Work Text:
“You’re killin’ me.”
You opened your mouth to fire something back, but all that came out was air. Your face was hot. Your pulse was ridiculous. He was watching every flicker, every twitch, every helpless spark of embarrassment like it was his new favourite show.
He leaned in closer to the bars, forearms braced casually as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing to you.
“Y’know,” he drawled, voice dropping into something dangerously smooth, “there are a lot of good things in this world that went extinct. But sex?” He gave a low whistle. “That? That was top of the damn food chain.”
Your breath caught.
“Okay—” you squeaked, then cleared your throat hard. “Okay, well, thank you for the… public service announcement.”
He grinned, feral and delighted.
“Oh, sweetheart. I ain’t makin’ announcements. I’m just sayin’—when it was good?” He shook his head, savoring the memory with shameless exaggeration. “Felt like you could burn down a whole room with it.”
You blinked.
“Right. Good to know you were… very busy. Congratulations.”
Negan’s eyebrows shot up.
“Very busy?” he repeated, hand to his chest in mock offense. “What, you think I was out there punchin’ a damn timecard?”
You folded your arms.
“I’m just saying… it sounds like you were a bit of a whore.”
He laughed. Loud, delighted, almost proud.
“A whore?”
He pointed at you through the bars. “Listen to you. Little miss sunshine over here callin’ me a whore.”
You shrugged, trying not to smile.
“If the shoe fits.”
“Oh, the shoe fits, alright,” he shot back with a wink. “Fit on both feet. And maybe a hand or two.”
“Oh for gods sake!” you hissed, your whole body flushing.
He just looked thrilled.
You tried to glare at him, but he saw right through it — the fluster, the warmth, the way your knees felt stupidly light.
Then his voice dropped even lower, soft and teasing at the edges.
“But what about you, sweetheart?”
He tipped his head, eyes sharp and curious. “You ever… y’know… explore a little? Get yourself warmed up even without a partner?”
Your heart stopped.
You stared at him, mortified — and that was all the answer he needed.
His grin blossomed slowly, wickedly.
“Ohhh,” he breathed, leaning in. “Oh, that is just—damn. You’re tellin’ me you’ve gone this whole time, before and after the world ended, without—”
“Negan,” you said sharply, voice cracking with embarrassment.
He held up a hand. “Hey, hey. Ain’t judgin’.”
Then, softer — but still amused:
“Just… surprised. A woman like you? Thought you'd have been fightin’ boys off with a stick.”
“That is not my life,” you muttered.
“No kidding.”
His grin softened into something warmer, more real — curiosity wrapped in that lazy, coaxing charm he wielded without even trying.
He tapped his thumb against one knee, studying you the way someone studies a puzzle they want to solve.
“So what then?” he asked lightly. “You never wanted to… y’know…”
A pause, a smirk.
“…pop your cherry?”
Your entire body went hot so fast it felt like someone had dumped boiling water down your spine.
“Negan—”
“What?” he said, palms up, laughing. “It’s a perfectly normal damn question. I’m just tryin’ to get the full picture here.”
You fidgeted with the corner of your card, pulse hammering.
“It’s not that,” you said quietly, forcing yourself not to look away. “I just… I was young. And I never really—” you exhaled, searching for the right words, “—got close to anyone like that.I guess no one wanted me.”
He didn’t laugh this time.
His eyes narrowed slightly — not mocking, but focused.
You picked at a loose thread on your pant leg, embarrassment settling warm and prickly under your skin.
“And then the world went to shit,” you continued, voice softer now. “After that? Stuff like that stopped mattering. Surviving became… everything. And that…”
You shrugged.
“That kind of thing wasn’t important anymore. Still isn’t, I guess. Just staying alive is hard enough.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, gaze locked entirely on you.
No smirk.
No smug edge.
Just interest.
And something else — something darker, heavier.
“Sweetheart,” he said slowly, “that is the saddest bunch of shit I’ve heard in a long damn time.”
You blinked. “…what?”
He shook his head, tongue pressing into his cheek as he looked you over like he was trying to make sense of how you couldn’t see what he apparently saw.
