Chapter 13 - Ella

The sky was darkening as I made my way to the front door, the cool evening air brushing against my skin. I hesitated for a moment before reaching for the doorknob, the weight of the evening pressing down on me. My heart gave a slight lurch as I turned back to the living room, eyes finding Carl, who was sprawled out on the couch.

I took a deep breath before speaking, my voice soft but laced with concern. "The girls are asleep. Both have been fed, and both were changed before I laid them down. Ian's asleep too, and he shouldn't wake up. Are you sure you're okay with them?"

Carl gave me a long-suffering look, rolling his eyes as he slowly laid back on the couch. A comic book was propped up on his lap, the pages flicking back and forth as he casually skimmed them. "Yes, El," he sighed, clearly irritated by the repeated questions. "If they cry, I'll pick them up. If Ian wakes up, I'll put him back to bed. I'll be fine. I've babysat Judy more times than I can count. Go to the meeting."

I chewed anxiously on my bottom lip, still unsure. "There's snacks and stuff in the kitchen if you get hungry. If they don't settle or if Ian wakes up and won't go back to sleep, ask one of the neighbors to come find me. Okay?"

Carl let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatically dropping his head back against the couch. "Stop worrying and go," he muttered, glancing up at me with a roll of his eyes. "I'm a teenager, not an idiot. Go."

I couldn't help but smile at his response, though it was tinged with frustration. I opened my mouth to say something else, but instead let out a heavy sigh. "Fine. Fine, I'm going," I said, resigning myself to the fact that he would be just fine without me. "Take care of them, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Carl grumbled, returning his attention to his comic book as I turned to leave.

I stepped out of the house, the cool night air biting at my skin as I pulled my sweatshirt tighter around me. The streets were quieter than usual, but my mind buzzed with the upcoming meeting. The uncertainty of what was to come gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside, focusing on the task ahead.

When I reached Deanna's house, I could see the flickering light of a fire casting long shadows on the ground. The warm glow was comforting, but the unease still lingered. I approached Michonne, who was standing near the fire, and gave her a small smile. Several others had already gathered around, sitting in chairs, their voices low as they whispered amongst themselves. My eyes scanned the group, and I couldn't help but notice that Rick still wasn't here.

"Where's Rick?" I whispered to Michonne, trying to keep my voice steady.

Michonne's expression tightened slightly, her brow furrowing as she glanced around, clearly frustrated. "No idea," she whispered back, her voice laced with irritation. "I told him not to be late. But will that man listen to anybody? No."

I nodded in understanding, but something about her tone made my stomach flip. I knew Rick had his own way of doing things, but it didn't ease the knot forming in my gut. Was he avoiding this meeting? Or was something else keeping him away?

I shifted uncomfortably on my feet, eyes scanning the group again, as I tried to focus on the present, trying to push away the worry that was starting to creep in.

"We're going to start." Deanna's voice broke through the murmurs of the crowd, and the audience quieted.

People began to shuffle to their seats, but Maggie, Michonne, and I remained standing.

"Can we wait?" Maggie asked, her voice edged with a quiet urgency as she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "Glenn and Rick are still coming."

"We are going to start," Deanna responded, her tone firm, the kind that brooked no argument. "It's already dark. We're going to talk about what happened. Not the fight, not what caused it. We're dealing with that."

She paused, eyes scanning the crowd, evaluating each face. Her gaze was sharp, cutting through the crowd like a hawk looking for its prey.

"We will be talking about one of our constables. Rick Grimes," Deanna continued, her voice steady. "We will be talking about how he had a pistol that he stole from the armory, about how he pointed it at people. And we will be talking about what he said. I was hoping he would be here."

"Was she though?" I whispered to Michonne, my voice low enough for only her to hear. Michonne sighed, a deep exhale that seemed to say more than words could express, and she shook her head.

"Maggie just said he's coming," Michonne responded, her voice level, but the edge of frustration barely masked by a smile.

"I'm sure he'll be here." Carol's voice chimed in, sweet as honey, but there was something calculating in her tone. "And I'm positive we can work this all out."

I turned my attention to her, studying the way she held herself—calm, collected, every movement careful. The soft smile on her face was the picture of the nonthreatening housewife, a woman who seemed harmless, unassuming. She wore the kind of pastel sweater and floral scarf that made her blend seamlessly into the background of any normal community gathering. Yet there was something else, something I couldn't quite place. I'd seen it before, the way she controlled a room without ever raising her voice. It was a skill, a manipulation, and it was impossible to ignore.

