God, this chapter was so hard to put on paper. The idea was there but I couldn't spit it out like I wanted and I had to rewrite the entire chapter.

I'm in hell, your taste, your smell, I know you far too well
It's a spell
That took me from a dream to this motel
I ring the bell
'Cause honestly I'd rather be with you than by myself

So love me wrong, if you can't love me right
All I want is to be in your vice
You're the one who builds my paradise

Love me wrong by Isak Danielson

Chapter 36 - So it begins... 1999

Daryl was aware that the intensity of his emotions couldn't possibly be considered normal. This wasn't your average, run-of-the-mill love; he was certain of that. The depth of his feelings, the way they consumed him wholly, the constant hum of her in his thoughts—it couldn't be the way everyone else loved, ain't no fuckin way. Day and night, she occupied his mind, never leaving even for a moment. Every second of every day, it was her. It went beyond mere love; she was his best friend, the one person who truly understood and accepted him, the person he never hid anything from, bare his soul too.

In turn, he knew her better than she knew herself sometimes. Every minute detail, every nuance of her being—from the way she talked to her laughter, the way she loved, her moods—the difference between whether she was upset or just hungry—all of these details he understood in a way that left him both overwhelmed and awestruck, wondering when he had picked upon it all.

There were times in school when he found himself standing by his locker, watching her from a distance. He would hear the rhythm of her small heels clicking against the tiled floor, her dark hair flowing behind her as she takes on her surroundings with a self-assured demeanor. And then their eyes would meet, and his heart would tighten as her face transform—a radiant smile breaking across her face, her eyes glowing, and her stride would falter, as if beckoning him closer.

On the days when she wasn't preoccupied or rushing off to one of her classes or student council duties, she would subtly nod her head toward the exit. Inevitably, he would find himself on the bleachers stealing kisses from his girl, with the taste of her strawberry lip balm leaving a lingering sweetness on his tongue.

He held intimate knowledge of her, details that even she herself wasn't aware of, such as how she slept. The first time he spent the night in her bed came after he had opened up about his scars. Even before he could recount the grim details, she sobbed in his arms, overwhelmed by the mere thought. That night, he saw a side of her that stirred something within him—the depth of her protectiveness towards him. It was different from the kind of protectiveness he had known from Merle as a child. It was soft, it was tender, and most importantly, it was rooted in love.

As she held him close, her heartbeat echoing in his ears, she had whispered how she was at her happiest when she was with him. That night, Daryl didn't sleep a wink. It wasn't just the novelty of sharing a bed with someone else, but because it was her lying beside him—so warm, so soft, the rhythm of her heartbeat gently tapping against his ears.

From that point forward, he wanted to be in her bed every night, if possible. He would find any excuse to show up at her house, and she never turned him down. What began as a one-time occurrence gradually evolved into a habit, as he found himself spending night after night with her, at least three times a week. Though her bed was undeniably comfortable, he never slept soundly. The knowledge that he had to rise before daylight lingered in the back of his mind, preventing him from fully relaxing. It acted as an unwelcome alarm that disrupted his rest, regardless of the coziness of her bed. Yet, he continued this routine week after week, month after month.

She became his refuge, especially when he butted heads with Merle. She always claimed he was selfless, yet it was she who consistently put him first. Regardless of the hour or the stress in her own life, she would set everything aside to tend to his wounds. She fussed over even the smallest cut or bruise, peppering them with kisses and finding ways to make him laugh. She would always be there. Eventually, he would find himself in her bed, where he felt immensely loved by her—wholeheartedly and unconditionally. As she half-slept, her fingers would tenderly comb through his hair, or with barely open eyes, she would pull the covers over him.

This feeling stirred him to his core, occasionally keeping him awake throughout the night. He would simply lie there, holding her and studying her features, committing every detail to memory under the gentle glow of her nightlight. Almost every night, she would shift and kick until she found a comfortable position sprawled across his chest, her hair cascading in every direction, and her soft breaths gently tickling his neck.

