Chapter 2: Paint Me a Lie
The brush moved in slow, even strokes.
Sky first. Then ridges. Then the faint suggestion of trees in the valley below. It was simple and far from a masterpiece - I knew that. The others that had joined me recently in making these murals in random, mostly harmless parts of the Sanctuary were the real artists. My skill was not up to their level, but it was something to do. Something I liked doing.
It was grounding. The kind that settled my nerves and let the rest of the world fall away, even if just for a little while. This hallway had become my favorite canvas. It was half abandoned, soft with the hush that came after dinner when the rest of the compound began to dim.
I could have been alone.
I should have been alone.
But I felt it. Before I heard him.
The hairs on the back of my neck lifted first. That pressure - like someone had turned the gravity up just behind me. It was subtle, yet thick as a weight. It hit me low in my spine and curled upward like smoke.
And then, the too-soft footsteps. Too goddamn soft for a man his size.
But I knew it was him. The air changed when he entered a room. People moved differently. Sound carried differently. Like the walls shifted to accommodate him. I didn't need to look. I knew it was him.
Negan.
My breath stalled in my chest.
I kept painting.
Not because I was calm. No, there was something mixed with fear, danger, a hint of annoyance, and something else crawling up my back. I kept painting because I'd trained myself to move through moments like this. Composed. Controlled. I added a deeper blue to the side of a mountain. I let the silence stretch and refused to acknowledge the way my pulse had begun to climb.
He was just watching. Not speaking. Not moving closer.
Just... there.
Lurking in the hallway like some shadow-draped beast waiting to be invited in. I could feel his gaze. Heavy, calculating, and slow like dragging fingers over bare skin.
I hated it.
And worse - so, so much worse - I hated what it did to me.
The heat that gathered beneath my collarbone. The sudden awareness of my own breathing. The way the back of my neck tingled beneath my messy bun like he could see through skin.
It was ridiculous because I could safely say that, out of all the men in the Sanctuary, Negan was pretty high on my 'don't like' list.
He was an arrogant egomaniac. Loud. Maddening. He ran this place like a stage and cast himself as the leading man, dragging Lucille around like she was some sort of scepter. He talked too much, smiled like he knew secrets people hadn't whispered yet, and treated fear like a currency he could spend without limits.
God, I couldn't stand him.
Not at all.
And still-
Still, my mind noticed things I didn't permit it to.
The sound of his voice when he barked orders - how it dipped low, gravel-thick. The way his shoulders looked when he rolled them back and cracked his neck like a wolf deciding whether or not to pounce. That damn leather jacket, always worn like flashy armor.
And then there was his mouth. That grin. Too wide. Too smug. The way it tugged a dimple into one side of his face - crooked, sharp-edged charm with violence humming underneath it.
It was the kind of mouth that made trouble.
My heart gave a little stutter as he stepped closer. The weight of his boots were slow and measured. Deliberate, like he was announcing himself finally.
I paused, but only for a moment, before sliding the brush against the wall. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of reacting. That's what he wanted - people flinching when he walked into a room. Standing up straighter. Shrinking, stammering, shifting. I wasn't going to be like them.
But I wasn't about to throw him a searing glare over my shoulder - the kind that screamed leave me the hell alone, I'm busy - no matter how fierce the urge. Because having Negan hovering nearby while painting was not my idea of fun. No, I knew better than to cross that line.
He stopped behind me.
Moments ticked by as the silence thickened the air. My skin felt too tight. My clothes too thin. I focused on the paint. On the mountain. On the tree I was outlining with the edge of my brush.
What the hell did he want?
He never just watched people. He cornered them, commanded them, and played with them like a cat plays with something smaller than itself. But me? He hadn't said a word in what felt like a hundred years. It made me nervous.
Maybe he was finally going to tell me to stop ruining his walls with subtle art. I was already surprised he hadn't stopped me already. It had been weeks and still not a peep about my hobby making his drab compound a little less depressing without his permission.
I turned, slow and careful, already smoothing my face into something unreadable.
And there he was.
Grinning like a wolf, eyes lit with something just a little too pleased. Lucille slung over one shoulder like a goddamn war banner, leather jacket clinging to his frame like a second skin. He was tall. Towering, really. Built like a brick wall carved into a man. And yet he moved like water - like something that shouldn't be graceful but was anyway.
And I hated that I noticed.
I hated the little spark of heat in my stomach when his eyes met mine, staring down at me as I was practically crouched at his feet. So I buried it. Dug it deep beneath the surface and wrapped it in all the things I did feel - annoyance, suspicion, calculation.
I stared at him, quiet and waiting.
Neutral.
And then, finally, he spoke. His voice was low and soaked in amusement. "Evenin', sunshine. Fancy meetin' you here."
My jaw ticked, a subtle betrayal of how many times I'd heard that nickname dragged across my ears like sandpaper. All thanks to the name my parents gave me. I didn't lower the paint brush. Didn't rise. I just sat still, face blank but watchful, waiting to hear whatever it was he had wandered down this hall to say.
When it was clear I wasn't going to respond, the corner of his smirk turned up just a bit. Then, he dropped his voice a pitch.
