d e v o n
if i look back, i am lost
@theartofmadeline
pixel skylines
đ
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
#extradirty
official daine visual archive
Claire Keane
đ©” avery cochrane đ©”
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
shark vs the universe
cherry valley forever
taylor price
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
izzy's playlists!
ellievsbear
Game of Thrones Daily
One Nice Bug Per Day
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@freerangebabe
New posting schedule, I will be writing/posting on the weekends and wed-nes-day. Just so I can put everything together and keep it together and a weekday to tide you over. I also am still taking requests to those who are asking and I've been eyeing a few ideas from @dixondisease in the meantime. Starting next week!!!!
Link to my masterlists and all the stories
I might also write for other norman characters just to spice things up <3
Had one friend kill themselves recently two weeks ago and another this week, got the text at 7. It was sent at 3.
Found
Nelly nosed through the low-hanging branches, huffing harshly every time a leaf tickled her snout. Her hooves pounded the earth with purpose, breaking through undergrowth spiraling through brittle soil.
Daryl bounced with every trot, his knife belt slapping against his thigh, legs clamped tight around the saddle. He scanned the scenery, reins fisted in one hand.
His nerves burned as high as the sun, broiling his slick skin in red warmth. A discomfort he ignored for Sophiaâs sake. The little girl he had been tasked with finding.
Day after day, each trip farther than the last, it had turned up nothing.
Not today.
Not under his watch.
He had a feeling today would bring clarity. Godâs will or his own.
So far, his discoveries were small but telling. Snapped branches. A strip of dark blue thread snagged in the crook of a tree. Footprints pressed into the dirt.
Coincidental, if not for three things.
1. The branches werenât broken clean. They were torn, panicked. Like someone running.
2. The thread wasnât just any color. It was dark blue. Same as Sophiaâs shirt, if his memory served him right.
3. The footprints were small. No longer than a crow's feather. Not the crooked, dragging prints of the dead.
Hope burned brighter than the uncertainty.
She was here.
He broke focus when Nelly trotted to a stop, clearly spooked by something.
Daryl's head snapped forward when the snap of a walker settled over the tense silence.
"Dammit," he mumbled to himself, gathering the reins in one hand. He swung his leg over the horse, hopping off the peeling leather saddle. He tugged Nelly close, keeping the reins fisted while he knuckled the horse's cheek, reminding her of his presence.
"Shh," he whispered, reaching for his hunting knife. The blade glared against the sun, sharp and steady in his hand, he crouched, ducking behind the horse for a better view.
There were two. One coming up from straight ahead and the other stumbling from the right, crossing the other dead guy like it was staking a claim on its next meal.
"Easy does it," Daryl's tongue flicked across his lips as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, inching around her, slow.
He came into view, eyeing the two. They moved like broken marionettes with no coordination, limbs limp, heads lolled to the side like the wind carried secrets.
Not a serious threat, to him. Nelly, was anxious, subtly tugging away the closer they shambled.
Daryl uncrouched, taking a measured step to the side, he let the first straggler stumble forward, reaching for Nelly jerked back, nearly yanking Daryl off balance. He was quick to unholster his knife, plunging it into the skull of the walker with a wet squish as it cut through meat and bone.
The body dropped like a rock down a well, quick and heavy. Daryl grimaced when it landed at his feet so he delivered a harsh kick to the head, sending it flying through the trees.
"Yuck," he sniffed, swiping his arm under his nose, pointing the knife outward.
The other walker growled, snapping at nothing with broken teeth.
"You're next," Daryl promised, ducking beneath an aimless grab, jamming his knife to the hilt through the half eaten ear. The snapping stopped, mouth paused like someone cut him off mid thought. The matter of the eyes were replaced with the blood stained steel.
He watched the second life drift away with the casual withdrawal of the blade. Black and red painted the steel as he flicked the matter to the dry earth.
He didn't bother wiping it off, just clipped it back into place on his hip. Nelly's anxious trotting stilled after Daryl tugged on the reins. "C'mon girl," he urged, knuckling the leather.
He stepped over the body, ignoring the chance to deliver another loaded kick to the headless corpse, continuing forward.