“You’re sittin’ there acting like you’re some kinda background character nobody notices. You ain’t that!”
Your brows lifted, half-challenge, half-defense.
“Oh yeah? Well no one’s ever noticed before otherwise I wouldn’t be where I am now so who notices?”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“I do.”
The way he said it — simple, steady, like he was stating a fact as plain as the weather — knocked the breath right out of you.
He held your gaze, unflinching.
“Been noticin’ since the first damn day you came down those stairs.”
A softer huff of a laugh. Your heart thudded once, sharp and disorienting.
Before you could respond, he tilted his head, voice dropping just a notch.
“You walk in here like you’re tryin’ to disappear,” he murmured. “But you don’t. Not for a second.”
The words landed deeper than you wanted them to.
So you swallowed, cleared your throat, forced your voice to steady.
“Negan…if you think you can win me over to let you outta there, that ain’t my call to make.” You started with a small heartfelt smile.
He grinned — slow, wicked, but warmer than before.
“You’re easy to see. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
Something in your chest tightened — too much, too honest — so you grabbed the nearest lifeline.
“Right,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the cards. “Speaking of seeing—play?”
His grin snapped back into mischief like a rubber band.
“Oh, now you wanna change the subject. Fine”
He said it like a challenge, but he actually let the moment drop — which surprised you more than anything.
For a little while, the cell went quiet.
You honestly didn’t think he could be quiet.
Not Negan. Not for more than three seconds at a time.
But he carried on playing without a word, leaning back on his hands, letting the rhythm of the game settle between you.
You focused on the cards in your lap, on the scrape of one against another, on breathing normally and not thinking about the way he’d just said he notices you.
And then you felt it.
That prickle at the back of your neck.
That heat.
That awareness.
His eyes. On you.
“You’re starin’,” you muttered without looking up.
“Mm,” he hummed, spreading his cards with the easy grace of someone who’d lived half his life in pool halls and backroom bars. “Hard not to. You make some real interestin’ faces when you’re tryin’ not to react.”
“Maybe stop looking at me, then.”
“No chance in hell.”
He said it casually, but it hit you harder than it should’ve.
You focused on the cards again, ignoring how warm your chest felt.
“You know,” he continued, tapping one card against his knee, “you got this little twitch in your eyebrow? Shows up right here—” he pointed at his own brow— “whenever you’re thinkin’ about bluffin’.”
“I don’t bluff.”
He gave you a slow, knowing smile.
“Sweetheart… you’re bluffin right now.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
He laughed—low and warm—before sliding one of his cards into the center space.
“Alright,” he said, leaning back on his palms, “impress me. What’s your move?”
You matched his play, and this time your hand didn’t shake.
He nodded, approving.
“There she is,” he murmured. “Look at you learnin’. Turns out poker just needed a little motivation.”
You kicked his foot lightly through the bars. “Play the game.”
He grinned like the devil but obeyed, laying down his next card.
A few hands in, you actually won a round.
He snapped his fingers once, loud, amused.
“Well damn! Look at you!” he barked, delighted. “Told you you had somethin’ hidin’ under all that good-girl blush.”
“I don’t blush that much,” you shot back.
Negan leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked on yours.
“You blush constantly. It’s adorable.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, desperately trying to will away the warmth rising in your face.
His smirk widened.
“Well—there it is again.”
You threw a card at him. It fluttered through the bars and landed uselessly near his boot.
“You done?” you asked flatly.
“Not even close.”
He slid the card back toward you with the tip of one finger, eyes still pinning you in place.
Then his voice dropped again—curious this time, not teasing.
“Tell me somethin’,” he said. “Back then… before all this.”
He gestured vaguely at the ruined world beyond the walls.
“You ever picture how your life was supposed to go?”
You blinked at him, thrown by the sudden shift.
“I guess…” You shrugged, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “I just thought I’d figure things out. Make some friends. Maybe grow up into someone more… confident.”
“You weren’t confident?” he asked softly.
You shook your head once.
Negan let out a breath, thoughtful rather than mocking this time.
“Well, sweetheart… whoever convinced you you weren’t somethin’?” He shook his head slowly. “They were blind.”
