"Space Junk" - Wang Chung

───── ⋆⋅☤⋅⋆ ─────

Cass's POV

"Good job saving the kid."

The voice comes from behind me, smooth but edged with something I can't quite place. I turn from where I had been washing my hands in the kitchen sink after Carl's surgery, my pulse already kicking up a notch.

There he is—Shane. Leaning against the kitchen counter like he owns the damn place, arms crossed, biceps straining against the sleeves of his shirt. His posture is casual, too casual. But it's the look in his eyes that makes my stomach knot.

We're alone in the farmhouse's square kitchen, the only light dim from the nearby sconces in the hallway. Lori is with her son as he recovers, and Rick and Hershel are speaking with Patricia in the living room, telling her about her husband not making it.

Clearing my throat, I focus on the man in front of me. "Thanks." I force a smile, keeping my tone even, trying to be polite to a man who could be my new group member. "Good job getting the supplies."

Shane smiles back, but it's wrong—off—like the curve of his lips forgot to invite his eyes along for the ride. There's no warmth in them. Just... calculation. An unsettling edge lingers beneath the surface, like he's weighing something, like he's measuring me.

My skin prickles.

Something about him feels familiar. Too familiar. And not in a way that gives me any comfort.

I can't put my finger on it, but it's there—nagging at the back of my mind, a quiet alarm going off that I can't ignore. The kind of instinct that's kept me alive this long.

There's something off about him.

"You shaved your head." I nod toward the freshly buzzed stubble that's replaced his former cropped hair, the words slipping out before I can stop them. Anything to fill the thickening silence.

Shane tilts his head to the side, the movement almost predatory. His eyes stay locked on mine, dark and unreadable, like he's trying to peel back my layers and see what's underneath.

"I did."

Two words. Cold. Clipped. Delivered with that same unsettling detachment as Patricia sobs in the next room. Shane doesn't flinch at the sound.

The air between us thickens, heavy with something unspoken. My instincts scream at me to walk away, to put distance between us, but I hold my ground, keeping my expression neutral even as the unease coils tighter in my chest.

The air between us tightens, heavy with unspoken tension, making the small kitchen feel too damn small. My instincts scream at me to move, to put some distance between us, but I hold my ground, keeping my expression neutral even as unease coils tighter in my gut.

I narrow my eyes, the knot in my stomach twisting with warning. Don't trust him.

"Do you have a problem with me?" My voice is steady, but the steel beneath it is impossible to miss. I cross my arms, matching his posture, refusing to let him think he can intimidate me.

His eyes flicker, sweeping down my body and back up again, slow enough that it makes my skin crawl. A wave of disgust rolls through me, but I mask it, keeping my face blank even as bile rises in my throat.

"Not at all, Cassandra," Shane drawls, his tone laced with something oily, something that makes my skin prickle. "Just wondering how you managed to wriggle your way into our group."

"Wriggled my way in?" I arch a brow, my tone sharp, cutting, surprised by the stranger's harsh words. "I found Sophia. Helped reunite her with her mother. And then I saved Carl's life." I take a step closer, heat rising in my words as I meet his stare head-on. "If you guys want me around, great. If not? Fine. But let's not pretend having a surgeon in your group is the worst thing that could happen to you."

Shane's lips curl at the edges, but there's no humor in it. Just something dark. His eyes flash with amusement, but it's the kind that makes my skin prickle—like he's enjoying this, enjoying pushing buttons to see what happens next.

He steps closer, his body crowding mine, his predatory gaze locked onto me like a damn target. I don't move. I don't flinch. But my heart pounds harder, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears.

Shane leans in, his breath brushing against my ear, and his voice drops to a murmur—low, deliberate, full of quiet menace.

"We'll see," he breathes, each syllable dripping with something that makes my stomach twist and coil like a snake preparing to strike.

Bile rises in my throat, my entire body going rigid as he lingers—too close, too long. His presence is suffocating, the weight of it pressing down on me, and just when I think I might snap, he finally pulls back and stalks off, leaving behind a chill that sticks to my skin.

Prick.

My jaw clenches, and I release a quiet, irritated growl before turning to the sink, needing something—anything—to scrub away the sour taste of that interaction. I scrub my hands harder than necessary, the soap lathering between my fingers as I mutter under my breath.