"Well now… I gotta say, this is a pretty little picture you're paintin'. Mountains, huh?" He stepped around me, slow and angled, not quite in my space but close enough that it felt intentional. "I was expectin' flowers. Butterflies. Maybe some goddamn sunshine to go with that nickname of yours everyone seems so fond of."
I didn't respond.
Not even a blink.
Negan cocked his head, tongue sweeping across his teeth behind a grin. "You always this quiet, Dawn? Or is it just me that kills the mood?"
Still nothing. I felt heat crawl up my neck but willed it to stop halfway.
He gave a low chuckle. Then backed up a few steps to lean against the opposite wall, one boot propped over the other like he had all the time in the world. His gaze drifted over me, unhurried and invasive.
"You know," he drawled, voice dusted with something close to admiration, "you got quite the reputation around here. Quiet little thing. Sweet as pie. Turns grown men into fucking Boy Scouts with nothin' more than a smile. There's a lotta talk about how you fixed up inventory. Calmed down the peanut gallery. Hell, even got two of my most annoying dipshits to stop actin' like married toddlers. That's some real magic, sweetheart."
He paused, then tapped Lucille lightly against his boot. "So what I'm tryin' to figure out…" he mused, like he was asking himself more than me, "is how someone like you ends up in a place like this."
Still, I didn't answer.
My thumb absently toyed with the brush in my hand. Negan's eyes flicked to the action, as if gathering a clue. Instead of getting frustrated with my silence, he tilted his head in amusement.
He stepped forward again, just once. Just enough to shorten the space between us.
"See, the thing is," he said, gaze narrowing just slightly, "I like puzzles. And you, sunshine... You don't make a lick of sense. You play it real sweet, real soft. Paint a few walls, clean up some ledgers, act like you're just happy to be here."
He crouched beside me. Too close now. I caught the scent of him—leather, heat, something faintly dangerous—and felt my breath catch.
"And I think," he murmured, close enough for his breath to barely skim my cheek, "there's a whole lotta fire under all that quiet."
My face cracked with a smile, soft and practiced, but it didn't reach my eyes. It was one that I handed out like candy around the Sanctuary. But this one felt thinner and strained, and only half the sweetness I would normally put into it.
Still, I forced out a chuckle. "Well, it definitely wasn't my smile that got Ben and Marcus to stop arguing, like everyone seems to think," I said, voice light, carefully dipped in just enough self-deprecation to pass. Ben and Marcus were the 'dipshits' in inventory as he put it, the ones I managed to get to stop fighting because I couldn't stand another day dealing with their bullshit.
"I can frown sometimes," I say with a lighter tone.
I turned back to the mural and painted another line. Negan shifted his stance, but I kept my eyes forward.
"Oh, now that is real fuckin' precious," he said, voice low and amused, tapping Lucille once against the ground. "Sweetheart, I didn't say you didn't have fire. I said you were hidin' it."
The accusation hung in the air for a beat.
"Personally," he added, as if the next words were casual, "I'm not buyin' the sunshine act. Not all of it."
I pause.
"Act?" I repeat calmly, though I can feel a simmer of irritation below the surface.
I get some more paint and continue the line I started. "Well, I'm not trying to sell an act." One stroke of grey blue down a ridge. "I actually like a lot of people around here, you know."
He was prodding at something I didn't want him touching. He wasn't the first to accuse me of being too sweet. Too nice. The thing was, though? It wasn't entirely an act. I was dead serious with that last line.
I just so happened to know how to use sweetness when I didn't like people, either.
Negan let out a soft hum and I could see him, at the corner of my eye, make a show of looking around the hallway, exaggerated and slow.
"No shit?" he said. "Now that's a hell of a plot twist."
He leaned forward slightly, just enough that I could feel it. My breath caught in my throat. He tilted his head, his voice dipping just low enough, making the words feel heavier than they had any right to be.
"'Cause between you and me, most folks here? They're a buncha whiny, backstabbin', small-time fuckups who'd trade their own teeth for half a protein bar. Can't say I ever pegged you as someone who gave a damn."
Silence lingered.
"Guess I was wrong," he added, casually. But his tone said otherwise.
I could tell he didn't believe a word I just said, but I didn't care. I chewed my tongue briefly, getting a little impatient with this situation and the direction of the conversation.
Why did he wander down this hall? To make small talk? Or was he just itching to get under someone's skin tonight and I was the unlucky choice in his path on his way to the other side of the compound?
I picked up the second paintbrush I had and held it out casually. Not directly to him, just up in the stale air like a suggestion.
"Do you want to help me with the mural?" I ask, my voice smooth as cream. "I could use some company."
I most certainly did not want his company tonight. I wanted him out of my sight and even further from my space.
Mural painting was such a soft domestic activity that I was hoping Negan, someone who couldn't stand softness from what I've gathered, would get uncomfortable with the offer, make some snarky joke, and leave.
Negan arched a brow.
And just when I thought he was going to get up, he leaned in.
"Oh-ho-ho," he chuckled. "Look at you, tossin' out invites like we're best fuckin' pals all of a sudden."