Your throat tightened at the sincerity in his tone — rare, unmasked, and unexpectedly gentle.
You deflected before it could settle too deep.
“Is this your way of trying to psych me out so I lose?”
He chuckled, leaning back again.
“Maybe a little. But that doesn’t mean it ain’t true.”
You stared at him for a long moment, heart thumping harder than the situation warranted.
And he held your gaze — steady, unflinching, too perceptive.
He let the tension sit just long enough before softening it with a crooked smirk.
“Now,” he said, “don’t go gettin’ all sentimental on me. I’ll lose my edge.”
You rolled your eyes.
“That thick skull of yours isn’t going anywhere.”
“And thank God for that,” he said, touching the bars lightly between you, “since it’s the only thing keepin’ me from leanin’ forward and drivin’ you outta your damn mind.”
You froze mid-shuffle.
“What?”
He smiled lazily, wickedly.
“I said play your card, sweetheart.”
Your pulse jumped.
He saw it — immediately.
And oh, he loved it.
He dealt the next hand like nothing happened, but that spark stayed in his eyes.
“You gettin’ shy on me again?” he asked softly.
“No,” you lied.
He clicked his tongue.
“You are terrible at that.”
Then — smoother, warmer, almost intimate:
“Lucky for you… I kinda like it.”
Your breath hitched, tension settling low and warm in your stomach.
Before you could answer, he nudged your knee with his boot.
“Come on. Focus. I ain’t goin’ easy on you just because you’re cute.”
“Negan—!”
“What?” he asked innocently. “I’m just statin’ facts.”
You shook your head, fighting another smile — another blush — another rush of heat you didn’t want him to see but he already saw everything.
The game continued.
The air shifted.
Something deeper, hungrier, unspoken simmered between you both.
And he felt it too — because the next time your fingers brushed while passing a card through the bars…he didn’t pull back.
He lingered.
Just long enough that you felt it.
Just long enough that you wanted more.
——
You were halfway through the next hand when you glanced at your watch.
Shit.
You’d been down here… way too long.
Long enough that someone might start wondering.
Long enough that if anyone came looking, the two of you sitting here like this — knees almost touching, voices low, the air thick with everything unsaid — would raise a hell of a lot of questions.
You slid your cards together, clearing your throat softly.
“I should… probably go,” you murmured.
Negan looked up immediately, like the words tugged something in him.
“Already?” he asked, brows lifting. “Sweetheart, you only just started wipin’ the floor with me.”
“You won, like, five rounds in a row,” you said, standing before your nerves could talk you out of it.
“I let you win once,” he corrected, smirk tugging at his mouth.
You shook your head, but the smile tugged anyway.
Then his eyes dropped — just briefly — to your watch, then to the stairs behind you, and his expression shifted. Still soft. Still teasing. But knowing.
“Right,” he said quietly. “Don’t want the dick brigade gettin’ ideas.”
You hesitated, fingers brushing the bars — not meaning to, just… stopping yourself from stepping away too fast.
His gaze dropped to your hand instantly.
And for a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Then he leaned in, voice dipping into that warm, wicked drawl that always hit you somewhere you weren’t ready for.
“Go on,” he murmured. “Before somebody starts thinkin’ I’m corruptin’ you.”
You scoffed even as heat crept up your neck.
“You are corrupting me.”
“Not yet,” he said, grin spreading slow and sinful. “But give me time.”
Your pulse tripped.
“I’ll… bring breakfast in the morning,” you managed, backing up a step.
You turned toward the steps, pulse still doing that stupid fluttering thing it only ever seemed to do around him.
You'd made it two whole steps before his voice stopped you again — low, smug, unmistakably pleased with himself.
“Oh — and doll?”
You paused, looked back.
He was leaning one shoulder against the bars now, arms folded, eyes dipped shamelessly down your body and back up again. That grin — dangerous, knowing — spread slow across his mouth.
“You oughta have yourself a little… playtime tonight.”
Your breath caught.
Negan’s grin widened like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.
“Considerin’ what we talked about?” he drawled. “I’m givin’ you official permission to think about me.”
Heat punched into your face so fast it made you dizzy.
