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Three days.
Three days of keeping your face calm, your voice even, your heartbeat steady — every time you walked into that cellar and pretended nothing had changed.
Three days of acting normal while Negan looked at you with those sharp, knowing eyes, waiting for something you refused to let slip.
And now, sitting stiff-backed on one of the worn wooden pews in Alexandria’s makeshift church, you realized those three days had been nothing compared to this.
The church was too small for this many people. Too warm. The air buzzed with low, uneasy murmurs that felt like insects crawling under your skin. The candles flickering near the altar made everything look softer, holier — but nothing about the atmosphere was soft. Everyone looked coiled tight, like a single wrong word would snap them.
You sat toward the front, hands clasped so tightly your knuckles had gone bloodless.
Your stomach had been roiling since sunrise.
Rick stood at the front of the church, fingers resting on the back of a chair like he needed the grounding. His shoulders were set, jaw tight, eyes tired in that way that only came from fighting too many battles for too many years.
He hadn’t looked at you much since you walked in.
You couldn’t blame him.
Around you, the whispers were impossible not to hear.
“…lettin’ that animal out…”
“…I lost my brother because of him…”
“…who the hell suggested this…”
“…just a couple hours? It’s too much…”
You kept your eyes forward, but your pulse hammered in your throat.
Rick raised his voice just enough to cut across the noise.
“Alright. Let’s get started.”
The room fell to a hush — tense, expectant, brimming.
He scanned the faces before him. Some hopeful. Some furious. Some frightened.
Everyone waiting for the same thing.
You tried to steel yourself, but your fingers trembled anyway.
Rick cleared his throat.
“S’been three days since we talked about this. Three days since we voted.”
Your heart dropped into your stomach like a stone.
A few people shifted, muttering. Someone behind you scoffed loudly.
Rick continued, voice steady, almost painfully controlled.
“We came together — council members and community workers — and we voted on whether or not Negan would be allowed supervised time outside his cell.”
A ripple of emotion moved through the pews like a wave. You stared at Rick’s profile, searching for a clue — any clue — but his expression was unreadable stone.
Your heart thudded harder.
He took a breath.
“The results weren’t unanimous.”
Several scoffs. A few angry whispers. One person outright cursed.
Rick didn’t flinch.
“But a majority vote was reached.”
Your nails dug into your palms.
Someone shouted from the back, “This is insane, Rick!”
Another echoed, “He doesn’t DESERVE freedom!”
You didn’t turn around. You didn’t want to see their faces — not when they didn’t know how their words twisted in your ribs.
Rick held up a hand, silencing them.
“Let me finish.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
Rick’s eyes swept over the crowd, then landed — briefly — on you.
And despite everything, despite knowing you should stay stone-faced…your heart leapt.
“The decision,” Rick said, voice carrying, “is that Negan will be allowed out of his cell for a limited time each day.”
The room erupted — gasps, outrage, disbelief, a few shocked exclamations.
A chair scraped. Someone stood up. Someone else swore loudly.
Your chest tightened so sharply you almost exhaled a sound.
Rick kept going, louder:
“He will be supervised. Closely. He will work under strict watch.”
His gaze found yours again — pointed, meaningful.
“And he will be under Y/N’s supervision.”
The room broke again.
“Her?”
“Why her?”
“She’s too soft—”
“Does she even know what he’s capable of?”
“We can’t trust this—”
“He’ll manipulate her—”
Each word felt like a tiny stone thrown at your ribs.
Rick raised his voice until it cut through the noise like a blade.
“Enough!”
Silence slammed down.
He continued, jaw tight:
“She suggested the idea. She’s been the one interacting with him for months. She knows how he behaves better than any of us.”
People didn’t like that. You could feel the tension like static.
Rick pressed on:
“For the record — this isn’t freedom. It’s not forgiveness. And if Negan tries anything — anything at all — the guards assigned to watch will put him down on sight. No warnings.”
A sharp chill ran through you.
No hesitation.
You tried not to react. You knew this condition was inevitable… but hearing it aloud still sent a cold sting through your chest.
“And if,” Rick went on, voice steady, “he proves himself — proves he can work, contribute, and not be a danger… then we’ll reassess.”
No promises.
No future guaranteed.
Just maybe.
