Part Two
Take My Heart

Daryl went to visit Merle the next weekend, but since his most recent encounter with Beth, he didn't mention anything about her. She hadn't bothered him at all since presenting him with the pie and the dog toy, so he figured they really were on the mend and she was doing better with her new medications. No reason to bring up old shit and let Merle get into his head.

He still hadn't heard a word from Rosita, but he figured that was probably for the better. She clearly wanted to move on. And he'd only passed Bob in the hallway once, but they didn't even make eye contact. Maybe that was for the better, too.

A couple more weeks passed, pleasantly uneventful. He passed by Beth every other day or so, either in the hallway or the lobby, and she looked to be on her way to work each time. But their only interactions were a casual "Hey, Daryl" and "Hey, Beth."

He was feeling a million times better and had managed to cut back to only a couple of beers each night before bed. And only to stave off the old nightmares of his mom that had recently resurfaced.

Carol invited him out to a restaurant one Saturday night, insisting that she wanted to introduce him to "a new friend." He wasn't sure what that meant, but he had nothing better to do.

Turned out, it was somewhat of a blind double-date. Carol brought Ezekiel, and the "new friend" was a light-skinned Black woman named Connie. She was Deaf, but Carol and Ezekiel were both fluent in sign language and helped to interpret throughout the dinner. And when they didn't, Connie was prepared with a notepad and a pen, happily scrawling quick little messages and exchanging them with Daryl. He scrawled back his own messages and the next thing he knew, they were swapping phone numbers and promising to make a date of their own soon.

Daryl returned home that night, smiling to himself and feeling lighter on his feet than he could ever remember feeling. Connie was nice. Really nice. And pretty. Really pretty. And smart and funny and sweet and quick-witted and well-educated and selfless and—

Well, shit. She was just about everything Daryl wasn't.

She was also compassionate and understanding. She worked at a shelter for abused women—that's how she and Carol had met, because Carol spent a lot of time volunteering at places like that nowadays, attempting to give back to the people who'd helped her and Sophia so much in past years. Connie used to be a journalist, but after thousands of hours spent researching and writing up articles on the plight of domestic abuse survivors and troubled women in general, she'd found a higher calling working with them directly. Daryl liked that. He respected it. He admired it.

He admired her.

After a week of texting back and forth all day, every day, Daryl bought a book on American Sign Language. He spent every free moment he had over the next few weeks studying and watching instructional YouTube videos, determined to teach himself ASL in order to communicate properly with her. Turned out, he picked up on it pretty fast.

By their third date, he barely had to use the notepad at all. Connie signed a little slower than usual for his sake, but she was beaming the whole time. And when he dropped her off at home at the end of the night, she told him, "You sign with a Southern accent." There was a coy smirk on her lips as she said it.

He couldn't help but laugh. Then he kissed her. And she kissed him back.

When he got home that night, he parked his bike and walked on clouds into the apartment complex. He was barely thinking of anything else, but when he spotted the wall of mailboxes in the lobby, he remembered he hadn't checked his own mailbox in a few days. So he stopped and unlocked the small metal box embedded into the wall, reaching in and pulling out a small stack of bills, bank statements, and junk mail.

He stood in the same place and sorted through the stack, glancing across the various envelopes while his mind wandered elsewhere. He didn't even notice he wasn't alone until a voice pulled him from his own thoughts.

"Oh, hey, Daryl."

He looked up to find Beth a few feet away, unlocking her own mailbox and pulling out a single envelope.

"Hey, Beth," he greeted casually, looking back down at the mail in his hand.

"Gee, you look happy," she remarked teasingly.

He shrugged. "Yeah. I had a pretty good night." Then he shut the door on his mailbox and locked it back up, brushing past her. "Alright. Have a good one."

"You, too," she responded quietly.

He was barely paying attention, but he could still feel her eyes on him all the way to the elevator.

Daryl had been dating Connie for almost three months. They weren't official yet, but that was okay. They were taking things slow. He liked slow. They were still getting to know each other, building trust and feeling things out. But it was going well. Really well. So well that, naturally, Daryl feared it would implode any day.

He had to remind himself that he deserved something good in his life. Though it took some extra reminding from Carol.

"You deserve to be happy, Pookie," Carol insisted. "You've been so lonely for so many years. And don't try to tell me you haven't been—I know you better than that. This girl is good for you. You're too old to be self-sabotaging. It's time to settle down and accept happiness. You are not your father and you are not Merle. You're a good man. You're breaking the cycle. You've earned this."

He still hadn't fully opened up to Connie about the extent of his past—the abuse, the neglect, his mentally ill mom, his vicious dad, his no-good brother. But like Carol kept telling him, they'd get there in due time.

As far as the physical intimacy was concerned, they hadn't moved past making out and some occasional heavy petting yet, but he was fine with that. She seemed to be, too.

They were taking it slow, after all. And he liked slow.

He'd told her about his brother in prison. She'd told him about her sister in college. But neither of them pried for more information than the other was willing to give. He was grateful for that. She respected boundaries, and she seemed to trust him. He was especially grateful for that.

He was slowly forgetting about the debacle with Beth. It was nearing a year since she'd moved in and she seemed to be doing better. She hadn't tried to text him or talk to him outside of the casual "hello" in passing. There was a time or two when she'd been coming back home just as he was taking Dog out, and he'd been happy to stop and let her pet Dog for a brief moment. But other than that, she was the furthest thing from his mind.

For the most part, anyway. Those old nightmares had begun to fade away again, but every other week or so, a new one would pop up and Beth would reappear in his subconscious. Sometimes she would take the form of his mom. Sometimes his mom would be there one second, only to be replaced by Beth the next. Sometimes they were both the same person. Every time, he woke up in a cold sweat, trembling all over and aching for something he couldn't name.