“Negan shut up!”
He lifted one brow, all mock innocence.
“What? I’m bein’ generous.”
You struggled for words — any words — and failed spectacularly.
He chuckled, deep and delighted. “There it is. That look. Sweetheart, you’re gonna be the death of me.”
You shook your head, mortified, flustered, fighting a smile you absolutely did not want to give him.
“I’m leaving now,” you muttered, turning again before the floor of that damn cell swallowed you whole.
“Sleep tight,” he called after you, smirk in every syllable.
“And don’t forget… I said you could.”
His laugh followed you up — warm, wicked, and far too satisfied — all the way to the door
——
The walk home felt strange — like the air was buzzing under your skin.
By the time you slipped into your room and shut the door behind you, your pulse still hadn’t settled. You kicked off your boots, peeled off your jacket, and dropped onto the edge of the bed… but your body didn’t climb down from whatever cliff he’d shoved you onto.
The nervous energy still hummed under your skin, a live wire he’d somehow tapped into. With clumsy, impatient fingers, you changed out of your day clothes and into the soft, worn cotton shorts and thin tank top you slept in—the closest feeling to comfort this world allowed. You slid under the single sheet, the fabric cool against your skin, but it did nothing to douse the heat he had lit inside you. Lying there in the dark, the silence was deafening, and every beat of your heart seemed to whisper his taunt back at you
The four walls of your small house in Alexandria had never felt so loud. The silence wasn't silent at all, it was a roaring in your ears, a frantic pulse beating in time with your heart. Negan's voice was a ghost in the room, a low, insistent echo.
"You oughta have yourself a little...playtime tonight."
You were in bed, the thin sheet tangled around your legs. You’d tried to sleep, but every time you closed your eyes, you saw his—the smug, knowing glint in them, the way his lips had curved into that wicked smile. He’d looked at you like he could see right through your clothes, through your skin, straight into the frantic, embarrassed flutter in your chest.
"Considering what we talked about? I'm giving you official permission to think about me."
A hot flush spread from your chest up to your cheeks. It was mortifying. It was… thrilling. And now, alone in the dark, the part of you that was always cautious, always followed the rules, was being drowned out by a newer, braver, far more curious part.
Your breath hitched as you let your hand slide down your stomach, under the waistband of your shorts. Your own touch felt foreign, hesitant. How hard could it be? You’d wondered that about a lot of things in this world, and the answer was usually, plenty hard. But this was different.
You let your eyes drift shut, and he was there instantly. Not the monster from the stories, but the man from the cell. The feeling of his newly-shorn hair under your fingers. The solid line of his jaw under your palm as you held him steady. The way his laugh seemed to vibrate through you when you’d blushed.
Your touch grew less hesitant, a slow, experimental rhythm. It felt… nice. A slow, building warmth that was a stark contrast to the cold fear that usually governed your life.
Then your mind shifted, and the memory wasn't gentle anymore.
It was the feeling of him standing behind you in the garden, his sheer size making you feel deliciously small. It was the memory of his voice, dropping to that conspiratorial rumble. "it’s the only thing keepin’ me from leanin’ forward and drivin’ you outta your damn mind.”
A soft, involuntary sound escaped your lips. The warmth was coiling tighter now, a knot of pure, aching need low in your belly. This wasn't just "nice." This was a hunger you never knew you possessed.
Your hips arched off the mattress, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him in this phantom fantasy. You imagined it was his hand, not yours. His calloused, rough hands that had once swung Lucille, now tracing patterns of fire on your skin. You imagined his mouth on your neck, his voice in your ear, whispering all the filthy, beautiful things he’d only hinted at.
The image was so vivid, so shockingly clear, that it shattered your last shred of control. Your back bowed, a broken gasp of his name—Negan—escaping into the silent, dark room as a wave of sensation crashed over you, so intense it was almost painful, wiping every thought from your head except for him.
When it finally ebbed, you lay breathless and boneless in the aftermath, the world slowly piecing itself back together. The reality of what you had just done, the person you had just thought of, settled over you.
And the most terrifying part, the part that made a fresh, quiet sob catch in your throat, wasn't the shame.
