, "I'm good with my hands."

Negan's throat nearly went dry, his voice hoarse. "Are you now? Well, I'm sure we can find a fucking use for those hands of yours. Any training?"

"Three years of med school." Up went his eyebrows into his hairline again. "Before I flunked out."

"I'll be fucking damned. You're just full of surprises. I'm sure Dr. Carson could use the fucking expertise of a former med school student. Useless prick. All right," Negan slapped his thighs and rose again, "let's fucking see what we can do about getting you a fucking room. You have any belongings?"

"No. Everything I came with died four floors down." Negan paused and watched her, his mind turning over and over. She was going to be a tough nut to crack. He plastered the grin onto his face once again.

"Not to worry, doll. We've got plenty of shit to fucking go around. Follow me."

He picked up the bat and swung it onto his shoulder, and then swung the door open wide. Liv stayed two steps behind him as he led her back out into the carpeted hallway and down seven doors. Using Lucille, he knocked three times before shoving open the door and strutting inside.

Olivia looked around. She wasn't sure what she should have been expecting, but it wasn't a fully furnished, almost hotel-style, room complete with a fireplace and a bookshelf. The bed was freshly made with plain linens and a couple of throw pillows. There were no windows, but the room had plenty of adequate lighting coming from the ceiling lights as well as a small table lamp next to the bed. Olivia was stunned into silence—they had electricity? —but she kept her face neutral. On the foot of the bed lay a white fluffy robe and an assortment of feminine hygiene products, including body lotion and a razor.

"It ain't much, but, well, fuck. This is probably the fucking Ritz-Carlton to you, ain't it?" Negan asked, opening his arms and turning in a circle. He had an arrogant smirk on his face as Olivia moved slowly around the room, taking in the cleanliness and comfort of it.

"Now, since it looks like you've been living in those fucking rags for years, which you very likely fucking have been, let's see what we can do about finding you some new fucking threads. After you." Almost gentlemanly, Negan held out his hand towards the door. Olivia watched that sinister something creep back into his eyes as she strode out of the room.

"Nice set up." She had to admit it, Negan and his people were set up quite impressively. "Who'd you have to kill for it?"

Negan barked out a laugh. "Man, I fucking like you. Nobody, believe it or fucking not. It was just sitting here, waiting to be taken and used."

Olivia hummed as they took the narrow staircase down a floor. Negan insisted on walking beside her, putting her in much closer proximity to him than she would have liked. The smell of leather filled her nose, along with something that smelled purely outdoorsy. His shoulder bumped hers every time he stepped down and she scooted closer to the wall. He held the door for her again and she walked through, waited for him to lead the way to commissary.

As he passed, the few people milling about immediately dropped to their knees before him, like servants to a king. Olivia watched them in both curiosity and astonishment. Just who was this guy? She risked a glance at him. He was staring straight ahead, his chin raised high, eating up the attention as his people took a knee.

"So what, you're like they're king?" she asked, not without some incredulity. Negan smirked and turned his dark eyes to her.

"Something like that. If we're fucking honest, princess," he grinned as she sighed, "I take care of them, and they take care of me. That's how it works around here. Tit-for-fucking-tat."

Olivia pursed her lips as the commissary came into view. The room appeared to be a former cafeteria of sorts, with the rolling tables still intact and bins upon bins of clothing were stacked on top. They were organized by gender, size, color, and style, and it reminded Olivia distantly of mall shopping. There were workers with clipboards, marking inventory as they moved from table to table.

"Let's see," Negan hummed, lifting a grey shirt out of the first women's bin. He set down Lucille with the gentleness of a new father and held the garment up to her. Satisfied, he dropped it into her arms and moved on.

He grabbed her a pair of cargo pants that looked like they might be a bit big, so he tossed a belt at her. Then he tossed in some socks and carried a brand new pair of size seven boots by their laces. When they reached the undergarment table, that signature wicked grin split his face and he began to pick through the underwear, choosing first a very risqué pair. Olivia rolled her eyes and pulled them out of his hands, tossing it back into the bin. Lightly shouldering him aside, she settled for a practical pair of black boyshorts, shoving them hastily under the shirt. Negan waggled his eyebrows suggestively, but she chose to ignore it and began to dig for a new bra.

"What are you, about a B-cup?" he asked, trying to get a glimpse of her chest. Olivia pinned him with an ugly glare and pulled instead a C-cup bra out of the bin, ignored him as he grinned and pulled his lip between his teeth. "Nice. We should get you out of that filthy hat too." He dropped a large hand on her head to pull the cap off. Quick as lightning, she clapped her hand over his in a vice grip, ignoring how warm his skin felt against her. He didn't resist as she pulled his hand away from her cap, watching her as she readjusted it. He cleared his throat.

"Are you settled then? You can come down and pick what you need whenever, as long as you contribute somewhere else. Tit—"

"For-fucking-tat. Got it," came her clipped reply. "Think I'll manage. Thank you for the clothes and the hospitality. I suppose I'll see you around then."

She moved to turn away but he curled his hand around her bicep and stopped her. She whipped her head around, staring first at his hand on her arm and then up into his face.