When the first light seeped through the partially drawn curtains, he would wake up, however, he never hurriedly left her side. Instead, he would watch her once again, noting how unguardedly she slept. It was a stark contrast to her usual well-dressed and composed self. Instead, she appeared free, almost childlike, with her lips slightly parted. Occasionally, she would murmur something unintelligible, and sometimes, she would drool slightly, leaving a damp patch on his chest. He would chuckle to himself, wiping it with the bedsheet, knowing she would vehemently deny it if he ever mentioned it. This was a secret he decided to keep, something to hold onto, something only he could witness.

When the time came, he would gently place a kiss on her forehead or her parted lips, carefully untangling himself from her limbs. He would tuck her under the comforter before slipping out through the same window he had entered.

Each time he returned to his own home, remnants of her scent lingered on his skin. He'd sink into his bed, and the realm of dreams would sweep him away back to hers. But this time, in his dreams, it wasn't just her bed—it was theirs, and he didn't have to leave. He could wake up to her, with her, every single day.

Yet, in a cruel twist of fate, he fucked up, he fucked up big time. It was their first time having sex in her bed. The evening had started playfully, with her teasing him, kneeling between his legs with his cock in her mouth and those beautiful lips wrapped around him. His comfort around her was something he never fully understood; one sultry look from her would make him weak, enough to seduce him, leaving him ready to burst right in his pants.

However, things quickly took a different turn once they were in bed together. Their aim had been to remain quiet and avoid making the bed creak, but the atmosphere quickly grew tender and gentle, her half-opened eyes looking into his soul. Lying on her side, he spooned her, with her legs draped over his. He moved deep inside her, giving her exactly what she wanted, right there in her bed. His fingers were slick as they toyed with her clit, eventually finding their way into her mouth. Her tongue sucking and dancing on his fingers, tasting her own flavor.

His climax was intense, spurred on by her whispering over and over that she loved him, and she loved his cock, and just like that, it washes over him like a tsunami buried deep inside her, with her right behind him, tightly clinching around him for dear life. Their previous intimate moments had taken place in secluded locations: in the car, in the heart of the woods, or on a picnic blanket in the meadow, but this experience was unlike anything before.

Overcome by exhaustion, he had drifted off soon after. The rude awakening, he faced was a shock to his system - her mother, or at least a woman who looked strikingly similar to the girl he loves, was standing at the doorway. Her eyes were wide, and her screams filled the room, echoing his own sense of sudden panic.

Your fingers tap incessantly on the car's steering wheel, and impatience gnaws at your nerves. Every few minutes, you glance out of the window, observing the mostly vacant school parking lot with only a handful of cars trickling in. It's evident that you have arrived early, earlier than most of the staff, leaving you with nothing to do but wait anxiously for Daryl to make an appearance—if he decides to show up at all. The anticipation heightens even more as you realize that you won't be able to relax until you lay eyes on him, until the distinctive rumble of his motorcycle reaches your ears.

You spent the entirety of the weekend locked in your room, unable to sleep or eat. The stress weighs heavily on the back of your mind, as if it's pinching your hair. As restless as a caged bird, you paced your confined space, your mind spun an infinite reel of 'what ifs', relentlessly replaying various scenarios, until you realize just how easily things could have turned for the worse.

You never expected such a reaction from your father, not in your wildest dreams. In fact, truth be told, the thought hadn't even crossed your mind. You had been so consumed by your infatuation with Daryl, lost in teenage love, that you were oblivious to the potential consequences of your actions.

All you can do now is make sure Daryl is okay, and you can't help but wonder what he must be going through. Your father had actually threatened him with a gun, with genuine intent to harm. How can you make this okay? What can you possibly say to him? Here you are now, at the crack of dawn on Monday morning, waiting with uncertainty hanging in the air, prolonging the agony.

Then you hear him before you see him—the distant noise of his bike, a sound you know all too well. You can't resist the urge to jump out of the car. Part of you wants to run to him, but you restrain yourself, waiting until he has pulled up right next to you in his usual parking spot.