Daryl had noticed, hadn't he? Had he picked up on the way Carol wove a different story for the people of Alexandria, one that had nothing to do with the truth of who she really was? She played the part of the harmless, sweet-natured woman who had been through hell and back and just wanted peace. But I knew better.

She had told us that she had been telling stories since we came here. At first, I hadn't known whether to believe her—whether to trust that the woman who seemed so soft and unassuming was hiding something far more dangerous underneath. But watching her now, watching the way she held the crowd, how she kept that carefully constructed smile on her face as she subtly controlled the narrative... I had no doubt anymore.

Carol wasn't the sweet, quiet housewife people saw. No, she was something far more dangerous. She was a survivor. And what she was doing now was telling a story—her story. To anyone who didn't know her, it was flawless, believable, and made her look like someone who could do no wrong. The way she tilted her head ever so slightly, the slight pause before her words, the way her hands moved so gracefully—every action was part of the performance. She was playing everyone, weaving a web so intricate that if you weren't paying attention, you'd never even see it coming.

I felt a small chill run down my spine as I watched her. There was nothing accidental in the way she spoke. Nothing careless in the way she moved. She was making sure that every person saw exactly what she wanted them to see, and no one would question it.

I glanced at Michonne, meeting her eyes. She must have noticed too—the way Carol had shifted, the way she had become someone entirely different from who we had first met. No longer just a grieving mother. Now she was a woman in control, a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.

I couldn't help but admire her, even if it made my stomach twist. She was dangerous in the best way possible, and for the first time since coming here, I realized just how deadly she could be.

The cold air stung my face as I stepped forward, the fire crackling in the pit behind me, offering little warmth against the chill. I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, trying to shake the unease that had settled in my stomach. I could feel the weight of the eyes on me—expectant, judgmental. The people of Alexandria had no idea what it was like out there, in the wild, in the chaos.

"Listen, I know this has all been jarring for a lot of you," I began, my voice steady, but carrying the weight of the truth I needed them to hear. "Seeing Rick react the way he did—it's considered uncivilized to you. But to us? It's survival. Out there, beyond these walls, it's kill or be killed. There's no time for second guessing, no time for thinking twice. You're constantly forced to adapt, to make decisions that seem... monstrous, but are necessary. Here, in Alexandria, there's a society. A community. But out there? When you have nothing, and no one to rely on... it's hard to come back from that."

Michonne stepped up beside me, her presence grounding, her face set in that familiar calm but deadly expression. The firelight flickered on her dark skin, and for a brief moment, she almost looked like a shadow. "And after being out there, then coming back here, to a place like this—it can make you feel like you don't fit. You don't know how to act anymore. Rick's reaction wasn't just about what happened last night. It's about the trauma. It's about him wanting to keep you all safe. He just wants his family to live. He wants all of you to live. But the truth is, who he is now, that's who you're all going to be if you're lucky."

The fire crackled again, the light dancing around us, casting long, flickering shadows on the patio. The wind picked up, making the fire seem like the only thing standing between us and the harsh world outside the walls.

Carol, wrapped in a blanket that barely shielded her from the cold, stood slowly from where she had been seated near the fire. She trembled slightly, but I knew it was all part of her act. It was hard not to be impressed. She was playing them so well, and she knew exactly what to say.

"Rick Grimes has saved my life over and over again," she said, her voice steady, but with that sweet, almost too perfect tone. "There are terrifying people out there. And he rescued me from them."

I bit back a snort, but I could feel the skepticism rising in my chest. Carol had never been 'rescued.' Not from anything except the walkers. But she was laying it on thick, and I couldn't deny that it was working. She was making herself seem helpless, in need of protection, and to these people, that made her trustworthy.

"People like me, people like us," she continued, looking around at the group with that same vulnerable, sincere expression, "need people like him. I know what happened last night was scary. And I'm sure Rick's sorry for how things went down. But maybe we should listen to what he was trying to say. He's been through hell, and he's doing the best he can to protect us. Maybe that's worth hearing."

There was a lull in the air, a heavy silence that hung over the crowd like a thick fog. I stood back, watching as the people of Alexandria processed our words, trying to figure out what they thought, what they believed. I could only hope that our stories were enough, that we had convinced them to give Rick another chance. Because if they didn't? We would leave. And we would survive, even if it meant doing it alone.