"Asshole," I murmur, rinsing my hands with a force that betrays my frustration. I hope he's the only one who sees me as a threat to the group. I thought saving Carl could've earned some trust... but I'm unsure about the group dynamics here.

"Hey."

The soft voice behind me pulls me from my thoughts, and I glance over my shoulder to see Maggie standing there, her expression warm and inviting. Hershel's daughter, maybe a few years younger than me, it seems.

"I wanted to let you know you can crash on our couch tonight," she offers, her tone casual but kind. "I figure you don't have a tent since you're new."

Relief washes over me, cutting through the tension still lingering in my chest. I grab a towel, drying my hands as I turn fully to face her, a grateful smile tugging at my lips.

"Thank you," I say sincerely, my voice softer now. "I really appreciate that."

Maggie's smile widens, her kindness radiating in a way that makes the knot in my stomach start to ease. But then she lingers, her expression shifting as a playful glint sparks in her eyes.

"So..." She crosses her arms, her lips quirking with amusement. "I heard you... kicked that guy Glenn in the balls?"

I blink. Great, got a reputation already.

A snort escapes before I can stop it, and I shake my head, the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck. "Yeah," I admit, dragging a hand down my face. "I feel pretty bad about it now, but at the time..." I trail off, my grin betraying the regret still gnawing at me. "It seemed like the right thing to do."

Maggie laughs, the sound light and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the edges. "Poor Glenn," she teases, shaking her head.

We move to the living room, and I sink into the worn couch as Maggie joins me. The conversation flows easily, a welcome distraction from the chaos that's become my life.

We trade stories—hers about the farm, the people they've lost, and mine... the bits and pieces I'm willing to share. I listen as she speaks about the Newmans after I mention them to her, the warmth in her voice dimming when she recounts their kindness, her sadness hearing about their death palpable. But there's comfort in her words, a reassurance that the kindness they showed me was who they were, through and through.

For the first time in a long time, I feel... normal. It's nice to just talk to someone who isn't myself or a thirteen-year-old girl I found in the woods.

As the night stretches on, Maggie heads off to bed, leaving me with a lingering sense of warmth I didn't know I needed. I change into an oversized shirt and a pair of shorts she lent me, the fabric soft against my skin. The couch isn't exactly luxurious, but the moment I tug a stray blanket over me and settle in, I feel more at ease than I have in weeks.

I stare at the ceiling for a while, letting the quiet wash over me. And slowly, a warmth spreads through my chest—soft and unfamiliar.

I found people.

The thought feels foreign. Strange. But it's real.

I'm no longer alone.

The loneliness that's gnawed at me for weeks has finally loosened its grip, and in its place is a sense of belonging—a fragile, delicate thing that I'm almost afraid to hold on to. But it's there.

I adjust the blanket, tucking it tighter around me, and close my eyes. A small, tentative smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I let myself sink into the quiet, feeling a safety and warmth I haven't known in far too long.

Maybe... just maybe... I can breathe again.

And with that thought, I finally drift off to sleep.

── ⋆⋅☤⋅⋆ ──

"GO! Cass, you have to go!" Sophie pleads, her voice raw and cracking, but I just shake my head violently, the tears coming faster now, blurring everything around me into a smeared nightmare.

Screams and gunfire tear through the hospital corridors, each brutal noise a spike of terror that slams into my chest. I can taste the fear, metallic and sour on my tongue. My knees threaten to buckle as I look down at Sophie, my best friend, her trembling hands clutching the wound just beneath her ribs, where she was bitten only minutes ago. Blood seeps through her scrubs, spreading in a slow, relentless stain.

The thing that bit her—the thing I killed—lies motionless a few feet away, a jagged scalpel wound punched clean through its forehead. Its lifeless, mangled face is frozen mid-snarl.

It used to be human.

I killed someone.

Oh god.

My breathing fractures into sharp, shallow gasps, panic clawing up my throat. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely form fists. I can't make sense of anything, except the sickening certainty that nothing will ever be right again.

Sophie's weak fingers graze my forearm, dragging my attention back to her. She's slumped against the sterile white wall, her brown eyes glassy but fierce, burning with a desperate, dying kind of strength.

"You. Need. To. Go," she rasps, every word a battle against the pain wracking her body.