Just enough to breathe.
You swallowed hard, forcing your expression to stay neutral. You didn’t dare let the relief show — not when people around you were shaking their heads, muttering their anger, their fear, their hatred.
You kept your spine straight. Your face calm. Your pulse under careful lock and key.
Inside, beneath all of it — the tension, the fear, the weight of eyes on you — a tiny, fiercely protected spark of joy burned warm in your chest.
He was coming out.
Even just for a couple of hours.
He was coming out.
You tried not to smile.
You failed — only for a second.
But it was enough
The uproar didn’t fade so much as scatter. People spilled out of the pews in clumps, still muttering, still throwing glances sharp enough to cut. Chairs scraped. Boots thudded. The whole building vibrated with tension as the crowd dissolved into the street.
You stayed seated for a moment after most had gone, letting the quiet return, your pulse settle, your breathing steady.
Then you stood and made your way toward Rick and Michonne, who lingered near the front—both of them wearing the expression of people who had just walked barefoot through broken glass.
Rick rubbed a hand over his beard. Michonne watched the doorway like she expected someone to come back in swinging.
You cleared your throat softly.
They both turned.
Rick’s expression softened—just a little.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you said, though your voice was thinner than usual. “I just… I wanted to ask a couple things. About how this is all supposed to work.”
Rick nodded, motioning you forward so the three of you stood close, the church now empty except for you.
“Alright,” he said, tone all business. “The council figured it’s best if it starts tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” you repeated, startled.
Michonne nodded. “The vote’s been counted. The decision’s made. No point dragging it out.”
Your stomach fluttered with a strange mix of fear and anticipation.
Rick continued, “Two hours. Late morning. He’ll be escorted out by two guards—David and Carla. They’ll stay within sight the whole time.”
You nodded quickly. “Right. Of course.”
Michonne crossed her arms. “You’ll take him to assigned tasks for the day. Keep it simple. Basic repairs. Cleaning up the perimeter. No tools that can be used as weapons until we’re sure he can handle it.”
“A-and I’ll be responsible for telling him what to do?” you asked.
Rick’s eyes met yours. Steady. Firm.
“You’re responsible for him,” he confirmed. “For watching him. Keeping him in line. If he steps out of place, you report it. Immediately.”
You swallowed. “I will. I won’t let anything happen. You have my word.”
Rick’s jaw clenched—tension, emotion, exhaustion, all packed into that tiny movement.
Then he nodded.
“I know,” he said quietly. “Wouldn’t’ve agreed to this if I didn’t.”
Michonne stepped closer, her expression gentler than you expected.
“You handled yourself well in there. Better than a lot of people.”
“Thanks,” you murmured, meaning it.
Rick put his hands on his hips. “You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” you breathed. “I—yeah. Thank you. Both of you. I mean it.”
Rick nodded once more, then turned to talk quietly with Michonne as you stepped away, heading toward the door.
The air outside was cool, carrying the late-afternoon hush of a community trying to return to normal after a storm.
You didn’t get two steps down the church steps before someone seized you.
A hand clenched in the scruff of your shirt, yanking you backwards so hard you stumbled.
You hit the wall beside the doorway, breath punched out of you.
“Are you out of your damn mind?”
A man you vaguely recognized from watch duty—broad shoulders, square jaw, anger burning behind his eyes.
You froze, shock and instinct making your hands go up halfway.
“H-Hey—I—”
“You think this is a game?” he snarled, leaning in close enough you could smell cigarettes and stale coffee. “You think you get to play savior to a murderer?”
Your pulse hammered against your ribs.
“Let me go,” you said, voice low but steady. “Now.”
He slammed his hand harder into your shirt, pinning you.
“That man killed families. Friends. You weren’t here for all of it—you don’t get to decide he’s suddenly redeemable.”
“I didn’t decide anything,” you argued, heartbeat racing. “The council voted. Rick—”
“Oh, don’t pretend Rick would’ve pushed this if you hadn’t whispered it in his ear,” he spat. “Everyone sees how often you’re down there. Everyone sees how you look when you talk about him.”
Your stomach dropped.
“So let me make this real clear,” he said, his face inches from yours, voice dripping with threat.