You can't stop yourself from launching at him, your arms already wrapping around his neck before both of his feet can touch the ground. "I'm so sorry, oh my god, sweetheart, I'm so sorry," you choke out, your voice shaking as he pulls you closer, your stomach clenching tight.

"Hey, hey, there ain't nothin' for you to be sorry about," he reassures, adjusting you so he can dismount the bike.

"No, I'm so sorry, Daryl. I should've known," you mumble into his neck, your voice muffled, and your eyes already welling up with tears. "I love you, and I would never do anything to hurt you. I'm so sorry for what he said, for what he did."

Pulling back, you reach up to cup his cheeks, drawing him closer. "I didn't mean to put you in that situation - and the gun - oh my god," you stammer, pressing your lips to his first before showering his face in a flurry of kisses. "I'm so sorry."

"Why are you cryin', sweetheart? I'm alright," he gently turns the tables, pulling back to look at you, his own hands cupping your face as he wipes your cheeks. "I reckon this ain't gonna be the last time I'll have a gun to my head... But you know what? It is what it is."

You shake your head, unable to accept the casualness with which he is treating the situation. "Daryl, don't brush this off. This is serious; he really was going to hurt you." You saw a moment on your father's face, the clear intent. The thought of it brings back a flood of tears.

You don't realize, until a few students and random staff members pause to look at you, that your tears are attracting attention. You see Daryl scanning the area, his shoulders tense; you know he is uncomfortable. Given the social dynamics of your high school, you anticipate this scene will devolve into gossip fodder. With that in mind, you gently nudge him toward your car for some privacy.

Once you are both inside the car, with you in the driver's seat and him in the passenger's seat, he turns to face you. As you wipe your cheeks with the back of your sleeve, you take in the sight of his face. His bruises and cuts still look dark and purple, but they have improved since you last saw him.

"Y'know what? I get it. I ain't blamin' him one bit. If some redneck showed up at my house in the dead o' night, all beat up and lookin' like I did, I'd react the same damn way," he reasons, reaching out to hold your hand. Part of you wants to argue, unable to empathize with your father's perspective.

"It's a man's duty to look after his own, 'specially his daughter, can't fault him for that." Daryl says with a nod, as if acknowledging some unspoken code of manhood. "I just didn't like how he put his hand on you." You grip his hand tighter at that, unable to imagine the emotions this situation must have stirred in him, especially given his past experiences with domestic abuse.

"He's never hit me before, Daryl. Raised his voice, maybe, but never..." You pause, your voice firm. "I don't want you to think he's hurting me or something." The fact that your father has struck you only underscores just how furious he must have been.

"Yeah, I know, that one's on me," Daryl says, looking away from you, his gaze seemingly lost on the windshield, watching the school entrance thinning with the student body. "I did that to you'," he admits.

"Daryl," you whisper his name softly, lifting the hand you are holding to your lips and placing a soft kiss on his knuckles.

"This ain't how I wanted him to see me, and it sure as hell ain't how I wanted your moms to see me, to be scared of me," he confesses, looking back at you. "I wanted to have my shit together, to be worthy of their daughter. I wanted to shake your old man's hand proper-like, showin' him... I don't know…" He shakes his head in thought, bringing his free hand up to his lips, biting on his nail, and you can see the regret in his eyes. In that moment your inside heats up like an inferno, reminding you why you loved this man.

Daryl continues still fiddling with his nails, "Show 'em that maybe someday could take care of you, protect you, and be the man you deserve. But life ain't always fair, and sometimes it throws us curveballs we ain't ready for, and there ain't no do-overs." He sighs, and in that single breath, you can tell this is something he has been stewing over all weekend. "I should've left, like I always do. I don't know what happened, sweetheart, I just passed out. I'm sorry I got your daddy involved and made all this mess."

