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swangirlxoxo · 25 days ago

Text

Ladybug

young daryl dixon x original female character

pre and post apocalypse

PART I : BEFORE

Stevie St. James was an odd girl.

She knew this.

Everyone else knew it, too.

And they liked to remind her. Often.

"You’re really weird, Stevie," Daryl said one day.

It was after church, and they were playing on the rusted playground set in the courtyard. The swings creaked, and the metal slide was chipped and worn. Daryl’s mama was nearby, chatting with Stevie’s Gran, voices a soft hum against the backdrop of their play. Daryl’s mama was always talking to Gran, ‘cause his mama was real good friends with Stevie’s mama when they were little like them. So, after church, they spent hours gossiping while the kids entertained themselves in the sun.

But why was Stevie so weird? It couldn’t have been because of the spider she was holding.

She had found it on the slide, nestled in the cracks of the old metal, its tiny legs twitching. Daryl had almost crushed it, but Stevie had yelled and scooped it up. It wasn’t a dangerous one, just a little baby Hobo Spider— Tegenaria agrestis, she’d read in one of her bug books.

She stared at the spider, her small hand cradling it carefully, a focused look in her eyes as she examined its body in the afternoon light. Daryl was still there, his face scrunched with confusion, eyes squinted. She was absorbed in the creature, trying to explain it to him in that serious tone that made adults laugh at her.

“The Hobo Spider,” she began, her voice taking on the cadence of someone reading from a book, “also known as Tegenaria agrestis, is a large spider in the Agelenidae family. In Britain, they’re called ‘funnel weavers’ or ‘cobweb spiders’ ‘cause of the way they build their webs. They—”

“Stevie, baby! Time for lunch!” Gran called.

She broke off mid-sentence. She stood up, still holding the spider delicately in her hands. Daryl just stared at her, a mix of awe and confusion on his face, but she barely noticed. The spider had to go back where it belonged.

She walked briskly to the trees, her worn Mary-Janes crunching on the leaves. She placed the little spider gently on a tree, far from the slide and the noisy church. Then, she turned and ran back toward Gran, Daryl trailing behind her in silent bewilderment.

They weren’t in the same class at school. Daryl was in fourth grade, and Stevie was only in third. But they still sat together at lunch and played together during recess.

It was a crisp fall day, and Stevie was eating the soup her Gran had packed her. Daryl, though, had no lunch. His mom had forgotten to pack him anything. Again. Mrs. Dixon was drunk most of the time, evenon Sundays. Gran said she was a lost soul. Sometimes Stevie wondered how Daryl got by at all.

Gran always made sure to pack extra food for him, even when money was tight. It was just how things were. Gran had taught Stevie to share, even when they barely had enough for themselves. Stevie handed over a ham sandwich, packed just for Daryl, watching him unwrap it without a word. She didn’t expect a thanks, not really. Daryl didn’t say much, ever. But neither did she.

As Stevie watched him, something caught her eye. There, on his cheek, was a big black-and-blue splotch against his pale skin. Her stomach tightened as she stared at it, her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.

"Daryl," she said quietly, her voice faltering just a little, "What happened to your face?"

Daryl didn’t look up. He took a big bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly, eyes on the table. He didn’t answer.

Stevie bit her lip, unsure of what to say next. She knew he got hurt a lot. Daryl was a roughhouser, always fighting with his older brother Merle, who was already in high school and had no time for Daryl anymore—except when they were fighting. Then there were the hunting trips with his dad, the ones Stevie didn’t know much about.

Stevie didn’t know much about daddies. She’d never had one herself, so she couldn’t exactly say what a good one looked like. But she knew Daryl’s daddy was no-good.

She’d heard the way Mrs. Dixon, with bruises like Daryl’s, talked about him in the few moments of clarity she had. Bastard was the word.

She reached out tentatively, touching the edge of the bruise with a soft finger. Daryl winced, pulling away.

“Was it Merle?” she asked. She didn’t like Merle, not much at all. He was loud and rude and smoked cigarettes - she hated the smell. And he always tugged at her braids, which Gran had braided just perfectly, and made fun of her for all sort of things.

Daryl’s face twisted, and his jaw clenched. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something, but instead, his lips pressed tight together. He pushed the sandwich aside with more force than necessary, his fists curling.

“Nah,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and sharp. “Just—just leave me alone, Stevie.”

Stevie shrank back. She hadn’t meant to make him angry. Daryl was mean sometimes. But he was her only friend.

“I just-“

He shot up, his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh noise that made the other kids in the small lunchroom glance over. Some of them giggled at the outburst, but no one dared approach. Daryl’s anger was well known.

“Stop bein’ such a nosy bitch!” he yelled at her, his face flushed. His voice cracked as he turned on his heel, his too-small shoes scuffing the ground as he stormed off.

Stevie’s eyes went wide. She hated bad words. And Daryl had started to say them a lot, just like Merle, just like their daddy.

Some of the other kids now turned their attention to Stevie. A few whispered, eyes flicking from Daryl’s retreating figure to her. Stevie shrank further into herself, pulling her shoulders up toward her ears, wishing she could disappear.

Her hands trembled as she sat there, the remnants of her lunch forgotten in front of her. Her throat tightened, her face burning with embarrassment. She wanted to call out to him, to apologize, to tell him she didn’t mean to be nosy. But she didn’t - couldn’t.

The bell rang, sharp and jarring, signaling the end of lunch, and the other kids began to scatter. Stevie remained seated, her hands folded tightly in her lap, staring down at the table, willing the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

Stevie was a girl who liked routines, the kind of order that made the world feel predictable.

Gran braided her hair the same way every morning. Her dresses were always floral and ironed neatly. The ruffles of her socks stayed pure white, and the scuffs on her shoes were polished away.

Stevie found comfort in the small things—organizing her books into neat stacks by size, keeping track of the bugs she found in the woods with Daryl, and the way the soft wool of her favorite sweater felt against her skin.

When something disrupted that peace—her routines—it felt like the ground beneath her feet became unstable.

Daryl disrupted her routines. He didn’t mean to; it just happened. He was unpredictable, like people always were. Stevie didn’t like being around people much. It wasn’t that she disliked them exactly—she just found them difficult to understand. That was why Stevie stayed away from people as best she could. But she couldn’t seem to stay away from Daryl, even if he ruined her routines.

Sometimes, when they were supposed to play in the woods, his daddy would keep him home. Sometimes, when he was supposed to eat lunch with her, he wouldn’t come to school. Sometimes, when he was supposed to be nice to her, he would be cruel.

When everything felt disturbed, Stevie turned to bugs.

When she found a new bug, her heart raced with excitement. She crouched down, her fingers gently brushing the grass or cracked sidewalk, careful not to startle her tiny subject. She would watch it for what felt like hours, her eyes locked on its every movement, her mind cataloging its size, color, and behavior.

She had towering stacks of books on bugs from the library, which she read and reread so many times that she could recite nearly everything she had absorbed.

Gran always smiled when Stevie talked about her bugs, even if she didn’t quite understand why her granddaughter cared so much about them. "You gotta eye for the lil’ things, Stevie," Gran would say, patting her head affectionately. "The world needs more folks who pay attention to the small stuff."

The night after Daryl yelled at her at lunch, when the sun hung low and painted the sky in streaks of pink and gold, there was a knock at the door. Stevie peeked through the lace curtains and saw Daryl standing there. He looked dirty and out of breath, like he had ran the mile all the way from his trailer to her little house. A dark bruise shadowed his cheek, deeper in color than it had been earlier in the day.

Gran answered the door, her smile warm.

"Hi, ma’am," Stevie heard Daryl mutter. "Uh…Stevie ‘round?"

"She is," Gran said, stepping aside to let him in.

When he entered, his eyes locked on Stevie’s where she sat on the couch, a mason jar in her lap. She gave him a small smile and a wave.

"Why don’cha stay for dinner, hmm? You’re lookin’ too thin again," Gran said.

Daryl hesitated. "I ain’t wanna be a bother—"

"Nonsense," Gran interrupted, already heading to the kitchen. "Sit yourself down. I’ll make somethin’ you like."

“What’s that?” Daryl asked Stevie, pointing at the jar.

“Ladybugs,” she said, holding up the jar for him to see. He took it and brought it up to his eyes, watching the little red-and-black bugs wander around on a stick she had placed inside.

“Are you gonna keep ’em?”

Stevie rolled her eyes. “No. I told you already. They’re meant to live outside. They just come on vacation in my jar sometimes.”