“If he gets out and someone dies—anyone dies—it’s on you. And you won’t be safe from the ones who loved them. Not here. Not anywhere.”
Your breath hitched.
Fear tightened in your chest, spreading cold through your limbs.
“Let me go,” you repeated, voice firmer now. “Before Rick sees you lay a hand on me.”
That made him hesitate. His grip loosened—but only slightly.
Then—
“Let her go.”
He jerked back like someone had slapped him.
Carol stood at the bottom of the steps, eyes calm, face unreadable—but her hand rested lightly on the handle of the knife holstered at her hip.
The man swallowed hard, stepping back and releasing your shirt.
He didn’t apologize. He just glared at you one last time before turning and stalking off down the path.
For a long moment you stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, fingers trembling where they hovered beside your ribs.
Carol stepped closer.
“You okay?” she asked, voice gentle.
You nodded, even though your whole body said otherwise.
“Yeah. Just… someone who needed to vent.”
Carol’s gaze held yours—steady, knowing, eerily perceptive.
“People get scared,” she said softly. “They get cruel when they’re scared.”
A beat.
“But fear isn’t always truth. People confuse the two. Especially when someone’s hurt them before.”
You swallowed hard, the weight of the last fifteen minutes finally hitting you.
Your voice cracked a little as you exhaled:
“I’m just… I’m just trying to help,” you said quietly, rubbing at the creased front of your shirt where the man’s fist had been. “I’m looking toward the future. Toward something better. And I know how that sounds. I know it sounds stupid or dangerous or… or wrong.”
Carol didn’t interrupt.
“I know what he’s done,” you continued. “I know it. I’m not blind to it, and I’m not pretending it didn’t hurt people. But God, Carol… I see potential. He’s strong. Smart. And he’s right there, rotting away in a box when we need every pair of hands we can get.”
Your throat tightened.
“Two good hands,” you whispered, “being wasted… every single day.”
Carol’s lips pressed together — the closest she ever came to a sympathetic frown.
She stepped up onto the same step as you, levelling your heights.
“You know,” she said softly, “there was a time when no one trusted me either.”
Your eyes widened a little — Carol never talked about her past unless she meant it.
“I did things,” she went on, eyes distant. “Things that were… necessary. Things I don’t regret — but that doesn’t make them easy for people to understand. We all carry choices we’d rather forget.”
You drew a shaky breath.
“We’ve all probably done awful shit we thought was right at the time,” you said quietly. “Or things we did because we had to. Survival makes monsters out of anyone. But it’s gotta end. Somewhere.”
Carol nodded slowly, her gaze warm but steady.
“Maybe you’re right,” she murmured. “Maybe letting him try is the first step to stopping that cycle. But people are scared. And scared people aim their fear at the safest target.”
A pause.
“Right now? That’s you.”
You looked down, blinking hard.
“It shouldn’t be,” Carol added gently. “But it is.”
Silence settled between you for a moment — not heavy, just thoughtful.
Then she touched your arm, light and brief.
“But listen to me,” she said. “You’re not wrong for seeing something human in him. And you’re not wrong for believing people can be more than what they were. That’s what all of this…” she gestured around at Alexandria, the church, the windows glowing with afternoon light, “…is supposed to be about.”
Your chest loosened painfully.
“And for what it’s worth?” she added, beginning to step down the stairs, “I think you handled yourself damn well today.”
She started to walk away, then glanced back over her shoulder.
“Just… be careful who you trust. And be even more careful who you let see that you do.”
Then she was gone, leaving you alone on the steps with your heart pounding, your breath shaky, and tomorrow — and Negan — filling your thoughts so completely it was almost hard to stand.
——
The rest of the afternoon blurred into a kind of restless fog.
You worked — of course you did. Hands busy, mind loud. Sweeping out one of the storage sheds, taking inventory of tools, helping someone patch the fence. All the normal things you’d done a hundred times before.
But today… every motion felt like it belonged to somebody else.
You kept replaying the church in your head — Rick’s voice, the shifting eyes, the weight of judgment thick enough to choke on. Even hours later, you still felt it clinging to your skin.
Every time footsteps came up behind you, your shoulders jerked in a quiet, involuntary flinch.
Every time someone passed you, even if they didn’t spare you a glance, you imagined you could hear their thoughts anyway.