"No, it's not you. It's all my fault. I should've known better, I should've anticipated his reaction. It's all on me. I'm sorry I took that chance from you," you confess, biting your lip. You understand your father — conservative, strict, concerned about his social status, the undisputed shadow king of his city. "Maybe one day, they'll see the man you really are," you say, more for Daryl's sake than out of genuine belief, as you doubt he will ever be accepted… at least not like the way he wants.

You can't help but berate yourself over what happened. Your father raised you to be logical and to think critically. But how did it make sense to let Daryl into your room, night after night, knowing that your father was asleep just down the hallway? It was inevitable that you would get caught.

"When it comes to you, Daryl, I'm irrational and I can't think straight... I just..." You love having him in your bed, the soft conversations with the covers tucked under your chin, his arms wrapped around you, feeling warm, cozy, and absolutely safe.

"What happened... it's all my doing. I'm so, sorry," you finish, your heart heavy with regret.

Daryl is the one to shift in his seat and reach across to the driver's side. He gently disentangles his hand from yours and brings his face closer. "Ain't you the one who told me I ain't responsible for my father's actions? The same goes for you," he says softly. His hand holds your chin, guiding his lips to yours. The kiss is tender and comforting; your hand immediately finds its way into his hair, his soft strands threading through your fingers as you cup the back of his neck. His lips coax yours open, the kiss both sweet and tinged with the lingering taste of his last cigarette, likely lit just before he got on his bike.

When you finally break the kiss, you look at him. His soft breaths are a gentle caress against your face. Despite the cut above his brow and the dark bruise, his dark, ocean-blue eyes look steadily back at you. "You know things can't go back to how they were before. We need to be cautious from here on out. You might have escaped his wrath, but you're not out of danger yet," you whisper, pressing one last kiss to his lips.

He lets out a resigned sigh, as if he had anticipated your words, and leans back into his seat. "He's your old man, and you're my girl. That fact alone earns him my respect. But, Just 'cause he held a gun to my head don't mean I'm scared of him."

"Daryl, you have no idea who my father is. Whatever you think he is, that's not it. Believe me, he's not like one of Merle's goons, you should be terrified." You push, hoping that even from your voice, he would understand the gravity of the situation.

"Well, I ain't," he huffs, looking away, and you understand Daryl doesn't scare easily. But even if he did, he would never admit he is scared or afraid, not after the kind of childhood he went through.

"You should because now that you're on his radar, he's never going to let go." You plead, and something about the desperation in your voice slowly seems to bring him back to you. From the sideways glance he gives you, you know he's at least listening. "Please, he's not the kind of man to just let you off with a warning. I know him, trust me; we have to move very carefully from here on out." Anxiety is fully displayed on your face and in your voice.

"Hey, don't stress, I'll do whatever, aight?" he says as you watch him with wet eyes. "Whatever it takes to have you, I'll do it. I want you to know that, without a shadow of a doubt," he reassures you.

You nod with a sigh of relief, leaning your head back on the headrest. It's only then that you realize just how silent the parking lot is. Rows of cars, but not a single student. "Come on, we've got to get to class," you tell him, reaching over to grab your backpack from the back seat.

Within minutes, you are walking down the gravel road toward the main entrance. "So, how much trouble you in?" he asks as you stride side by side.

"I'm grounded until the end of the year," you say with a defeated voice, making a face.

Two weeks have passed, but it feels like two years. The days grow longer, dragging on seemingly forever, and being grounded disrupts your usual routine completely. The afternoons spent with Daryl are gone. Instead, you return to a quiet home, drowning in homework, and losing yourself in books. Strangely, you can't even recall how you used to spend your time before Daryl entered your life. His absence creates a significant void in your day, leaving you feeling a little lost amidst the silence he left behind.

The tension between you and your father reaches an unbearable level, hanging in the air like a charged electrical current, crackling with unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. You can see it in your mother's eyes, caught in the middle, watching you both with concern and dread. Her eyes darting back and forth at the dinner table as you return your father's cold expression, as if expecting an explosion at any moment.