"I can't—I can't leave you, Soph!" I cry, my voice breaking apart as I clutch her wrist, as if somehow just holding her could anchor her here. "I can't let you become one of them! Please—"

But even as I say it, the truth is already strangling me.

She's going to die.

The distant, ghastly moans of the dead grow louder, mingling with the chaos of the evacuation. I whip my head around and see them— a mass of blood-slick hospital gowns and twisted limbs shuffling toward us, their ruined faces locked onto the scent of Sophie's blood like sharks in water.

They're coming. Fast.

Sophie's eyes glisten with tears. "Please, Cass," she whispers, her voice cracking. "Go."

For a second, I just kneel there, paralyzed between two unbearable choices. Then dread settles into my bones, cold and heavy.

I know what I have to do.

"I'll go," I lie softly, my voice trembling as I tuck a lock of sweaty hair behind her ear. "I'll get help. You're gonna be okay, Soph. We're gonna be okay."

She offers a faint, grateful smile, her body sagging as the fever starts to consume her. She believes me — or maybe she just wants to. Either way, her trust guts me.

I lean in, pulling her into a desperate, shaking embrace. Her body is already growing hot and feverish against mine.

"I'm so sorry," I breathe into her ear.

With one swift, practiced motion, I slip the scalpel from my pocket and drive it clean into the back of her neck. She stiffens once, barely a sound escaping her, and then goes still, slumping limply in my arms.

I lower her to the floor gently, brushing a stray curl from her face, my chest tearing itself apart.

"Goodbye, Sophie," I whisper.

The hallway fills with the squelch of shuffling feet and the wet, hungry groans of the dead. The smell hits me next — the rotting, open wound stench of decay. They're almost here.

A choked sob bursts from my throat as I stagger to my feet, casting one last broken glance at Sophie's body. I force myself to turn away, sprinting toward the exit door like my life depends on it — because it does.

I slam through the doors, blinding daylight engulfing me in a searing wall of heat and light. For a breathless heartbeat, the world outside feels just as surreal as the nightmare behind me. I glance back instinctively—

—and see them swarming Sophie's body, tearing into her without hesitation.

I double over with a ragged cry, bile burning up my throat. I stumble across the cracked asphalt, barely making it ten feet before my legs give out. I collapse onto my hands and knees, vomiting violently, hot tears streaming down my face in endless rivers.

The grief is a physical thing, a howling, shattering weight that buries me right there in the hospital parking lot.

── ⋆⋅☤⋅⋆ ──

The morning sun greets me like an old, gentle friend, its warmth spilling over my bare arms as I step onto the creaky wooden porch. The boards groan softly under my feet, a familiar sound that somehow settles the restless knot in my chest. I fold my arms across my tank top, letting the light and the quiet moment sink in.

The farmhouse looks different in the daylight — softer, almost timeless, as if untouched by everything that's gone wrong outside these borders. My breath catches when I lift my gaze beyond it. Endless, sprawling fields stretch out in every direction, their emerald waves rippling in the soft breeze. A dense wall of forest encircles the land like a living fortress, protective and watchful.

Across the dirt driveway, where the old pickup Shane brought back last night sits caked in dust, there's something new — a battered RV tucked beneath a cluster of trees. A few canvas tents have sprung up around it, their bright colors a small, stubborn defiance against the fear that clings to the world.

It must be the group's camp.

"Hey. Morning, doctor," a familiar voice lilts from behind me.

I flinch slightly at the sound, heart skipping before I turn to see Lori standing there, the sunlight painting her in a soft, golden glow. She looks different this morning — lighter, less burdened — a tired but genuine smile curving her lips.

"Morning," I murmur, returning her smile, small and tentative, giving a slight nod as she steps up beside me. Together, we look out over the makeshift camp.

"I bet Dale's already got somethin' cookin' over there," Lori says, her voice light with a trace of teasing. "Maybe you could come meet the rest."

She slips her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, cocking her head as she glances sideways at me, her brows raised in quiet invitation.

I blink, momentarily caught off guard. "I... I wouldn't want to impose," I breathe, the words feeling heavy in my mouth.

Where do I stand now?

I'm not one of the Greene family. I'm not really part of Sophia's group either. I'm just... caught somewhere in between, hovering on the edge of belonging, desperate for a place but too uncertain to reach for it.