And though he'd never, ever admit it aloud—let alone allow himself to think about it for so much as a second afterwards—he would find the need to relieve himself in the shower, or while he was lying in bed and struggling to sleep, and Beth's face would pop into his head at the very last second.

Her cherry-red lips, her big, innocent, blue-green eyes, her soft blonde hair, her milky white skin, her tight little ass in those jeans, her small chest in that clinging tanktop…

But as soon as his climax ripped through his body and expelled from the tip of his throbbing hard cock, the shame washed over him. He would shake the thoughts from his head, wash his hands, and rid himself of the memory altogether.

Then he woke up one morning for work and checked his phone to find that he had about 100 new notifications on Instagram. While he smoked his first cigarette of the day and waited for Dog to finish pissing, he opened up the social media app and found who all the notifications were from.

Beth.

She'd found him on social media, even without knowing his full name. And she'd liked nearly all of his posts from the last three or four years. She'd followed him, too.

He went to her page and found that it was private, though her full name was on display: Beth Greene.

Well, now he knew her name, too.

He didn't dare hit the Request button, though. Instead, he pressed Block.

How did she even find him? He didn't connect the page to his phone number, so the only way to find him was by knowing his last name.

When he checked Facebook, he found a new friend request… from Beth Greene.

Once again, he pressed Block.

So she'd definitely learned his last name.

How had she learned it, though? Rosita, maybe? But then if that was the case, why didn't she start following him and liking all his posts months ago, before Rosita had moved out?

He decided to ignore it. He didn't want to linger on the questions or start worrying. She hadn't bothered him since her apology, so there was no point in dredging up a new issue.

He was simply smothering the flame before it could combust into a full fire.

Three days later, he checked his mailbox to find every single piece of mail marked with cherry-red lipstick prints. Like someone had taken out each envelope one-by-one, placed a kiss on them, and then put them back for him to discover.

He stiffened. Felt a chill run down his spine. With the mail in hand, he glanced around, but he was alone in the lobby. There was no one else around.

He double-checked the lock on his mailbox, but it wasn't broken or malfunctioning. He was the only one with a key.

Nothing else was tampered with. The envelopes were all sealed, untouched save for the kiss prints.

But they all had his full name on them. Daryl Dixon.

For the briefest second, he wondered—

No. That was crazy. She was doing better now. She'd apologized. Hadn't bothered him besides the social media attempts, which hadn't amounted to anything more than a slightly weird slew of notifications.

He couldn't help it, though. He was hit with a fresh feeling of paranoia.

As soon as he got back up to his apartment, he opened Instagram and double-checked all the posts that Beth had liked.

Every. Single. Photo. All of them. He rarely posted, so he didn't have many over the four or so years since he'd created the account.

But there was one particular post she had not liked. Was it on purpose?

It was the last post he'd made. About three weeks ago. A picture of him and Connie sitting together on a park bench, smiling with their faces pressed close, his arm around her shoulder. He'd captioned it simply, "beautiful date with a beautiful gal" and tagged Connie's personal profile.

Beth had found his page and liked every single post. Except that one.

And he couldn't shake the feeling that it was intentional.

The very next day, he was leaving for work, passing by Beth's closed apartment door, when he heard the sound of a guitar being played from inside.

He wasn't sure why it intrigued him. Why he stopped. Why he cared.

It was almost instinctual. The music drew him in. Soft and lulling. Like the old records his mama used to play while she sipped from her wine bottle and smoked her Virginia Slims, swaying back-and-forth drunkenly in the middle of the kitchen.

He found himself leaning closer to the door just to listen. Could barely hear Beth's voice singing along to the chords she strummed, rhythmic and melodic.

"…and I'm not normally the jealous, jealous type, but you deserve a girl with matching sparkly eyes. A girl who makes you dance 'til dawn, who makes you wanna write a song, and if you think that that is Julie, then you're wrong…"

He lingered for a moment longer in the hallway, listening to the muffled sound of the guitar through the door. The echo of Beth's soft singing from inside her apartment.

A shiver ran down his spine, though he wasn't sure why. Couldn't quite place it.

And then he kept walking. Quicker than before. Until he got to the elevator and the heavy metal doors closed before him, silencing the sounds of her music once and for all.

A month passed without any strange occurrences. No lipstick prints on his mail, no follow requests or unwanted likes on his social media pages, no sounds of music from inside Beth's apartment at seven in the morning. Daryl pushed it all from his head and focused on work and his growing relationship with Connie.

Things were going well. Really well. So well, in fact, that after their most recent date, Connie asked if she could ride on the back of his bike. "I've never been on a motorcycle," she told him, a grin on her face as she signed. "I've always been curious, though. It looks exhilarating."

He happily obliged, explaining that it was one of the few things he truly enjoyed because of how free it made him feel. So they took a ride through the city, her arms wrapped tight around his middle the whole time, her chest pressed so close to his back that he could feel her breath hitch and her heart race every time they picked up speed.

But when he started heading back for the restaurant they'd left—where she'd also left her car—she shook her head and got his attention to suggest, "Back to your place?" She was blushing, though he couldn't tell whether it was from the wind on her face or something else.

His heart leapt and he had a feeling he knew what was coming next. They'd only ever spent time at her place, though never overnight or anything like that. He almost wished he'd had time to clean up and make his little apartment look more presentable, but then again, he felt comfortable with her. Comfortable enough that he knew he didn't need to do anything to impress her. She liked him just the way he was.

