Oh man, this chapter burned me out. Heads up, the next chapter will take more than a week.
PS: Listen to the song below, starting at the 2:00-minute mark; it will give you a hint of future chapters and what's about to come.

Undo this storm and wait
I can't control withering wonders
Flowers that lose their shape

I lie awake and watch it all
It feels like thousand eyes
I lie awake and watch it all
It feels like thousand eyes

I'll be the calm
I will be quiet
Stripped to the bone, I wait
No, I'll be a stone, I'll be the hunter
A tower that casts a shade

Thousand Eyes by Of Monster and Man

Chapter 58 - Into the storm

It's raining heavily outside, and Rosita can't sleep. In fact, she is at her wit's end. The persistent noises coming from the adjoining room are nearly pushing her to the edge of her patience.

It's only been a week since she's joined the Dixon household. For the most part, things are going well. Daryl, always the silent type, keeps to himself. She typically only sees Merle during meal times, while Alie seems to treat her with the same sisterly affection she gives to Jamie.

She's well-aware that joining this household might come with its unique set of challenges. However, the current predicament is something she hasn't anticipated. The house's walls might as well have been made of paper, considering how easily sounds travels. To Rosita's dismay, it became clear that Daryl and his wife are quite active during the night.

"God, Daryl! Yes! Yes!"

Pulling the pillow tightly over her head, she tries to drown out the noise. The raging thunderstorm outside offers some relief, but it can't mask the distinct sounds of sex from the neighboring room.

She glances at the digital clock on her nightstand, which reads 2:21 AM. This is ridiculous! Despite her efforts to ignore them, the noises from the next room are having an effect on her. She tightens her legs, her body growing increasingly warm.

Finally, having had enough, Rosita gets out of bed, her fatigue giving way to determination. She finds herself in the hallway, her eyes drawn to a door at its far end, well away from the Dixons couple.

Her bare feet make no noise as she approaches silently and opens the door to find Jamie spread out on a king-sized bed. The moonlight filtering in provides just enough illumination to reveal his relaxed posture, limbs spread wide, lips slightly parted.

She steps closer and touches his leg.

He springs to alertness, his hand instantly retrieving a knife from under his pillow, poised for any threat. Recognition dawns as he sees her. "Oh… hey," he murmurs, the weight of sleep still evident in his tone. "What's up? Everything okay?"

She simply smiles, and without saying a word, pulls her shirt over her head in response.

He lets out a quiet, "Oh," followed by the sound of the knife hitting the wooden floor.

The Rain rages out outside, the loud tap-tap of raindrops beating against the glass window like a drum.
You can feel the cold sweat trickling down your spine, your long, tousled hair sticking to your naked body. Your hands clutch the wooden headboard desperately. Daryl's strong arms are hooked around your thighs, holding you down, his tongue deep inside you, his warm breath caressing your moist clit.

Oh, what a way to wake up in the middle of the night, with Daryl nestled between your legs. You'll undoubtedly start demanding more nights like this for sure.

You cry out, your head thrown back as his fingertips dig into your hips, guiding your movements as you ride his face, with him laying beneath you. With every gyration of your hips, you feel your pussy lips spread around him, coating his face with your juices, making him slick. His tongue laps gently, steadily, allowing you to set the pace, and you can't help but moan in ecstasy because that's precisely what you do.

It feels like torture, teetering on the edge of euphoria but not quite reaching it. The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention as you hear the primal sound emanating from deep within Daryl's throat—a low, hunger-filled growl. You grip the headboard even tighter for balance, peering down at him between your legs. He doesn't need to do anything else; the mere sight of him like this sends shivers of excitement through your body. His eyes, half-lidded and dark with desire, hold your gaze in a way that makes your insides tingle. Each exhale sends delightful sensations over your sensitive skin, and his hands firmly grip your thighs, occasionally moving to caress your ass cheeks.

Wanting a better view, you lean back, steadying yourself on his chest, and savor the glory of Daryl Dixon devouring your pussy in the same way he eats all his food, as if you were the prey he had just hunted. You toss your head back, your hair like a curtain around you both, as his silky tongue reaches your clit and starts circling it slowly.

"Ah! Yes! Fuck yes!" you swear in between gasp of air, his name like a delicate secret on your lips, his tongue hitting all the so very, very right spots on your clit, around it, everywhere you crave it. One of your hands descends to grip his hair, your arm straining from not pulling his head too hard, just enough to gain leverage, enough to ride his face into oblivion.

"Yes, yes, yes," you moan in quick succession, in sync with the rhythm of his tongue on your clit as you roll your hips. Waves of pure ecstasy spread through your body, tightening your nipples, contracting your core muscles, leaving your mind blissfully blank. "God, yes, Daryl."

Even amid the rising tide of pleasure, you feel his hands gripping your hips harder, his fingers digging into your thigh, as he lets out a rumble. It's then you realize you're pulling his hair a bit more than intended, your body in a frenzy from the overload of sensations, looking for any kind of outlet. You loosen your grip on his hair slightly, but you don't let go. He doesn't seem to mind, emitting a deep, primal sound from his throat—one that sends sparks coursing up your spine—as he pulls more on your legs, grinding your now soaking wet pussy over his mouth.