Lori's head tilts a little further, her hazel eyes scanning my face with a warmth that feels almost too much to take. She smiles — soft, patient, understanding.

"Hon, you saved my son's life last night. And you found Sophia," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. I duck my head, suddenly sheepish, my fingers drifting up to scratch the back of my neck. The praise feels too big, too heavy, compared to what I feel gnawing inside.

"Havin' a bit of breakfast isn't imposing," Lori adds, laughing gently, the sound lifting some of the weight from the moment.

I exhale a slow breath, feeling the knot of tension inside me loosen just a little. A reluctant, grateful smile creeps onto my lips.

"Alright then," I concede, shifting my weight, feeling awkward under the sudden attention but warmed by it too.

I glance back toward the screen door, half-expecting to see Rick trailing after Lori. "Are your boys not coming?" I ask, voice soft, wondering if maybe she'll just grab them food instead. But I figure Rick isn't the type of man to let his wife go grab him food.

Lori smiles again, a little wistful this time. "No, they're still sleepin'. Figured I'd let 'em rest." She hesitates, a crease forming between her brows. "Unless you think...?"

I shake my head quickly, reassuring. "No, no. They need the rest. It's good. Carl can't be out of bed anyway."

Relief flickers across Lori's face, softening the worry that briefly crossed it. "Perfect, then," she says brightly, her voice lighter as she gives a small nod.

Without another word, she turns, leading the way down the porch steps. I fall into step beside her, the morning grass brushing damp against our boots as we cross the open field. The air is crisp and clean, carrying the mouthwatering scent of something frying over an open flame — rich and savory, a promise of warmth and comfort that makes my stomach stir with sudden, embarrassing hunger.

Ahead, thin wisps of smoke spiral lazily into the brightening sky from a small campfire tucked near the RV. As we draw closer, I see an older man by the fire, kind-faced, sun-weathered, methodically plating food onto a stack of plastic plates. Scrambled eggs, the color a little too bright to be real, and thick slabs of spam, sizzling and caramelized at the edges.

A loose circle of battered lawn chairs surrounds the campfire, forming a casual gathering space. The first to notice us is Shane, his sharp eyes locking onto Lori with an intensity that feels too heavy for the morning light. His gaze flickers briefly to me, guarded.

Noticing him stir, the others look up too.

T-Dog sits slouched in one of the chairs, his arm heavily bandaged, but he offers me a smile that eases a bit of the tension knotting my shoulders. Beside him, Glenn, nods at me around a mouthful of eggs, giving a sheepish, friendly wave with his fork.

Against the side of the RV, a blonde woman is leaning against it, methodically cleaning the barrel of a pistol. Andrea. Her blue eyes meet mine briefly, cold, wary, and she sends a pointed glare in my direction, a clear reminder that she hasn't forgotten how we first met. I can't blame her.

Before I can linger on it, a sudden movement catches my eye.

"Cassie!"

A small figure launches out of one of the lawn chairs, barreling toward me with open arms. Sophia.

I let out a surprised, soft laugh, catching her easily as she wraps her arms tight around my middle. Her hair smells faintly of campfire smoke and something sweeter underneath—her mother's perfume i assume.

"Hey, freckles," I grin, smoothing a hand gently over her back.

The older woman who had been seated beside her rises stiffly to her feet. Her face, delicate and heart-shaped, though etched with deep worry lines, twists with emotion as she walks toward me, eyes shining with tears she seems barely able to hold back.

Carol. It has to be.

"Cassandra, right?" she asks, her voice trembling, almost breaking. I nod, throat tightening against the swell of feeling rising inside me.

Sophia steps back, beaming up at me with unabashed adoration. Carol reaches out with both hands, her touch tentative for half a second before she pulls me into a fierce, trembling hug.

"Thank you," she whispers, her voice raw against my ear. "Thank you so much."

I blink in surprise, stiff for a moment before I hug her back, awkward but sincere. "Y-yeah," I breathe out, the words catching in my throat. "It's no problem. Really. I just... I did what anyone would've done."

Carol pulls back slightly, cupping Sophia's shoulder protectively with one hand as she sniffs hard, struggling to compose herself. Tears glitter in her eyes, unashamed.