Gran bustled in. "How ‘bout some fried chicken? I know how you love it, Daryl."

His ears turned red. "You ain’t gotta—"

"I want to," Gran said firmly. "Go wash on up, the both of you."

Dinner was a quiet affair, at least by most people’s standards. Stevie ate in her usual deliberate way, savoring each bite and watching Daryl out of the corner of her eye. He didn’t talk much, but she could tell he liked the chicken; he ate every piece Gran piled on his plate, right down to the bone.

When the meal was done, Gran brought out a pie she had baked that morning, the scent of apples and cinnamon filling the room. "Daryl," she said, her voice softening, "you’re welcome here anytime. Don’t you be a stranger now, you hear?"

Daryl nodded, mumbling a shy "Thank you, Mrs. St. James."

"I been tellin’ you, call me Gran."

Stevie watched him as he scraped the last bit of pie crust from his plate, and for once, she didn’t mind the disruption. Daryl might not have made sense to her, but he didn’t need to. He was just Daryl—unpredictable and sometimes cruel, but sometimes kind and comforting in ways no one else ever was.

As the night settled in and the dishes were done, Gran sent Daryl home with a warm hug and a Tupperware full of leftovers. Stevie sat by the window, watching as he disappeared into the dark woods.

“Gran?” she asked softly.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Did Daryl’s daddy hit him? Like he hits Mrs. Dixon?” She knew Gran had noticed the bruise. She had caught Gran staring at it with those puppy-dog sad eyes.

Gran was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know, Stevie,” her voice low and sad, very un-Gran-like. “I don’t know. But I do know we gotta give that boy love, you hear?”

As Stevie grew older, she began to look more and more like her mother.

She had never known her mother—never even met her, except for the day she was born, she supposed—but Gran kept the photos of her daughter up. Stevie’s mama’s school pictures lined the walls, along with scattered Polaroids on the fridge.

They shared the same shade of curly golden hair, the same smattering of freckles across their cheeks, the same wide gap between their front teeth, and the same round face. But Stevie’s eyes were brown, not green like her mama’s. She must have gotten them from her daddy, though she had no idea who he was. Gran didn’t have any pictures of him, because Gran didn’t know who he was either. Maybe he had brown eyes. Maybe.

Mrs. Dixon used to love telling Stevie how much she looked like her mama. Mrs. Dixon and Stevie’s mama had been the best of friends once upon a time. But Stevie’s mama was gone, and now Mrs. Dixon was too—she had died in a fire a year back. A few months after that, Merle enlisted in the army. After that, Stevie saw less and less of Daryl. He started missing school, and when he did show up, he barely spoke to her. Even though she kept inviting him over for dinner, he stopped coming. She didn’t know what he was up to these days. She didn’t even know if he would show up for school.

She hoped he would. She felt utterly alone—no friends, no one. Well, except for Gran and a few of Gran’s church and bingo friends. All old women who liked to pinch her cheeks and offer her baked goods.

She spent the summer doing what she always did when there was no school to keep her busy. She read books about bugs, searched for them in the woods, and spent hours on the library computer bidding on taxidermy bugs with her chore money. She meticulously prepared her bug displays, knitted with Gran, went to church with Gran, attended bingo night with Gran, cooked with Gran, tended to Gran’s garden, and watched old westerns with Gran.

Bugs and Gran. That was about it.

On the morning of her first day of high school, Stevie stood in front of the living room wall, staring at her mama’s school pictures. It was almost like looking into a reflection. Gran found her there, silent, and didn’t say anything. She just gave Stevie that sad smile—the one she always wore when Stevie’s mama came up.

Stevie was good at reading people. She noticed things others didn’t. She knew that Gran missed her mama terribly. She knew that Gran carried so many regrets. She also knew that in Stevie, Gran saw a second chance at raising a daughter.

Mrs. Dixon had told Stevie so many stories about her mama. "She was a total hippy," she would say. She wore long skirts and sandals, piled on layers of jewelry, and always had music from the seventies playing—especially Fleetwood Mac. That was her thing. It wasn’t just the music, either. It was the way she carried herself, carefree and wild, with a spirit that seemed to float just above the ground.

The one thing Stevie’s mama had done for her—the only thing that tied them together—was give her a name. Stevie Nicks, her mama’s favorite singer. That was her gift. She passed it down before handing Stevie over to Gran and skipping town, leaving without a word or a trace. Never to be seen again.

Gran didn’t talk much about Stevie’s mama, except to tell stories of how wild she had been, how full of life. Mrs. Dixon’s stories painted a picture of a woman who was always searching for something—something bigger than herself, something that couldn’t be found in a small town like this. Stevie often wondered if her mama had ever found whatever it was she was looking for.

As Stevie grew older, she started to understand why Gran didn’t talk about her. The absence was painful. Stevie’s mama was a ghost in their lives. For Stevie, her name was the one tangible connection to her. As soon as she could, she started playing her namesake’s songs over and over, searching for a thread of connection to the woman in the photos on the walls.

The first day of high school was already shaping up to be one of Stevie’s least favorite days of the year. She hated crowds, hated the noise of everyone shouting over each other in the hallways, hated the way the fluorescent lights hummed overhead and cast an unflattering glare on everything. The air smelled like cheap cologne and cafeteria food, and the sound of lockers slamming felt like tiny earthquakes rattling her nerves.

She found her first class—a cramped, stuffy room with mismatched desks and a chalkboard that still bore the faint ghost of last year’s lessons. Stevie picked a seat near the middle of the room, close enough to hear the teacher but not so close that she’d draw attention to herself. She took out her notebook and smoothed the edges of the pages, focusing on the familiar rhythm of straightening everything just so.

The bell rang, and the last few stragglers shuffled in. Stevie kept her head down, staring at her notebook, until she heard the scrape of a chair behind her. She glanced back cautiously and caught a flash of someone sitting down. When she turned slightly, she froze.

Daryl Dixon was sitting directly behind her.

Of course. It was an incredibly small school, and it seemed like Daryl had been held back, so it would make sense that he was placed in this class.

He looked about the same as the last time she’d seen him—messy brown hair that stuck out at odd angles, faint bruises that hadn’t entirely faded, and that same scowl that made him look like he’d rather be anywhere else. He didn’t seem to notice her right away, slumping into his chair and tapping a pencil on the desk.

Stevie felt her stomach flip. She wanted to say something—anything—but her tongue felt heavy, and her thoughts tangled into a knot of panic. What was she supposed to say? Hey, long time no see? How’s your summer? Why did you stop coming over?

The teacher started talking, sparing her from having to figure it out. She kept her head down for most of the class, her mind half on the lesson and half on the boy sitting behind her. When the bell finally rang, she gathered her things as quickly as possible, hoping to slip out before he noticed her.

“Stevie?”

His voice stopped her cold. She turned slowly, clutching her notebook to her chest.

“Hi,” Daryl said, his voice gruff but quieter than she remembered. He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking just as awkward as she felt.

“Hi,” she mumbled, staring at a spot on the floor near his feet.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.

“You, uh…you look different,” Daryl finally said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Stevie blinked at him, unsure if that was supposed to be a compliment or just an observation. “So do you,” she said softly.

He shrugged, glancing away. “How’s Gran?”

“Good. She’s good.” She missed you. Asked about you all the time.

He nodded. “You still, uh…you still got all those bugs?”

Her heart fluttered a little at the question. “Yeah,” she said, her voice picking up a bit of enthusiasm. “I got a whole new case. I found a Harlequin beetle on ebay. Spent all summer reorganizing my collection.”

Daryl gave her a small, lopsided grin. “Sounds like you.”

Stevie wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she didn’t. The silence crept back in, and she shifted on her feet.

“Wanna hang out sometime?” Daryl blurted.

Stevie’s eyes snapped to his, wide with surprise. “Uh…I…sure. I mean, if you wanna.”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal, but she noticed the way he shifted awkwardly. “After school, maybe. We could go to the woods or somethin’.”

Stevie hesitated, her mind racing through the possibilities—what they’d do, what they’d talk about, whether it would mess up her routine. But then she nodded. “Okay. After school.”

Daryl gave her a quick nod. “Cool. See you then.”

As she watched him walk away, a strange mix of nervousness and excitement bubbled in her chest. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

Stevie had never given much thought to kissing. She read about it in books and saw it in movies, but the idea of actually doing it herself always felt foreign, distant—like something other people did, not her.

She was a sophomore when it happened, on a Spring evening in the woods behind her house.