You haven't spoken to him, avoiding him altogether. But you can't shake this deep-seated guilt, as if you had handed Daryl over to your father on a silver platter. Childhood memories creep in - times when you accompanied your father to work, observing how people would make way for him as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.

Being on the other side of that fear now feels strange and unsettling. It has taken away your appetite and filled your nights with restlessness. You can sense that your father's reaction is coming, and that thought only adds to your sleepless nights.

The impending confrontation is subtly reflected in your father's stern, expressionless face. Each passing second tightens the knot of tension between you, adding another layer to the mounting pressure that threatens to consume you.

As you descend the stairs, a book still in hand, your eyes half-heartedly reading the pages, the aroma of one of your mother's freshly baked cookies wafts through the air, enticing your senses. Your empty stomach finally decides to make a call, reminding you of its presence. Mindlessly, you head toward the kitchen, momentarily distracted by the allure of the cookies.

But as you pass your father's office, a distinct voice softly echoes in the air, catching your attention and causing you to pause in your tracks. You look at the slightly ajar door of your father's office, and from the deep voice and heavy southern accent, you know Commissioner Gregory Cox is in there with him. The late hours don't surprise you; it's not unusual for Commissioner Cox to be engaged in secretive discussions with your father.

With a sigh, you continue toward the kitchen, only to stop after a single step when you hear the commissioner speak again. "...Rednecks... a few of them... real nuisance." At those words, your instincts kick in, and an unspoken alarm rings in your ears.

A mix of worry and curiosity swirls within you as you move closer to the door, peeping through the gap, eavesdropping on their conversation. "But I must admit, I'm curious. What made this group of rednecks catch your attention in the first place?" Commissioner Cox questions, his solemn face illuminated by the dim glow of a desk lamp, casting elongated shadows on the walls, as he stands before your father.

Your body tenses, waiting to hear Daryl's name as you try to get a read on your father's expression, but he remains out of view. However, you can see his desk, where a thick yellow manila envelope and a few scattered papers lie haphazardly across the polished surface. The room exudes an atmosphere of authority, with bookshelves lined with legal tomes and awards adorning the walls, bearing witness to your father's accomplishments.

"It's personal, my friend," your father responds in a voice that suggests they are anything but friends. "I want you to clean the house, so to speak. I want all of them. Leave no stone unturned."

"Understood completely," Commissioner Cox nods without question. "The warrants and depositions are ready to go as well. Once the DA's office signs off on it, we can proceed. My people are prepared and waiting."

"That's what I like to hear, Commissioner," your father replies, his voice dropping to an icy tone. "I do not want to see a repetition of what occurred last time," he adds softly, his words sending a chill down your spine.

"It will not happen again, sir, I'll personally oversee the operation," the commissioner assures him, suddenly tensing his shoulders and straightening his back. "One of them is a significant narcotics user and distributor. We can exploit that information, present it as a family affair and consolidate it into a single warrant to apprehend all of them together."

"I trust you do," your father responds, his voice laced with authority. "Let's proceed with caution and make sure we cover all our tracks."

"Once you give me the green light, we'll take care of it discreetly and ensure they end up in your courtroom," the commissioner says eagerly, as if he is determined to please.

"I have complete faith in your abilities, Commissioner," your father states firmly. "Now, what's next on the agenda?"

As you slowly back away from the door, rationality begins to regain its hold on your thoughts. You shake your head dismissively, chiding yourself for jumping to conclusions as your heart pounds in your chest. After all, you are in Georgia, hometown to plenty of rednecks, so they might as well be talking about the average Joe.

With that, you continue to the kitchen.

As you walk out of your final class for the day, the echo of the bell still reverberates in your ears, and the weight of your heavy backpack settles heavily upon your shoulders. Weariness from the long day seeps into your bones, casting a shadow over your steps. The familiar row of metal lockers comes into view, their green paint vibrant under the fluorescent lights overhead.