"No," Carol says, voice cracking with the weight of her emotion. "You saved my baby. I... I thought—" Her words break off. She shakes her head helplessly, swallowing hard against the sob that threatens to rise, and draws Sophia closer against her side, wrapping her arms around her daughter like she's something fragile and irreplaceable. She presses her lips to Sophia's hair, breathing her in as if to reassure herself she's real. "Thank you," she says again, voice thick with the kind of gratitude that can't be neatly put into words.

I nod, swallowing against the tightness in my own throat. I smile, or try to, but it feels brittle, fragile, like it might snap under the weight of everyone's eyes on me. "Of course," I murmur hoarsely, my voice barely carrying over the soft crackle of the fire. There's nothing else to say that won't feel clumsy or inadequate.

For a moment, the air between us is heavy and still.

Then Dale's voice rises from near the fire, easy and bright like a match striking against the dark.

"Well, I can't think of anyone better to have in our group. A surgeon!" he calls, his fisherman's hat tipped back on his head, his smile wide and genuine. The warmth in his voice cuts through the tension, gives it somewhere to go.

I chuckle sheepishly, the sound escaping before I can help it. I reach up, scratching the back of my neck, a nervous tell I haven't shaken since med school, feeling the self-conscious flush creeping up my skin. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Shane watching, his gaze sharp and assessing, flickering briefly from Lori to me and back again. Andrea barely looks up from cleaning her pistol, leaning against the RV, and her mouth flattens into a thin, unimpressed line.

Not everyone here is convinced.

And maybe they're right not to be.

"Here you go, Doc," Dale beams, stepping closer to hand me a flimsy plastic plate loaded with powdered eggs and a thick, greasy slab of spam. The food steams in the cool morning air, carrying the unmistakable smell of campfire and cheap meat.

"Hope you like spam," he adds with a wink.

I huff out another weak laugh, grateful for the easy kindness even if I don't know how to accept it fully yet. I take the plate and plastic fork, muttering a thank you, and the weight of the food in my hands feels oddly unreal. It's been so long since I sat down to eat without constantly scanning for danger, without one ear tuned for the sound of footsteps—or worse.

Nearby, Lori mumbles a quick excuse, her hand brushing her mouth as she turns and walks briskly toward one of the tents. I glance after her for a moment, but refocus on the group around the fire.

Balancing my plate carefully, I find a spot beside Carol and Sophia. Carol offers me a watery smile, still holding Sophia close, as if the girl might vanish if she let go.

The breakfast, for all its simplicity, is one of the most comforting meals I've had in a long time. Between mouthfuls, I start to relax. It's strange, and terrifying, how easy it is to fall into normalcy when your brain is starved for it. Glenn jokes about his past as a pizza delivery guy, and I can't help but grin.

"A pizza guy, huh?" I tease, bumping my shoulder lightly against his. "Real apocalypse-ready skill set."

Glenn laughs sheepishly. "Yeah, well, surgeons are just glorified psychopaths," he mutters, not missing a beat.

I almost choke on my instant coffee, laughter bubbling up—raw and real, tearing loose something tight in my chest. I can't remember the last time I laughed without feeling guilty for it.

Maybe I still should.

The meal winds down. People drift back toward their chores, their tents, their guns. I stand, dusting off my jeans, the last sips of burnt coffee still warm in my stomach.

"Thanks, Dale," I say, meaning it in more ways than I can name.

The friendly man tips his hat with a twinkle in his eye. "Glad to have you, Doc."

The smile I give him is softer this time, easier.

Plate and cup discarded in a trash bag hanging from the side of the RV, I turn and make my way back toward the farmhouse to check on Carl, the warm afterglow of coffee and human connection lingering in my chest.

The hinges groan softly as I ease the door to Carl's room open, careful not to make a sound.

Inside, the midday light slants through the curtains in soft, dusty beams, painting everything in a muted gold.

Rick is slumped over the side of the bed, half-sitting in the chair beside it, half-collapsed, his head bowed between his folded arms as if he meant to stay awake and lost the fight. Carl lies sprawled above him by the pillows, his small body curled, his father's sheriff's hat drooping over his face, too big for him by a mile.

A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it — something small and aching. Adorable.

I step closer on quiet feet, each board under me seeming to creak louder than it should. I kneel carefully at Carl's bedside, reaching for the stethoscope draped around my neck, and gently, so gently, take his vitals—blood pressure, pulse, respirations—counting under my breath like a prayer.