Daryl had been quiet all day, quieter than usual. Stevie noticed the way he kept stealing glances at her, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his old jacket. He hadn’t teased her about her bugs, hadn’t made any sarcastic comments about the way she was still wearing her favorite dress even though it was full of holes.

“You’re actin’ weird,” Stevie finally said, stopping in her tracks. She turned to face him, folding her arms across her chest.

Daryl kicked at a rock on the path, avoiding her gaze. “I ain’t actin’ weird.”

“You are,” she insisted. “You’ve barely said anythin’ all day. Did I do somethin’?”

“No.” His voice was quiet, and he shifted uncomfortably. “You didn’t do nothin’. I just…” He trailed off, finally looking up at her.

Stevie tilted her head. “What?”

Daryl scratched the back of his neck, his face flushing red. “I was just thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’.”

“What?” she asked again.

Instead of answering, Daryl took a step closer. He hesitated, his hands twitching like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “Can I…Can I try somethin’?”

Stevie’s heart thumped in her chest. She blinked at him, the weight of the moment sinking in as she realized what he was asking. “O-okay,” she stammered, unsure what else to say.

Daryl leaned in slowly, his movements awkward and uncertain. Stevie stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. When his lips finally brushed hers, it was soft and hesitant, like he was afraid of doing it wrong.

The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like time had stretched, the world narrowing down to just the two of them. When Daryl pulled back, his face was even redder, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I probably shouldn’t’ve—”

“It’s okay,” Stevie interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her cheeks were burning, but she couldn’t stop the small, shy smile that tugged at her lips.

“Yeah?” Daryl glanced at her, relief flickering across his face.

“Yeah,” she said, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel after something like that, but her chest felt warm, like she’d just taken a deep breath on a chilly morning.

They stood there for a moment, the woods quiet around them. Then Daryl gave her a lopsided grin and nudged her arm with his elbow. “Come on. I bet there’s still some frogs by the creek.”

Stevie laughed, the sound soft and light. She followed him down the trail, her heart still fluttering from the kiss. For the first time, she thought maybe kissing wasn’t so strange after all.

“Daryl?”

”Hmm?”

“Are we goin’ steady now?”

“…Guess so.”

“Call me when my dad ain’t home,” Daryl had said that morning while he was driving her to school. He did that almost every morning - pick Stevie up, drop her off at school, and go to work. He had dropped out, leaving her unfortunately utterly alone at school. But she didn’t mind much. “He won’t be back ‘round till late.”

Stevie had nodded, then she pressed a kiss to his lips before hopping out of his truck.

Later, she’d dialed the Dixon’s number.

It rang twice before someone picked up.

“What?” A gruff voice snapped on the other end of the line.

Stevie froze. That wasn’t Daryl.

“Uh… um…” She stammered, panic rising in her chest.

“Who is this?” The voice barked.

“It’s Stevie St. James, sir. Is Daryl there?”

She got no response. Only a huff, and then the cut-off slam of the phone.

That evening, she heard a knock at the door. Stevie jumped up from the couch, her heart leaping as she ran to answer it.

Daryl stood there, slouched and battered. His right eye was swollen shut, his lip split, and there was a cut along his cheekbone that looked like it hadn’t stopped bleeding yet.

“Daryl!” Stevie gasped, reaching for him.

“M’fine,” he muttered, brushing past her into the house.

“You are not fine,” Gran said firmly, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hands on her hips. Her eyes softened when she saw the state of him. “Lord, child. Sit before you fall down.”

Daryl hesitated but obeyed, collapsing onto the couch with a wince. Stevie followed him, hovering nearby, unsure what to do.

“Go get the first aid kit,” Gran said, her voice calm but urgent.

Stevie nodded and dashed off, returning moments later with the kit. Gran knelt beside Daryl, opening it and inspecting his injuries with the practiced care of someone who’d done this too many times.

“This ain’t nothin’,” Daryl mumbled as Gran dabbed at his cheek with a damp cloth. He flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Don’t you dare,” Gran scolded gently. “Now, you wanna tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?”

Daryl looked down at his hands, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “He was mad ‘bout the phone,” he admitted quietly.

Stevie’s heart sank. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Don’t,” Daryl said quickly, glancing up at her. “Ain’t your fault.”

Gran sighed, shaking her head. “That man’s got no business puttin’ his hands on you. You hear me?”

Daryl didn’t respond, his jaw tightening.

“You’re stayin’ here tonight,” Gran said firmly. “No arguments.”

Daryl looked like he wanted to protest but thought better of it. Instead, he nodded, his shoulders slumping in relief.

Stevie sat beside him on the couch, her hands twisting together in her lap. She wanted to say something, to tell him how much she hated seeing him like this, how much she cared about him, but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, she reached out and took his hand. He didn’t pull away.

Gran finished patching him up and stood, patting his shoulder gently. “I’ll make you some tea,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

For a moment, it was just Stevie and Daryl, the room quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.

“I hate him,” Stevie whispered, her voice shaking with the weight of emotions she didn’t know how to express.

“I know,” Daryl said softly, his fingers tightening around hers. “But I’m all right.”

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “No, you ain’t.”

“Will be. ‘Cause I got you.”

Stevie’s senior year was a whirlwind of heartbreak and change.

Gran’s death in the early months hit her harder than anything ever had. One moment, Gran was bustling around the house like always, scolding Stevie for forgetting her umbrella on a rainy day, and the next, she was gone—slipping away quietly in her sleep.

Gran had left everything to Stevie: the house, the small savings account, even the old Volkswagen she’d loved so much.

Daryl was her anchor through it all. He spent every free moment at the house, fixing broken pipes, mowing the lawn, and making sure Stevie ate when she forgot. But he was struggling too. A few months after Gran’s passing, Daryl’s father died of a sudden heart attack (no doubt caused from years of alcohol abuse), leaving behind a mountain of debt and a broken trailer. Merle was nowhere to be found, not that Daryl expected him to step up.

Stevie offered what little support she could. She watched Daryl sell the trailer and everything his dad had left behind, just to make ends meet. And when he had nowhere else to go, she told him he could live at Gran’s house, with her.

One evening, long after the sun had set, they found themselves sitting together on the old couch in the living room. Stevie had been cleaning out some of Gran’s things earlier in the day and had stumbled across an old quilt. Now, it was draped over them as they watched a rerun of some black-and-white Western that Gran had loved.

Daryl was quiet, his arm stretched across the back of the couch, his fingers idly brushing against Stevie’s shoulder. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.

She nodded, her hand clutching a corner of the quilt. “I think so.”

“You’re doin’ good, Ladybug,” he said, using his nickname for her that he oh-so cleverly came up with a few years back, his hand moving to rest on her arm. “Gran would be proud of you.”

The mention of Gran made her chest tighten, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she tilted her head up to look at him. His face was lined with exhaustion, the weight of the past year visible in every angle.

“You’ve been good to me, Daryl,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’ve been good to me, too.”

The air between them shifted, a quiet tension settling in as their eyes met. Stevie’s heart pounded in her chest, a mix of nerves and something deeper. She didn’t know who moved first, but his lips were on hers, soft and warm and hesitant.

Stevie loved kissing Daryl. They did it often. It only went past kissing a handful of times, but never all the way.

She straddled him, grinding down, making him gasp and clutch at the back of her sweater.

“Stevie,” he murmured breathlessly against her lips,

“I want it,” she whispered back, pulling at the hem if his shirt. “I want it. I want you.”

They moved slowly, carefully, as if afraid to break the moment. Daryl’s hands traced the curve of her back, his touch reverent, while Stevie’s fingers tangled in his hair.

“Are you sure?” Daryl asked, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm against her skin.

Stevie nodded, her voice steady despite the rapid beat of her heart. “I’m sure.”

What followed was quiet and tender, filled with whispered reassurances and gentle touches. It wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was—but it was theirs, a moment carved out of the chaos of their lives where nothing else mattered but each other.

Afterward, they lay tangled together on the couch. Stevie rested her head on Daryl’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as his fingers ran through her hair.

“I love you,” he said quietly, almost as if he was afraid to say it too loudly.

Oh.

He loved her.

Stevie grinned. “I love you, too.”

In the weeks that followed, Daryl moved his few belongings into the house. It was a bittersweet arrangement—born out of necessity, but filled with a quiet hope for the future. Together, they started to rebuild, turning the house into a home for both of them.