That’s her.
That’s the girl who wants Negan out.
What the hell is she thinking?
It was irrational — you knew that — but logic didn’t matter. The meeting had planted something cold and unwelcome in your chest. A target, right between your shoulder blades.
You tried to stay busy, keep your head down, but it didn’t stop you from noticing the way people shifted wider around you than usual. Not openly — no glares, no whispered threats — just… distance. Subtle. Sharp-edged. The kind of thing that would’ve slid under your radar any other day.
At one point, while organizing a shelf in the supply shed, you caught two people stepping inside, taking one look at you, then muttering something and walking right back out.
You froze with a box in your hands.
Maybe it was coincidence.
Maybe it wasn’t.
Your heart tightened as you set the box down a little too hard.
It wasn’t like you had many friends here to begin with — just a few polite acquaintances, people you worked beside, nodded to, helped from time to time. But now it felt like even that thin thread of belonging was fraying.
It was stupid to care.
You told yourself that over and over while you hauled a crate of fencing wire across the yard. Stupid to care. But it clung to you anyway: the idea that people you’d bled beside, built beside, didn’t trust you anymore.
Or worse — didn’t trust who you cared about.
Your throat tightened at that thought.
Because no matter how much you tried not to think about him… you kept catching your mind drifting back down into that cold little cell. Back to the way Negan’s eyes tracked you, the way he listened, the way he teased until your face warmed and your pulse fluttered in a place you didn’t like admitting existed.
Back to the way he made you feel seen when the rest of the world suddenly felt like it was pulling back, away from you.
You hated that it felt like a pull — a gravity — stronger now than ever.
You shoved it down. Or tried to.
It didn’t work.
As the sun dipped toward evening, you found yourself wiping your brow with the back of your wrist, staring at nothing, feeling that gnawing mix of dread and something else twisting in your gut.
Three days of hiding things from him.
A meeting that could change everything.
A verdict that meant you were about to change his world — and put your own on the line.
And now… the slow, creeping awareness that half the community didn’t know what to make of you anymore.
By the time your shift wound down, your nerves were raw and frayed, like wire pulled too tight.
You kept expecting someone to confront you again.
You kept expecting anger. Judgment.
But instead, all you got were glances — sharp, fleeting, unreadable.
It almost made the silence worse.
You stood outside the shed, catching your breath as the last of the sun bled gold across the walls. It should’ve been calming.
It wasn’t.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, the weight of eyes — real or imagined — prickling the back of your neck.
You didn’t dare look toward the cellar from here.
Didn’t dare let your thoughts drift too close to him.
Not while you still felt so exposed.
So watched.
But tomorrow… or the next day… Rick would come find you with details. Instructions. A timeline.
And then you’d have to face him.
Tell him everything.
Change everything.
For now, all you could do was breathe in the cooling air, steady yourself, and pray no one else decided to challenge you before the sun went down.
You weren’t sure you had the strength left for another fight today.
———————————
The next morning hit harder than you expected.
You woke before sunrise, not because you were rested, but because your stomach wouldn’t settle. Nerves had sat in your chest for days, thick and buzzing like a trapped hornet — and today was finally the day.
Rick had told you last night: “Tomorrow morning. You tell him. Then we start.”
You’d nodded like you could handle it.
Now your hands shook just tying your boots.
You splashed water on your face, scrubbed at the lingering heat in your cheeks, straightened your shirt, checked your knife. You tried to breathe through the restless, electric anticipation building under your ribs.
You get to tell him today.
That thought alone nearly set your pulse off again.
You took a steadying breath and stepped outside.
And froze.
Because on the side of your house, stretched across the wooden paneling in thick, uneven red paint, was a single word — large enough that anyone walking past could see it, but not so large it looked like a mural.
TRAITOR
Your heart dropped straight through your stomach.
The paint was still slightly tacky, glinting faintly in the early light. Whoever had done it must have been there only hours before. Close enough to your home to risk being caught. Confident enough you wouldn't challenge them.
Your throat tightened so fast it hurt.
It wasn’t a whisper behind your back this time.
It wasn’t a look.
It wasn’t a rumor.
This was public.
Aggressive.
Meant to sting.