He drove them back to his complex and parked in his usual spot. In the elevator, he warned her that Dog was very friendly and would probably be all over her. She'd already seen plenty of photos, so she simply grinned and said, "I already planned on leaving with all my clothes covered in dog hair." Daryl laughed and leaned in for a soft kiss just as the elevator doors opened up to the third floor.

But when he pulled away and grabbed her hand to lead her out into the hallway, his steps faltered.

Beth was standing at her apartment door, unlocking it. At the sound of the elevator doors, she turned her head and spotted him, a smile already forming on her face. It disappeared in a split-second, though, as her eyes landed on Connie and trailed down to Daryl's hand holding the other woman's.

Then, just like that, she plastered her saccharine smile back on. He kept walking, leading Connie to his door, and barely offered Beth a glance as he passed.

"Hey, Daryl," Beth greeted, though her voice didn't sound quite as cheerful as usual.

"Hey, Beth." He didn't stop and didn't bother to introduce Connie. It was no business of Beth's, anyway.

Connie, being the naturally friendly person that she was, waved and smiled, mouthing a silent "Hi!"

Beth returned it with her own wave and Daryl hurriedly unlocked the door, stepping aside to allow Connie to enter first. He glanced over at Beth to see that her fake smile was completely gone, replaced by… something else. An expression he couldn't decipher. There was a tightness to her jaw, and something wild in her eyes that he hadn't seen in many months.

Regardless, he ignored it and shut the door behind him, making sure to lock it.

Connie asked, "Your neighbor?"

He nodded.

"Friend?"

He shook his head and briefly explained, "Just neighbors. She hasn't lived here very long. Don't really know her. Mostly old people on this floor—like me."

Connie laughed, but then she was quickly distracted by Dog rushing forward to sniff her and jump up to place his paws on her chest. She grinned and ruffled his fur, petting him and scratching behind his ears while he licked her face in greeting.

Once she was formally introduced to Dog, Connie turned to Daryl with raised eyebrows and a coy smirk. "So… are you gonna give me the tour?"

Daryl hadn't allowed himself to have any expectations for the night. He certainly hadn't expected Connie to suggest going back to his place, let alone spend the night. But to his surprise, it all turned out… really well.

Of course, he'd been nervous. Uncertain and a bit fumbling. But Connie was patient and understanding and, in his opinion, way nicer than he deserved. He barely even lasted five minutes between her legs—embarrassing—but her only complaint was that Dog had been sitting in his bed in the corner and "watching" them the whole time, with his little stuffed dog toy snuggled safely beside him.

Daryl laughed and promised he'd kick Dog out of the bedroom next time.

"If there is a next time," he added, shrugging bashfully.

She grinned, blushing. "I'd like there to be. I think we need some…" She paused and made a playfully 'thinking' expression before finishing, "practice."

Daryl couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed this much with someone, let alone a woman he was romantically interested in.

When he dropped her off at her car the next morning, it took all his courage to ask, with somewhat shaky hands, "Would it be okay if I started calling you my girlfriend?"

To his pleasant surprise, she leaned in and kissed him. It was a soft and lingering kiss, full of potential. Then she replied, "Only if I can call you my boyfriend."

And just like that, Daryl was in an actual (healthy) adult relationship with a woman he really, really liked.

Two days later, Daryl was lying on his couch, half-asleep as he finished watching a movie before bed. He'd stayed up a little later than usual, but only because he and Connie had been texting a bit more frequently and she was working a late shift tonight. They were already planning their next date and "sleepover."

Then there was a knock at the door. But it wasn't a normal knock. It didn't sound rapt or even purposeful. He had to pause his movie and listen harder to make sure he hadn't been hearing a sound from down the hall. It came again, softer than before. He wasn't even positive it was coming from his own front door until Dog leapt up and rushed to the door, sniffing wildly at the threshold and scratching at the wood.

With a sigh, Daryl pushed himself up from the couch and went to the door, pushing Dog back before peering through the peephole. He saw no one. But then the sound came again—more like a slapping than a knock—and Dog shoved his way forward, scratching at the bottom of the door and whimpering.

Daryl finally gave in and unlocked the door, opening it tentatively and peeking his head out.

Beth was lying on the floor in front of his door, nearly unconscious, one hand stretched out in a weak attempt at slapping on his door with her flat palm. Her hair was tousled and she was missing a shoe. She was lying with the side of her face on the dirty carpet of the hall, eyelids heavy and lipstick smudged around her mouth.

"Jesus Christ," Daryl cursed, kneeling down and slipping his hands beneath her to lift her up from the floor. "Beth! Beth, what the hell happened? Are you okay?"

She groaned and moved her mouth like she meant to talk, but all she could do was make sounds. More groaning.

"Beth—Beth, wake up! Stay with me," he urged, propping her up to a sitting position and pushing the hair out of her face, tapping her cheek with his palm in an attempt to make her more conscious. "What's wrong with you? What the hell happened? Beth, talk t'me."

She groaned again, but this time she blinked blearily. He could tell she was struggling to focus her eyes on him. "Went… went out," she slurred. "Coworker. Bar. Felt s-sleepy. Think—drugged. Somebody…"

"Fuck," he cursed, his stomach dropping. "Somebody drugged you? Where's yer keys? Is yer door unlocked?"

"Don't…" Her eyes were falling shut again, her whole body limp in his arms. "Know… Can't… 'member…"

"Shit, hol' on, c'mere, sit up," he urged, guiding her to sit up against the wall next to his open door. "I'mma grab my phone an' call nine-one-one—"

At that, her eyes flew open. With a gasp, her hand shot out and gripped onto his arm. "No! Please—d-don't. Dar… Daryl… can't…"

"Beth, you've been drugged, y'need t'go to the hospital!"