Just meters ahead the ground broke. Fresh footprints potted in the dirt, heavier. Like the person been stomping.
There was not much texture to the print. A shoe losing grip more like it.
It was good, but it still wasn't enough.
Further up ahead, the woods came to life. With trees dancing under a sudden wind and branches shed leaves as the little boy pushed through.
One hand covered his face as he swatted through a mess of twigs, one needling his cheek in passing though it left no mark. The other held a stick that resembled a wishbone.
When he put his arm down, his lashes fluttered, opening his eyes to the heavier part of the woods.
This was thicker than the light greens and yellows he'd pass through.
âKid.â Daryl growled, catching the small figureâs attention.
He turned his head to see Daryl kneeling at tracks, with a horse standing firmly behind him.
âThe hellâre you doinâ out here?â He snapped, flinging a rock in disappointment.
Heâd thought he was even a little closer to finding the girl, but it wasnât Sophia. It was his own kid. Playing in the woods.
âWhat are you?â The child shot back. It wasnât meant to be defiant entirely, but the way he held the stick in a now closed fist at his side and his head held higher, it was pretty damn close.
Daryl didnât answer. He didnât need to. Instead, he loosened his grip on the reins, sticking one foot in the stirrups. He swung his leg over the horse and settled in the saddle.
âYou bess git to that farm.â He warned, his voice graveled, low and scolding.
âWhat if I donât want to?â The kid challenged, making his dad curse under his breath.
Daryl wasnât asking and he damn sure ainât saying please. He expected resistance from the horse even, but from his own son? He had more home training than that.
Darylâs patience thinned in the way his gritted expression flattened. âYou go on anâ find out, huh?â His voice sharper now, edged with resolve.
It tangled through the trees effortlessly, echoing between intention and irritation.
The small body stumbled back half a step, defiance still holding him like a crutch losing ground.
âYouâll be lucky these things donât eat you where you stand. Tear you open from the inside out anâ have a little feast.â He bristled, tugging the reins in frustration.
Nelly jerked in response, lowering her hind in a crouch. Her hooves left the ground in defiance.
âEasy,â Daryl snarled at the horse.
The wind had gone calm, no longer tangling through the boyâs leaf-littered hair, and certainly no more promises of her.
Not under his dadâs crushing words, replacing hope with something darker. He tossed the stick at the horseâs feet, turning his head so his dad wouldnât see the defeat.
But Daryl could read it in the way the kidâs gaze dipped and his jaw clenched so hard he could splinter his teeth.
Good, Daryl thought. Fear kept kids alive longer than hope ever did.
He watched the small figure retreat with stiff shoulders. He didnât miss the waver of confidence, the way the woods seemed to swallow the boy faster on the way back. He had more to worry about than a tantrum.
This is the official cover for Dixon Boy, a new series I'm starting for Mac and dad!Daryl Dixon
Dixon Boy Masterlist
Chapter 1: Lost Boy
Chapter 2: Found
Lost Boy
The woods were alive.
Beating through faint birdsong, bright and meaningful though the neck of the trees. The wind swept dry leaves across the dense earth.
Whispers.
Wide eyed and sunburnt, the boy followed the voice that swirled around him, light and promising.
Tongue in cheek, boots half laced, sling tucked through the loop of his shorts, he pressed through hanging branches, feeling the subtle itch of the leaves ghosting over his skin.
He did not complain. Didn't even check. He kept his hands out before him like he could press the wind itself.
He tiptoed over broken ground, his boots leaving half-weighted impressions after chipped roots.
His hair swept over his eyes, tangled like tumbleweed across his head. His cheeks warmed under the glare of the afternoon sun filtering through the lid of taller trees folded over the forest.
The shadows cast over the woods stretched for miles, long fingers reaching after the boy who wondered with no compass, no fear, just a fragile thread of hope tugging him deeper.
He walked like he's walked these woods a hundred times before. Like they were expecting him.
The woods breathed with him.
Every step he took. Every stalled breath at the eerie calm. Every twitch of his fingers like he could just grab the sound and keep it.