Your breath shook as you forced air into your lungs. You looked away quickly, eyes burning, refusing—absolutely refusing—to let tears fall where someone might see.
A door down the street creaked open. You didn’t turn your head. You didn’t want to know who saw it. Who agreed with it. Who might have done it.
Your fingers curled into a fist so tight your nails bit your palm as you walked forward.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just… moving.
Because if you stopped, even for a second, you weren’t sure you’d be able to start again.
Every step toward the cellar felt heavier than the last.
The weight of that word followed you like a shadow.
TRAITOR.
You weren’t sure which part hurt more — the cruelty of it…or how much of the community it represented.
You didn’t look back.
You just kept walking, chest tight, jaw locked, trying to breathe past the sting.
Trying not to imagine Negan’s voice in your head saying something like:
“Anyone got somethin’ to say, they can damn well say it to your face.”
But even that didn’t comfort you this time.
Because today you were going to tell him he was getting out — for a few hours a day, supervised. Something good. Something hopeful.
You forced yourself not to look back at your house as you crossed the street — as if ignoring the paint might erase the fact that half the community had probably seen it already.
Your steps carried you toward the kitchen automatically, though your mind felt three seconds behind your body. The closer you got, the more you pulled yourself together — straight spine, neutral face, controlled breathing. You’d mastered this before. You could do it again.
Inside, the kitchen was already warm with the smell of oatmeal and fresh bread. Nora was moving between pots with practiced efficiency, her greying hair tied back, sleeves rolled up. When she spotted you, she paused just long enough to offer a small, gentle smile — the kind that felt like a blanket on a cold day.
“Morning, love,” she said. Her voice was as soft as her smile. “You alright?”
You swallowed. She wasn’t prying. Not really. Nora’s way of asking never felt intrusive — just quietly present.
“Yeah,” you lied with practiced ease. “Just tired.”
She didn’t challenge it. Maybe she saw more in your eyes, maybe she didn’t — but she let it go with a knowing little hum.
“His tray’s ready.”
She nodded toward the counter, where a bowl of oatmeal, a small roll, and a cup of water sat arranged neatly on a metal tray.
Same as every day. Routine. Comforting.
You picked it up carefully, hoping she hadn’t noticed the faint tremor in your hands.
Nora handed you a napkin and tucked it onto the tray herself.
She squeezed your arm — warm, brief, grounding — then went back to her pots. She didn’t ask anything else, didn’t so much as glance at you sideways. And maybe that was mercy.
You stepped out with the tray balanced in your palms. The cold morning air stung your skin in a way that made you feel awake — too awake. You focused on breathing. On the path. On the steady rhythm of your boots hitting the ground.
Past the gardens.
Past the storage sheds.
Past the chapel where your whole world shifted yesterday.
Every step toward the cellar door felt heavier — like wading through water, like gravity doubling around you.
At the top of the stairs, you paused.
The tray felt warm against your palms.
Your heart hammered like you’d sprinted the whole way.
Three days of pretending nothing was happening.
Three days of keeping this from him.
Today it changes.
You inhaled, shook out your shoulders, whispered to yourself:
“Okay. You can do this.”
Then you opened the cellar door.
The hinges gave their familiar groan.
Cool, still air swept up from below.
And as you descended the few steps —
There he was.
Negan sat on his cot, one knee raised, arm draped casually over it. The moment he heard the door, his head snapped up — that slow smirk began to form… but froze halfway.
His eyes ran over you deliberately — your face, your shoulders, the way you held the tray too tightly.
And in an instant, the smirk softened into something else.
Something sharper.
More alert.
More aware.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he drawled — but the warmth in his voice fought with something more serious underneath. “You look like you wrestled a damn storm on the way here.”
He tipped his head, dark eyes narrowing just slightly.
“…everything alright?”
It wasn’t teasing.
Not even close.
And your heart lurched, because he saw immediately that something was wrong.
You stepped off the last stair, forced your voice into something steady.
“I brought your breakfast.”
Negan didn’t look at the tray.
Not once.
His gaze stayed locked on you, reading every line of your posture, every flicker across your face, the way only he ever seemed able to.
And the concern there — real, unfiltered, uncaged — made your breath hitch before you could help it.