Carl's skin feels cooler to the touch, the flush of fever gone. His pulse taps a steady, healthy rhythm against my fingertips. Relief blooms through my chest, warm and deep.

He's a strong kid—the smile that flickers across my mouth falters almost immediately. He's going to have to be, if he's going to survive in this world.

Swallowing the tight knot in my throat, I shift my attention to Rick.

He hasn't moved a muscle since I came in. Up close, I notice some color has returned to his face, but it's not enough—he still looks pale, drawn around the edges. He gave too much blood yesterday without a second thought, and now his body's definitely paying the price.

My heart bumps a little harder against my ribs as I study him. He's so still.

Almost too still.

Anxiety needles through me. Before I can overthink it, I reach out, careful and tentative, and curl my fingers around his wrist, angling it just enough to find the pulse point. His skin is warm beneath mine, a contrast to my always cold hands that sends a jolt up my arm. I press two fingers against the hollow just under his palm, holding my breath as I wait.

A beat. Another. His pulse throbs steady and slow under my fingertips—alive, strong. Completely fine. I sag slightly in relief, a quiet breath escaping my lips.

I start to lower his wrist back down, careful not to wake him, when suddenly the muscles under my hand tense.

My eyes snap up, locking straight into his—those piercing blue eyes, vivid even in the dim light. Rick's awake, watching me with a quiet, unsettling steadiness, exhaustion etched deep into every line of his face but doing nothing to dull the sharp focus in his gaze.

Shit.

I jerk my hand back instinctively, heat flaring up my neck and flooding into my cheeks as I drop his wrist gently onto the bed. My fingers fidget uselessly at my sides, my mind scrambling for something—anything—to cover the sheer mortification blooming inside me. I force a tight, sheepish smile, feeling my cheeks burn hotter by the second.

"Sorry about that," I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper, to make sure not to wake Carl, still thick with awkwardness. "I was just...checking your pulse."

Rick's mouth curves into a soft, tired smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly with amusement. His small chuckle rumbles low in his chest—warm, easy—and does absolutely nothing to help the wildfire spreading across my skin. He nods, slow and unbothered, like finding me hovering over him, touching him, is the most normal thing in the world.

God help me, I'm in trouble.

"You—uh, you thought I was dead?" Rick asks, a glint of teasing flickering behind the roughness of his voice, his blue eyes fixed on me with a focus that feels far too intense for someone who's just woken up.

I internally groan, wishing I could sink through the floor. My stomach flips wildly as I try—and fail—to ignore how the curve of his grin is making me dizzy. I let out a strained laugh, awkward and shrill, sounding more like a strangled animal than anything resembling a functioning adult.

"No, I—uh, you just looked a little pale, and after giving so much blood yesterday, I thought—" I stop myself before I can dig the hole any deeper, my words tumbling over each other in a mad rush. I force a breath, trying to explain, trying to justify how ridiculous I must look.

Rick just smiles, easy and unbothered, his laughter soft but genuine. "It's alright," he says, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Lori's told me for years that I sleep like a corpse."

I blink—then, almost without meaning to, a real smile tugs at my lips, small but sincere, loosening the tightness knotted inside my chest. The tension binding my chest loosens, just a little, replaced by something lighter, almost shy. I was right. He does have a nice laugh. The kind that settles into your bones before you realize it.

"Right, good," I say with a chuckle, feeling a little breathless with relief. "Glad I'm not alone there."

I turn away under the flimsy excuse of gathering my supplies, the soft clatter of metal on metal filling the quiet. My hands are steadier now, but I can still feel the ghost of the moment—his pulse under my fingertips, the sharpness of his gaze—as if it's been branded into my skin.

"I was just coming in to check Carl's vitals," I explain over my shoulder, risk a glance back at him, "Sorry to wake you."

Rick waves off the apology with a casual flick of his hand, his movements still stiff with sleep. He stretches, scrubbing a broad hand across his jaw before dragging his watch into view, squinting at it with a small grimace. "No need to apologize," he says around a wide yawn, the sound low and unguarded. "Should've been up by now anyway."

His voice is rough, warm, edged with sleep—wraps around the room, filling the tiny spaces between us. It's disarming in a way I'm not prepared for.