Hips rolling back and forth, you lean forward, your hand grasping the railing of the headboard for support, as you use more leverage. This is it. This must be what it feels like to transcend, to experience an out-of-body sensation, your soul momentarily departing your physical form.

Your movements are jerky, seeking that perfect pressure on your clit, his tongue delivering just the right amount of intensity. "God, I love you! I love you!" you sing his praises, the bedroom filled with your gasps and moans, shuddering breaths, half of his name cut off by your hitching inhales for air. Dear god!

A cold sweat glistens over your back and neck, heat building from within, an all-consuming fire fueled by the intensity of his tongue. "Daryl! Daryl! Daryl!" You chant, each repetition a desperate plea for more.

You swear every cell in your body is vibrating, thighs shaking, your eyes almost roll backward. The hyper-focused attention on nothing but your clit makes a sharp wave rise inside you, coiling up from the tip of his tongue to every inch of your being. It's almost too intense, even though it's undeniably amazing. Your body goes into overdrive, and you instinctively try to push back, seeking a brief moment of respite, but his biceps flex, keeping you right where you are. Right there, with his tongue flicking that same spot in the same excruciating tempo.

"Fuuuuccckkkk!"

There's no coherence to your moans, no control over anything, the muscles on your inner thighs trembling. You clench and unclench your pussy around nothing, wanting to feel everything and anything, but it's just that intense attention on your clit, and he keeps going and going and going...

"Yes! Daryl! Yes! yesss!"

You throw your head back in a strangled groan, just as an overload of white-hot bliss hits you. You buck and grind and twist in his grip, desperate for more and less at the same time, your clit burning now.

Daryl is intimately familiar with your body, attuned to every telltale sign of an impending climax. His arms tighten their grip on you as he decides it's time to transition from licking to sucking. You're so far gone that you can't even manage a scream. Your hands grip your own hair at the scalp as if your life depends on it. His strong arms keep you in place, his tongue replaced by lips on your clit, doing something he typically does around your nipples: rapid, precise sucks and a deep pressure — deeper than you'd ever felt — building up inside you. You attempt to whimper his name, but it's too late. Far too late for any kind of warning.

You gasp for breath, mouth a gape, eyes wide with an unfocused blur, fingers still clutching your hair as if you're teetering on the edge of sanity. A silent scream accompanies an almost unnatural arch in your back. Just as you hit the peak, the pressure inside you bursts, and you feel an intense, incredibly wet release jets out of you.

The world turns white, empty, mirroring your blissfully blank mind as you let yourself be carried away by the waves of pleasure.

As you struggle to remember how to breathe, you scarcely notice Daryl releasing his hold on you before you slump back, half on his legs and half on the mattress. Your chest heaves, and your legs gently spasm, your pulsing pussy still clenching and unclenching.

What… did you just squirted all over his face? Oh, God.

You scramble to regain your composure, but your sore muscles and uncooperative limbs make it a challenge. You're so embarrassed… what could you even say in this case. Not that you've seen Daryl look grossed out. Ever. But there is a first time for everything.

Daryl is the one who pushes himself up, and all you can do is stare at his shirtless form. He's drenched, a mess of sweat and your wetness covering his entire face. His bangs are dripping and sticking to his forehead, and the longer strands are pointing in every direction due to your tugging on his hair. More water-like fluid runs down his chin and chest. You know as a doctor, squirting is essentially the involuntary emission of urine during sex, not that you were going to tell him that.

"Oh sweetheart," you whisper, apology at the tip of your tongue, as he stares back at you, bewildered. Then there is a huff of air as his snorts turns into a chuckle, equally out of breath as you.

"You okay?" he asks, reaching for his discarded t-shirt, using it to dab at his eyes, which you imagine are stinging a bit. There's a proud smile on his swollen lips as he brings the shirt to wipe his face.

You pant, trying to catch your breath and gather your thoughts. "Yeah, I think so… that was… amazing."

His smile widens as he leans in, supporting himself on one elbow over you. You brush his damp hair from his face, just as he presses his lips to yours in a deep, wet kiss. You adjust your body, completely naked beneath him, relishing the taste of yourself, salty and savory, as his tongue meets yours. He pulls back just enough to speak against your lips, "Good, because it ain't over."

your mind was mostly blank — you only stared at him. "wha..."

He kissed you again. "Turn around."

No matter how sore you are, how tired you are, you're more than happy to oblige. Although your limbs have other ideas, the covers are tangled under your knees as you shift onto all fours.

"I gotchu," he says, pulling his pillows and yours together underneath you. His other arm snakes around your waist, lifting your ass up. He leans over you, kissing your neck as he pushes your hair out of the way.

As his warmth presses between your open thighs, he rubs his erection gently against your ass cheeks, his hands simultaneously traveling from your neck down your arched back, cupping your hips with tight fingers.

You're still so wet, there's no resistance as he pushes inside you in one swift stroke, his balls slapping against your clit, eliciting a sharp moan from deep within your chest. You're still sensitive, but it feels oh-so-good, and he fills you out perfectly from this angle. You shove back against him, the next time he thrusts into you, skin meeting skin with a distinct sound, muffled only by how wet you are, your face pressed to the pillow that smells just like him.