Like it kept him.
This is the official cover for Dixon Boy, a new series I'm starting for Mac and dad!Daryl Dixon
This was initially formatted for wattpad, so please don't mind the shifting povs.
I know I've been gone for a minute, but I'm happy to say I'm rewatching the walking dead and I feel like the delay in the continuation of Rebirth is that the next chapter will probably be the last. Hopefully it brings comfort to those who have been patiently waiting that it's not over yet. With that being said, in the mean time, I've revisited some old ideas and I have two I have decent progress on that could be consistently updated.
Next series between/after Rebirth
Mac, 8 year old son of Daryl Dixon, takes place in season two-current
Oakley, 14 year old niece of Daryl Dixon reuniting with him after years. S5-6ish
Mend
You'd parked yourself on a log, shrugging your half-full satchel off, letting it sink into your lap as you turned your arm over, examining the split seam curling open along your sleeve. You'd just gotten this sweater from Aaron and you didn't want walkers' blood on it, no brains decorating the fuzzy fabric, so instead of a simple kill, you fell back.
It helped, traveling like this, that you weren't alone. You could let an eager neighbor nab the kill.
But once the dead had its senses set on you, it mumbled and moaned, trudging forward on two uneven legs to get you.
You had the advantage of space. Every half-step it took, you gave it a full one back. Still, you saw no interference today.
You figured you'd just go around, maybe toss the dead deer it had been feeding on, let it scramble to something more its speed, but you backed into a tree.
A hanging branch threaded through your sleeve like you were meant to be hung there with it.
"Y'alright?"
You hadn't heard Daryl come over. Big guy, but he moved quiet.
"A couple hours," you hummed, recalling the small excitement of getting the sweater. Your lips pressed together for a second, something sheepish flickering across your face. "I've only had it a couple hours."
"Lasted this long," he muttered. "Reckon a few stitches put it back together again."
You didnât say much after. You didnât have to.
He stepped over the log and eased down beside you.
He gently caught your wrist, guiding your hand to lay palm-flat on the patched rip in his jeans, right on the hill of his knee.
"Sit still," he murmured. More reminder than command.
You nodded.
At first, you watched him. Really watched him. The way he dug through his bag, rough and quick, like he knew it by feel more than sight, pushing things aside until he found what he needed. It made your mouth twitch, a small, private smile you tried to hide behind your teeth.
His eyes flicked up at yours. Just for a second.
Enough to catch it.
Enough to make your breath hitch, barely there.
Then he was back to work.
He slipped the needle through the first lip of the tear, careful not to go too deep, not to graze the scratch on your arm. His head tilted, lining up the angle just right as he pulled the thread through, slow and steady.
A clean stitch.
Further along, you noticed his tongue pressing faintly against the inside of his cheek when he focused, just barely there when he dipped his chin.
He looked⊠pretty, in the sunlight.
Hair clumped into damp strands over his eyes, sweat catching along the ridge of his cheekbones. A few strands of gray threaded through his stubble.
People used to fear that.
Now it was all anyone wanted. chance to get there. To age. To live long enough for it.
He wore fifty years well. Still strong, still sharp. Just⊠quieter about it.
"We move out in five."
Rosita.
Her voice carried before she came into view.
You didnât mind. Not really. It just meant you got to sit here a little longer, close enough to feel the heat off him.
Maybe that was why you were warm. Not the sleeves. Not the thick air.
Just him.
Leaves crunched under Rositaâs steps as she came into view. Her hair had been braided back somewhere between stopping and now, and sheâd torn her tank into a cropped knot, like the heat didnât get to decide anything for her.
Her nose crinkled when she took you in.
Not judgment. Just a clear, silent: why?
Why long sleeves in this heat?
Her eyes dipped, taking in your hand still resting on Darylâs knee.
Then back up.
One brow lifted.
There it was. Quick as a blink. Gone just as fast.
But not before the corner of her mouth twitched, like she knew something you hadnât said out loud yet.
By that logic, whyâd she have a jacket tied around her hips?
Daryl looked up once, tilting his head back just enough to shift his hair from his eyes. He paused, pinching your sleeve, needle poised but not yet through the last bit of torn fabric.