Negan didn’t look away from you — not even for the tray resting in your hands. His brow dipped just the smallest bit, that subtle shift he only ever showed when he actually cared about the answer he was asking for.
“You sure you’re good?” he asked, voice low but light enough that he wasn’t crowding you. “Ain’t gotta pretend with me, y’know.”
He kept it gentle — not pushing, not demanding — just leaving the door open.
You nodded, offering a quick, practiced smile.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Really.”
He watched you a beat longer than normal, like he was deciding whether to call you out or let it slide. And then — perhaps sensing that today wasn’t the morning to dig — he eased back a little.
“Alright,” he said with a small shrug. “If you say so.”
You stepped forward and slid the tray through the slot. He took it without breaking eye contact, but he didn’t make a joke, or whistle, or tease like he usually did. He just gave a quiet,
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
That one word — soft, sincere — made your stomach twist in a way you refused to analyze this early in the morning.
He settled on the edge of his cot and started eating. You sat on your little chair, hands clasped between your knees, trying not to bounce your foot, trying not to stare too obviously, trying not to let your nerves eat you alive.
Today.
He’s getting out today.
For the first time in years.
And you were the one who had to tell him.
He ate quickly — he always did — but today he seemed extra restless, tapping the side of the bowl with his spoon, flicking glances toward you like he was checking you hadn’t vanished.
“You’re awful quiet this mornin’,” he said finally, gesturing with the spoon. “Usually by now you’ve rolled your eyes at me at least twice.”
“I’ve got… things on my mind,” you said, which wasn’t technically a lie.
“Mm.” He took another bite. “Well, whatever it is — it ain’t killin’ ya.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself.
“Not yet.”
“Good.” He scooped up the last of his breakfast. “’Cause it would really ruin my mornin’ if you croaked before I beat your ass at cards again.”
You tried to smile like you normally would.
Tried not to show how your heart was slamming against your ribs.
Because now that the tray was empty — you had no more excuses.
You stood before you could talk yourself out of it.
Negan froze mid-movement, setting the bowl aside, eyes sharpening instantly.
“What’s goin’ on?”
You licked your lips, suddenly hyper-aware of the tiny room, the bars between you, the fact that after today… things would never feel quite the same again.
You slid your hands into your pockets, fingers brushing the tension away long enough to breathe.
Then, as casually as you could manage, you asked:
“…How’d you fancy some fresh air?”
His expression didn’t change at first.
Then — slowly — his brows inched up.
“…the hell kinda question is that?” he said with a baffled laugh. “This window don’t open, doll.”
You couldn’t help the grin that cracked through your nerves.
“That’s not what I meant.”
He blinked.
Stared.
You saw the exact second the idea hit him — like a flicker behind his eyes — and then confusion gave way to something else entirely.
Careful.
Hopeful.
Almost boyish.
“…Sweetheart,” he said quietly, leaning forward, hands braced on his knees, “why don’t you tell me what you did mean.”
Your heart hammered, but you didn’t look away.
Very softly, almost whispering:
“They’re letting you out. A few hours a day. Starting today.”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared at you like he wasn’t sure you were real.
Then—
“...no bullshit?” he asked, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it — stripped bare, raw hope bleeding through the cracks.
You shook your head.
“No bullshit.”
Negan sat back slowly, like his knees were unsteady — like the room tilted under him — like the air suddenly tasted different, after years of breathing the same stale pocket of it.
“…Holy shit.”
His smile didn’t come fast.
It came slow, disbelieving, spreading like sunlight inching across his face.
And when it finally formed —
It wasn’t his grin.
Not his smirk.
Not the showman’s show.
It was something real.
Something honest.
Something grateful.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed, voice gone warm and almost reverent, “you just handed me the whole damn sky.”
For a moment, you couldn’t speak.
Not with him looking at you like that — like you’d just pulled him out of a grave he’d been buried in for years.
Negan finally pushed himself to his feet, slowly, like every movement carried ten tons of disbelief. He stepped closer to the bars, fingers curling around them, knuckles whitening as if he needed to physically hold onto the moment to believe it was real.
“Alright,” he said finally, breath unsteady in a way he probably wished you didn’t notice, “you’re gonna have to walk me through this real slow.”
You swallowed.
“They voted. Community-wide. Rick laid out the rules, and… well…”
You forced a small smile.