As his hands grip your hips for leverage, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, your thoughts stop making sense entirely. It's hard and fast, the only sounds being your whimpering gasps, his deep grunts, and the slap each time he thrusts forward. Your toes curl into the sheets, knuckles going white where you grip the pillows for dear life, his name incessantly under your breath.

You feel nothing but the warmth of the water enveloping your tired body as you recline in the bathtub. Your toes gently poke out from the sudsy surface. The exact time eludes you, but the rain continues to fall, and the darkness outside the window suggests it's still early morning. The harsh bathroom light remains off, and you've left your bedroom door open, allowing the soft light from within to cast a warm, intimate glow over the room.

After stripping the dirty sheets from the bed, you didn't have to convince Daryl to join you in the tub; he willingly followed. Now you lean back against his chest, and the soothing heat of the water envelops you both. Daryl's calloused hands hold a loofa, and he diligently runs it down your arm, the gentle, soapy caresses soothing your aching muscles.

"So, what's the plan today?" you ask in a hushed tone, your voices barely above a whisper, as if the walls themselves could hear your secrets. Technically, they can, as it's been a week since Rosita moved into the empty bedroom next door.

You tilt your head back, resting it against Daryl's shoulder, and close your eyes for a moment, his lips grazing your earlobe. "I ain't sure 'bout that yet," he murmurs contemplatively. "Gotta have a chat with Rick first. But I've been thinkin' 'bout pullin' my weight on watch duty."

You both know that with Hilltop's support, the daily struggle for food has become a bit more manageable. However, that doesn't mean you won't still need to scavenge for other necessary items. But that still leaves Daryl with open time, unless Rick wants to go back to recruiting again.

"You got your bike back," you comment quietly, "That should keep you occupied for a while."

Much has transpired since the incident at the satellite station. Just when you believed the worst was behind you, Maggie and Carol were captured, plunging the group into another harrowing ordeal. Rick, true to his nature, had attempted to barter for their release, offering a Savior they had captured attempting to escape on a motorcycle, which happened to be Daryl's stolen bike. Throughout it all, the well-being of Maggie and her unborn child weighed heavily on your mind.

As you all followed Daryl and Merle, who set out to track them down, the hours felt endless, anxiety gnawing at your insides until you finally found them. A bit battered but alive, just as they had overcome their captors. But that day, that whole incident, had left you with more questions than answers.

The Saviors, even in death, remain an enigma.

"What do you think happened to that couple in the burned forest?" you ask, tilting your head to catch a glimpse of Daryl's face, partially hidden in the shadows. "The ones who took your crossbow and bike. But somehow, your bike ended up there."

Daryl's shoulders lift in a nonchalant shrug. "Dunno. Maybe they got robbed, maybe they were there, hell, maybe they're dead. Don't matter much anymore."

You want to let go of your curiosity, to accept that some mysteries are better left unsolved. But those Polaroid pictures on the wall continue to haunt your thoughts, and you still aren't sure, none of you are, which one of them was Negan. The group that captured Maggie and Carol all called themselves Negan too, every single one of them.

"You're right," you concede with a sigh. "But I've been thinking... maybe you could take me on a bike ride to Hilltop soon."

Daryl furrows his brow, his blue eyes meeting yours. "Why? Our next food pick-up ain't for a month, and we still gotta find somethin' to trade with."

"Yeah, I know. I'm just worried about Maggie and the baby," you confess, your voice laden with emotion. Despite Maggie's constant reassurances that she's fine, the bruises on her back and sides tell a different story. "I'd feel better if she got another ultrasound. And perhaps, while we're there, we can meet with this OBGYN and come up with a plan for her delivery."

"Alright, you tell me when," he says, and you nod as you settle deeper into the warm water.

Only a moment passes before you suppress a yawn. "I think it's time we head back to bed," you suggest, and Daryl chuckles softly, the warmth of the moment wrapping around you both. "But you're making the bed," you playfully add, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, and although a part of you sincerely hopes he takes the task.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the room, wrapping you in its warm embrace. With your eyes half-closed in bliss, you take a sip, relishing the rich flavor and warmth. Despite the cloudy weather outside, the morning light filters through the windows, casting a soft, gentle glow over the table. In front of you sits a simple breakfast: freshly toasted bread, small jars of homemade jam courtesy of Olivia, and fluffy scrambled eggs.

Across from you, Daryl sits in his usual spot, with his brother, Merle, at the head of the table, both quietly eating. Your focus shifts from your plate when a loud bang captures your attention. It's Jamie, energetically descending the stairs with a goofy smile plastered across his face.

"La, la, la, la," he belts out in his interpretation of a Beethoven symphony at the top of his lungs. You can't help but cover your mouth as laughter bubbles up from within, as he twirls in the room with childlike glee.

Amused, you observe the Dixon brothers' identical expressions—raised eyebrows and looks of bewilderment.

"Well, well, would you look at that there grin?" Merle muses.