I watched Carol carefully, her calm demeanor the perfect contrast to the tension in the air. She wasn't just playing a part—she was controlling it, making everyone see exactly what she wanted them to. I couldn't help but be in awe of how effortless she made it look, even as it was so clearly calculated. This woman was a force to be reckoned with. And if anyone could convince these people to let Rick stay, it was her.

"I'll put it real simple for you," Abraham said, his voice rough, as he pushed himself off the brick retaining wall and straightened to his full height. "There's a vast ocean of shit you people don't know a damn thing about. Rick knows every single grain of that shit... and then some."

Maggie, who had been quiet for a moment, finally spoke up, her voice calm but firm. "My father respected Rick Grimes," she said, addressing the crowd. Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, I couldn't help but hang my head at the thought of Hershel. The man who had been there for the birth of my daughter, the man who had married Daryl and I, the man who had opened his farm to a group of strangers in need. The memory of him was bittersweet. "Rick is a father, too. He's a man with a good heart who feels the weight of what he does, and the things he has to do." She paused, her gaze sweeping across the people before continuing, "And all of us who were together before this place, no matter when we found each other—no matter how we found each other—are family now. Rick started that. And you won't stop it. You can't. You don't want to."

Her voice hardened, and she fixed Deanna with an unwavering stare. "This community, you people... that family, that's what you all should want to be a part of. Because it's more than a place. It's something worth fighting for."

There was a pregnant silence before Deanna took a few careful steps forward, the firelight flickering across her face, casting shadows that danced across her features. She looked for a moment like she was trying to decide what to say.

"Before we hear from anyone else, I'd like—no, I need—to share something with all of you," Deanna said, her voice steady but her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She took a deep, almost exaggerated breath, clearly steeling herself for whatever was coming next. "Father Gabriel came to see me the day before yesterday. He said our new arrivals can't be trusted." The words stung me like a slap in the face. Gabriel, that weaselly coward. He'd never liked how we did things—how Rick did things—so he tattled on us like a child. A wave of anger rolled through me as Deanna spoke, the familiar sense of betrayal rising in my chest.

"Father Gabriel said that we would put ourselves before this community." Deanna continued, shaking her head slightly. "And not even a day later, Rick seemed to demonstrate everything Father Gabriel had warned me about." She exhaled sharply, her frustration palpable. "I had hoped that Father Gabriel would be here tonight. I had hoped he could speak for himself."

The mention of Gabriel made the air even heavier with tension, and Jessie spoke up then, her voice quiet but full of the same quiet fire. She was standing off to the side, her eyes haunted but defiant, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy as I noticed the bruise blooming under her eye. It made my stomach twist, but it also made me think—Rick hadn't been the only one suffering in this mess. Pete had hurt her. I felt less guilty for what Rick had done to him.

"I don't see him here, Deanna," Jessie said, her voice sharp as she met Deanna's gaze. "So you're really just repeating something someone said? Did you tape him, too?"

Maggie chimed in then, her voice just as firm. "He's not here."

"Neither is Rick," Deanna pointed out, her tone suddenly more defensive, almost petulant, as though she was grasping at the words she had left.

Maggie sighed softly, her shoulders slumping as she took the opportunity to leave the patio. A heavy silence settled over the crowd gathered around the fire. The air was thick with tension, and for a few moments, nobody spoke. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of clothing in the cold evening air.

Then, Tobin, one of the Alexandrians, stood up, his movements stiff as he cleared his throat.

"I just want to keep my family safe," he said, his voice tense. "And if that means getting rid of—"

His words were cut off by the sound of the gate opening with a creak. The crowd went silent, all eyes turning toward the man entering. Covered in blood.

Rick.

He walked forward with a purpose, carrying a body over his shoulder. His face, hair, and hands were smeared with dark, rotten blood. The smell hit me like a punch in the gut before he even reached the fire, and I saw the horror and fear flicker across the faces of the Alexandrians. They instinctively took a step back, but Rick didn't acknowledge them. He simply walked up to the fire and dropped the body onto the ground with a grunt.

The group stayed frozen. I could feel the weight of the moment settling over the patio like a heavy fog.

"There wasn't a guard on the gate," Rick growled, his voice rough and low. "It was left open."

Spencer stood up quickly, his face pale, and walked over to his mother's side. "I asked Gabriel to close it," he said, his voice shaky.