“It came back yes.”
A sharp exhale left him — half laugh, half disbelieving choke.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
His eyes flicked over your face, searching, softening further.
“You did this.”
“No,” you corrected gently. “The community did.”
…Even if some did it through clenched teeth.
He shook his head, stepping closer until his boots nearly touched the bars.
“You pushed it,” he insisted, voice low. “You fought for it. You gave me a chance nobody else would’ve even thought about. Don’t downplay that.”
You lifted a shoulder, trying to hide the warmth spreading through your chest.
“I just thought it was time.”
He gave a small scoff — but not mocking. More like he couldn’t believe you were real.
“Well,” he murmured, tapping his fingers against the steel, “guess it’s my time to be a good little inmate.”
You snorted. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Negan huffed a laugh — a real one — then ran a hand through his hair, pacing a single slow circle around the tiny cell. He looked almost… restless. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands or his breath or the flood of something he hadn’t felt in years.
Freedom, even in small doses, hit him like a physical blow.
“Shit,” he muttered. “A few hours outside this damn box… I almost forgot what air that ain’t recycled tastes like.”
You stepped toward the keys hanging on the hook.
Your fingers hesitated just an inch from them.
He noticed.
“Hey.”
His voice softened.
“You nervous?”
“…A little.”
“About me?” he asked, leaning one shoulder into the bars, head tilted.
You didn’t answer immediately.
He held up both hands — theatrically innocent.
“Sweetheart, I promise you — cross my heart, swear on Lucille, swear on every goddamn thing I got left — I ain’t gonna do nothin’ to make you look bad. You think I’m about to screw up the first taste of freedom I’ve had in damn near a decade? No chance.”
Something in his tone — the sincerity buried under the swagger — settled in your chest.
You picked up the keys.
His eyes followed every move.
You stepped toward the lock.
Metal clicked.
The sound echoed louder than it should have — like a thunderclap in a quiet world.
Negan froze — utterly still.
You swung the door inward.
And for a few seconds, he didn’t move.
Didn’t step out.
Didn’t breathe.
It wasn’t hesitation.
It was awe.
Finally — he looked at you.
Not past you.
At you.
“…Can I?” he asked, voice barely a rumble, like he didn’t want to break the moment.
You nodded once.
He stepped forward.
And across the threshold.
You watched his face shift — shock, relief, wonder — all crashing together until his eyes nearly closed as if he were absorbing the subtle, invisible shift in the air.
“…Jesus,” he whispered.
You opened your mouth to speak — but he beat you to it with a sudden grin, sharp and crooked and wildly alive:
“Well fuck me runnin’ — I’m out.”
You snorted. “Barely. Don’t get too cocky.”
“Oh sweetheart,” he drawled, stretching his arms above his head, joints cracking, “cocky is my factory setting.”
He rolled his shoulders, leaning back against the wall beside you — not behind bars, not separate — beside you.
“And by the way…” he added, turning his head, gaze dropping just a bit too low on your face, “…you lookin’ like that while lettin’ me out? That’s somethin’ I might remember on cold nights.”
“Negan.”
“What?” He held up both hands. “Just makin’ an observation.”
You shook your head, fighting another laugh that he absolutely caught.
“Come on,” you said, stepping back. “We need to start this right. Rules first. You stay by me. You listen. You do not wander off. And you don’t—”
“—cause any trouble,” he finished, nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Heard the sermon already.”
Then — with a wink:
“I’m yours to babysit, sweetheart. Lead the way.”
Your pulse jumped.
Because the cell was no longer between you.
Because now he was looking at you like the whole damn world just cracked open.
Because he was out.
You took one steady step back from him, still holding the key ring loosely in one hand. Negan’s gaze followed it for a second — not out of worry, but like he was trying to wrap his head around the fact that he didn’t need them anymore. Not right now.
“Before we go,” you said quietly, “you need to know something.”
He arched a brow.
“Uh-oh. That’s your ‘this part ain’t fun’ voice.”
You huffed. “Negan, I’m serious.”
He straightened a little, the grin dimming but not disappearing.
“There are going to be two guards watching at all times,” you said. “Every second you’re out. They’ll rotate shifts, but they’ll never leave. They’ll have weapons. And I need you to understand this part—”
You met his eyes.