He didnât say anything.
Didnât have to.
Heâd known her longer. Knew that shift in her stance meant she was already halfway out.
He nodded in the direction the others had gone.
Ready.
You didnât realize how much time had passed until he leaned in closer, pulling the thread through one last time. Steady. You felt the tug of it along your arm.
Then
He brought the thread up and bit it.
Quick and clean. No hesitation. Like using his hands hadnât even crossed his mind.
For a second, his forehead brushed lightly against your arm as he pulled away.
You curled your hand into a loose fist, lifting your forearm so your knuckles rested near your shoulder. The smallest shift of air kissed the irritated skin, enough to sting.
"Solid," you said, a smile breaking through as you turned toward him.
He nodded, hesitant, gaze dropping to the forest floor.
"Mind if I test it out?"
Now he went shy.
Like heâd just realized how close you were. Your thigh against his knee. His hands still resting near your arm, not holding, just⊠there.
He cleared his throat, trying for something casual.
Didnât quite land.
He watched you curiously.
He just didnât expect you to reach for him.
Your fingers lifted, guiding a damp strand of hair back, tucking it carefully behind his ear.
Now you could see his eyes. Clouded, soft in a way that didnât come easy to him.
You felt it before you saw it, that quick shiver he tried to bury under a shift of his shoulders.
He straightened a little.
It only lasted a second before his hand came up, catching yours lightly, caging it for a moment against the worn leather of his vest.
"Here," he whispered.
He pressed something small and plastic into your knuckle, his fingers slipping between yours just long enough to pass the needle and thread.
Then he pulled back fast.
Hand dropping to his lap, already fidgeting with the clasp of his bag like he hadnât meant to linger.
Like touching you hadnât been part of the job.
You didnât mind.
You didnât say it.
But it showed, just a little, in the way your thumb brushed once over where his hand had been before you curled your fingers around the needle.
Before you could speak, the group started weaving back into view. Murky pastels, soiled flannels, blood-streaked denim.
"Thatâs five," Rosita called, already moving past, not slowing.
But not before she glanced once more.
Quick and knowing.
Then gone.
"Guess so," you hummed, tucking the needle into the thread so it wouldnât slip away.
"Thank you, Dixon," you added, glancing down at your sleeve.
He grunted, chest rising with it as he stood, stepping over toward Theresa to take back his crossbow.
"Sâgo."
And you did.
PLEASE WHERES THE REBIRTH'S CONTINUATION????
I am so sorry to you and others who have been waiting. I've been going through some personal stuff and writing had to stop for a minute, but I haven't forgotten. I promise. I'm working on it. Thank you for your patience.
Got an idea!!! (Rubs hands like birdman)
Working on a college au
Open Season
It wasnât the way his five-year-old crawled into his lap, hands steadying against his sunken shoulders as he scooted close enough to smell the carrot soup youâd made for lunch, the scent still clinging to his hair, that made Daryl want to take their little trek through the woods.
It was the sticky patch against his boyâs cheek as he stared wide-eyed at his dad, head tilted back against Darylâs arm, hands pressed into Darylâs knee like he was holding himself still while the widest grin spread from ear to ear.
âDaddy,â he started, âwhat do we do outside?â
Daryl thought about it for a second. âI find people,â he said. âBring âem home.â
âSometimes even animals,â Daryl added with a small shrug.
The little boy gasped like heâd just been told the moon was a planet, his face lighting up with pride.
âReally? Really?â
âReally. Really,â Daryl said with a small nod, wrapping his arm around his son.
âHome like we home?â he asked again, and his father nodded once more.
âHome like in yer belly,â Daryl teased, pinching at his sonâs sides. The little boy giggled, little hands pushing at Darylâs arm as he rocked back and forth, howling with laughter.
The giggles filled the afternoon air. Daryl tickled him until he was nearly red in the face, his skin warmed by the sound of it.
So here the Dixon boys stood, walking sticks in hand, backpacks full, and eyes set in determination. Daryl held the hand of his youngest, partly because he wanted to, and partly because the kid looked ready to take off into the wild like a rocket to space.
