Sequel to Fight, Love, Live
**Complete**
Riley Dixon has had an... interesting nine months to say the least. She killed her zombified ex, found her supposed-to-be comatose brother, made some new best friends, found the love of her life, and had a ba...
I was listening to this song when I wrote this, so if you want, feel free to listen to it ❤️
Be Alright - Dean Lewis
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It only took a few minutes for Morgan, Merle, and Carl to grab the several large empty duffle bags we had, and take them out to the car that they had driven here in, and leave to go get the cans. If they hurried they'd be back in only a few minutes, not long enough to have this conversation, but I knew that they'd take their time.
I sat down on the bed that Morgan had generously given to me when I moved in with him, choosing to instead sleep on a cot he had found. Dale was still strapped to my chest, and he was resting right now, but I knew if I talked any louder than a whisper he'd wake up. And I don't know if I could control myself well enough not to.
Daryl sat down on the floor in front of me, far enough away that it didn't make me feel anxious, but he was definitely still close enough to grab me if he wanted to. He looked exhausted. There were large, dark bags under his eyes, which had shifted from their normally beautiful blue, to a sad, washed out gray. His forehead was wrinkled in concentration while he stared at me, and if I looked closely enough, I thought I could see new wrinkles forming in those spots. Wrinkles that weren't there the last time I touched his face.
You know... I can't remember the last time I touched him. It was before Dale's birth, but I can't remember...
"I'm sorry." He blurted, interrupting my train of thought, and distracting me from my staring contest with his forehead.
"I shouldn't have done it. I was scared, and weak, and you deserve better." I nodded, staring down at the ground, trying to ignore the way his hands were shaking in his lap, and I could tell he was trying desperately not to chew on his fingers since I had yelled at him for it so often, but now I found that I missed the habit.
I miss him. If I'm being honest here. I do miss him. I miss laying around in the mornings, waiting for everyone to wake up as we basked naked in the sunlight streaming into the room. I miss the innocent touches throughout the day, a stroke of the hand when we walked past each other, a gently brush on my back when I was cooking. I miss the way he used to look at me. I miss the way it used to make me feel.
I miss his accent, his eyes, his hair, the way he smelled, like cigarettes, and mint chocolate, with a little bit of woods and blood. I miss his smile, his laugh that he reserved only for me. I miss the way his arms flexed when he pulled back the string of his bow. I miss the little scar above his eyebrow that he said he had never even noticed. The small birthmark on his hip that he said no one had ever seen. I miss that spot that I used to kiss, a few inches below his collarbone, right between two ribs that used to drive him crazy, that he said no one had ever found.
Well. Now I'm sure I'm not the only one to notice those things. The little things. The things that I could use to know he was my husband. The things that made him him. She knows them now too. And I can't just forgive that.
