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“You’re clingier than I expected.”
The words came out of Rosie’s mouth before she could catch them. A thought she hadn’t realized had materialized into words, brought on by the feeling of her boyfriend’s lips against her temple.
Boyfriend . That was still a novel one.
They bounced off the soft edges of her aging couch with soft whumps, soaring around the room until they came back to hit her in the chest, a sudden thought that she’d been far too loud for the quiet living room invading the back of her head. She glanced over at Shane, who apparently hadn’t quite registered that she’d spoken, much to her relief.
He was over for the night, lounging on the couch in the flannel pajamas she kept around just for him. Her back was propped against his chest, one arm wrapped around her front to keep her steady. They were watching some baking show, but only partially, the conversation having slipped out of focus long ago, towards work and family and eventually silence, Rosie’s legs tangled in his as he hummed some song under his breath.
She should’ve been working on her scripts, but she didn’t bother, instead taking advantage of the one night they both had off when neither of them had to be up before the sun the next day. That didn’t happen often — either she had to be up at four or he worked until two, their schedules only just overlapping on busy weekdays.
So, fuck the scripts, she figured. She’d make up for lost time later.
Lord, Cora would have a fit if she heard her thinking like that.
It felt nice, having another person in her home. Filling the place up with noise and laughter and activity. She’d gotten so used to living alone that it still felt like a luxury, even though he spent most days there now, always around when she came home from work. He still felt like something special even though he’d seen her in her pajamas, looking like a shadow of death and barely having the energy to speak, let alone be an attentive girlfriend.
(No, she was not about to play house with a boy she’d only just started dating. But she could let herself have nice things. Of course she could.)
So, maybe she mildly regretted letting her thoughts slip unbidden out of her brain when Shane shifted, cracking the quiet moment they’d been living in as he shifted away from her, his eyes moving from the television to her.
He looked at her with one eyebrow raised, like she’d confused him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looked like he was fighting off a frown, and that in turn creased Rosie’s eyebrows. Had that been a stupid question to ask? Or had she upset him, drawing him out of the coziness they’d created when he’d come home from work? She still felt like she didn’t know what direction was up with him, her brain all out of sorts whenever he looked at her. It’d been that way since the fair, really, when she’d yanked the rug out from under him and he’d looked at her like she hung the damn moon.
At the time, she’d blown it off as exhaustion, saying she could sleep it off, but it had never left. She still felt dizzy every time he looked at her, his gaze like some kind of shock to her system. He was unpredictable, and she found herself chasing every word out of his mouth, despite everything she ever said she’d valued about being independent.
She still was, she assured herself. And she hadn’t meant to cast judgment, not really. She just couldn’t keep her mouth to herself around him, always too comfortable saying whatever popped into her head.
“Dunno.” She shrugged, which turned into more of an awkward shuffle, the way she was leaning against him. “Not used to it, I guess.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. Her last boyfriend — if she could even call the guy she’d dated for four months two years ago a boyfriend — had been all but the opposite of Shane. Dating in the city wasn’t easy, relegated only to seeing your partner regularly if you lived with them, but if she hadn’t made the effort to touch him, he wouldn’t get near her.
At least, not the way Shane did. He’d held her hand and kissed her cheek in public, sure, but he never held her, not really. Didn’t make the effort to reach for her on the sofa, or run a hand through her hair, or trace patterns on the thigh of her leggings, the way Shane was absentmindedly doing right now. If he did, it ended in sex, and one too many pregnancy tests in the bathroom trash bin was half the reason Rosie had come back to her hometown in the first place.
But another part of her couldn’t help but glance over, look at the man she was with and wonder when the hell Shane Walsh had turned into a stage five clinger. Everywhere they went, everything she did, he was there, holding her hand or wrapping an arm around her waist or just touching her to touch her, without expecting anything in return. The tough guy facade she’d come to expect had melted away entirely, leaving him forever looking like that boy in the back of his truck, hanging on her every word.
Had he always been like that? Annie had certainly never mentioned it. He didn’t seem like the type, at least not outwardly. He was Mr. Tough Guy, the face of a sheriff’s department and the kind of guy men in their tiny town admired for his tenacity, his grit. He wasn’t mean, no, but he’d never been the kind to keep a partner around, at least not in Rosie’s memory. He was good with kids, but she never would’ve described Shane Walsh as cuddly . The fact that he seemed to melt every time she ran a hand through his hair didn’t line up with the rest of him.
But then again, they’d only been dating — officially dating, after Shane had made a point of asking her if that’s what she wanted — for a month, which amounted to a handful of heavily planned dates, a lot of hanging around in their pajamas, and not much more. Hell, she could practically count on one hand the number of times they’d slept together. They had barely entered the damn honeymoon phase, let alone left it. Maybe he was just smitten.
