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Third period was science class. You were sitting in the back corner, staring out the window, picking at your cuticles. The last of the bruises and marks you wore were faded to a pale yellow, and you could fully see out of both eyes again. You shifted your eyes to the clock above the door, looking at the time when the secretary’s voice crackled over the intercom, calling you to the office.
You honestly didn’t think much of it—probably something about the away game permission slip Negan needed everyone to sign. But when you stepped into the small front office, the secretary was already holding the phone out, face tight. “It’s your brother,” she said, and you knew by her tone it wasn’t a joke.
Daryl’s voice came through sharp, low, urgent: “Get your ass home. Now.” No explanation, no room for questions. Then the line went dead.
You didn’t wait for the secretary to sign you out. You grabbed your bag, and as soon as you stepped outside the school, you were running.
When you burst through the door of the trailer, the air smelled like blood and sweat and something raw. Merle was on the couch, barely conscious, face swollen, shirt torn and stained red. Daryl was hunched beside him, one hand clamping a soaked towel to his ribs.
Before you could even say anything, Daryl was up from the floor, pulling you over to where he was and placing your hand where his just was, holding the towel to Merle’s side. “Take over,” was all he said.
The cloth was soaked with blood, and it made your stomach flip, bile rising to your throat—but you swallowed it down. You pressed the towel down as directed, feeling Merle’s weak, uneven breaths under your fingers. Daryl disappeared to his room and came back with a gun. He pressed it into your other hand like it was just another tool.
“If anyone comes through that door and it ain’t me—”
“Daryl—”
“—you shoot. Got it?”
You jerked your head in a quick nod, trying to keep your composure steady even though your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.
You didn’t even know Daryl had a gun. Much less how to use one.
And then, he was gone.
The trailer was too quiet except for Merle’s ragged breathing and the faint ticking of the kitchen clock. You tried to keep your eyes on Merle, but they often drifted to the door. Every shadow in the corner seemed to move, and every little sound had you flinching, gripping the gun harder.
Exactly twenty minutes later, boots hit the trailer steps.
“It’s me,” Daryl said.
He came in with an armful of medical supplies—alcohol, gauze, something in a brown bottle that smelled like fire. He dropped to his knees beside you, taking the gun back and setting it nearby. Loaded. Ready.
He went to work, hands steady, face unreadable.
You stayed where you were, unsure of what to do. You glanced at him. All he said was, “Homework. Now.” You knew it wasn’t a request.
You retreated to the kitchen, knees weak and hands shaking, your breathing too loud in your head. You did your best to wash your hands, not realizing you missed the blood under your fingernails. You sat at the table and pulled out your math worksheet, pencil still shaking in your grip.
You could hear Daryl muttering under his breath as he worked, heard Merle groan once before the space fell silent again.
By the time you’d finished your math, he was done. Merle was unconscious, breathing steadier. Daryl’s eyes were heavy but unreadable.
“Bed,” was all he said to you when you tried to ask what happened.
You sat on the edge of your bed, hands clasped tightly together, the phone call playing on repeat in your head. Each time you tried to close your eyes, all you saw was Merle beaten within an inch of his life.
You could hear Daryl in the other room cleaning up and putting away supplies. After about two hours, you heard Daryl getting ready to leave, and you were off the bed and into the living room before he even opened the door.
“Where are you—”
He cut you off before you could finish. “Stay put. Keep an eye on Merle.” He paused for a moment, his voice softer, almost quiet. “Try an’ get some sleep if you can.”
He opened the door and stepped through, shutting it behind him. His boots thudded down the trailer steps and faded into the night.
Merle drifted in and out, sometimes groaning, sometimes cursing. The clock ticked on.
You tried waiting up for Daryl, but the adrenaline wore off, and you fell asleep in the chair near the couch before he got back.
You came to at the sound of your alarm clock. Your eyes felt heavy, gritty. You realized that Daryl must have moved you to your bed at some point.
That snapped you awake. You were up, dressed, and padding into the kitchen moments later.
Merle was out cold on the couch, breathing still steady, a rough blanket thrown over him, the TV on in the background. Daryl sat at the kitchen table, a beer in front of him, the gun beside it. His knuckles were raw, a fresh bruise swelling across his cheek, and there was blood on his shirt that wasn’t his.