It was the certainty that once would never, ever be enough.
——————————
Morning came slow.
You woke before the sun, lying on your back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.
But the only thing waiting there was the memory of last night — vivid, electric, seared into you.
Your body still felt warm with the echo of it.
Your pulse kicked up embarrassingly fast as his voice replayed in your mind:
“You should have a little play. I give you permission to think about me.”
“…drivin’ you outta your damn mind.”
“Lucky for you… I kinda like it.”
You dragged a hand over your face and groaned into your pillow.
No one could ever know.
Not Rick. Not Gabriel. Not anyone in the community.
They’d think you lost your mind — or worse, that Negan had somehow manipulated you.
You weren’t even sure what to think of yourself.
You curled onto your side, knees to your chest, and whispered into the empty room:
“What the hell is wrong with me?”
But you knew the answer.
Nothing.
Not really.
You were lonely.
You were human.
And he…
He was getting under your skin in ways you didn’t know how to handle.
You lay there for another long minute, heart thudding with leftover heat and last night’s reckless bravery — and then forced yourself out of bed.
And then — at knock at your front door.
You opened it to find Michonne standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“Rick wants everyone at the church,” she said. “Community meeting.”
Your stomach dropped.
“When?” you asked.
“Now.”
Great.
Perfect.
Exactly what you needed: public humiliation before breakfast.
You dressed quickly and followed the flow of people toward the church.
Voices buzzed.
Nervous energy thickened the air.
Everyone looked tense.
Everyone knew when Rick called a meeting this early, something big was brewing.
Morning sunlight streamed through the church windows in pale, dust-filled beams. It should’ve been calming, sacred even, but the air inside felt tight — stretched thin like a drawn bowstring.
Your stomach twisted as people filtered in: Rosita, Aaron, Enid, Tara, Scott, Barbara, a few Hilltop folks visiting for trade. Carol stood near the back with her arms folded, unreadable. Michonne leaned against a pew, jaw tight, watching everything.
Rick stood at the front, hands planted on the podium, face carved out of stone. He waited until the room quieted, then said,
“Morning. We need to talk about somethin’ that’s been brought to me… something important.”
Your pulse thudded painfully. You forced yourself not to fidget under the weight of a hundred eyes.
Rick drew a slow breath.
“Y/N came to me yesterday,” he said, “with the idea of possibly letting Negan out of his cell for a few hours a day. Supervised. Controlled. No weapons.”
A ripple went through the room — shock, anger, disbelief, all tangled.
Rick continued, “I told her I’d take it to the community. So that’s what I’m doin’.”
You swallowed hard as the murmurs rose. Then Rick glanced at you.
“Y/N?” he said quietly. “You wanna say your piece?”
Your heart hammered so loudly you thought the whole church might hear it. But you stepped forward anyway, hands clasped tight.
“I…”
Your voice came out thin. You cleared your throat.
“I know this idea sounds crazy. And I know what he’s done. I know better than most.”
Murmurs again — sharp, biting edges.
“But he’s been locked away for years now,” you continued. “He’s changed. I’ve seen it. He talks like a person again. Works with me when I bring food. He isn’t violent. He isn’t—”
Rosita stepped forward, cutting you off with a look that could peel paint.
“Are you kidding me right now?” she snapped. “He isn’t violent? The man beat Glenn and Abraham to death. With a smile.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Then what did you mean?” Tara added, arms crossed. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you’re making excuses.”
“I’m not making excuses,” you said quickly. “I’m saying he’s not the same person he was then.”
“Oh, sure,” Rosita scoffed. “He’s changed because you carry him soup twice a day?”
A few people murmured in agreement. Your chest tightened.
Aaron raised his hand slightly. “With respect… I don’t think it’s about soup. It’s about safety. Negan out in the open? Even supervised? That’s a risk we can’t afford.”
“I’d be with him the whole time,” you said. “It would be controlled.”
“And why you?” a man near the back asked. “Why’re you so eager? Unless there’s something you’re not saying.”
A harsh heat flared in your cheeks.
Rick stepped forward slightly, but not fast enough.
Rosita’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh my god,” she breathed. “Is that what this is?”