He reached out, plucked the brush from the air like it had been meant for him the whole time, then turned it between his fingers.
"Y'know, I gotta admit - paintin' a wall with you wasn't exactly on my bingo card for the week."
He eyed the mural, then looked back at me.
"But hell… I'm curious now."
A sound that was somewhere between disbelief and shock caught in my throat.
I fought to keep my mouth from gaping, like it took every ounce of my willpower to keep it shut. I couldn't remember the last time I was so floored by someone's reaction.
I'd been doing my best to stay focused on the wall in front of me, on the strokes and lines and soft color gradients that didn't ask complicated questions. But in my surprise, my eyes found his.
And I froze.
Negan was still crouched beside me, paintbrush poised and ready.
That damned smirk was still there - lazy, knowing. He was watching me like I was the punchline to some joke only he understood. Like he'd caught every flicker of disbelief that had just danced across my face and was savoring it one second at a time.
That's when I registered the distance between us…or the lack there of.
He was close enough that the heat of him pricked faintly at my skin, like warmth from a fire I hadn't asked to sit beside. It made something shift low in my stomach. Something unwelcome.
I straightened without meaning to. My shoulders stiffened slightly, subtle but defensive.
Too close.
I dragged the shock off my face and shoved something more neutral into its place, though it didn't land nearly as clean as before. There were cracks in it now, and I knew it.
Sitting here in the hall, painting a mural with Negan.
A blush creeps up my face at the absurdity of it all - of how way too cozy that scene is in my head. Negan and I, side by side in a quiet corridor, crafting color-neutral mountains together. Jesus Christ.
I turned away quickly, hoping he hadn't caught the flush coloring my cheeks. I reached for the jar of water and dipped the brush like it was the most fascinating thing I'd seen all day.
"I didn't take you for the creative type," I muttered.
Negan clicked his tongue. "Damn," he drawled, moving his head just slightly as if he were trying to get a better view of my face, "didn't take you for the bashful type, Dawn."
"I'm not," I snapped.
The words came out too fast. Before I could filter them, before I could smooth the edges. They hit the air like a challenge, and the second they did, I wanted to pull them back into my mouth and swallow them whole.
But he was already smiling.
And not just smiling - grinning. That slow, smug stretch that made my skin crawl and heat all at once. His eyes lit up like he'd been waiting for that crack in my voice, like he'd finally gotten the piece he'd been digging for.
Then he leaned in.
Closer. Just slightly. Just enough to make my breath hitch.
"Oh?" he said, voice low and slick as oil. "So it's not the idea of me paintin' with you that's got you hot - must be somethin' else about me that's makin' your cheeks go all warm like that."
I froze.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
He kept going.
"C'mon, sweetheart. You blushin' over the idea of me holdin' a brush? Or you imaginin' me holdin' somethin' else?"
My blood went white-hot.
I turned before I could stop myself.
And I glared at him.
Not the subtle flicker of annoyance I usually buried beneath a sweet voice and a half-smile. Not the polite, polished look I'd perfected since stepping foot in this goddamn compound.
No. This was sharp. Bare. Furious. Real.
And I knew the second our eyes locked that I'd fucked up.
Because his grin didn't falter - it deepened.
Negan stood up slowly, like a man who'd just watched the first domino fall. Still spinning that brush between his fingers like he could turn it into a weapon if he felt like it. And I could feel it - his shift. The energy around him tightening, turning focused.
"Well now," he said, tone all honeyed gravel, "there it is."
I tried to look away again, but it was too late.
"Tried to tell myself I imagined it all those other times you looked at me like you wanted to set me on fire," he said. "But nah. There she is. The real you."
I swallowed hard, already reaching for composure, grasping for it like something slipping through my fingers.
"You had a real interestin' little streak under all that quiet," he said. "That whole 'I'm just here to help' routine? Cute. Works on most folks. But me?" His voice dropped just a little. Enough that I felt it more than I heard it. "I notice shit. Especially when it comes wrapped in sugar."
He let silence fill the air, a very deliberate silence. Suddenly, my stomach dropped as years of instinct whispered like an alarm bell. And with a cold truth, I knew. I knew what this was. All the clues throughout this entire little conversation.
I fucking knew where it was going.
"Like how someone real sweet and helpful just so happened to know about one of my guards gettin' all warm in the pants over one of my wives…"
I didn't move. Didn't blink.
But I felt the shift in my body - the betrayal. The involuntary flicker of tension in my shoulders. The pause in my breath. I knew he saw it. He was looking for it.
"…And how that same helpful woman - who, might I add, paints fuckin' landscapes on her day off - ended up with a hunting knife in her back pocket soon after."
He stepped in closer. Right behind me.
My pulse kicked.
I stayed crouched. Still. Silent.
"Used it, didn't you? Traded his stupid little secret for a knife."
I felt him lean in, towering over me like a threat. Close enough I could feel the warmth of his breath near my ear, and the sound of his voice sank into my spine like heat.
"Go on," he said, voice dropping to a gravel-rich murmur. "Lie to me."
A/N: Thoughts on OC so far? Tension? Intrigue? Let me know!