Either way, she couldn’t say she wasn’t enjoying it.
But she was too damn curious for her own good.
Shane didn’t seem pleased by her response, frown still marking his face despite the easy tone she’d employed. He was tough to convince, she knew that. Rick Grimes had cited that as the reason they were together: “The both of you are too damn stubborn to scare each other away.”
He’d been at least partially right, Rosie figured. No matter what she did — except for make comments about his clinginess, apparently — Shane never looked at her differently, not even when she lost her temper, or swore at the dishwasher, or cried over something stupid that would’ve sent past partners running. He stuck with her like glue that refused to wash off, and that meant never taking her hollow excuses as gospel, even when they frustrated him. Rosie had never thought of Shane as a particularly patient person, even now, but apparently she’d been wrong.
He pulled her closer, almost like he was trying to make a point, tucking her into his side until she had to look up to meet his eyes. He did that a lot, and she probably should’ve felt suffocated; caged in, like he was trying to claim her, or something stupid like that.
But she didn’t. If anything, it made her feel safe. Calm. Secure, even when her brain wanted to run screaming through the halls over the tiniest things. He was like some kind of grounding wire, the matching current to her constantly frenzied brain.
She felt like that now, the way he’d curled her in until she’d finally let go of her tense energy from the day. Her shoulders dropped from their usual place as earrings, and the tension in her jaw melted as he hummed, still tracing a pattern on her legs. If she’d had to guess, it might’ve been stars — or hearts.
“Well,” he mumbled, his voice markedly quieter than hers, “You’re easy to touch.”
Rosie had to bite her tongue to keep from making an unladylike noise — whether that was laughter or a gasp, she couldn’t quite be certain.
Maybe she’d overestimated the calming part of his personality.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She parroted his words back at him, adding emphasis only mostly as a joke, something to cover up her shock at how easily he spoke the first thing that came to mind. He was so goddamn forward , never pausing to be concerned about how his words might sound. He gave them away so freely, and she was starting to pick up on that habit. He’d been born without a filter, Rosie remembered his grandmother telling her when they’d both been kids. Skinny bastards, hanging out at the library after school.
Still gets everyone to love him anyway , she’d said. Rosie couldn’t help agreeing with that.
But even then, she could feel her face flaming at the way Shane was looking at her, with one of those expressions she couldn’t name, only because if she did, she’d probably melt from embarrassment.
Even in front of him, she was too embarrassed to admit the truth.
She liked being wanted.
She liked feeling safe.
Would she ever tell him that? Probably not. But she could think it. Maybe he was a mind reader on top of everything else. She wouldn’t be surprised.
Shane didn’t seem bothered by her tone, or if he was, he was spectacularly good at hiding it. He just continued smiling at her, shrugging like the answer to her question was the most obvious thing in the entire world.
“Man should treat his old lady right,” he said softly. “Make her feel appreciated.”
He moved to brush a strand of hair out of her face, and Rosie could tell he was doing it to make a point. Alas, it still shot electricity down her spine, especially paired with the way he looked at her — that goofy-ass smile, like they were fifteen again and this was something much more risqué than sitting on the couch in their pajamas.
(She made a point to compartmentalize the way that smile made her feel, because now was not the time to wonder whether he still thought she was sexy with her hair knotted on top of her head and mascara smeared around her eyes.)
“And that means squishing your old lady half to death while she’s trying to watch Bake Off?”
That was an old southern thing, “old lady”. Rosie had heard it growing up, from uncles and cousins much older than her, who used it mostly out of habit more than affection. She hadn’t been at all surprised when Shane had started using it, but she couldn’t deny it felt different coming out of his mouth. Like it was sacred, something to be used only at the proper time. Like a less severe version of I love you, particularly for her. That word meant tying herself to something, an idea she wasn’t used to, not since college. Not since she’d stopped being a transient, a transplant from another place trying desperately to grow roots in a new one.
Her words were a joke and they both knew it — Rosie could be as clingy as he was, tucking her face into the crook of his neck and falling asleep that way, or running her hands through his hair without really thinking about it. She said them with a grin, like she was giving him a taste of his own medicine, and even though it felt a little hollow — carved out on the inside from nerves — she knew that she meant it.
But Shane Walsh was never one to back away from a challenge.
“Pardon me,” he replied, putting the accent he’d grown up with on thick. “If I’d known, I would’ve let you fall asleep on my shoulder in peace like you always do.”
As he said it, he pulled her closer to him, so much that she’d’ve ended up on his lap if she’d been angled right. Unfortunately, she wasn’t, and she only nearly slipped off the couch as a result, her boyfriend’s arm around her abdomen the only thing keeping her and her silky pajama bottoms in place.