"Go," Deanna said firmly, her tone brokering no argument. Spencer didn't hesitate. He turned and walked off without another word.

Rick took a step closer to the body, his boots crunching softly on the gravel as he faced the group. His eyes swept across them, steady and intense.

"I didn't bring it in," Rick said, his voice deep and filled with conviction. "It got inside on its own. They always will. The dead, the living... because we're in here. And the ones out there? They'll hunt us. They'll find us and try to use us. They'll try to kill us."

The crowd stood still, absorbing his words. The fire flickered in the background, casting long shadows on the ground. The wind picked up, but no one moved. Rick paused, letting the gravity of his message sink in.

"But we will kill them. We can survive. I can show you how," he continued, his voice growing firmer. "My people can show you how."

He glanced at Deanna and Reg, who were standing off to the side. Then he turned back to the crowd, his expression hardening.

"You know," Rick said, his voice slightly quieter but no less intense, "I was thinking—how many of you do I have to kill to save your lives?" He let the question hang in the air for a long moment, his gaze unflinching. "But I'm not going to do that. You are going to change. You have to. You're not ready, but you have to be. Right now. You have to be. Luck runs out."

The night was heavy with Rick's words. The firelight danced across the faces of the people around him, their expressions unreadable. I could feel the tension, the weight of what was at stake. I only hoped that they were finally hearing him, that they were starting to understand what we had all been through, what Rick had been trying to teach them.

"You're not one of us!" Pete's voice cracked through the tension in the air as he stood at the edge of the crowd. His eyes were locked onto Rick, his grip tight around something, but it wasn't until he raised it that I saw—Michonne's sword, the blade glinting in the firelight. "You're not one of us!"

Reg moved quickly, stepping in front of Pete with his hands up, trying to hold him back. "Pete, you don't want to do this!" Reg's voice was strained, pleading, but there was a desperation in Pete's eyes that told me he wasn't listening.

"Get the hell away from me, Reg!" Pete snarled, his voice low and venomous, eyes still fixed on Rick like he was a predator and Rick was the prey.

"Pete, just stop!" Reg's hands pushed against Pete's chest, trying to force him back, but Pete wasn't budging. He was a freight train, charging forward, his face twisted in rage.

My heart pounded in my chest as I watched Rick shift, his hand twitching towards his belt, where I knew he kept his gun. I took a quick step towards him, grabbing his arm and pulling him back slightly. "Not now," I whispered urgently.

Rick glanced down at me, his gaze focused, tense. He nodded once, the weight of the situation settling between us.

"Reg!" Deanna cried out, her voice high with panic. She watched her husband so close to the blade, terror flashing across her face. "Reg!"

Pete's arm jerked forward as he raised the sword higher, his grip on the hilt white-knuckled. My stomach turned as I saw the blade gleam in the firelight. I could feel the air tightening around us. It was all happening too fast.

"Get away from me!" Pete spat, his voice raw with fury. His hands came up to Reg's chest, shoving him with force. Reg stumbled back, but Pete didn't stop—he pressed forward, the sword now dangerously close.

With a sickening swish, Pete drove the blade into Reg's throat, the steel slicing through the air before it plunged deep. Blood spurted out in a brutal rush, coating the front of Reg's shirt in a dark, crimson flood. Reg's hands went to his throat, but it was too late. His eyes widened in shock, and then he collapsed forward, choking on his own blood. The sound of his gasping breaths mixed with the horrific screams of the crowd.

The panic was instantaneous. Michonne and Abraham surged forward, the both of them tackling Pete to the ground, their hands gripping his body with brutal force. Pete was still shouting, still struggling, but it didn't matter. Michonne's sword was raised, its deadly edge gleaming as she stepped forward, her face hard with purpose.

Abraham twisted Pete's arm behind his back, forcing his face into the ground with enough force to make the bricks crack beneath him. The sound of his struggle only seemed to intensify the chaos.

All the while, Deanna was on the ground, cradling Reg's body in her arms. Her screams were guttural, desperate, each one a raw cry of agony as she tried to stop the bleeding. The blood soaked through her hands, but there was no stopping it. Reg's eyes were glazing over, the light leaving them as he choked on the blood that filled his throat.

"This is him!" Pete screamed, his voice filled with fury, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Deanna lifted her tear-filled gaze, her face a mask of disbelief and pain. Her words came out in a whisper, but they were piercing. "Rick," she begged, her voice shaking. "Do it."