"M-my… sister. M-Maggie…"

"Fine, I'll call yer sister then."

"No-o. No, pl-please." Her eyelids grew droopy once more. "Gonna… commit me… lose… my job… m-my place…"

He heaved a sigh, glancing back inside his apartment with his mind racing. What the fuck was he supposed to do? If she refused medical treatment, calling 911 would be pointless. And if he called Maggie, she'd—

Well. From the way things looked, she'd probably assume Daryl had something to do with this.

Fuck.

He had no choice. He couldn't leave her out here in the hallway, drugged and unconscious, but until she was conscious enough to figure out where her keys were, he couldn't get her inside her apartment either.

She needed help. At the very least, she needed to sleep this shit off. And she probably shouldn't be alone in her state, anyway. What if she stopped breathing or something?

With a sigh of uncertainty, his heart still racing, he bent down and scooped her up in his arms. She was heavier than she looked. Then he carried her into his apartment and to the couch, laying her down and settling a pillow beneath her head.

While she lay on the couch, gone silent and drifting further and further towards unconsciousness, he rushed around to get her a glass of water and a blanket. He tried to think of something else that could help her, but he had no idea how to combat what he could only guess had been a roofie. And how much had she drank before that?

He set down a glass of water on the coffee table, then he slipped off her remaining shoe and laid a blanket over her. She was still making occasional whimpers and groans, so he knelt down beside her.

"Beth, can ya hear me?"

She groaned in response.

"How much did ya drink?"

She squirmed beneath the blanket, her eyes remaining shut. A few seconds later, she croaked out, "T-two… beers…"

Shit. She really had been drugged.

"A'right, I'mma stay here, okay? I'm right here. Ya gotta sleep this shit off. But soon as you wake up, y'need t'go to the police an' report it. Whatever you can remember, you gotta tell 'em. I got some water here for ya, drink it as soon as ya can. If y'feel sick, say somethin'. I'll get ya a bucket."

She merely groaned in response, but the sounds were growing weaker. Her eyes hadn't opened since he'd laid her down.

He stood up and paced around a bit, running a hand through his hair and wondering what the fuck he should do. Was this really the best option? The only option? Would he be fucking everything up for her if he called her sister or called an ambulance? What if he put her in fucking medical debt against her will? Ambulances weren't cheap, after all, and she'd already had one haul her away in the last six months.

He didn't know. He had no answers. He was entirely unsure.

Then she opened her mouth and called out weakly, "Daryl…? Daryl… are—"

"I'm right here," he assured her, kneeling down at her side once more.

"Please," she whimpered. "P-please… don't leave me alone… I-I'm scared… don't… I don't feel good…"

His chest ached. She sounded absolutely helpless. Vulnerable. Terrified.

"'S alrigh'," he whispered. "You'll be fine. Jus' get some sleep, you'll feel better when ya wake up. I'm right here. Ain't goin' nowhere."

She hummed. Her voice was weak as she asked, "Promise y-you won't leave me?"

"Yeah. Promise."

She relaxed a bit. And then it was as if she finally allowed herself to slip fully into unconsciousness.

Regardless, he couldn't stop watching her chest for signs of movement. Assuring himself she was sleeping and not dying.

He resorted to sitting in the chair next to the couch and watching her closely, resigning himself to a rough night of barely any sleep for the sake of making sure she would be okay.

Daryl thought he'd slept light. He was sure that if he let himself drift off, he'd be awakened by any slight sound or movement. But the blaring alarm on his phone was what finally woke him up. It was time to get ready for work.

He shot up in the chair he'd slept in, looking around wildly. He expected to find Beth still passed out on the couch, but the blanket was slung over the cushions like she'd pushed it off. The glass of water had a half-ring of red lipstick on the rim, but only a few sips had been taken. Even her shoe was gone.

He rushed towards the bathroom, half-expecting to find her there. But she wasn't. There was no one in the apartment but him and Dog.

He finally grabbed up his phone to silence the alarm and found a new text message waiting for him. It had arrived barely fifteen minutes ago.

From Beth.

I can't begin to tell you how embarrassing that was. I'm so sorry. Idk how I let that happen. But thank you, Daryl. Thank you for taking care of me and making sure I was okay. I owe you one.

He heaved a sigh of relief and texted back:

You sure you're okay? How do you feel? Are you gonna go to the police?

Barely two minutes later, she responded:

Yeah, I'm fine. Or at least I will be. And no, I don't think that would be helpful for anyone. Not like the police can really do anything. I just wanna forget it ever happened tbh.

Before he could text back, she sent another message:

Maggie would find out somehow. She always does. She'd find out about my fake ID and I just really don't want the lecture and all the trouble, ya know? I'm okay. I'll be more careful next time. Thank you again.

The last of the tension left his body and he allowed himself to relax.

She was fine. She didn't die. And none of this was gonna come back on him, for whatever reason.

He sent one last text before heading off to get ready for work.

Gotta be more careful. Never know who you can trust. Glad you're ok. Take care.

Two days later, Daryl received a text from Connie asking if she could come over after he got off work. He responded yes, of course, but he was a bit confused because they had been planning on having another date that weekend, so why did she want to come over at the last minute like this? And on a weeknight when they both had work the next morning?

Her response made his blood pressure skyrocket and his heart thump anxiously.

We need to talk.

Well, fuck. That was never good.

He spent the rest of the day at work wondering what he'd done wrong. What she wanted to talk about. He even asked her, "Good or bad?" But she had simply replied, "I'll see you at 6."

That only proved to make him more anxious.

By the time 6 rolled around, he was freshly showered and changed out of his work clothes, pacing around his apartment, unable to settle. At 6:08, there was a knock at his door.