“They won’t hesitate. If you try anything, or even look like you might… they’ll put you down.”
For the first time since the door opened, Negan went very still.
His jaw flexed once.
Not offended — not hurt — just… absorbing the weight of it.
Then he nodded, slow, deliberate.
“Well,” he said gruffly, “sounds fair.”
Your brows pulled together. You’d expected some snark, some complaining, something.
Instead he shrugged, almost gently.
“Sweetheart… I earned that fear. Least I can do is not make their job harder.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than any speech could have.
“And besides,” he added, smirk returning with a wicked curl, “I got no plans to get shot today. Would really ruin my first day of freedom, y’know?”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Good,” you murmured.
He tilted his head, studying your face with an intensity that made your skin warm.
“Hey,” he said softly, “you ain’t gotta look so worried. I ain’t goin’ anywhere you don’t tell me to.”
“Let’s go then,” you said, mostly to distract yourself.
“Hell yes,” he replied, rubbing his hands together dramatically. “Daddy’s goin’ outside.”
“Negan.”
“What? I’m excited.”
You shook your head — but he caught the smile you failed to hide.
——
You led him up the short steps and toward the door.
Negan followed close, not crowding you, but present in a way he hadn’t been allowed to be in years.
The moment you pushed the door open, sunlight spilled across the threshold.
Negan stopped dead.
You stepped forward first, then glanced back.
He was staring at the sky.
Actually staring.
Blinking hard against the brightness.
His chest rose and fell once, sharply, like his lungs forgot how to handle air that wasn’t stale or cold or recycled off stone walls.
He took one slow, reverent step forward.
The sun hit his face fully.
And his eyes closed.
Not dramatically.
Not performative.
Just… overwhelmed.
“…Holy shit,” he breathed.
You stayed quiet, watching the moment settle into him.
After a few seconds, he cracked one eye open.
“You see this?” he said, voice cracking into something stunned and sarcastic all at once. “This big fiery bastard is STILL UP THERE. Whole damn time. Nobody told me.”
You laughed — you couldn’t help it.
He pointed up, squinting.
“I thought maybe it blew up or somethin’. Would’ve been real rude if it did.”
“Come on,” you murmured, nudging him lightly. “Let’s walk.”
“I’m savorin’,” he said, but he moved anyway, slow at first, like each step needed confirmation.
The guards — David and Carla’s — stood at a distance, watching closely. Hands near weapons. Eyes sharp.
Negan clocked them immediately.
“Ah,” he said under his breath. “My welcoming committee.”
“Behave,” you warned.
He gave a little laugh.
“Sweetheart… if I even sneeze wrong they’ll put three holes in me. I’m on my best fuckin’ behavior.”
He wasn’t lying.
He kept his shoulders loose, hands visible, steps even.
But every so often he glanced at you, like he couldn’t help it.
You walked him toward the outer yard — the area he’d only ever seen from a sliver of a window. He moved slow, taking it all in:
the chatter of people working
the scrape of tools
the smell of soil and wood
the brush of wind across his neck
It was so ordinary.
And so impossibly huge for him.
“…People really rebuilt all this,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “We did.”
He looked at you.
Expression unreadable — but warm around the edges.
“Bet you had a big hand in that.”
You shrugged. “I helped.”
“You do a lot of that, don’t you?”
His voice lowered.
“Helpin’.”
Your cheeks warmed.
You didn’t answer.
He didn’t press.
Instead, he stretched his arms above his head again until his back cracked.
“Ohhh, that’s the stuff,” he groaned. “Forgot humans were meant to MOVE.”
He took another deep breath, then shot you a sideways smirk.
“Alright, boss.”
He wiggled his brows.
“What’s first on my big day out? You got me paintin’ fences? Muckin’ stalls? Doin’ your laundry? ‘Cause I ain’t complainin’, but if you want me gettin’ on my knees we should negotiate the terms real careful-like.”
“Negan—just…”
“What?”
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a sinful rasp.
“You know I love workin’ for you.”
Your pulse jumped.
He saw it.
Of course he did.
His grin turned molten.
“This is gonna be fun,” he murmured.
And you suddenly realized:
He wasn’t the only one whose world had cracked open today.