Jamie circles the table, bounding over to you to plant a boisterous kiss on your cheek, then dramatically reaches for an empty plate. "I'm here to make a plate for my lady," he proclaims, selecting some slices of bread.

"Yer lady?" Merle teases. "So, she finally gave ya some, huh? Took her damn long enough," he adds, alluding to Jamie's relationship with Rosita.

"I don't kiss and tell," Jamie replies cheekily, although the glint in his eye and his posture gives away his excitement. He continues to assemble his breakfast, scooping up some eggs from the bowl at the center of the table. You all watch him, your eyes following his every move, as he rounds the table to pick up the jam by Daryl's side, almost vibrating.

True to his nature, Jamie can't keep his secret to himself for long, "Okay, it happened!" He blurts out, placing the plate down. Out of excitement, he bends down, pulling Daryl into a playful headlock and puckering his lips as if to kiss him in the same fashion he had kissed you.

"Get the hell off me, man!" Daryl huffs, shoving Jamie away, with a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. "The hell is wrong witchu?"

Jamie feigns innocence. "Haha, guess you're not in the mood for love, huh?" he japes, then shoots a challenging look at Merle. "How about you, brother?"

Merle snorts. "Oh, I double-dog dare ya," he taunts. "Go ahead and try me, see what the hell happens."

Jamie contemplates the challenge for a moment before shrugging again. "Okay, fine. Apparently, not everyone is comfortable with their masculinity," he quips, in which Daryl responds with an indignant scoff.

With that settled, Jamie turns his attention back to you, his cheesy grin in full force as he saunters over to you. "Seems you're up for another kiss, and I know you ain't gonna leave me hangin'."

You make a face and playfully push him away. "Ah, I'd rather not, considering where those lips might've been."

"Exactly where you imagine," Jamie replies with a wink, earning another round of laughter from you.

You wipe your cheek as you rise, Jamie busing himself with his plate, and you pour yourself another cup of coffee.

With a cup in hand, you approach Daryl and lean down to plant a light kiss on his cheek. "I gotta go check on Maggie," you murmur.

Merle leans in, a sly grin on his face. "Everyone's throwin' 'round affection today, huh? What 'bout me? Don't ol' Merle get a bit of sugar?" He taps his cheek expectantly.

"Ask Jamie!" you respond with a chuckle, pivoting to leave.

Plate of food in one hand and two forks in the other, Jamie pauses by the stairs, waving the utensils toward Merle. "Sorry, buddy, that was a limited-time offer," he retorts, before heading back up the stairs to join Rosita. Still smiling, you step out, letting the door close softly behind you.

As you descend the porch steps, you notice Carol seated on the steps of the Grimes' home next door. A lit cigarette rests between her fingers. She seems miles away, lost in thought as wisps of smoke curl around her.

You've never pegged Carol as a smoker. You wonder if it's a recently acquired coping mechanism or an old habit rekindled. Raising your hand, you wave, and after a brief pause, she reciprocates with a faint smile. Despite the fleeting nature of the exchange, her expression speaks volumes.

As you continue on your path toward the infirmary, you can't help but look back at Carol. The events that have unfolded, especially being captured by the Saviors, have clearly taken a toll on her. While Maggie's injuries are physical and apparent, you can see in Carol's eyes that she bears deeper scars—wounds to her psyche and spirit as well.

"I saw it first when I was driving out of DC," Denise's voice is filled with hope as she explains, "It's just this little gift shop in a strip mall, Edison's apothecary and boutique. But if it's a real apothecary, they've got drugs."

You've been sitting on the steps of your home, engrossed in a thick scientific book resting on your lap, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of rain on the horizon. Your loose hair sways with the breeze, and you can't help but occasionally let your attention drift from the pages of your book to Daryl, who diligently tinkers with a bike down below the steps, his hands stained with oil.

Your morning was spent with Maggie, and later, your lab duties with Eugene, stirring and sealing the barrels of your antibiotic production. All the while, Eugene's constant chatter providing background noise, as he too, prepares for his own mission with Abraham to investigate a potential bullet-making facility.

However, your peaceful afternoon reading while keeping your husband company is interrupted when both Denise and Rosita approach you with a sense of purpose.

You shift your attention from Denise to the map in your hand, contemplating the possibility. Daryl, cleaning his hands on a red rag, voices the skepticism on your mind. "How do you know this apothecary still has them?"

Denise shrugs, her expression filled with eagerness. "I don't. But I just wanna check, and it's not that far," she replies, her pleading eyes turning toward you. Most people don't know what an apothecary is, so it's possible they might still have them.

"We're out of antibiotics, and we're really low on pain meds," Denise continues, bringing you back to the pressing issue at hand. You hum in agreement, acutely aware of the dwindling medical supplies. Unlike food, these resources are not something you can ration.

"Our antibiotic production is coming along well—the fermentation is nearly complete, and we're currently looking into extraction methods." You state, trying to offer an alternative, hoping to discourage her.

Denise, however, isn't easily deterred. "Yeah, but your note said after that you still have purification, quality control, and you don't even know the potency of your antibiotics yet," she counters, and you let out a sigh. Obviously, she's been reading your medical journal. "All this takes time, and this is still just the sample batch."