He welcomed Connie inside with a smile, but her reciprocated smile appeared a bit stiff and forced. He could see that she was tense. And when he leaned in to give her a soft kiss in greeting, she turned her face and only allowed his lips to graze her cheek.

Fuck.

His whole body stiffened and his heart was in his throat. His stomach was somewhere down by his feet. He just knew what was coming.

You don't deserve good things, he told himself. You never did. Goddamn fool to ever think this would last. You always fuck it up.

His internal voice sounded a hell of a lot like his dad's. Like his brother's.

Connie walked over to the couch and sat down, patting the cushion beside her. Daryl sat down, leaving a space between them, and turned to face her. Before she could say anything, he asked, "What did you wanna talk about? Did I do something wrong?"

She hesitated. Shifted uneasily in her seat. Then she asked, "What is your brother in prison for?"

He furrowed his brow, confused. What the hell did Merle have to do with anything?

"I'd rather not talk about it. He's an idiot. An asshole. He's not really a part of my life anymore. I got away from that years ago."

Connie heaved a sigh, a crease forming in her brow. He recognized the look of determination on her face.

"I want to talk about it. I need to talk about it. You still go to visit him sometimes, right?"

Slightly ashamed, Daryl nodded.

Then she asked plainly, "Why?"

He sighed. "Because he's my brother. He practically raised me. He was the only person I had for most of my life. That doesn't mean I condone what he did, but I can't just walk away from him forever. He doesn't have anybody else. He's all alone in there. He's probably gonna die in there."

Connie narrowed her eyes. He could see her putting the pieces together in her head, trying to work something out.

"I'm sorry, but…" She paused. Hesitated. Averted her gaze for a moment before finishing, "I asked Carol. She wouldn't tell me much. She said I should ask you. But I wasn't sure how to approach it. So I looked him up."

Daryl's stomach dropped. His mouth was suddenly bone-dry.

Connie sat up straighter, squaring her shoulders, and asked, "Where were you that night?"

Daryl blinked in disbelief. Then he signed back a bit angrier than he intended, "Seriously? You think I had something to do with that?"

"That's not what I said. I was just—"

"You wouldn't ask something like that unless you suspected me of having a part in it. Do you really think I'd do something like that? You know me, Connie. I haven't talked about him because it hurts. Because I'm ashamed. I've been trying to escape the reputation he made for the Dixon name for years. I thought you understood."

Her face fell. She seemed remorseful, but still determined, as she said, "From what I've learned, it wasn't just him that made that reputation."

Daryl narrowed his eyes. Clenched his jaw. Fought to stop his hands from trembling as he signed back, "You mean my dad? What all did Carol tell you? If you asked her, I know she told you the truth. And she knows me, too. Better than anyone. She knows I'm not like them. I've made a point to not be like them."

Connie slumped her shoulders and put her face in her hands for a moment, shaking her head. When she pulled them away, her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. "Daryl, I trust you. I really do. That's why I came to you. That's why I'm asking you directly instead of making assumptions."

Daryl scoffed and signed back with frustration, "Asking me what, exactly?"

"Just tell me where you were that night."

"I was on the other side of town. I was drunk. A little high on pills. I didn't see Merle for two days. And when he showed back up, the cops came the next day and arrested him. He told me his side and I wanted to believe him. He's my brother. But I know he deserves to be where he is."

A single tear escaped and rolled down Connie's cheek. She quickly wiped it away and sniffled, averting her gaze.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just… it's a lot. I don't know much about you."

He gave her an indignant look. "You know everything about me."

"Not as much as I thought I did. Not your past."

"You know everything that matters. Do you not trust Carol? She's been my best friend for years. Do you think she'd let me be a part of her life if I was a piece of shit? Do you think she'd let me be around Sophia?"

Connie gave a weak shrug. "I… don't know. She doesn't exactly have the best track record when it comes to being a judge of character."

A sound of disbelief escaped Daryl's throat. "Wow. Have you told her that? I'm sure she'd love to hear how you really feel about her."

Connie frowned and furrowed her brow. "You know that's not what I mean. Don't try to turn this back around on me. I'm just being cautious."

He shook his head, swallowing back a knot that threatened to build into tears. "Cautious of what? You think I'm gonna drug and rape you? You think I'm gonna kill you?!"

She rolled her eyes, growing more agitated. "Obviously not. Stop being melodramatic. I wouldn't be sitting here with you if I thought you were capable of such a thing."

Then she paused, lowering her hands and looking towards the floor. He could see her swallowing hard and biting back tears. He was doing the same. His whole body felt like it was vibrating with anxiety.

Was this it? Really? Could this be the end of the first good thing in his life… ever?

Finally, she told him, "Maybe we just… need some space for a bit. I need to think about things. I'm sorry. I really am. I like you, Daryl. A lot. And I do trust you. But if we're going to be in a relationship, then we should know everything about each other. We shouldn't have any skeletons hiding in our closets."

Daryl shook his head. "There are no skeletons," he insisted. "I'll tell you whatever you wanna know. I have no hidden agenda. I like you, Connie. I care about you. You make me happier than I've ever been. I want to make you happy, too."

He paused when she shut her eyes, visibly fighting back tears.

"My past will always be a part of me, but it's not who I am—not who I want to be," he went on. "My dad and brother made their choices. They made their mistakes. Those mistakes are not mine. I refuse to be punished for them."

Connie choked back a sob and said, "I'm not punishing you. I just… need some space. Some time. I just need to think. Okay?"

Daryl's stomach had been falling and twisting and churning throughout the entire conversation, but now it seemed to be completely revolting against him. He felt bile rising in his throat. His mouth was watering. He knew what was coming and he couldn't stop it.