He was right, all things considered. They did usually fall asleep like this, or at least Rosie did, something about Shane’s presence giving her the permission to finally relax in her own home. It was a routine at this point, and she’d found herself waking up in bed on more than one occasion, blankets tucked around her with Shane curled up next to her.
But she was still stubborn as all hell.
She rolled her eyes even though she wasn’t quite sure he could see them — and it wouldn’t have mattered if he could. Nothing stopped Shane once he got started, and the look on his face told Rosie she was playing 3D chess with a professional, one who was already three steps ahead of her. All she could do was wiggle until she was sitting properly on the couch again, craning her neck to face him.
That was the face of a man with ulterior motives and they both knew it.
“Or maybe I’d’ve just tried harder to distract you.”
Rosie wanted to say something, to wipe the clearly shit-eating grin off of his face while she still had a chance, but then he was flipping her around to face him, and every word she knew left her head when his lips met her neck, coherent thought completely abandoned as her brain stalled out.
Ah, yes. He’d employed the one surefire way to win an argument against Rosie Miller. The bastard.
Anything she had been about to say was now rendered utterly useless, because even if she’d been able to speak, Shane wouldn’t have been listening, too busy “distracting” her by way of necking on her, something she’d discovered he took very, very seriously. Perhaps because he only ever did it on occasion, his restraint a shocking one-eighty from every rumor she’d heard pass between mouths in the grocery store or at the post office.
Or maybe just because he enjoyed watching her fall apart.
Probably both.
“You’re an asshole.”
The words had no venom behind them as they left Rosie’s mouth and she didn’t care — couldn’t bring herself to, considering her brain had blue-screened like an aging laptop. Jesus Christ, what was she, fifteen?
No, she was well into her thirties, that was for certain. She’d just ended up with the most obnoxious man in all of Georgia following her around like a lost puppy.
Shane remained entirely undeterred, and Rosie wasn’t surprised in the least, not even at the way she could feel him smile against her neck. His hands had settled on her waist, and she could feel him jokingly squeeze her sides through the fabric of her oversized Yankees t-shirt, making her squirm even more.
“Why, thank you.”
Shane tried to keep his voice level, tried to color it with some kind of smug satisfaction. But it didn’t hold for long before he laughed into Rosie’s shoulder, and then she was laughing, and then any trace of the embarrassment tinging her cheeks pink had suddenly vanished, replaced by the feeling of his hands on her waist and the way their voices filled her too-big living room — the one that was too much for one person, but seemed to fit two just right.
Rosie continued to squirm, her arms coming up to loop around Shane’s neck as she laughed, her entire body shaking with the effort. The TV was a distant droning now, and she was fairly certain she’d knocked the remote under the couch at some point with her squirming, but everything was distant and foggy beyond Shane, who finally pulled away to look at her again, his eyes gone all soft and far away.
He did that a lot, and Rosie always wondered what he was thinking about. Was it her? Or just how she made him feel? Maybe it was neither of those things, who knew. She was still trying to understand him; why he’d picked her of all people, and why he was so unerringly normal around her, despite everything he’d ever made her believe.
He kept looking at her with those eyes, and she found herself draping her legs across his lap before she could think better of it, some base impulse needing her to be closer, as close as she could get without actively suffocating him. She brought herself as close as she could, and then — fuck it — ended up climbing in his lap, one leg on either side as he looked at her with curiosity.
Usually she was never that forward, but hey. He’d started it.
He continued to look at her with interest as she ran her pointer finger down the bridge of his nose — he really did have a nice nose, she was lucky — and smiled, biting back the urge to roll her eyes at the way his hand had settled on her thigh, drumming his fingers like he was some kind of impatient.
“Don’t you ever change, Shane Walsh.”
She let her hand come to rest against his cheek, and she noticed the way he leaned into it, the way he took not a second of them being together for granted. It could’ve made her teeth rot, she thought, how sickeningly sweet he was. And only ever for her.
He put the airs on for other people, sure, charmed the pants off of every woman and child he ran into, impressed even the surliest of men, but that wasn’t sweet. Not like this. Not like the way he was looking at her now, as he brought his hand up to cover hers, that calm, shiny smile plastered across his face.
“Not planning on it, baby.”
The smile brightened by at least a few watts as he spoke, traces of his shit-eating smugness still present in his voice. He turned to place a kiss on her palm, and for the briefest of seconds, Rosie thought she might cry. She felt the impulse, felt the way her throat tightened as he brought both of their hands down to his heart, but forced it back down as she matched his expression, deciding that there was nowhere she’d rather be.
“Good.”