He didn’t look at you. Just gestured with one of his hands to your backpack that was waiting, ready to go by the door.
As you went to leave, a news announcement blared from the TV that had you stopped cold. A gang-related dispute. Two confirmed dead. No leads. No witnesses.
You turned to look at Daryl.
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t have to.
You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his grip tightened on the beer bottle. The way he still refused to look at you.
You walked past him and grabbed your backpack, digging around for something. You tossed it on the table next to the gun—a first aid kit given to you by Negan—and walked out the door.
It wasn’t until you were sitting in English class after lunch, staring at the blood still left under your fingernails, that it hit you.
Really hit you.
The news footage. The bruise on Daryl’s face. The blood on his shirt. The sound of the classroom was soon replaced by the sound of your uneven, panicked breathing. Your chest felt tight, like you were being pinned against the wall with a baseball bat.
The thoughts continued.
Your brothers leaving for days at a time. The fact that they were supposed to leave yesterday. The hunting and defense practices. The gun on the kitchen table. The promise Daryl made where he’d always come find you.
It had all led to this exact moment.
You barely made it to the bathroom before you were throwing up everything you had eaten for lunch. You didn’t notice your teammate Katie checking on you, trying to get you to talk. Nor did you notice her running off to get Negan when you didn’t respond.
The thoughts in your head were too loud. Your breathing was still erratic, but not as bad.
Merle nearly died.
Daryl killed two people.
Those statements were stuck on repeat like a mantra.
You were standing over the sink, gripping the sides of it like a lifeline, your knuckles white, when the door creaked open.
Merle nearly died. Daryl killed two people. Merle nearly—
“Kid, you okay?”
A familiar voice cut through the noise.
Your eyes snapped up to the mirror. Coach Negan stood there, not with his usual smirk, but with a look so sharp it felt like he could see every ugly, jagged thought in your head.
There was no judgment—just steady, unshaken recognition. There was something in that look that reached past the panic, past the pounding in your chest, and anchored you.
Your muscles loosened before you even realized it, the tension draining just enough for air to finally fill your lungs again.
The next thing you knew, you were sitting on the couch in his office. You weren’t sure if he’d walked you there or if your legs had done it on autopilot.
His office smelled faintly of leather and pine cleaner. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner filled the silence. He leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, watching you from across the desk.
“So… You going to tell me what the hell happened?”
His voice was light, trying to coax you out. But there was an edge underneath it—protective, alert.
You shook your head, swallowing hard. “I… I can’t.”
Negan didn’t say much after that. Just shifted in his chair, picking up baseball strategies and field placements and going over them like your life wasn’t just turned upside down.
Every now and then you’d catch him glancing over—not the kind of look that asked for answers, but the kind that kept watch.
“Whatever this is… you ain’t carrying it alone. Not while I’m still breathin’.”
You don’t remember falling asleep.
You woke to the soft tick of the wall clock and Negan’s leather jacket tucked around you. Negan was still there, now typing away on his computer.
You sat up slowly, jacket slipping to your lap.
“What time is it?” you asked, playing with one of the zippers.
“Time to head home.”
You looked up at the clock. Right around when practice usually got done. Before you could open your mouth to apologize:
“Katie passed along the message that practice was canceled. And no, she didn’t tell anyone what happened.”
“Right,” you replied, nodding to yourself.
You looked over at Negan. “Did anyone inform my—”
“No. I didn’t think it wise.”
“Good.”
Negan stood and walked over to you, offering a hand up. You let him help you up and slid his jacket on.
“Come on. I’ll walk you partway home,” he said, grabbing your backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.
The halls were empty, the squeak of sneakers loud against the polished floor.
He didn’t say much as you walked—didn’t need to. His presence filled the space between you.
Strong. Safe. Comforting.
When you reached the corner where you usually split, he stopped. Looked at you in a way that made you feel like he was seeing everything you didn’t say.
“I’ll see you at school tomorrow, kid. Don’t you forget it.”
There goes that promise again. This one hit harder than normal.
You nodded once, the words catching in your throat, barely a whisper: “I won’t.”
He gave a single nod back switching out your backpack for his leather jacket—a look passing between you that said more than either of you would put out loud. An understanding. While he didn’t know exactly what you were walking back to, he knew enough.
And you—you knew he’d be there tomorrow.
Both of you holding to the same unspoken promise.
You’d still be standing.