He couldn't stop any of it.

He put up a hand and turned his face away, quickly signing, "Excuse me a minute." But he couldn't manage to put his fist to his chest and apologize before he had to leap up and rush to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him and racing to the toilet.

His entire lunch came up in one long heave. Like his body was rejecting the swirl of emotions storming through him, forcing him to vomit as though he might be able to retch up all the pain and rejection and heartbreak.

"Some space." "Some time." He knew what that meant.

It meant he'd never see her again. She was disgusted by him. Ashamed of him. She wanted nothing to do with him.

He was such a fucking fool for thinking he could ever actually deserve something good. Let alone someone as good as Connie.

As he knelt in front of the toilet, still spitting out remnants of vomit and extra saliva, his eyes drifted over to the trash can. He saw the torn condom wrapper from four nights ago and was overcome with another wave of emotions.

The first woman he'd slept with in… how long? He didn't know. But she was the first woman he'd slept with that he actually cared about in… goddamn. Probably his entire life.

He'd let her in. He'd trusted her. Earned her trust in return.

And now that trust was gone. Their entire relationship that he'd worked so hard to build, to make healthy. It was ending. Just like this.

He retched again but nothing came up. It was just a dry heave. He allowed the tears to flow from his eyes, a sob escaping his throat. Then his eyes drifted back to the trash can—wait. Where was the used condom?

The wrapper was there, but not the actual evidence of what they'd done. Had he flushed it? That didn't seem right. He was almost certain he remembered pulling it off and tossing it into the trash next to the toilet right before he took a piss. But…

Fuck. Who cared. What the fuck did it matter. He probably just flushed it and couldn't remember because he'd been walking in a cloudy haze of lovestruck happiness for the last three or four months.

Jesus Christ. He really was pathetic.

He finally managed to clean himself up and regain just enough composure to stand upright and face Connie again. He prepared himself for the final blow, expecting nothing and preparing for even less.

When he returned to the living room, though, he found Connie standing in front of the couch. There was a strange look on her face—like a mixture of fury and fear. Her eyes were wide.

He cleared his throat, still able to taste the bile on his tongue, and signed, "What's wrong?"

She gave him an incredulous look. Then she lifted her hand. Dangling from the tip of her finger was a pair of red panties.

His voice escaped reflexively, "What the fuck?"

She read his lips and dropped the panties on the couch before signing back furiously, "What the fuck is right! Are you kidding me?!"

His mouth dropped open. He didn't even know where to begin, he was so hopelessly confused. "What are those? Where the hell did they come from?"

"You tell me! I just found them in your fucking couch cushions and they're sure as fuck not mine. Seriously, Daryl?!"

He threw up his hands helplessly. "How the fuck would I know?! I've never seen them before in my life!"

She shook her head and waved him off, sneering in disgust and anger. "I know exactly where they came from. The same reason I came here to talk to you—the whole reason I had to confront you!"

"What the fuck? And what reason is that? What do you think I've done?!"

Connie was already heading for the door. He rushed towards her and grabbed her by the arm, spinning her around to face him. She shoved him off and he didn't fight back. He simply took a step back and gave her the space, asking again, "What do you think I did, Connie?! Please tell me!"

She narrowed her eyes at him, lips pursed tightly. She looked more furious than he'd ever seen her, and she started signing so fast that he struggled to keep up.

"That girl—your neighbor! She came to my center asking for Plan B. She was scared, Daryl! She was crying and alone and terrified! She said she recently moved into an apartment all by herself; that her family doesn't live close by and she's struggling to make new friends. She asked for help getting a rape kit and told me she was scared that she might end up pregnant! She said an older man in her building took advantage of her—an older man that she thought she could trust!"

Daryl's breath caught in his throat. His whole body went cold.

But he still managed to sign back—albeit weakly and slower than usual, struggling to comprehend what was happening, "And? What the fuck does that have to do with me?!"

Connie's jaw tightened and she settled her cold glare on him, signing back so vehemently that the skin of her hands was audibly slapping together. "She said she couldn't find her underwear afterwards! A lacy red thong!"

Daryl gasped. He glanced back towards the couch and the pair of panties—a lacy red thong.

He turned back to Connie and explained, "Okay, I can explain that! She showed up at my door two days ago almost unconscious because she'd been drugged after getting into a bar with a fake ID. Couldn't find her keys, missing one shoe, barely able to form a sentence. Begged me not to call 911 or her sister. I let her sleep on my couch because I was afraid she might die and when I woke up, she'd already gone home. Did she happen to tell you that part?"

Connie's eyes widened. He saw her gaze flick from him to the panties on the couch and back.

"She did. She said she was drugged and woke up on a couch she'd never seen before. Her neighbor's couch. Why would she lie about something like this?!"

Daryl threw up his hands and snapped, "You gotta be fucking kidding me!"

Connie's chest was heaving with anxious breaths. She was backing closer to the door. Then she pursed her lips and shook her head.

"You are not the man I thought you were. I'm sorry, Daryl—sorry that I ever trusted you."

Before he could respond, she was spinning around and rushing to the front door. He moved to chase after her, but she'd already yanked the door open and raced out into the hallway.

"Connie!" He called after her, knowing better but unable to stop his voice from escaping in desperation. "Connie, wait! Connie!"

He stopped outside his door, watching as she got onto the elevator and hurriedly pressed the button to close the doors. He only saw a sliver of her frightened and angry face before she disappeared behind the thick metal doors.

Daryl spent an hour attempting to text Connie after she left. He knew he was sounding desperate, but he was desperate.