"We'll go," Daryl offers, motioning to himself and Rosita.

"I wanted to be the one to check. I wanna help…" Denise then turns her pleading eyes toward you, "Please, Alie."

You can see the determination in her bright eyes, and you realize this opportunity means a lot to her, not just as a chance to gather crucial medical supplies but also as a way to overcome her fears and anxiety.

You've seen how she's been feeling down ever since Tara left on her two-week mission. You know part of Denise longs to accompany her, to venture into the world of danger with the person she loves. But there's also a part of her that fears being out there and becoming a liability.

Yet, ever since you met her a few months ago, she has come a long way, making leaps of progress and taking on a leadership role in the infirmary. Like Eugene, she has been working tirelessly to change and adapt to the harsh realities of this world.

Denise turns her gaze toward Daryl, her appeal now directed at him. "And since you and Rosita aren't scavenging or pulling shifts... maybe you can take me with you," she suggests.

"How much time have you spent out there?" Daryl asks.

Denise hesitates, her voice barely above a whisper as she admits, "None."

"Forget it!" Daryl lets out a scoff, clearly skeptical of the idea.

You interject, watching their interaction closely, and make your decision known. "Take her," you state.

Daryl's eyebrows furrow in surprise. "Ya serious?" he asks.

"I can ID the meds. I know how to use a machete now," Denise counters, seizing the opportunity to argue her case.

"She's been training with Rosita, working hard," you speak up on Denise's behalf, advocating for her to join the mission. You have observed her naivety, like when she was willing to help Morgan with the Wolf. She deserves this opportunity to conquer her fears and see the world for what it truly is.

"I'm ready," Denise declares beside you, her shoulders squared with determination as both of you look at Daryl, awaiting his decision.

Daryl turns his gaze to Rosita, and she quickly chimes in, "Ah, I'm not babysitting by myself."

A smile tugs at your lips as you stand from your seat, waving the map in your hand. "You found me in a little pharmacy like this," you muse, reflecting on the memory. "Who knows what you might find now."

Daryl lets out a resigned sigh, reaching to take the map.

You stroll down the familiar streets of Alexandria, your purpose clear: finding Tobin's house based on Carl's brief description.

It's only been a few hours since Daryl departed on a mission with Denise and Rosita, and you are determined to keep yourself occupied. Clutched in your hand is a small Tupperware container brimming with cookies.

Just as you're about to turn another corner, a familiar face catches your eye. Carol is seated on a wooden swing chair on the front porch. "Hey!" you call out to her, quickening your footsteps. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I went by the Grimes, and Carl said you've moved out." You state as you ascend the few steps, approaching her.

"Yeah, it's been about a week now," Carol confirms, shifting the ashtray from beside her to the floor, making room for you. As you sit down beside her, you can't help but notice the pile of cigarette butts in the small container, evidence of her recent habit.

"So, you and Tobin finally happened, huh?" you ask, offering a playful grin the moment you settle into the swing.

She returns your smile, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes, playfully bumping her shoulder against yours in response.

"Good for you," you say with a laugh. "He seems like a genuine guy," you add, and although you don't know Tobin very well, the few interactions you've had with him have left a positive impression.

"I brought you something," you announce, thrusting the container into her hand. She looks at it with slight surprise before popping it open. "It's your cookie recipe. I made it myself."

"Oh, wow, this looks good," Carol comments as she picks one up, inspecting it before taking a bite. "Oh my..." she begins, chewing slowly, though her facial expression remains stoic. "It's... it's good... Chewy. Got a bit of fight to 'em."

You laugh softly, grabbing one for yourself. The initial bite is less sweet than Carol's, with a distinct gummy texture. "Not quite like yours, but it's something, right? Definitely edible."

"Maybe add more beets. Or, you know, swipe some extra chocolate from Olivia," she suggests, her words carrying a touch of humor.

You open your mouth to reply, but your eyes catch a moment—a beaded chain with a cross dangling in Carol's hand. "Oh, I didn't know you were religious?"

She looks down in the direction of your gaze, her expression immediately shifting, her face darkening. "I'm not," she responds curtly. It's a short and straightforward answer, but it reminds you of the reason you sought her out in the first place.

"Carol," you breathe out her name with concern. "What's going on with you lately? Ever since the incident with the Saviors, you haven't been the same," you approach the topic delicately. "You know you need to talk to someone about it, so why not me?" Even though she and Maggie won that fight, there's a part of her left behind in that place.

Carol takes a moment before responding. She gingerly places her half-eaten cookie back into the Tupperware, sealing it and setting it between you both. You watch patiently as she pulls out a loose cigarette and lighter from her chest pocket. Lighting it, she takes a deep drag, her eyes distant and contemplative as she begins to speak.

"It was me who burned those people at the prison, Karen and David." Carol confesses, her voice carrying the weight of her admission. "Did you know that?"

"Yeah, Daryl told me," you reply, your mind returning to the days at the prison. "I didn't know Rick sent you away. I was too preoccupied with the sick. I learned everything after we got here." You had learned about Carol's actions from Daryl during one of your many late-night talks. "You were trying to protect people, right? You thought you could contain the virus?"