Outside the window, the early afternoon light is thinning into a muted gold, brushing over the lines of his face, the tired set of his mouth. Somehow, it makes him look softer. More real than last night in the harsh light of the room right before Carl's surgery.

Rick's gaze shifts, landing on Carl's sleeping form curled between us, and something in his posture changes—shoulders rounding protectively, hand moving instinctively to Carl's.

"Is he doing alright?" he asks, voice dipped low like he's afraid to wake his boy even now.

"Yeah," I answer, my smile blooming again, steadier this time. "He's doing great. His vitals are steadily climbing back to normal. Fever's broken. He's a tough little guy."

I watch the relief wash over his features, softening the tension in his shoulders. Rick leans forward slightly, gripping Carl's small hand in his own with a kind of gentleness that guts me.

"The moment he was shot—it...it felt like...like I was the one dying," Rick says, voice rougher now, cracking around the edges. His head bows, his thumb stroking absently over Carl's knuckles. Vulnerability rolls off him in waves, raw and unguarded. My heart twists painfully in my chest, aching for the weight he carries.

I want to say something—God, anything—but before I can, he looks up, something steady and fierce flickering in the blue depths of his eyes.

"Thank you," he says quietly, with a kind of raw earnestness that makes my throat tighten. "You saved his life. And Sophia's too."

The words hit deeper than I expect. My heart thuds once, hard, a mixture of nerves and something warmer I don't dare name yet stirring inside me.

Rick holds my gaze, unwavering, as he speaks again, his voice low but certain. "If you want to stay—be a part of this group—you're more than welcome. We could use a person like you."

For a second, I just stare at him, caught off guard by the weight of the offer—the genuine hope flickering beneath his exhaustion. That small seed of hope I'd been guarding so carefully, so quietly, now bursts into something real and bright inside me.

A slow, uncontainable smile spreads across my face.

"Can't say no to an offer like that," I breathe with a sheepish smile, taking a bracing breath.

I don't know what tomorrow will look like. I don't know what kind of broken world waits for us outside these walls. But standing here—watching Rick smile back at me, quiet and a little crooked—I know one thing for certain:

I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

── ⋆⋅☤⋅⋆ ──

Rick's POV

"Blessed be God, Father of our Lord, Jesus Christ," Hershel's voice rumbles, deep and steady, flowing over the hum of cicadas in the heavy summer air. His words drift like a soft wave across the land, the heat of the day pressing down on us like a thick blanket.

I stand between Shane and Lori, my hand resting on my hip, head bowed in reverence. Thanks to some cold eggs and spam from the breakfast I missed and some orange juice our new doctor insisted I drink, I can now stand without feeling lightheaded.

The weight of the service is heavier than any burden I've carried in days—maybe weeks—and yet, I force myself to listen, to respect the moment, even if the sight of Otis' grave twists something inside me.

"Praise be to Him, for the gift of our brother Otis."

I swallow hard, the words settling into my chest like a stone. Otis... The man who shot my son. The man who sacrificed everything to help save him. I feel the weight of his death differently now, with the understanding that it wasn't his fault. It was a hunting accident. One that almost cost my son's life and then did cost Otis' life.

The cicadas drone louder, drowning out my thoughts for a brief moment, then settling into the silence that follows Hershel's words.

"For his span of years, for his abundance of character, Otis. Who gave his life to save a child." Hershel's voice trembles slightly, the weight of grief still fresh, and I can see the strain on Maggie's face, her eyes red-rimmed as she leans into Patricia. My stomach tightens again at the thought of Carl—my boy—lying in that bed after the shooting, his life hanging in the balance.

I glance down at the ground, forcing the emotions back, even though they flood me like a wave—relief, guilt, a strange sort of gratitude. Otis did what needed to be done. He gave his life to save Carl. To give Hershel and Cassandra the tools they needed to perform surgery. I know that's the truth, but it doesn't stop the gnawing ache in my chest.

"We thank you, God, for the peace he enjoys in your embrace. He died as he lived. In grace," Hershel finishes, his voice softer now, as the entire group stands still, their silence filling the air. Maggie's quiet sniffle breaks the stillness, and I glance toward her, my heart heavy with the weight of this family's grief. It was Otis' choice to stay behind. To give it all for Carl.

The sound of shuffling feet draws my attention back to the present, and I turn to look at Shane. He's standing stiff, the sleeves of Otis' old overalls rolled up, his jaw clenched tight. The lines on his face are sharp, a clear sign of the discomfort he's feeling.