Stevie kept her head down as she wiped the counter. Ever since Daryl’s proposal on her nineteenth birthday, she felt like everyone who looked at her could see the ring on her finger. It wasn’t big or flashy—something small and gold from the pawnshop—but it was perfect. Just like the butterfly he’d given her, a Ulysses butterfly, encased in glass with vibrant blue wings that seemed almost alive. She’d never felt more loved in her life.

Charlotte, a fellow waitress a few years older than Stevie, leaned on the counter beside her, smile warm and easy. “So, Mrs. Dixon, when’s the big day?”

Stevie’s cheeks turned crimson. “I...don’t know. We haven’t talked ‘bout it yet,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes on the coffee pot she was refilling.

Charlotte chuckled. “Well, you better start talkin’. Weddings don’t plan themselves, Vie.”

She wanted to say that there wasn’t going to be a wedding, not in the traditional sense. Who would come? Both of them had no family around, hardly had any people they considered friends. They would mostly likely just go down to the courthouse the next day they had free.

Before she could say that, the door jingled, and Stevie stiffened, instinctively shrinking into herself as a group of men walked in, loud and boisterous. One of them, the same man who had been giving Charlotte trouble, looked around the diner and grinned.

“Well, if it ain’t my favorite waitress,” he drawled, his eyes locking on Charlotte.

Charlotte’s smile didn’t falter, though her eyes hardened. “What can I get for you today?” she asked, her tone cool but professional.

The man leaned on the counter, far too close for comfort. “How ’bout a smile to go with my coffee? Black. Just how I like my women.”

Charlotte, ever the professional, kept her cool. She just smiled largely, sarcastically. “Right on it.”

Stevie wasn’t brave like Daryl, but she couldn’t let this slide. She had only been working at the diner for a few months, but already, Charlotte became her friend. Her first friend in her whole life, besides Daryl. Charlotte didn’t mind her oddness, her quietness, the way she always seemed off in another world internally.

So, when the men finished ordering and went to sit, Stevie got started on the coffee. She fixed up a tray, and turned, facing Charlotte. Locking eyes with her friend, Stevie spit directly in the mug of black coffee, before turning back around and serving the men the drinks. She could hear Charlotte attempt to cover her laughter behind her, making Stevie smile to herself.

Stevie’s hands trembled as she set a coffee cup in front of a customer. The morning sickness wasn’t too bad today, but her nerves were on edge. Daryl had been quiet since she took the pregnancy test—she could tell something was eating at him.

She didn’t blame him. The idea of becoming parents scared her too, though her fear felt different—less like dread and more like a worry. She always wanted a baby, and she wanted Daryl to believe he could be a good dad.

The diner door jingled, and Stevie glanced up. A wiry man with a swagger that immediately put her on edge walked in. His eyes scanned the room before landing on her. His face broke into a wide grin.

Oh. She knew that grin.

“Well, if it ain’t lil’ Miss St. James,” he drawled, his voice too loud and too familiar.

Stevie stiffened, gripping the coffee pot tighter. “It’s Dixon now,” she said, her voice quiet, as she rounded the bar, putting a blockage between them.

Merle’s grin widened as he sauntered over to the counter and sat down. “Dixon, huh? So you actually went and hitched up with my baby brother. Always knew he had the hots for you. Why else would he follow you ‘round everywhere like a lost dog?”

Stevie forced a tight smile. It was awkwardly silent for a moment, Merle just grinning at her. “Got married a few months back,” she said, feeling uncomfortable.

“Well, congrats, Mrs. Dixon. Welcome to the fuckin’ family. Where’s my little brother, anyways? I went by that dump of a trailer, and some strangers were there. What the hell’s that ‘bout?”

Stevie hesitated. She didn’t owe him any explanations, but she also didn’t want trouble. “Daryl sold it.”

Merle’s expression darkened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “Sold it? That trailer was our dad’s. Daryl didn’t have no right to do that.”

“It was fallin’ apart. He needed the money. He couldn’t get ahold of you. He tried.”

“Excuse me, I was busy servin’ our fine country. That trailer’s got history. And you come along, and now Daryl’s sellin’ off family stuff like it don’t mean nothin’?”

“Daryl made the decision. If you’ve got a problem with it, take it up with him.”

Merle’s face twisted in anger as he leaned closer to Stevie, his voice dripping with disdain. “Take it up with him, huh? You think you’re real smart, don’t you? Bet you’ve got him doin’ whatever you say, like a damn puppet. You don’t know the first thing ‘bout family, do you? You’re just some dumb little bitch whose slut mama ran out on her the second she shot you out her pussy.” Merle laughed harshly, his eyes narrowing. “Bet you don’t even know how to take care of yourself, let alone him. Hell, you probably got the whole town thinkin’ he’s gone soft, runnin’ around with some retard-”

“Excuse me,” Charlotte said, suddenly, appearing behind Stevie, tone sharp. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Merle snorted, leaning back slightly but still smirking. “Oh, now the cavalry’s here? Look, lady, this is between me and my sistah-in-law.”

Charlotte didn’t flinch. “Unless you’re plannin’ to order somethin’ and sit down quietly, you can get the hell out.”

Merle stared at her for a moment, his smirk faltering under her unrelenting gaze. “Whatever,” he muttered, stepping back. He turned to Stevie, pointing a finger at her. “This ain’t over, lil’ girl. Tell my brother I need to talk.”

He stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

“What a fuckin’ prick,” Charlotte scowled.

The smell of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove filled the small house. Stevie was curled up on the couch, absently running her hand over the small swell of her belly. Daryl shuffled in from the kitchen, carrying two plates piled high with spaghetti and garlic bread, handing one to her before collapsing onto the couch beside her.

"Thanks, Dar," Stevie said with a smile, already twirling a forkful of pasta.

Daryl grunted in response, though the corner of his mouth twitched up. He started eating, his knee bumping against hers on the cramped couch.

“Merle find a couch to crash on tonight?” Stevie asked between bites.

“Yeah, some guy he used to run with back in the day,” Daryl muttered. “Ain’t gonna last long if he don’t keep his mouth shut.”

Stevie rolled her eyes. “Typical.”

Daryl hesitated, swirling his fork through his spaghetti. “I got him in with that guy over at the junkyard. Said he’d give Merle a trial shift tomorrow. It’s somethin’.”

“That’s good,” Stevie said, her tone careful. She didn’t care for Merle—he’d been nothing but trouble since he’d shown up in town—but she saw how hard Daryl was trying to help his brother after he was discharged. Still, she refused to let him in her house. Daryl agreed.

They ate and talked idly about their days, Stevie scarfing down spaghetti, her feet in Daryl’s lap, the news on the TV humming in the background. She paused her recounting of seeing some Cicada’s in the backyard earlier when she hears the newscaster start to speak urgently.

“Reports are coming in of a mysterious illness spreading rapidly across parts of Europe and Asia…”

Stevie glanced at the screen, frowning. “That’s...weird,” she said, voice uneasy.

“Eh, prolly just some flu thing,” Daryl said, reaching for the remote. “Ain’t our problem.” He changed the channel to some sitcom, discarding his plate and melting into the couch, resting a hand on her ankle. “So, uh…you thinkin’ ‘bout names any?”

Stevie grinned. “Oh, yes. I have a list, actually. Up here.” She tapped her temple.

“A list?” Daryl raised an eyebrow.

“Of course.”

“Please don’t say no bug name.”

She rolled her eyes. “No Ladybug for a lil’ girl?”

“I already gotta Ladybug.”

PART II : AFTER

The diner buzzed with the comforting hum of a normal day. The smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee filled the air as Stevie wiped down the counter, her movements almost mechanical. The lunch rush had yet to hit, but the small-town chatter of a few regulars made the space feel alive. Charlotte, balancing a tray of plates, breezed past her.

“Table four needs a coffee refill,” Charlotte said, flashing Stevie a quick grin.

Stevie grabbed the coffee pot and made her way to table four, nodding politely at the older couple seated there. “Refill?” she asked, tone cheerful.

Before they could answer, a man stumbled in through the front door. His clothes were torn, and his skin was pale, almost gray. His eyes, wild and unfocused, darted around the room.

“Sir, are you okay?” Stevie asked, concern lacing her voice.

The man didn’t respond. Instead, he lurched forward, his movements jerky and unnatural. Stevie froze, the coffee pot trembling in her hand.

“Hey, buddy, you lost or somethin’?” one of the regulars called out from the counter.

The man suddenly snarled—a guttural, inhumansound—and lunged at the nearest person, sinking his teeth into their neck.