Carol exhales deeply, watching the smoke spiral upwards. "It's just… I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of killing," she admits, her voice heavy with weariness. "At first, I did it for me, because It felt necessary. I thought that's who I had to become. Then, I did it for us."

You can see the turmoil in her expression, the way her gaze seems to peer into the depths of her own memories. "If not the dead, it's the sick, or someone trying to take what we have," she continues, echoing the words once spoken to you by Rick. "It just seems like all we do is fight, one after another, after another."

You understand the weight of her words all too well, feeling the heaviness in your own heart. Reaching out, you gently clasp her hand, which holds the beaded chain, offering a comforting touch. "What you went through, what you had to do… trauma manifests in many ways," you begin softly. "It's normal to feel like everything is under control one day, only for a single event to crack open the protective barrier that keeps everything at bay."

Tears glisten in her eyes as she meets your gaze. You continue, squeezing her hand gently, "Some soldiers go through multiple deployments without showing signs of PTSD, and then one situation can be the trigger for it all."

You let out a sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly, as you confide too. "Believe me, I get it. It feels like every time we find a moment to catch our breath, the world just dunks us back in."

Carol inhales deeply, tears flowing freely. "Eighteen people, that's how many I've killed since the beginning," she admits, her voice breaking. Transferring the cigarette to her lips, she hastily wipes her eyes.

"I think I'm in the double digits too," you admit softly. "I've lost count how many by now. I've just been trying not to think about it, cause If I do, I have to think about the people we lost too. The people I was responsible for... the ones who believed in me." People who had died because of the choices and decisions you made.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your emotions. Shifting slightly in your seat, you look up to meet her gaze. "You've got to find something to fight for, Carol. Something to hold on to or give you hope. Something that makes it all worthwhile."

"Daryl is that for you, isn't he? You fight for him?" Carol asks, as if she already knows the answer.

"It's not just about him. It's… it's more than that," you reply. Gently withdrawing your hand from hers, you roll up your sleeves, exposing the fresh scar on your upper arm – a set of stitches a little over a week old.

Carol's brow furrows as she leans closer for a better look. When you catch her questioning look, your voice softens with vulnerability, "I had my birth control implant removed. Daryl and I... we're trying to start a family."

Her eyes widen, the look of shock a stark contrast to the contemplative mood moments earlier. "What?! Are you serious?!" she exclaims, the joy evident in her voice. Her chuckles mix with yours as she pulls you into a warm hug. "I'm so happy for both of you."

Drawing back from the hug, Carol's gaze momentarily shifts to the cigarette between her fingers. With a soft chuckle, she stubs it out in the ashtray near her feet. "I'm glad Daryl gets to have everything he's ever hoped for," she shares.

"You and me both," you whisper back, leaning into her, your arm linking with hers.

A pause fills the space, punctuated by Carol's soft chuckles, and shakes of her head. "You know," she says, imagining the future, "Daryl will be a great dad. Overprotective, no doubt. I hope you're ready for that."

"Oh yeah, I already know. I can see him hovering—" you start to say, but your name being screamed catches your attention.

"ALIE!" Enid's voice echoes down the street, filled with distress, running as if she just came from the direction of your house.

Instinctively, you're on your feet, echoing back, "Enid?!" Your heart thunders in your chest as you descend the porch steps, Carol hot on your heels.

Enid looks tearful when she sees you. "Come quick, it's Eugene!" she pants out, desperation in her voice.

"What happened?!" you urgently ask as you pick up your pace.

"He's been shot," she manages, her voice breaking. After a shaky breath, she adds, "And Denise..."

You don't need to hear more. Fear propelling you forward, you sprint towards the infirmary, with Carol close on your heels, every beat of your heart feeling like a silent prayer.

Tears stream down your face, blurring your vision as you stare at the pile of medicine bottles on the infirmary table. The stark, pristine brightness of the room seems cruel, emphasizing the grim reality of your situation. You feel the scream building in your throat, but you swallow it down, determined not to break.

Beside the bottles scavenged from the pharmacy lies a book left by Denise. It was her favorite book; one she had read at least three times: "War and Peace." The page marker sticking out seems to taunt you, silently accusing you, as if it were saying, "Look what you did. Look at the consequences of your choices."

Denise is gone… just like that. She's dead.

"Why did you agree? Why did you send her?" you whisper through your tears, guilt and grief gnawing at your soul.

Denise was innocent in all of this. She had always looked up to you, followed your lead and hung onto your every word. You could've convinced her to remain safe within the walls of Alexandria. She would have listened to you, because she valued your words, and trusted your judgment.

The cruel image of her, an arrow grotesquely jutting from her eye, plays on a loop in your mind. You can still feel the texture of the dirt under your feet as you helped Daryl lay her to rest in her grave, her once-bright eyes forever closed. Her face still held an innocence, even in her death, her round cheeks untouched by the harsh realities of the world. You remember the smile on her face every time you entered the infirmary, the unexpected snarky comments she would throw your way, always managing to make you chuckle.

You failed her… again like you failed everyone you cared about. You couldn't protect her.