Rick didn't hesitate. In one smooth motion, he pulled his gun from its holster, the metallic click of the trigger sharp in the night air. There was a deafening crack, and Pete's head jerked back, his body going limp as the bullet took him down instantly.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The crowd, still in shock, looked between the bloodied body of Pete and the broken form of Deanna, whose sobs filled the night air.

I stood frozen, the weight of what had just happened sinking in. This was the reality of the world we were living in now—this was the price of survival.

A soft voice broke through the stillness. "Rick?"

I looked up and saw Aaron, Daryl, and a third man approaching. My heart skipped a beat. Without thinking, my feet moved before my brain could catch up, and I threw myself into Daryl's arms, the warmth of him immediately enveloping me. His body was solid and familiar, and I clung to him, inhaling his scent, just him.

He held me tightly, his arms wrapping around me like I was the most important thing in the world. He didn't pull back to look at me or say anything; he just held me there, his chest rising and falling with the weight of each breath. I could feel his heart beating against mine, steady and strong. And for a moment, nothing else mattered. Nothing but this—the two of us, breathing together, the world fading to just us.

I pressed my face into his chest, the familiar feel of his rough jacket and the warmth of his body grounding me. I'm safe, I thought, and that thought was so comforting, it almost made me forget everything else—the fears, the worries, the distance that had built between us. But as soon as I let myself relax, they all came crashing back. What if he doesn't want me anymore? What if this— us —isn't enough anymore?

"Hey," Daryl's voice was soft, a whisper against my hair. "It's alright. I'm here, baby."

I closed my eyes, letting his words wash over me. He's here. He's alive. He's real. I melted further into him, surrendering to the comfort he gave me, even if just for a moment. I wasn't sure how long we stood there, just holding each other, but I didn't want to let go. I needed him too much.

I felt his arms tighten around me, pulling me closer, his large hands moving to cradle the back of my head, pressing me into him like he was trying to shield me from everything that was happening. I allowed myself to feel his warmth, the familiar strength of his presence, and I didn't fight it, even though the worries still lurked at the back of my mind. We're not okay. Not yet.

But in his arms, I could forget the rest of the world for a while.

He pulled his head back slightly, just enough so he could look down at me. His blue eyes met mine, and I felt an intense, unspoken connection. In that look, I could see everything—his love for me, his frustration, his own fear of losing us. The firelight flickered across his face, casting deep shadows, making him look even more devastatingly handsome than I remembered.

I didn't want to pull away, but he gently broke the silence between us. "Go back home," he whispered, his voice rough but tender. "I'll be there soon."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I didn't want to leave his arms, didn't want to step away from him, but I knew I had to. I lingered for a moment, resting my hand on his chest, the heat of him seeping into my skin, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my palm.

Slowly, I pulled back, unwillingly, and his grip on me loosened, though I could still feel his warmth lingering around me like a shield. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, before I turned and walked away, the promise in his words still echoing in my chest.

He stayed right where he was, watching me, his eyes following me until I could no longer see him. I didn't dare look back, but a small part of me wished I could stay in his arms forever, just like that—safe, whole, with him.

When I got home, Carl was still awake, his body stretched out on the couch, his comic book open but barely being read.

"Hey," Carl said, sitting up, his voice soft with worry. His eyes, though tired, held a deep concern for me. "How'd it go?"

I froze for a second, still flustered from seeing Daryl, my chest tight with the unspoken tension that still clung to the air between us. "Um," I started, my voice betraying me, caught between frustration and confusion. "It was... It was a shit show."

I moved over to the couch and sat down beside him, my legs folding under me as I kicked off my boots and let my body collapse into the cushions. I pulled my sleeves over my hands, a nervous habit, and tucked my feet beneath me, trying to ground myself. The warmth of the moment faded quickly, the weight of everything pressing back in on me. "I don't think they're kicking your dad out though. So that's a plus. Reg's dead, Pete's dead... Pete kind of lost it, grabbed Michonne's sword, and slit Reg's throat. Now your dad, Abraham, and Daryl are out there burying them, I guess."

Carl was quiet for a beat, absorbing the information. But then, he looked at me with that curious, knowing expression, like he could see through all of it.

"Wait, Daryl's back?" His eyes widened a little, like the fact that Daryl was here, really here, mattered more than everything else I just said.

I nodded slowly, trying to steady my breath. "Yeah. He's back."