Like a damn animal.

Blood sprayed across the diner as screams erupted.

Stevie dropped the coffee pot, hot liquid splashing across her shoes. Her heart pounded as chaos unfolded around her. More figures stumbled into the diner, lifeless eyes locking onto the living.

“Stevie!” Charlotte’s voice cut through the noise. She was standing by the kitchen door, and eyes wide. “Run!”

Stevie snapped out of her daze and bolted toward Charlotte. A man with blood dripping down his chin grabbed at her arm, but she twisted away, nearly slipping on the blood-slick floor. Charlotte grabbed her wrist and yanked her into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind them.

“Lock it!” Charlotte shouted.

Stevie fumbled with the lock, her hands shaking violently. She managed to secure it, and the pounding started almost immediately. People threw themselves against the door, growling and snarling.

“Oh my God,” Stevie whispered, backing away from the door. Her breathing quickened, her chest heaving. “Oh my God, what is happenin’? What’s wrong with them?”

“Must be that thing—that disease.”

“Thought it was overseas?” Stevie could hardly breathe. There was blood all over her crisp blue uniform. Hot coffee all over her legs and pearly white sneakers. She felt dirty—so dirty.

“Stevie, breathe,” Charlotte said, grabbing her shoulders. “Look at me. Breathe.”

“I—I can’t!” Stevie gasped, clutching her chest. “Lottie, I can’t—”

“You can,” Charlotte said firmly, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “You have to. Come on, breathe. That door is solid. You’ve gotta calm down, or you’re gonna pass out. It ain’t good for the baby.”

Stevie tried to focus on Charlotte’s voice, but the noise outside was deafening. Those people—whatever was wrong with them— were relentless, their pounding like a drumbeat. Her vision blurred as tears spilled down her cheeks.

“I want Daryl,” she cried. “I can’t—I can’t—I need—“

“Okay, okay,” Charlotte said, pulling Stevie down to sit on the floor. “We’ll do this together. Look at me. Breathe in—one, two, three. Out—one, two, three. Come on, Stevie.”

Stevie tried to follow Charlotte’s lead, her breaths shaky and uneven. Slowly, the tightness in her chest began to ease, though the panic still hovered.

“That’s it,” Charlotte said softly, squeezing Stevie’s hands. “You’re doin’ good. Keep goin’.”

Stevie nodded, her eyes darting toward the door. “What if they get in?” she whispered.

“They won’t,” Charlotte said, though her voice wavered slightly. “Not right now. And if they do, we’ll figure it out. We’re not dyin’ in this damn diner, you hear me?”

“Okay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Stevie reached in her pocket, pulling out her flip phone. Charlotte did the same. Stevie tried to call Daryl, but the phone wouldn’t even ring.

“Ain’t workin’?” Charlotte asked, and Stevie shook her head. “Mine neither. Shit.”

They sat together on the cold kitchen floor, clutching each other, the horrid sounds outside continuing.

Every thud against the door made Stevie flinch, but she clung to Charlotte’s steady presence like a lifeline.

Then, soon, the noise began to fade.

Charlotte lifted her head, her brow furrowing. “Do you hear that?”

Stevie wiped at her tear-streaked face. “What?”

Charlotte tilted her head, listening intently. The pounding had grown sporadic, the growls quieter. After another agonizing moment, the sounds outside the door vanished altogether.

“Where did they go?” Stevie whispered, voice hoarse.

Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe they found somethin’ else to chase.” She stood cautiously, her hand gripping the nearest kitchen knife. “Stay here. I’m gonna check.”

Stevie grabbed her arm. “No! What if they’re still out there?”

“We can’t stay locked in here, Stevie. If the coast is clear, we needa get out while we can.”

Stevie hesitated but nodded, her hand going to rest protectively on her belly.

Charlotte unlocked the door slowly, the sound of the bolt sliding back deafening in the silence. She cracked the door open and peeked out.

“They’re gone,” Charlotte whispered, pushing the door open further.

Stevie followed, her heart hammering as she stepped into the dining area. The once-bustling diner was now a blood-soaked nightmare. Overturned chairs and shattered dishes littered the floor, and the air was thick with the tang of death.

“Let’s move,” Charlotte urged, her voice low.

They crept toward the front door, their footsteps careful. Just as they reached the exit, Stevie’s foot caught on something, and she stumbled. She looked down—and screamed.

It was the older couple from table four. Their bodies were crumpled on the floor, broken and torn apart. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and sticky.

“Oh God,” Stevie choked, stomach lurching.

Charlotte grabbed her under the arms and hauled her up. “Come on! Don’t look. Let’s go!”

Stevie tried to avert her gaze, but the image was burned into her mind. She let Charlotte drag her toward the parking lot, her legs wobbling beneath her.

Charlotte’s car was parked a few feet away, splattered with blood but miraculously intact. Charlotte yanked the door open and shoved Stevie inside before scrambling into the driver’s seat. She started the engine, her hands shaking, and threw the car into reverse.

“Buckle up,” Charlotte barked, glancing in the rearview mirror as she sped out of the lot.

Stevie fumbled with the seatbelt, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Where we goin’?”

“No fuckin’ clue,” she replied, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Your house. Then mine, I guess.”

Stevie tried her phone again, only to find it dead.

They had gone to Stevie’s house first.

It was silent, the front door still locked. There was no sign of Daryl, either. He’d left for work that morning, planning to come home at noon for lunch. It was nearing sundown, and he was not there.

Stevie had searched every room, calling out his name until her voice cracked. She found his hunting rifle and ammo in the closet, the sight of it hitting her like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t been here; he wouldn’t have left that behind, with everything going on out there.

Stevie went to their bedroom, breath hitching as she looked around. The walls and shelves were lined with the collection she’d spent her life creating. She couldn’t take them all, of course. There wasn’t room, and there wasn’t time.

But she could bring one, maybe. One could certainly fit in her bag. Charlotte said to get necessities. Stevie felt this was one.

On her bedside table sat the Ulysses butterfly Daryl had given her for her birthday just months earlier. She slipped the case into her backpack carefully before zipping the bag shut.

Charlotte had been quiet, standing guard and giving Stevie space as she packed what she could. Clothes, toiletries, her prenatal vitamins, whatever food was left in the pantry. She wrote a note for Daryl and left it on the kitchen counter.

“Let’s go,” Charlotte called from the doorway.

Stevie lingered for one last look at her gran’s house, the one she grew up in, before following Charlotte out.

From there, they went to Charlotte’s house. It was empty too, but not untouched. A few drawers had been pulled open, and the back door swung slightly ajar, creaking on its hinges.

“They left in a hurry,” Charlotte murmured, her brow furrowed as she looked around.

But her parents and her older brother Theodore were gone, and the heaviness in her chest was evident as Stevie watched her friend stare at the empty dinner table.

The search continued.

They checked the police station and the firehouse, hoping to find survivors or some kind of authority. Instead, they found chaos. The places were crawling with people—only, they weren’t people anymore. They were sick with something, their skin pale and torn, their eyes vacant and hungry.

Stevie had sobbed and sobbed that night, crying for Daryl, clutching her stomach as if holding her baby could keep her grounded. Charlotte sat beside her in the car, staring out at the darkness, holding Daryl’s rifle. She didn’t say much, but her presence alone the only thing keeping Stevie from falling apart entirely. She couldn’t do this alone.

For weeks, they drove through the town and its outskirts, searching for Daryl and Charlotte’s family. Every house, every store, every quiet road was the same—empty of answers, full of the sick.

They slept in Charlotte’s car, curled up under thin blankets. Nights were restless, full of the sounds of the sick shuffling outside or distant screams that neither of them dared to investigate.

One night, Stevie whispered into the darkness, her voice trembling. “What if they’re gone?”

Charlotte didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was quiet but firm. “Then we keep goin’. For you. For the baby.”

Stevie nodded, tears slipping down her face.

After weeks of searching, they were beginning to believe that they we’re the only living people left in Georgia. But then, one day, they heard it—a crackling message over a battery-powered radio they’d scavenged from a gas station.

“This is a message for any survivors. The CDC in Atlanta is offering refuge. Repeat, the CDC in Atlanta is offering refuge. Bring food, water, and any medical supplies you can carry. Stay safe.”

Charlotte looked at Stevie, then down at her belly, growing bigger as the days went by. “Atlanta ain’t a long drive.”

As they drove away from the town they’d once called home, neither of them looked back. Their hearts ached with the weight of what they’d lost, but the road ahead held a sliver of hope, and that was all they had left.