"Shane? Will you speak for Otis?" Hershel asks, his voice heavy with the unspoken weight of this moment. Shane hesitates, his posture stiffening even more, and I feel it too—the pressure of the group's eyes, waiting for him to say something meaningful.

He shakes his head, his lips curling in a grimace. "Not good at it. I'm sorry."

"You were the last one with 'im," Patricia speaks up, her voice a heartbreaking trembling as she looks at Shane pleadingly. "You shared his final moments. Please. I need to hear."

I slowly look at my friend, silently willing him to do it, no matter how uncomfortable he may be. Come on, Shane.

"I need to know his death had meaning." Patricia continues, her voice barely a whisper, and I can hear the desperation in it. It's enough to break something inside Shane.

His nostrils flare, his jaw tightening as his eyes shift, distant and clouded with memory. He's gone somewhere else, into that moment with Otis. I can see the hurt in his expression, the rawness of it—he's reliving it now, the pain and fear, the confusion of it all. I can feel it, too.

"We were about done," Shane begins, his voice low and rough, barely more than a rasp. He swallows hard, trying to steady himself, and I can see the muscles in his neck twitch as he fights to keep it together. "Almost out of ammo, we were down to pistols by then. I was limpin', it was bad, ankle all swollen up." His voice cracks on the last word, a tremor running through him that he can't mask.

In the corner of my eye, I notice Cassandra, standing across from Shane, near Dale. Her eyes flicker down to his ankles, scanning him with the instinct of a doctor—focused, attentive. It's a quick glance, a silent evaluation, as if she's mentally cataloging the injury, considering how to treat it. Something about that makes a strange warmth unfurl in my chest. There's something about the way she's so attuned to the needs of the people around her. She's a good person, I can feel it, in my gut.

I focus back on my best friend, my heart aching at the pain in his expression and voice. I wish I could've been there. Could've been useful. I feel a surge of gratitude for Shane, he went through all of that for my son.

"We gotta save the boy." Shane's voice cracks on the words, making Lori, standing beside me, glance up at him, her expression tense. Shane's face tightens, and I see it—he's fighting against something deep inside him. "See, that's what he said," Shane continues, his voice thick with emotion. "He gave me his backpack. Shoved me ahead. 'Run!' He said. 'I'll—'"

His voice catches again, raw with emotion, and he shakes his head, trying to steady himself. His hands twitch at his sides, as if trying to hold on to something solid, something to anchor him in the moment. "I'll take the rear. I'll cover you."

"Then, when I looked back..." Shane's eyes glaze over, distant, as if he's seeing it all again, that moment etched into his memory like a scar. His brows furrow, and his mouth opens slightly, but the words falter, caught in the rawness of what he's just said.

My gut tightens, and something dark stirs in my chest. I can't shake the feeling that what Shane's carrying is more than just guilt.

Shane's eyes flick back to Patricia, who's watching him intently, her hand pressed to her mouth, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her body shakes with the quiet sobs she can't seem to control.

Shane doesn't speak again, simply limps forward on his bad feet, his feet shuffling loudly on the grass. "If not for Otis, I woulda never made it out alive. That goes for Carl, too." Shane calls out, grabbing a rock from the pile, as Jimmy did. We all watch him, and for a moment, even Dale's gaze is locked on Shane, studying him. "It was Otis. He saved us both."

The group remains silent, the weight of Shane's words settling over us like a blanket. Patricia's quiet whimpers and sniffles break the stillness, but even Daryl, who has quietly emerged from wherever he's been hiding, stands motionless, his gaze fixed on Shane. It's rare to see him this still, this solemn.

"If any death had meaning," Shane says roughly, his voice thick with emotion, as he places the rock on Otis' pile. His eyes turn to the group, searching, pleading for us to understand. "It was his."

We all nod, absorbing his solemn words. But for the life of me, I can't figure out why a chill runs down my spine as I look into Shane's eyes.

───── ⋆⋅☤⋅⋆ ─────

A/N: Something that always makes me giggle is showing TWD to my friend for the first time, and she was like "aw I love this Otis guy, he better not die" and I was sitting there like.... bad news queen HAHA
I hoped you liked the chapter lovelies, ily forever <3