"I should at least walk you to your door like the fucking gentleman I am." But he removed his hand at the copper blaze in her eyes.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're a real Mr. Darcy," she murmured. "I think I'll be fine. Thanks again."

Before Negan had another chance to move, she swept from the cafeteria. He smirked after her, loving the challenge she was presenting to him. She'd break one way or another.

Olivia hurried back to her room, more out of excitement for an actual shower than getting away from Negan. She all but slammed the door to her room closed and turned the lock for good measure and out of habit. She debated shoving a chair underneath the door handle due to Negan's apparent ignorance of the concept of privacy, but thought better of it and dropped her new clothes onto her bed.

She cooped up the robe and bathroom amenities and dashed into the bathroom, closing and locking that door as well. She set her robe on the toilet and ran her hands over the towels hanging over the bar next to the shower. Soft as baby's skin. It reminded Olivia of a hotel she'd stayed in when she and—

No, don't do that to yourself. She cut those thoughts off at the knee and resumed her survey of the bathroom. Plain, white tiles and a sink with a soap dish and a cup for a toothbrush. A brand new toothbrush, no less, and an unopened tube of toothpaste. She placed the shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and wash cloth in the shower and turned the knob. She half expected the water pressure to be mediocre and the temperature lukewarm. But when she turned the knob and the water streamed out in a steady jet and steaming, she could have fainted then and there.

She quickly unlaced her boots, yanked off her clothing and eagerly stepped under the spray, sighing in content as the hot water did its duty. She stood under the spray for near ten minutes, partially believing she was dreaming. Jostling herself, she dumped a generous amount of shampoo into her palm and rubbed it into her scalp. She emitted another sigh as she felt the shampoo and her nails scraping away layers of dirt, grime, and who knew what else. She rinsed her hair when it squeaked with cleanliness, the water in the bottom of the tub turning near black, and she brushed conditioner into her tresses. She let it sit and put her new toothbrush to good use. With her mouth feeling fresher than it had in months, and her hair clean and soft, Olivia set to work on her skin, using the wash cloth to rub a hefty amount of body wash along her arms, torso, legs. Again the water turned murky as she watched layers of dirt and grime scrape away to reveal creamy skin beneath.

She wasn't sure how long she stood under the spray, but she didn't care as she finally tossed her hair in a soft towel and squirted shaving cream into her hands, spreading it on her legs and underarms. The sink quickly filled with unshaved hair and shaving cream. Once finished, she rinsed the sink and plopped the razor into the cup with her toothbrush, capped the shaving cream, and threw the robe on. She smeared lotion on her legs, forgetting how good it felt.

The carpet of her room was soft under her bare feet as she pressed the end of the towel to her face to dry it. Reaching for her new clothes, she paused when she saw the flannel shirt and sweatpants neatly folded on her bed that hadn't been there before she got in the shower. With catlike reflexes, she reached for the lamp on the table next to the bed, yanking the cord out of the wall with the force. She raised it over her head and turned towards her sitting room, prepared to deck the new intruder.

"Did you have a nice bath?" Negan asked, sitting cross-legged in the chair by the bookshelf. He was thumbing through one of the titles, not looking at her immediately. She relaxed, but only slightly, and glanced at the door. The jingle of keys drew her attention back to him and he finally looked up. "Locked doors don't mean shit to me, princess."

Olivia set the lamp back on the table and crossed her arms over her chest. "Thought I got rid of you."

"Ha. Fat fucking chance, doll. I'm like fucking crazy glue. Thought you could use the pajamas and some dinner, if you'd be so fucking kind to accompany me."

She started to protest but her damn stomach betrayed her with excellent timing. Negan smirked and balanced the book on the arm of the chair. He straightened to his full height and strode to the door as someone knocked once.

"I had something brought up from the kitchens." He opened the door and a cart was wheeled in by an older woman who Olivia hadn't met yet. She handed Negan two plates of what looked like chicken and some vegetables. "Thank you, Madeline." The woman nodded and wheeled the cart back out. Negan kicked the door shut when she was gone.

"Why don't you dress and we'll eat."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to have some privacy for a while." Olivia wasn't used to being waited on, she wasn't about to start getting used to it. A flash of anger flared in Negan's eyes. She was far from intimidated but backed up her argument. "It's been a long fucking day, I'm tired, and I'll admit, I'm ravenous. All I want to do is eat and then sleep. I appreciate the hospitality you're showing me. But it's not necessary."

The anger didn't move out of Negan's expression but he nodded, his jaw muscle twitching. He set the plates in his hand on the small side table.

"Double serving. You're too fucking skinny." Without another word, he stormed out the room, the door slamming shut behind him. Olivia pinched the bridge of her nose, sighed, and quickly threw on the pajamas left for her. She towel-dried her hair and hung the towel on the hook on the bathroom door.

She wiped both plates clean. Her stomach felt sufficiently full and between that, her shower, and her earlier interaction with Negan, she was completely exhausted. She didn't wait a moment more to turn off the light, climb into bed, and fall into the most peaceful sleep she thought she'd ever had.