Suddenly, you pause in your steps as you spot Daryl. He's leaning on your locker, his hair catching the light and appearing lighter than his dark chestnut shade. In the vast sea of the crowded hallway, everything seems to fade into the background, and the loud chatter of students becomes mere white noise. Daryl's eyes lock onto yours, and a silent communication passes between the two of you. With the barest nod and a slight tilt of his head, he pushes off the locker, subtly motioning towards the back door.

Understanding his signal is hardly a mystery as you watch him walk away, blending into the mass of students. Without wasting a moment, you swiftly open your locker, emptying its contents and keeping only what you need. Anticipation fuels your actions as you follow him through the back door, stepping out into the vast expanse of the athletic fields. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting a warm glow and painting everything in hues of gold and orange as you make your way towards the familiar bleachers.

Daryl waits for you slightly secluded, his silhouette outlined by the fading sunlight as he leans on the metal bar that holds the bleachers, a cigarette already lit between his fingers. Your tiredness is momentarily forgotten as you jog toward him and wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a hug.

"Hi," you sigh, your face pressed against his neck, the weight of the day slipping away. You slide your backpack off your shoulder and toss it to the ground by your feet.

"You know, for a moment, I forgot about everythin'," he murmurs, his lips pressed to your hair. The hand that isn't holding the cigarette traces gentle circles up and down your back. "I was gonna ask if you'd like to have an early dinner. We could give Uncle Joe's a shot. It's been a damn while since we last paid 'em a visit, ain't it?"

You let out a playful, whining moan. "Don't tempt me like that, Daryl," you say, pulling back slightly to look up at him. The vast field lies empty, and you both stand hidden in the shadows of the bleachers.

"So, we ain't gonna hang out no more, huh?" he asks, a hint of longing in his voice.

"You know, I already miss you," you tell him, even though it's only been three weeks since you were grounded, and you've been spending lunchtime with him. "But I'm grounded now, which means it's just school and then straight home." The weight of the remaining year seems daunting. You wonder how you'll handle the rest if you're already struggling with just a few weeks.

"I ain't never been grounded before, we'd just get an ass-whippin' and be done and over with. Now, I feel like I'm bein' punished too, and I can't rightly tell which one is worse," he says with a huff, clearly feeling the separation just as strongly as you do.

"Daryl, I know this feels strange, and I don't know what to do with myself either, but we have to stay off his radar," you explain, your voice tinged with caution. You can't afford a repeat of what happened before. Because if you give in once and go on this dinner, you know you'll do it again. "That means no more climbing through my window, no more late dinners, car rides, or bike rides, and no more getting freaky in the car," you say, more to remind yourself than to scold him.

"You can't be serious," Daryl responds, tossing his cigarette aside and pulling you closer. "How would your father even know? I reckon he's probably still at work." Your eyes squeeze shut as his lips press against your neck, and you can't help but smile. "Come on, you can't just cut us off like that, go all cold turkey," he insists, his voice filled with a mix of desire and longing.

"Well, maybe if you can persuade me with your charm," you say, your voice dripping with seduction. Your smile widens, his lips brushing against your skin, and the scent of his cigarette fills your nostrils. "Are you going to be sweet on me now, Daryl Dixon?"

"Sheesh, I'll be whatever you want me to be, sweetheart," he replies, pulling back slightly so that his nose brushes against yours. One of his hands slides down to rest on your hip, his touch gentle yet possessive, as he grasps your ass.

You hum as the softness of his lips pressing against yours sends a shiver through you. He lightly pulls at the bottom of your lip, and your body melts into the sweet kiss. As you break away, a soft puff of breath escapes your lips, and you can't help but chuckle. "Maybe if you're quick about it..." you tease, the playful tone in your voice betraying your desire.

"A quickie, huh? I think I can deliver," he says, with a smirk playing on his lips as he tugs you towards the sheltered space beneath the bleachers. Deep down, you know it's risky, especially on school grounds. However, as his lips meet yours again, you find yourself willingly succumbing to his magnetic pull, your laughter dying on your lips.