Emotions brimming over, you cover your mouth to stifle the sob. And, in a fit of anguish, you lash out, sweeping your arm across the counter, sending the pill bottles flying. The sound of the containers clattering and pills bouncing echoes in your ears, mirroring the chaos and despair that have taken hold of your heart.

A faint groan from across the room catches your attention, and you turn to see Eugene attempting to sit up in the infirmary bed, woken up by the commotion. He had been shot too, grazed to his side that required a few stitches.

"It's okay, just me," you manage, attempting to clear your voice as you wipe your cheeks. "Sorry, I accidentally knocked… never mind… just… just go back to sleep," you add, kneeling to gather the scattered pill bottles.

You rise with a handful of them in your grasp and several more still strewn across the floor. You can feel Eugene's watchful eyes on you, and averting your gaze, you turn your back to him. Anywhere but at his sympathetic gaze. "Stay here tonight. I'll check on you in the morning," you softly instruct, placing the bottle back on the counter.

With those words, you make your way to the door, leaving the mess of the pill bottles behind. As the door swings shut behind you, a surprising sight greets you. Merle is perched leisurely against the front porch post, a lit cigarette idly dangling from the corner of his mouth. You wonder how long he had been there, and when you glance back, you realize he has a direct line of sight of you through the glass panel of the infirmary door. When you turn back to him, your tears well up again at the look on his face.

"Heard 'bout what went down. I'm on watch duty tonight, figured I'd swing on by," he mentions, stamping out his cigarette against the metal portion of his prosthetic arm. "C'mere," he adds softly.

Moving closer, head down, you press your face in his chest. "I let her go. It was my call, and I sent her out," you confess, voice muffled by his shirt, as his hand moves in gentle strokes on your back.

"You couldn't have known, darlin," Merle murmurs, tightening his hold on you. "You're doin' what you can. Folks 'round here, they see that."

Sniffling, you pull back, wiping away the remnants of your tears. "I'll be fine. You should… probably get to your post. Thanks for being here."

"Yeah," Merle nods, lingering for a moment and with a squeeze on your arm, he makes his way to his watch position.

You turn in the opposite direction, toward your home. As you walk, you feel like you're swimming through a hurricane, just as you had told Carol. The morning's fleeting moments of joy feel like a distant dream, just an instant to catch your breath. But now, the world comes at you in relentless waves, yanking you down time and time again. Each time you fight to the surface, only to be pulled back under.

As you near your house, a soft glow catches your eye, leading you to an alleyway adjacent to your home. Following the flicker, you find Daryl in the backyard. He's alone, gazing into a small bonfire, the amber flames illuminating his downcast face, a mini bottle of liquor in hand— several empty ones lie nearby. It's the stash they found on the recent mission.

You sigh and approach him, taking a seat beside him. There's a moment of quiet as you both simply take in the situation. In his hand, he holds a keychain with the name "DENNIS" boldly written on it. He flips it around, the fire reflecting on the plastic cover. You bite your lips, knowing Dennis was Denise's brother, the one she said Daryl reminded her of. You wonder if she ever shared that with him, and from the look on his face, you suspect she did.

Your throat bobs as you reach over and take the tiny bottle from his hand. Without hesitation, you knock back its contents in one quick shot. The burning sensation of the alcohol pales in comparison to the anger that churns in your gut.

Breathing deeply, you pull Daryl close, his face nestling against your neck as you grip the back of his vest in a side hug. You press him tighter, feeling him trying to hold back tears as he breathes through his mouth.

It's just the two of you, and the warm fire crackling nearby. "You couldn't have known. No one could," you whisper, echoing Merle's earlier words, desperate to offer him any comfort.

"I did," he mumbles against your skin. "My gut told me not to step on them damn train tracks, but I did anyways. Ain't nothin' good ever comes from followin' them tracks."

Beth.

Your thoughts drift to Beth. The scars left from the choices he made concerning her still weigh heavily on Daryl's conscience. Train tracks have become a symbol of pain for him.

You suppose in a sense, Denise mirrors Beth in your own life too. The promise to mentor and guide her, her radiant innocence – it all bears a striking resemblance.

"It's not your fault, Daryl," you breathe, tears welling up again. "It's me. I let my guard down. I advocated to attack the satellite station. I pushed Denise to go out there even though she may not have been truly ready. If I had listened to my instincts, maybe we would have known there are more of them. So it's not on you Daryl, it's me. "

Pulling away slightly, Daryl's bloodshot eyes meet yours. "It was my crossbow. He was aimin' for me," he says, his hand clutching the "DENNIS" keychain even tighter. "I should've killed him that day in them burnt forest. I should've." You know he feels like he took a half-measure approach, one that led to this tragedy.

"They know where we are now. This… Dwight guy wanted to use you all to infiltrate our community, right?" you ask, finally addressing the simmering panic that has been brewing beneath your sorrow.

Daryl's face hardens. "Let 'em come. Let him come."

You shake your head vehemently. "Not without a strategy. We have to be smart about this. We have to prepare for their next move." You have to plan, or Denise won't be the only one.

Yeah. This is not over. In fact, it feels like you just started something.