Carl raised an eyebrow. "How'd that go?"

I let out a frustrated huff of laughter, but it wasn't a happy one. "Two people died, Carl, and you're asking about how me seeing Daryl went?"

Carl smirked, but there was something soft in his eyes, like he understood the weight of it. "People die all the time. Not like they were close to us. So yeah, I'm asking about you and Daryl."

I sighed, sinking further into the couch as I rubbed my forehead. The emotions I had held back while at the meeting were rising again, flooding me all at once. "It was... fine. He hugged me. Like really hugged me." I took a shaky breath, looking away as I tried to keep the lump in my throat from choking me. "He held me close, and I... I held him back. It was nice. But it wasn't enough. It was just... one moment. We didn't really talk. We didn't... fix anything."

Carl didn't speak immediately, but the way he looked at me—like he already knew how much I was hurting—made my heart twist. "It was nice? That's it?"

"Excuse me," I said, shaking my head, trying to laugh it off even though it was anything but funny. "There was kind of a lot happening, Carl. I didn't exactly get the chance to ask him if he still wants to be married, or if he wants to live happily ever after with me."

Carl's face fell, and his eyes darkened with concern. "You think he'd want to leave you?"

I shrugged, but the uncertainty in my chest made my shoulders feel heavy. "I don't know." My voice was barely a whisper as I let my hand slide through my hair in frustration. I leaned back into the couch, letting my legs stretch out. "I shouldn't be talking to you about this. You're a kid. You shouldn't have to worry about my marriage."

Carl shifted beside me, his voice a little more insistent. "I'm also your friend, El. And I love you. I want you to be happy." His hand landed on my shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Besides, I know you'd do the same for me."

I cringed and swatted at him. "Ew. No. No girl talk for at least another ten years."

Carl chuckled, leaning back with a knowing grin. "You're a fucking hypocrite, you know that?"

"Hey!" I smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Watch your mouth, kid."

The tension in the room softened just slightly, but my mind was still a million miles away, stuck on the image of Daryl's eyes, his arms, the way he held me. And even though I knew it wasn't all fixed—hell, we hadn't even begun to address the distance between us—it still felt like a step in the right direction. I wanted it to be enough, but deep down, I knew it would take more than one moment to put us back together.

"So should I go back home? Since Daryl's back?" Carl asked, his voice casual but with that familiar underlying curiosity.

"Why would you do that?" I raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused.

"Well, he's been sleeping here, right? Won't he be kind of pissed if I'm taking up his bed for the night?" Carl's eyes gleamed with mischief.

I blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. The thought hadn't crossed my mind, but now that he mentioned it... Maybe this was what I wanted. Daryl back in our bed, in our room. The idea of sharing that space again, sleeping beside him, made my chest tighten. It had been too long, too much distance. Maybe we could start to fix things if we just acted normal—if we slept in the same bed, if we just... touched through the night. Maybe then, things could start to get better.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "You stay right where you are. In fact, pretend to be asleep when he comes home."

I stood up from the couch, my legs a little unsteady, my mind still swirling with what had happened earlier, the way he held me, the softness in his eyes. God, how I had missed him.

"Ew!" Carl grimaced, making a face. "I'm not staying here and listening to the two of you... Y'know. Do that!"

"Carl!" I groaned, glaring at him. "You asshole! I didn't ask you to stay here for that! Get your mind out of the gutter!" I punched him lightly in the shoulder, trying to hide the flush creeping up my neck. "I just want him in our bedroom. Sleeping. Just sleeping."

"Uh huh," Carl chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sure, El. We can pretend that I wasn't out on the road with you two. You know barns carry noises pretty well."

I shot him a look and punched him again, this time a little harder. "Shut up before I strangle you."

"You can't strangle me," Carl said, smirking. "I'm way taller now."

"You know what I mean!" I growled, pushing myself up off the couch. "Remember—don't say a word! Pretend to be asleep!"

"Whatever!" Carl called after me, his voice full of sarcastic amusement. "Just don't make it awkward when Daryl walks in!"

I rolled my eyes as I dashed up the stairs. Honestly, Carl was impossible. I could already feel the nerves creeping in. I just wanted Daryl back in our space, but I knew it wasn't going to be as easy as just sleeping in the same bed. Still, tonight felt like the start of something—something I wasn't sure I was ready for, but desperately needed.

Now all that was left to do was wait for my husband to come home.