Connie, come back

Please, I swear to god it's not what you think

I didn't tell you everything about Beth. What she's been doing since she moved in. She's a fucking stalker !

She's crazy. I swear. You have to listen to me

Please hear me out

Connie, I'm begging you

I wouldn't do something like that. I'd rather cut my own dick off than sleep with a girl half my age. I would never fucking drug someone. I am not my brother

That girl's not well. She has issues. She tried to kill herself. She went to a mental hospital barely 6 months ago because of it. It's all in her fucking head

She's setting me up. She's jealous. She saw me with you. She stalked my instagram and saw our picture. She tracked you down. There's no other way she'd show up at your work like that

Nothing happened. I swear it on my life

Please, Connie. You have to believe me. I wouldn't lie to you. I'd never lie to you

You're the only woman I've been with in years. The only woman I WANT to be with

Please text me back. FaceTime me. I can explain all of this

But every single text was left on Read.

And ten minutes later, when he tried to text her again, the blue bubble turned green. A red exclamation point popped up and said "Not Delivered."

She'd blocked him.

He let out a cry of anguish. Anger. Frustration. Absolute fury.

He had to restrain from chucking his phone across the apartment and into the wall. Even Dog could sense his anger, retreating to his bed in the corner and curling up quietly.

Tears were streaming down Daryl's face. He collapsed to the floor and struggled to breathe. The whole world was spinning around him.

He felt like he was miles away as he watched his own hand reach out and grab up his phone once more. He typed out a text and sent it.

To Beth.

What the fuck did you do

He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed, shaking his head and trembling all over.

Then his phone vibrated. He read the new message with tear-filled eyes:

What are you talking about? I haven't done anything.

Daryl swallowed back another sob, balling his hands into fists. Tried desperately to still the shaking that quaked through his muscles.

His phone vibrated again. And again. And again.

Did things go south with your new gf? I heard you yelling in the hallway. I'm sorry :(

I guess some people just can't understand. It's hard to love someone as damaged as we are.

I'm here for you if you need someone to talk to. I've been there. I understand. I'm sorry, Daryl.

He had no response.

He grabbed up his phone and shut it off. Made sure to lock his door tight. Grabbed the pair of panties and chucked them straight into the trash, shoving them down beneath empty beer cans and discarded food.

Then he laid down in bed and sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed. Until his pillow was soaked with tears and his body felt drained of every last ounce of water.

And just as he was drifting off to sleep, he heard his mama's voice at the back of his head. Faint but steady. Certain.

"Nobody can ever love you like I do, Daryl baby. Nobody."

Daryl slipped in and out of sleep throughout the night. Every time he drifted off, he was welcomed by another haunting nightmare. Beth. His mom. His dad. Merle and that poor girl who'd died in his bed.

Every time he awoke, he felt tears in his eyes, dripping down his cheeks. His whole body ached. His stomach felt like a cavernous pit.

He stopped trying to sleep sometime near dawn. Only turned his phone on long enough to call in sick to work before promptly shutting it back off. He simply couldn't drag himself out of bed.

He'd never felt quite so alone—quite so abandoned—in his life. Not in a very long time, anyway.

When he finally got up, it was only to take Dog out and feed him. And then he went right back to lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how he'd let things come to this.

If Rosita didn't believe him, Connie didn't believe him, and even Beth's own sister didn't believe him… who would?

Around noon, he dragged himself out of bed and went straight to the fridge for a beer.

Two hours and four beers—and a couple shots of whiskey—later, he contemplated turning his phone back on. But he feared he would only be met with Connie's silence and Beth's persistence. Instead, he threw back another shot and chased it with more beer.

Dinner time rolled around and the sun was sinking behind the horizon outside. He had no appetite. He didn't want to do anything but keep drinking.

Dog had to go out again, so he leashed him up and took him down. But when he returned to the third floor and stepped off the elevator, he found Beth standing outside her apartment door. Like she'd been waiting for him.

His whole body tensed up like he was preparing for a fight. He kept his head low and avoided her gaze, though he could feel her eyes on him. Her beaming smile. She said his name as he brushed past her. When he didn't respond, she said it again.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"Daryl—"

"Ain't got nothin' to say t'you," he murmured without looking at her, pushing open his door and loosing Dog inside.

And then she was right beside him. "Please, Daryl. I just—"

He shut his door to keep Dog inside and finally turned his head, glaring at her. "Stop. Just stop, Beth. Haven't you taken enough from me already? There ain't nothin' fuckin' left." He knew he was probably slurring his words, the whiskey and beer coursing through his veins, but he didn't care.

Her face fell momentarily. Then that wild look in her eyes resurfaced. That expression of determination that set her mouth in a tight line and sent a chill running down his spine.

Her voice was deceptively soft, almost kind, as she whispered, "You look so pitiful cryin' all alone in your bed. But I get it. Nobody else understands—they never will. I do, though. I understand you better than Connie or anybody else ever could. She's real pretty, and she seemed good in bed, but she's not what you need. She could never be what you need. She'd never truly love you. Not for who you really are."

His blood went cold.

"Nobody can ever love you like I do, Daryl baby."

And then suddenly hot. Fiery hot with rage and frustration and desperation.

He balled his hands into fists, fighting back the anger that threatened to take hold of him. He was taking a threatening step towards her. She didn't budge, staring up at him all doe-eyed.

"What the fuck have you done?" He growled. "Are you watchin' me now? You got a fuckin' camera in my place or somethin'? I'll go to the police. I'll show 'em all yer batshit li'l messages. I'll go t'yer sister an' tell her everything."

To his dismay, she smirked. Like it was all a joke. A sick game that she was playing… and winning.