"Is this it?" you ask Aaron, peering down at the metal bars of the drainage that leads into the sewers. You stand flanked between Gabriel and Aaron, fatigue weighing heavily on you. The night has been sleepless, filled with thoughts, plans, and worries about a possible attack. You couldn't rest, not even with Daryl's comforting presence beside you.

"Yes, it's a clean cut through the other side of the forest, way past our wall," Aaron replies with a determined nod.

"Then this is it. This is how we can evacuate the community if we need it," you state. Gabriel takes note, diligently scribbling away on a piece of paper. "Let's prep some vehicles, gassed up and ready, outside the forest. We should also stock some food, enough for several days, and stash it in the sewers."

"I'll check our supplies with Olivia," Aaron suggests.

"I'll handle the vehicles," says Gabriel, as both men depart, tasks set.

You turn and stride toward Maggie, who's standing across the field engaged in hushed conversation with Glenn beside bins full of guns. She, like you, had been up at the crack of dawn with a worried look on her face. Together you've been preparing for what's to come.

"I've got a 24-hour shift for each lookout post scheduled. There won't be a moment without our eyes out there," she informs the moment you step beside her, your hand reaching to inspect one of the rifles.

"Good. I have a contingency plan in place, but we still need to pick our rendezvous point in case we get separated," you state as your fingers deftly pop the magazine open, and one by one, you load bullets from the open box in front of you.

Maggie's response is cut short by Michonne's arrival. "Hey, what'd I miss?" the samurai questions, stepping beside you and reaching into the bin of guns to assist.

"We're gonna hide a few of these guns around the community," Maggie explains. "That way we can have them in case anyone gets in."

You agree with Maggie's plan. It's essential to be prepared for any scenario. Rick, however, doesn't seem too worried. In fact, he appears confident in the group's ability to handle any situation. "This won't be like before." he had said to you the previous night when you briefly discussed your concerns with him. "We've put everything in place, and we'll handle it. Let them come; we will end them all."

The distinct roar of a motorcycle cuts through your thoughts, slicing through the morning air. You watch with pinched eyebrows as your husband zooms down the other side of the street, heading straight for the gates.

"What the hell is he doing?" Glenn mumbles from beside you.

"Yo, Daryl, where are you going, brother?" You can hear Jamie call out from his lookout post above the gate, with Rosita, who's also on watch duty, beside him. Daryl, on the other hand, doesn't reply but swiftly dismounts and moves to unlock the gates.

Immediately, your heart is in your throat. "Daryl! Daryl!" you break out into a run, sprinting, the rifle's weight forgotten in your grip, you yell, trying to get his attention. "Damn it, Daryl!" The urgency in your voice is palpable, running as fast as your feet can carry you, with Glenn, Michonne, and Maggie right on your tail.

"Hey, we're talking to you," Rosita says heatedly, quickly climbing down the ladder of the lookout post, with Jamie right behind her. But Daryl is quick, hopping back on the bike, and without a second's delay, he revs the engine and speeds out the community.

You stand in front of the open gate, your heart beating wildly in your chest, as you stare wide-eyed at the disappearing sight of the wings on his back. "FUCK!" you curse, knowing what he might do, what he intends to do. He's going back to where he last saw this Dwight guy, to track him down and put an end to it. What he thinks he should have done from the beginning. Fear gnaws at you, the dangerous uncertainty of what he might encounter ahead.

"We gotta stop him before he starts something we're not ready for," Glenn declares. Michonne nods in agreement, and they both make a beeline for the cargo van parked by the gate.

Instinctively, you turn on your heel and head for the same vehicle. As the rifle's magazine clicks definitively into place, you sling it over your shoulder. Just as you're about to grasp the passenger door handle, Michonne steps in. "Where do you think you're going?" she asks pointedly.

"On a vacation to Bora Bora, where else?" you snap back with heavy sarcasm, holding her gaze fiercely.

Michonne scrutinizes you, her stance a clear barrier to the door. "You can't go," she insists.

"Try and stop me!" you retort, your grip tightens on the door handle. "He's my husband!"

"You're essential here, the only doctor now." Michonne argues, trying to be the voice of reason.

"I don't give a damn! Either help me, or get out of my way," you seethe, finally wrenching the door open. Michonne lets out a deep sigh, begrudgingly stepping aside.

"Alie, come on, man," Jamie interjects, hovering right behind you. "I'll go. I can wake up Merle, the two of us can go. He can track his ass," he suggests.

"We don't have that kind of time; Daryl will listen to me," you assert, sliding into the car. Michonne quickly follows, taking a seat beside you, sandwiching you between her and Glenn.

"No, I'll go with her," Rosita offers. "I know where Daryl is going," She moves swiftly, reaching out to open the van's cargo side door.

Glenn, from the driver's seat, casts an apprehensive glance. "There are too many of us. We should keep our numbers here."

"Did you catch that?" You lean over Michonne, addressing Jamie through the open passenger window. "Make sure no one else leaves, especially not Merle. Keep him in place by whatever means necessary. That's a direct order, soldier. We can't afford another Dixon stirring up shit out there."

With a nod from Jamie, Glenn slams on the accelerator. The van roars to life, heading in the direction Daryl had vanished. And you go, chasing after Daryl, as you always do.