But just then, a flicker of movement catches your attention in the periphery of your vision. You instinctively pause, withdrawing your head slightly to get a better look. "What on earth?" you whisper, halting Daryl in his tracks as both of your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

Emerging from the back entrance of the school, a familiar figure comes into view. From your concealed position beneath the bleachers, you watch as another man joins him. "Ain't that the old-ass history teacher?" Daryl follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing in recognition.

"Yeah, that's Mr. Robertson," you confirm, studying the man with gray hair neatly combed back and wire-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. "But why is he talking to the Police Commissioner?" Even from your vantage point, you can recognize Gregory Cox, from his neat suit to his polished shoes and the frown he always wears. What surprises you most is the way he carries himself—an air of authority exuding from him, quite different from how he trembles in the presence of your father.

Mr. Robertson, known for his friendly and approachable demeanor, seems visibly uncomfortable under the sharp gaze of Commissioner Cox. He appears more like a schoolboy summoned to the principal's office than a seasoned teacher. Their conversation, although inaudible, carries an air of gravity. They speak in hushed tones, seemingly trying to blend into the brickwork of the school building. You notice Commissioner Cox's hand landing heavily on Mr. Robertson's shoulder, a gesture that conveys more command than friendship. Mr. Robertson flinches noticeably under the weight, his eyes darting anxiously around the deserted space.

Suddenly, the commissioner retrieves a yellow envelope from his breast pocket and hands it over to Mr. Robertson, who accepts it with shaky hands. Your body freezes, watching that yellow envelope as a chill runs down your spine, and a mental fire alarm goes off in your head.

"It's my father," you exclaim, pulling back from Daryl with wide eyes. "This is his doing. He's involved." You emphasize the significance of the situation to Daryl, urging him to see what you see. "Can't you see? He's keeping tabs on us."

Confusion etches itself on Daryl's face as he steals glances at the sharply dressed man walking away and Mr. Robertson shuffling back into the school with his shoulders tense with unease. "What are you talkin' about?" he asks, seeking clarification.

"Just connect the dots," you urgently whisper to Daryl, your heart pounding in your chest. Your mind races at a million miles per minute, hoping that somehow Daryl will understand your words, even though he's never seen the commissioner before, and your explanation may seem unclear. "Greg is my father's errand boy, and Mr. Robertson's son is in jail for tax evasion. So why would the police commissioner need to have a secretive conversation with a humble man like Mr. Robertson? What could possibly link them together?"

"The district attorney's office that oversees all state criminal cases, including tax evasion," you answer without waiting for his response, the pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place in your mind.

You pace back and forth in the small space as you can almost visualize it, like predicting your father's chess moves. Of course, your father would keep a close eye on you. He wouldn't let things slide so easily. Who better than Mr. Robertson, a man in his seventies, working when he should be retired, burdened with supporting his grandkids. A man your father can easily manipulate, with his son in jail under your father's control. A man with everything to lose.

"Sweetheart, this could mean anythin'," Daryl tries to reason, attempting to bring you back to the present moment.

"No, you don't understand," you shake your head vigorously. The memory of that overheard conversation resurfaces, refusing to be ignored. A nagging feeling tugs at your gut, but could it be true? You know your father has a ruthless reputation, but would he actually go that far? The need to find a way to see those documents itches under your skin. "I have to go. If he's watching us here, then he's watching us everywhere." Your eyes scan the surroundings, searching for the backpack you had carelessly tossed upon arrival.

"Please, don't do anything reckless. Don't speed, and don't give the police any reason to pull you over, okay?" You plead with Daryl, taking a quick step to retrieve your bag from the ground, preparing to leave. "Just go straight home, please?"

"Hey, wait up," Daryl calls out, his footsteps quickening as he chases after you. He reaches out and grabs your hand, halting your departure.

"Everything will be okay, I promise," you assure him as you grasp his face, your hands cupping both his cheeks. "But right now, it's best that I go home. I love you, okay? I'll see you soon," you say with sincerity, pressing your lips firmly against his before breaking into a sprint towards your car.