"And who d'you think they'll believe?" She asked, her voice dangerously soft. She inched closer towards him until he could smell her vanilla perfume. "Daryl Dixon, the brother of the infamous rapist-slash-murderer, Merle Dixon? Or me—the damaged, innocent twenty-year-old who just moved in all alone down the hall and wanted to make a friend?"

Daryl gulped. Clenched his jaw and ground out through gritted teeth, "I'll move. I'll get so fuckin' far away, you'll never be able t'find me."

"I won't have to. The police will do it for me."

"I got proof of yer bullshit, ya know. Yer months of fuckin' stalking me an' sabotaging my life."

Her smirk turned into a full smile, eyes sparkling with maleficence. "And I got a rape kit. I even fucked myself extra hard the night before. No lube or anything." The tip of her tongue flicked out to wet her red lips as she added, "Your come was still inside me."

Daryl's stomach plummeted down to his feet as he recalled questioning his own memory while he was bent over the toilet.

I never should've let her inside my house.

He thought he might be sick. Red flashed in his vision, the anger rising higher and higher in his throat. Or was that vomit?

Then she giggled—actually fucking giggled—and whispered, "Nobody will ever believe you, Daryl. Nobody but me."

Suddenly, he snapped. The red overtook him. The rage.

He didn't know what he was doing. It was as though he'd lost control of himself. One second, he was clenching his jaw and balling his hands into fists, seething and telling himself he needed to go back inside his apartment and lock the door. The very next, he'd closed the remaining distance between them and his hand was around her throat, shoving her back against the wall.

She gasped and choked against his grip, eyes wide as she stared up at him. Her dainty hands reached up to grasp at his wrist, red-lacquered fingernails biting into his skin, but she was no match for his strength.

He was in her face, so close that their noses were nearly touching. He could smell her cherry-red lipstick, the sweetness of her breath as she gasped for air. He could feel the heat of her skin. Felt her pulse pounding against his palm.

"What else do you want from me, girl? Huh?! Whadd'you WANT from me?"

She gasped for air, choking and unable to respond. Her grasp on his wrist loosened. Yet she was tilting her head back and her mouth was curling into a smile once again.

She was pressing herself against him. He could feel the damp heat between her legs through the denim of her jeans. Something instinctual and reflexive stirred; his dick twitched in his pants. She felt it, he knew, because her smile widened.

It only proved to make him angrier. More desperate.

His voice rose until he was screaming in her face, "ANSWER ME! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"

Breathlessly, she whispered, "Everything."

The click of a door opening down the hall snapped him out of his raging trance and he immediately released her, stepping back and shaking his head as though he could shake away the lunacy that had suddenly overtaken him.

What the fuck was he doing?

"Hey," Bob called out from his doorway. "Hey! You get the hell away from that girl! Beth, are you alright? Should I call the cops?"

Beth's hand had drifted up to her throat, fingertips gently tracing the red marks he'd left. Her chest heaved as she took in full breaths. Her eyes were still wild. Almost… entranced at the sight of Daryl's unbridled rage.

"N-no, Bob," she called back, coughing softly and turning to flash him a saccharine smile. "It's fine. We were just talkin'. Everything's okay, I promise. There's no reason t'get the cops involved. Go back inside, okay?"

Bob narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced. "I don't—"

"Please, Bob?"

He sighed, but retreated back inside his apartment nonetheless.

It dawned on Daryl very suddenly: she had every person she came into contact with wrapped around her fucking finger.

Every. Single. Person.

Except him.

His hands were shaking, his heart thumping so hard inside his chest that he feared it might burst free. When Beth met his eyes again, she was still smiling. But it wasn't the fake smile she'd plastered on for Bob. It was genuine—wicked and maliciously satisfied.

She had them all wrapped around her finger and she knew it.

"You're outta yer goddamn mind. You're sick," Daryl growled out. "You're fucking sick, Beth Greene. Stay the hell away from me, or I swear to God—"

"What?" She challenged him, her voice soft but deadly all the same. "What'll you do?" She took a small step toward him, nipping at her lower lip seductively. "Are you gonna…" she trailed a hand down her neck, across her chest to the top of her breast, leaving a trail of goosebumps on her milky white skin, "hurt me?"

Something rose from the very pit of his stomach, hot and heavy and conflicting.

He growled out through gritted teeth, "Stay. The fuck. Away from me."

And with that, he spun around and marched back into his apartment and slammed the door shut behind him, making sure to lock it tight.

He was still fuming, breathing heavily and pulsing with anger. He began looking around his apartment wildly, wondering where the hell she could've placed a camera. She was watching him. She was fucking watching him. He'd let her inside his home. The only safe place he had.

He'd let her inside and she'd taken advantage of it and fucking desecrated it.

He tore through the apartment in his effort to find what other secrets she was hiding. But there was nothing in the couch, in any of the drawers, in the cabinets, on top of the fridge. Nothing.

Then it hit him.

Fuck. How had he been so stupid?

He rushed to Dog's bed in the bedroom and grabbed up the stuffed toy. Turned it over and ripped it open with his bare hands, yanking out the stuffing.

Wires. And inside one of the dark, glassy little eyes was a camera the size of a pin.

She'd put a goddamn nanny cam inside his home. Inside his bedroom.

He didn't even want to think about what else she could've seen. What else she might have, what she could use as blackmail—against him and Connie. He tossed the camera and the whole toy into the trash, ready to burn it along with the panties that were still at the bottom of the bin. He couldn't take it anywhere yet, though. She was probably still out there in the hallway, waiting to ambush him. To fucking entrap him.

He found himself crying again. Sobbing.

And then he realized… she didn't need to entrap him.

He was already trapped.