The CDC was destroyed.

Blown up—recently, based on the small active fires among the desolated building.

Charlotte stood beside Stevie, her shoulders squared but trembling slightly as they stared at what had once been their last hope. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of the wind rushing past the car and the distant groans of the sick filled the silence.

Charlotte broke first. Bowing her head, she whispered a prayer under her breath, her lips moving in words Stevie couldn’t quite make out.

Stevie glanced at her, biting back the bitter remark that rose to her lips. She’d grown up in church, mostly to make her Gran happy, but she’d never believed in any of it. Especially not now—not when the world had turned into this nightmare.

She looked back at the smoldering ruins, her heart sinking deeper. There was nothing left. No CDC. No rescue. No answers.

“What are you doin’?” Stevie asked, voice sharper than she intended. Perhaps it was the hormones, or perhaps the dread.

Charlotte didn’t look up, her voice low and steady. “Prayin’.”

“For what?” Stevie snapped, throwing her hands out at the ruins. “For a miracle? For some answer? Because this—” she gestured wildly at the destruction—“this ain’t look like the kinda thing God’s gonna fix anytime soon!”

Charlotte slowly raised her head, her face calm but weary. “I ain’t prayin’ for answers, Stevie. I’m prayin’ for strength. For both of us. For your baby.”

The drive back out of the city was silent. Stevie kept her eyes on the road, knuckles white as she gripped the wheel. Beside her, Charlotte stared out the window, face gloomy.

They pulled over just before sundown, parking on the shoulder of an overgrown highway. The car was nearly out of gas, and neither of them had the energy to go any farther.

Charlotte climbed out, rifle slung over her shoulder. “I’ll check the area,” she said, her voice brisk. “Stay here.”

Stevie didn’t argue. She sat in the car, her hands resting on her swollen belly.

What were they going to do now? Where would they go? Would they ever find Daryl—or anyone?

Charlotte returned a few minutes later, her face unreadable. “It’s clear,” she said. “We’ll sleep here tonight.”

As they sat together, the silence stretched on until Stevie couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you think it’s even worth it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Charlotte looked at her sharply. “What?”

“This,” Stevie said, gesturing vaguely around them. “Survivin’. Tryin’. What’s the point if everythin’s just gonna fall apart?”

Charlotte stared at her for a long moment before answering. “The point is the baby,” she said simply. “The point is you. And me. We keep goin’ ‘cause that’s what we do. We survived, and we will survive. That’s all we can do.”

Stevie blinked back tears, her throat tight.

Charlotte leaned back in the seat, rifle resting across her lap. “I ain’t sayin’ it’s gonna be easy. Fuck, it ain’t been easy since day one. But if we give up now, then what’s all this been for?”

Stevie nodded slowly, wiping her eyes. “Okay,” she said softly. “We keep goin’.”

Charlotte gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Yeah. We keep goin’.”

More days blurred into more weeks which blurred into more months. Stevie and Charlotte stayed on the move, hopping from town to town, scavenging for supplies, and avoiding the sick as best they could.

Charlotte was the protector. Her father had been a hunter, and she’d grown up learning how to handle firearms. The rifle slung over her shoulder and the pistol at her hip had practically become extensions of her.

Stevie, on the other hand, avoided guns whenever she could. She’d grown up watching Daryl hunt, even shooting at cans for practice in the woods, but the thought of pulling the trigger on something—even something already dead—made her stomach turn. Charlotte never pressed her, instead taking it upon herself to handle the sick whenever they got too close.

“Don’t worry,” Charlotte said. “I’ve got us.”

Stevie nodded, hugging her knees to her chest. “I hate feelin’ useless, though. I’m slowin’ you down.”

Charlotte shook her head firmly. “You ain’t. You gotta sharp mind, you’re smart. The way you spot things, the supplies you find—that keeps us alive. We’re a team.”

The next morning, Stevie proved Charlotte’s point when she spotted a sick person lurking near an abandoned gas station before Charlotte did.

“Two o’clock,” Stevie whispered, pointing to the shadow moving between the pumps.

Charlotte nodded, her hand already on her pistol. She crept forward, her steps silent and deliberate. Stevie stayed back, gripping her knife tightly just in case. With one clean shot, Charlotte put the sick man down, and the area was silent once more.

“See?” Charlotte said, grinning as she holstered the gun. “A team.”

Stevie often thought about Daryl. Where was he? Was he even alive? The questions haunted her.

One evening, as they sat in a dusty motel room they’d claimed for the night, Stevie turned to Charlotte. “Do you think it’s always gonna be like this? Just us, runnin’ from place to place?”

Charlotte shrugged, cleaning her pistol. “Maybe. Maybe not. I ain’t much for thinkin’ that far ahead.” She glanced at Stevie. “But I’ll tell you this—if it’s just us, I’m good with that.”

Stevie smiled faintly, her heart aching with gratitude and guilt. “Thanks, Lottie. For everythin’.”

Charlotte gave her a small, wry grin. “Don’t get mushy on me now, Vie.”

As the months dragged on, they grew more efficient, slipping through ghost towns and taking only what they needed. They avoided other survivors when they could (upon concluding that they weren’t the people they were searching for), figuring that people could be just as dangerous as the sick—if not more so. They were two young women against a shattered world, but they’d made it this far together.

Even in the worst of times, Stevie couldn’t help but hope that somewhere out there, Daryl was alive, looking for her.

The house was their sanctuary. A big, two-story farmhouse surrounded by a sturdy iron gate, perched on the edge of a quiet wooded area. They’d stumbled upon it weeks ago, finding it intact and mercifully sick-free. The gate had been an old relic, likely once decorative, but it had held strong against any stragglers that wandered too close.

Charlotte had become the protector in every sense of the word, fiercely guarding their little corner of the world. She set traps around the property, patrolled the fence daily, and made frequent supply runs into nearby towns. Stevie, whose stomach had grown round and heavy in recent months, had tried to go with her at first, but Charlotte put her foot down.

“You’re stayin’ here,” Charlotte had said firmly one morning as Stevie tried to lace up her boots. “You can barely tie your shoes without gettin’ winded. I’ll be fine.”

Stevie had wanted to argue but relented, knowing Charlotte was right. Instead, she turned her focus inward, spending her days tending to the house and preparing for the baby.

The bookshelf in the living room was now packed with dog-eared books on childbirth and parenting, scavenged from libraries and abandoned houses. Stevie and Charlotte had poured over them endlessly, trying to absorb every detail, every bit of advice.

“You’re gonna be a good mama,” Charlotte said one night, her voice breaking the silence as they sat in the candle lit living room.

Stevie glanced up from the book in her lap, surprised. “You think so?”

Charlotte nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. You’ve got the heart for it. And the kid’s gonna have both of us. We’ll make it work.”

Stevie blinked back tears, her hand resting on her belly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said softly.

Charlotte smiled. “Good thing you ain’t havta find out. We’re sisters now, ‘kay?”

The early hours of the morning brought a bitter chill that seeped through the farmhouse walls. Stevie sat on the couch in the living room, staring out at the darkened yard beyond the window. She’d been restless all night, her body aching with a heaviness that she couldn’t shake.

Charlotte came in from her patrol, setting her rifle down by the door. “You good?” she asked, her voice soft but alert.

Stevie nodded absently, her hand rubbing small circles on her back. “I think so. Just… uncomfortable.”

Charlotte frowned, walking over to crouch beside her. “Uncomfortable how?”

Before Stevie could answer, a sharp pain shot through her abdomen, forcing a gasp from her lips. She gripped the armrest of the couch, her knuckles white.

“Like that,” Stevie said through gritted teeth.

Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Okay, okay. Let’s get you to the room.” She slipped an arm around Stevie’s back and helped her to her feet, her voice calm but firm. “We knew this was comin’. You’ve got this.”

Stevie let herself be guided to the bedroom they’d prepared weeks ago—Stevie’s birthing chamber, Charlotte had dubbed it. It wasn’t much—a clean bed, a pile of blankets, and a few supplies Charlotte had scavenged—but it was all they had. Stevie lay down, the pain coming in waves now, each one stronger than the last.

“Lottie,” Stevie gasped, face slick with sweat. “I ain’t ready. I can’t do this.”

Charlotte knelt beside the bed, gripping Stevie’s hand tightly. “Yes, you can. You’re strong. Just breathe, okay? Focus on me.”