“Rosita—” you warned, but she steamrolled ahead.
“You like him.”
The words struck harder than a slap.
The room murmured — not laughing, not loud, but sharp. Cutting.
Tara frowned tightly. “Y/N… if you’re developing feelings for him, you need to step back. This is dangerous.”
Your breath hitched.
“That’s not what’s happening.”
But even you could hear the wobble in your voice.
Your palms grew sweaty; you clenched them hard.
Rosita crossed her arms. “Look at you. You can’t even say it without turning red.”
“I’m not—!” You stopped, frustrated tears burning behind your eyes.
Someone else — a woman from Hilltop — added, “You spend more time with him than anyone else. You expect us to believe that hasn’t messed with your head?”
“I’m doing a job,” you said sharply. “Rick asked for volunteers. I stepped up. I’ve been trying to help.”
“Help who?” Rosita’s voice was a blade. “Us? Or him?”
Your chest squeezed painfully, anger and shame tangling so tightly you could barely breathe.
“That’s enough.”
Rick’s voice boomed through the church.
It quieted, but the tension hung thick.
He looked around the room, jaw tight. “She’s here because I asked her to speak. She’s not the enemy.”
Rosita didn’t back down. “I’m not sayin’ she is. But this?” She gestured at you. “This whole idea? It’s reckless. Emotional. And if we vote yes? It’s not just her who pays if he pulls anything — it’s all of us.”
“I know that,” you said softly. “Why do you think I’m here? If I didn’t believe he could handle it safely, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
Aaron sighed, rubbing his face. “Maybe you believe that. But belief and truth aren’t always the same thing.”
“And Negan’s truth is written in blood,” someone muttered.
You flinched.
Rick opened his mouth — but Michonne stepped forward first.
The room fell silent like it always did for her.
She looked at the crowd, then at you, then back at Rick before speaking.
“You’re all forgetting something,” she said quietly. “Carl.”
A hush fell like a dropped curtain.
Michonne continued, voice steady but soft.
“Carl wrote a letter. To his father. To Negan. To us. Asking for a future that didn’t look like endless punishment. Endless walls. Endless fear.”
She lifted her chin, eyes gliding across the room.
“He wanted us to stop letting the past decide everything about who people get to be. Even people who hurt us.”
Beside her, Carol finally stepped forward.
“And I know better than most,” Carol said gently, “that people can change. Or be changed. Sometimes because someone believes they can.”
She looked at you with a small, warm nod.
“Y/N believes Negan can be useful. Not forgiven. Not free. Useful. That’s not naïve. That’s practical.”
Rosita’s jaw tightened. “Carl’s letter wasn’t about letting monsters go on field trips.”
Michonne’s gaze sharpened. “It was about giving hope a chance.”
Silence again. Heavy. Loaded.
Finally, Rick exhaled, shoulders rising and falling like carrying the weight of the whole damn world.
“Alright,” he said. “We’ll vote. Not now. People need time. Opinions. Talk this out with your families. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”
The meeting ended in a slow, uneasy shuffle: people murmuring, glancing at you with suspicion, worry, curiosity, judgment.
You felt every stare like a burn.
Rick caught your arm as you tried to slip out.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve put you on the spot like that.”
“It’s fine,” you lied.
“It ain’t,” he said. “But… thank you. For speakin’ up. For bein’ braver than most.”
You nodded, but your chest felt tight, your ribs too small for your breath.
You stepped outside into the sunlight — and only then let yourself breathe again.
But even out there, under a wide open sky…
Their voices followed you.
Accusing.
Judging.
Wrong.
And yet somehow still getting under your skin.
And the person whose voice you found yourself wanting to hear — the only one who could cut through the noise — was the very man they feared.
Negan.
The cell.
The bars.
His hands.
His voice.
The way he looked at you like he saw it all.
You knew exactly where you’d end up tonight.
Whether you should or not.
——
You didn’t remember walking home.
One second you were leaving the church, everyone’s voices still stuck like barbs under your skin, and the next you were inside your house, door shut, quiet pressing in around you like a second heartbeat.
You leaned your forehead against the wood and let out a slow, shaky breath.