Hours passed, her water breaking and the contractions growing closer together, each one stealing Stevie’s breath and filling the room with muffled cries of pain. Charlotte stayed by her side, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth and whispering words of encouragement, as Stevie cried for Daryl and Gran, who she desperately wished for.

“Push, Stevie,” Charlotte urged when the time came, her voice steady but edged with worry.

“I can’t,” Stevie whimpered, her entire body trembling. “It hurts too much.”

“You can,” Charlotte insisted, her hands gripping Stevie’s knees, pulling her legs apart. “You can. You gotta.”

Stevie gritted her teeth and bore down, screaming through the pain. The minutes dragged on like hours, each push feeling like it might tear her apart. She felt like she was drowning, the world blurring around her. She never knew pain like this.

“Almost there,” Charlotte said. “Just one more, Stevie. One more.”

With a guttural cry, Stevie gave one final push, collapsing back against the pillows as a thin, wailing cry filled the room.

Charlotte’s face broke into a tearful grin as she held the tiny, wriggling baby in her hands. “You did it,” she said, her voice choked. “You did it, Stevie.” It was a boy. A baby boy.

Stevie sobbed with relief, her body heavy with exhaustion. “Is he okay?” she asked weakly, eyes fluttering.

Charlotte nodded, before she cut the umbilical cord and suctioned his little mouth a bit. She wrapped the baby in a clean blanket. “He’s perfect,” she said, laying him gently on Stevie’s chest.

Stevie looked down at her son, her heart swelling as his cries quieted and his tiny fingers curled against her skin. “Hi,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Hi, baby.”

Charlotte sat back, watching with a soft smile. “He’s got your stubbornness already. Took his sweet time gettin’ here.”

Stevie laughed weakly, cradling the baby close.

The room fell quiet, the weight of the moment settling over them. Outside, the world was still as dangerous as ever, but inside this little house, there was a new kind of hope.

“So…what do we call him?” Charlotte asked after a while.

They had been talking about names for a long time, going back and forth. Stevie wanted the baby to have a strong name—something solid, something that would carry them through this broken world.

She’d thought about naming the baby after Daryl or her Gran, Clara. But every time the names crossed her mind, they felt like too much—too heavy, too painful. Still, she couldn’t let them go entirely.

Stevie smiled down at the baby, her voice trembling. “I think…I think I’ll go with Charlie.”

“Charlie? That wasn’t on the list?”

“I know. I wanted to suprise you. Charlie for Charlotte. My savior, my sister.”

“Really?” Tears poured down her cheeks.

Stevie nodded enthusiasticly. “Charlie Daryl Dixon.”

The storm raged outside, its winds battering the house as if trying to tear it apart. Stevie sat in the rocking chair by the fireplace, cradling Charlie against her chest. His tiny face was scrunched up, his cries soft but insistent as if he could sense her worry.

Stevie’s eyes kept flicking to the door. Charlotte had been gone too long, on a run to find food.

“She’s fine,” Stevie murmured to her crying baby, trying to convince herself. “She’s fine. She’ll walk through that door any second.” Since his birth four months ago, Stevie and Charlotte had both taken to talking to him as if he could understand their words. It made them feel a little less alone.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the emptiness outside. No sign of Charlotte. Just wind and darkness and the gnawing silence that probably meant something terrible was waiting. Stevie hugged Charlie closer.

Another minute passed. Then another. Stevie’s chest felt like it might cave in.

Finally, the front door unlocked.

Stevie shot up, clutching Charlie to her chest. Relief surged through her, crashing over her like a wave.

“Lottie!” she cried.

But her joy was fleeting.

Charlotte stumbled into the house, soaked to the bone, face pale as death. Her hand was clutching her shoulder, blood seeping through her fingers. The door slammed shut behind her, blown shut by the wind.

Stevie froze.

“Stevie,” Charlotte croaked, her voice trembling.

“Where…Where were you?” Stevie stammered, taking a shaky step forward. Then she saw the wound. A jagged, unmistakable bite, leaking blood.

“No,” Stevie whispered, her knees wobbling. “No, no, no! Tell me that ain’t...”

Charlotte leaned against the wall, strength failing her. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the rainwater. “I tried, Stevie. I tried to get back. But there were so many sick people, and the rain…I couldn’t see them until it was too late.”

Stevie’s legs gave out, and she sank to the floor, clutching Charlie tightly. Her tears came fast and hot, her chest heaving as the reality of the situation crushed her.

“You can’t do this to me!” she screamed, her voice raw. “You can’t leave me and Charlie! We need you, Charlotte!”

Charlotte knelt down in front of her, her own tears falling freely. She reached out, her shaking hand brushing Stevie’s cheek. “I ain’t wanna leave you,” she choked out. “God, Stevie, I ain’t wanna leave. But it’s already happenin’, I can feel it. I’m sick. You know what you gotta do.”

Stevie shook her head violently. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that! There has to be somethin’—some way—”

“There ain’t,” Charlotte sobbed. “You know that. I ain’t got much time.” She glanced town at Charlie, who was now wailing in Stevie’s arms, his tiny fists flailing. “You have to protect him, Stevie. You have to keep him safe.”

“I can’t do this without you,” Stevie cried. “You’re all we have, Lottie. I can’t do it alone.”

Charlotte leaned her forehead against Stevie’s, her tears falling onto Charlie’s blanket. “You can do this. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You’re gonna make it through this, for him. For me.”

They stayed there, clinging to each other as the storm roared outside. Stevie’s sobs shook her entire body, her chest burning as she tried to breathe.

“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I’m so scared.”

Charlotte’s hand cupped her face, her thumb brushing away a tear. “I know. But you’re gonna be okay. And Charlie’s gonna grow up knowin’ how much you love him. How much his Aunt Lottie loved him.” Her voice broke, and she pulled Stevie into a hug, the baby between them.

When Charlotte finally pulled back, her face was pale, her eyes heavy with sorrow. “It’s time.”

Stevie shook her head, trembling. “I can’t.”

“You gotta,” Charlotte whispered. “I ain’t wanna to hurt you, Stevie. I ain’t wanna hurt Charlie. Please. Do it before I lose myself. I’m sick, Vie, I’m hurtin’.”

Stevie trembled as she placed her crying baby in the playpen, before she reached for a knife on the table. Her vision blurred with tears, breath coming in ragged gasps.

Stevie crouched back down to where Charlotte now laid on the ground, practically convulsing, clutching the knife with trembling hands.

“I love you,” she sobbed, voice barely audible.

“I love you too,” Charlotte whispered. “My sister.”

She looked at Charlotte one last time, committing every detail of her face to memory—the curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, even now, even at the end.

Charlotte closed her eyes, her tears streaming down her cheeks. “S’okay, Vie. S’okay.”

With a sob, Stevie jammed the knife into Charlotte’s temple .

Stevie’s face was pale and gaunt. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame, and the dark circles under her eyes told the story of too many sleepless nights.

Charlie squirmed in her arms, his cries weak.

“I know, baby,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Mama’s tryin’.”

Her milk had nearly dried up. The food Charlotte had stalked up on was mostly gone. The sparse handfuls of nuts, fruits, and the occasional squirrel Stevie managed to catch weren’t enough to sustain her. She knew she couldn’t keep this up. If she didn’t find food soon, she wouldn’t be able to feed Charlie.

With trembling hands, she wrapped Charlie against her chest in the makeshift sling. He nuzzled into her, his tiny body warm against her own. She kissed his head, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she murmured. “I hate leavin’ here, but we ain’t gotta choice.”

Grabbing the gun and the last few bullets she had, Stevie stepped out into the cold morning.

The car groaned to life, and she winced at the noise. She hated the way it echoed, hated how it might attract the sick.

The drive to the nearby town was nerve-wracking. Every shadow seemed like it could be death lurking just out of sight.

When she arrived to the marked area on the map (which Charlotte had luckily annotated months prior), the streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional moan of a sick person shuffling in the distance.

She parked and took a deep breath.

With Charlie strapped to her chest, Stevie stepped out, gun in hand. She hadn’t gone more than a few feet when a sick person lunged at her from behind a rusted car. She screamed, the sound startling Charlie, who began to cry. She fumbled with the gun but managed to fire a shaky shot, hitting the sick woman in the chest.

“Dammit!” she hissed, aiming again. This time, the bullet hit its head, and it crumpled to the ground.

More were coming. She could hear them. Stevie wiped sweat from her brow and forced herself to keep moving. She didn’t have the luxury of fear—not now, not with Charlie depending on her.

Inside a small grocery store, she searched frantically for anything edible. Most of the shelves were empty, picked clean long ago. Still, she managed to find a few cans tucked behind a stack of dusty boxes. Her relief was short-lived when she heard footsteps behind her.

Stevie whirled around, raising the gun with trembling hands. A woman stood in the doorway, a long sword-looking weapon in her hands.

“Stay back!” Stevie shouted, her voice cracking.

The woman raised her hands slowly, her face remaining calm. “I’m not here to hurt you,” she said evenly. Her eyes flicked down to Charlie, who was whimpering softly in his sling. “I see you’ve got a little one. I mean no harm.”

Stevie’s chest heaved as she kept the gun trained on the stranger. “What do you want?”

“My name is Michonne,” the woman replied. “Are you alone?”

“No,” Stevie snapped. Charlotte warned her how people could be in this new world. Cruel and merciless. Stevie couldn’t let her know she was alone - utterly alone.

The woman nodded. “You have a group?”

“Yes.”

The woman gave her a small, knowing smile. Stevie never was a good liar. “Well, I’m also with a group. We’ve got a community not far from here. We’ve got food, shelter…kids. Your group could come, talk to our council.”

Stevie’s heart ached at the mention of food. Her instincts screamed not to trust anyone, but when she looked into Michonne’s eyes, she saw no deceit. She was always good at reading people. With her nerves slowly calming, Stevie could sense that this woman seemed genuine.

“Actually…I am alone. ‘Sides him.” She nods at the baby strapped to her.

Back at the farmhouse, Stevie hurried to gather her few belongings. She packed clothes for herself and Charlie, the few belongings she’d gathered. Her hands lingered on the Ulysses butterfly on the nightstand. She wrapped it carefully in cloth and placed it in the bag.

Micchone was waiting for her outside. When she was ready to leave, Stevie looked around the farmhouse one last time. This place had been her world for over a year. This was where Charlie was born, ten long months ago. In the backyard was where she had buried Charlotte.

But she couldn’t stay. Deep down, she always knew this. She knew she couldn’t survive in her own, that she wasn’t strong enough.

Michonne waited by the truck. “You ready?” she asked when Stevie emerged.

Stevie nodded, adjusting Charlie in the sling.

The drive to the prison was tense. Michone asked her questions about herself, which Stevie responded to shyly.

When they reached the gates, Stevie nearly gasped. It was a prison, its fences lined with guards. She could see children playing in the yard, their laughter faint but real.

As the gates to the prison creaked open, Stevie stepped through hesitantly, clutching Charlie in his sling, Michonne having graciously taken her bag. Her eyes darted around, taking in the sight of people—men and women walking about, children playing under watchful eyes.

“This way,” Michonne said, motioning for Stevie to follow.

Stevie clutched Charlie close as she trailed behind Michonne, heart pounding. She hadn’t been around this many people in so long. It was overwhelming. It made her skin crawl. She was suddenly very conscious about her appearance. She had always prided herself in her cleanliness and upkeep. She must’ve looked terrible, insane, to these well kept people.

They entered a building, where Michonne gestured toward a small group of people.

“Rick, this is Stevie,” Michonne said to a man apporaching them. “And her son, Charlie.”

Rick stepped forward, face softening when he saw the baby. “Welcome,” he said warmly. “You’re safe here. We’ll get you settled in.”

Stevie nodded, throat too tight to speak.

She was introduced to a few others who lingering in the space. A young boy, Carl, who gave her a shy smile, eyes curious. An older woman named Carol greeted her gently, cooing at Charlie.

Michonne and Rick guided her to a prison cell. She almost let out a hysterical laugh. She never imaged she, of all people, would end up living in a prison cell, least of all with a baby, at just twenty years old.

The two people helped her set down her belongings, and Rick even brought her a cradle. He had a daughter, he told her, only a few months old. They were stocked up on baby supplies. This fact alone made her believe she made a good choice.

They even brought her food. Real food. Which she scarfed down embarrassingly fast with red cheeks.

They tried to talk to her some more, but Stevie hardly heard their words. Her nerves were fraying, exhaustion catching up. The bide her a goodbye, sensing her tiredness.

Stevie fell alseep in a prison cell after breast-feeding her baby, her stomach full for the first time in months.

She woke up to someone shaking her shoulder, making her gasp awake in fear and grab onto Charlie, who slept curled into her side.

“Sorry!” A voice said. “It’s just me. Carol, from earlier.”

Stevie sighed deeply as she sat up in bed, locking eyes with the older woman. “M’so sorry, ma’am,” she whispered.

She shook her head with a small smile. “It’s okay, no need to apologize. I wanted you to eat while dinner is still hot. You need some meat on those bones.” She held up a plate stacked high with steaming food.

Stevie offered a polite smile. “Thank you, ma’am.” Tentatively, she placed Charlie, still dozing, into the cradle and took the plate, her stomach growling at the smell.

Carol pulled up a chair from the small desk, sitting across from her, as Stevie began to dig in. “You doing okay?”

Stevie hesitated, glancing over at Charlie. “I think so. It’s just…a lot.”

Carol nodded. “I get that. Coming here, being around so many people again—it’s not easy. You and your baby are safe here. I promise.”

Stevie nodded. “It’s hard to believe that after everythin’.” She paused, voice trembling. “I’ve been alone for awhile. Just me and Charlie. I didn’t think I’d ever find other people. Nice people.”

Carol leaned forward slightly. “Don’t worry. We’re nice people, I swear.” She smiled at Charlie. “How old is he?”

“‘Bout ten months, ma’am.”

“You don’t have to call me ma’am. Call me Carol.” She gave a warm smile. “You gave birth alone? All by yourself?”

“No…” Stevie trails off, looking away from Carol’s tender gaze. “I was with someone. My friend, a waitress I worked with before. She died a few months ago. She got, you know…bit by one of the sick people.”

There was a beat of silence before Carol said, “I’m so sorry. His dad—was he…?”

Stevie swallowed hard. She didn’t see the harm in opening up to this woman. She seemed very nice, and sort of reminded her of a younger Gran, warm and motherly. “My husband and I were separated right at the start. I was a few months pregnant when everything happened. I thinks he’s…gone.”

Carol tilted her head, studying her closely. “Did you try to find him?”

Stevie nodded. “Lottie and I - that was my friend- we searched and searched all through town. Couldn’t find nobody. We just…kept movin’. Kept survivin’.”

Carol’s eyes narrowed slightly, her expression shifting as if something had clicked. “What was your husbands name?”

Stevie hesitated, as if saying it out loud would break something inside her. “Daryl,” she whispered.

Carol froze, her breath catching. “Daryl?”

Stevie nodded slowly, her brow furrowing at Carol’s reaction. “Yeah…why?”

Carol leaned back, her expression stunned. “What’s your full name, Stevie?”

Stevie frowned, confused. “Stevie Dixon.”

The room seemed to go silent, the weight of Stevie’s words hanging in the air. Carol’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out at first. Finally, she stood abruptly. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

Stevie’s heart began to race. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I’ll be right back,” Carol said, voice tight with urgency. Without another word, she hurried out of the cell, leaving Stevie staring after her, bewildered.

A few minutes later, Carol returned, but this time she wasn’t alone. A man was behind her.

A man she knew.

Daryl Dixon.

They locked eyes.

He stepped into the cell, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Stevie stood slowly, legs trembling beneath her. “Daryl?” she breathed, voice breaking.

He froze, his hand gripping the doorframe as if he needed it to hold himself up. “Stevie…” His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

Her hand flew to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Oh my God…I found you.”

Daryl took a step forward, then another, until he was standing right in front of her, his hand hovering near her shoulders, as if scared to touch her. As if she might fade away like a ghost if he did. “I thought…I thought you were gone. The diner…”

“I thought the same about you,” Stevie sobbed. “I looked a looked. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Daryl cupped her face with both hands, staring at her like he couldn’t believe she was real. “I looked for you. For so long.”

Then, finanly, she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed into him, his arms instinctively wrapping around her. Her feet were off the ground, as he clutched her and cried just as she was.

“Stevie, Stevie, Stevie-“ He whispered, voice wet with sobs. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re here.”

A confused cry broke the moment.

Charlie had woken, and he was standing up in the cradle, holding onto the side, looking up at them.

Daryl’s leaned back from Stevie and looked down at Charlie. “Is…is this…?”

“Our baby boy. Charlie. I listened to you — didn’t pick no bug name.”