God.
That was… awful.
You pushed off the door and moved into the small kitchen on autopilot, fingers tracing the edge of the counter, the table, the back of a chair. You weren’t looking for anything. You just needed something solid under your hand. Something that didn’t shift or accuse or doubt.
Your chest still felt tight.
“Why you?”
“You like him.”
“You expect us to believe that hasn’t messed with your head?”
The words replayed, overlapping, louder than the meeting itself.
You’d expected resistance — of course you had — but not like that.
Not pointed, personal, slicing right through you like they were peeling your intentions open and putting them on display.
And the worst part?
You didn’t even know how much of what they said was wrong.
You sank onto the edge of your bed, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt. Your room felt too small, too warm, too full of thoughts you weren’t ready to face.
You weren’t stupid.
You knew how it looked.
How you looked.
A girl who volunteered for the monster.
A girl who kept going back.
A girl who came out of that cellar different — warmer, braver, more awake than she’d been in years.
A girl who leaned in when he teased her.
Who flushed under his gaze.
Who touched him first — hair, jaw, beard — and didn’t pull away even when she should have.
Someone who’d gone home last night and…
Your face heated instantly.
Damn it.
You pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes, groaning.
You had definitely not expected that to happen. You didn’t even know how it started exactly — one moment you were replaying his voice in your head, and the next…
Your body had gone warm, electric, alive in a way you hadn’t felt since before the world fell apart.
Probably ever.
And now you were sitting here, hands covering your face, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.
“What would Rick say if he knew?” you muttered to yourself.
What would anyone say?
They’d crucify you on sight.
You let your hands fall away, staring up at the ceiling.
And yet…
Last night, for the first time in longer than you could remember, you hadn’t felt alone.
You hadn’t felt… empty.
You felt connected.
Wanted.
Seen.
Negan saw every damn thing — every blush, every crack in your defenses, every tremble in your voice — and instead of mocking you for it, he seemed to… like it.
Like all those things made you more interesting.
More real.
You reached behind your head and fell back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling until your vision blurred.
How had this happened?
When had you let him get inside your head like this?
Inside your body like this?
Sure, you’d always been quiet. Reserved. Careful.
You never gave people much to see — it was safer that way.
But Negan?
He looked at you like there was something worth looking at. Something to uncover. Something that—
No. No, don’t think that.
You sat up abruptly, dragging your hands down your face again.
A cold shower.
A cold shower might help.
Ten minutes later you were under harsh icy water, arms braced against the tile, breath shaking as you tried to scrub him out of your skin, out of your thoughts, out of the lingering heat under your ribs.
It didn’t work.
His voice followed you even here.
“Lucky for you… I kinda like it.”
“Don’t go gettin’ shy on me now.”
“Since it’s the only thing keepin’ me from leanin’ forward and drivin’ you outta your damn mind.”
“You should have a little play, doll. I give you permission to think about me.”
You groaned, forehead dropping against the freezing tile.
“Asshole…”
But the word held no heat.
Just… longing. And confusion. And something warmer that terrified you if you tried to name it.
When you stepped out of the shower, water dripping off your hair, you looked at yourself in the fogged mirror.
Your eyes looked different.
Sharper.
Brighter.
More alive.
You hated that he could do that to you.
You also loved that he could.
You wrapped a towel around yourself and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to decide who you were right now.
Alexandria would never accept this.
Rick would never understand.
Rosita would tear you apart.
Everyone would think you’d lost your mind.
And maybe you had.
Because you weren’t thinking about Rick’s reaction anymore.
All you were thinking about…all that filled your head now…was how you’d have to go down to that cell again.
Tonight.
And sit in front of those bars.
With him inches away.
His eyes tracking every flicker of your breath.
You imagined his smirk the moment he saw you.
“You think about me, sweetheart?”
And you knew — down to your bones — that the answer was yes.
You lay back on your bed again, towel clutched tight around you, heart beating too fast.
Maybe this was wrong.
Maybe it was dangerous.
Maybe the whole community was right to be terrified.
But when you closed your eyes…it wasn’t fear you felt.
It was anticipation.
And you didn’t know how to stop it anymore.