The eldest fixed both hands on the stick that hovered over him like a shadow, tilting it in a circle and smacking the ends against the earth with little psh, psh sound effects.
âAll right,â Daryl grunted, letting the kid finish his âsecret fighting moves,â as he liked to call them. He watched him step back in line when his brother reached for his hand.
âWhat now?â the little boy asked, looking up at his big brother and then at his dad.
Daryl nodded toward the trees. âNow we hunt.â
They moved deeper into the woods, the crunch of leaves and snap of twigs underfoot setting a rhythm that was easy to follow. The younger boyâs eyes darted from tree trunk to tree trunk, catching glimpses of birds, squirrels, and the occasional flash of sunlight between the leaves. His older brother, stick held like a staff, followed more carefully, balancing the stick while keeping an eye on the ground for anything interesting.
âRule number one,â Daryl said, crouching so he was level with the boys. âNever go too far. These woods got ways of lettinâ folks wander off.â He placed a steady hand on the younger boyâs shoulder, letting him feel the firm guidance without stifling curiosity. âStay close. Yer eyes. Yer ears. Theyâll tell ya whatâs out there.â
The little boy nodded seriously, gripping his stick like it was a sword. He crouched low, squinting at a patch of dirt with a small pile of scattered leaves.
âLook!â he whispered. âTracks!â
Daryl knelt beside him, squinting down. âAinât deer. Maybe a raccoon. See the shape? Round, little toe prints. You can tell whoâs been here by the pattern. Thatâs trackinâ.â He tapped the ground with his finger. âFollow the patterns, but donât touch âem. Just watch.â
The younger boyâs eyes were wide as he carefully traced the path with his finger a few inches above the dirt, barely daring to brush it. His older brother tried to mimic him, lifting his foot carefully over a small patch of mud, pretending not to step in it.
âGood,â Daryl said with a small nod. âSeeinâ tracks is just as much part of huntinâ as catchinâ anything. You notice the world around you first.â
A sudden rustle in the trees ahead made the younger boy freeze. His hand gripped Darylâs arm, eyes wide.
âDaddy⊠look!â He pointed toward a small clearing where a deer grazed quietly, ears twitching at every sound.
Daryl squatted low, letting the boys get a better view. âNow,â he said softly, âwe donât touch it. We donât chase it. Sometimes the woods just let ya watch. Admire it. Learn from it.â He let the boys stay quiet for a few long breaths, just watching the animal nibble at grass, sunlight catching the white spots on its back.
The older boy let out a tiny breath and whispered, âItâs⊠itâs so big.â
âBig, and fast, and smart,â Daryl said. âWe respect that. Thatâs part of rule number one too. Knowinâ whatâs safe to follow, whatâs safe to admire, and when to leave it be.â
After a few more steps, the boys noticed some bright red berries hanging low from a bush. The older boy pointed eagerly. âLook, Daddy! Berries!â
Daryl crouched beside him again. âRule number three,â he said, brushing a few leaves aside. âNever touch what you donât know. Could be safe, could be poison. You look, you donât touch unless I say so. Thatâs how the woods keep you alive.â He plucked a berry and showed it to them. âThese? Edible. But any other berries, leave âem. Always leave âem.â
The boys nodded seriously, their curiosity tempered by the lesson. The younger boy poked at a nearby stick, imagining it might magically turn into a berry-picking tool, while the older one carefully observed the bush, noting its leaves and branches.
They kept moving, stopping now and then to peer under logs or glance at the birds flying overhead. Daryl pointed out broken branches where squirrels had leapt, small holes in the dirt where mice had tunneled, and the faint, musky smell that told him a raccoon had passed by not long ago. The cool shade pressed against their skin, and the earthy smell of damp moss hung heavy in the air.
Finally, the sound of trickling water led them to a small creek, sunlight making the ripples shimmer like tiny stars trapped in glass. Daryl crouched beside the creek, letting the boys squat next to him.
âLast rule,â he said, voice soft but firm. âWater is life. Donât waste it. Fishinâ ainât just for eatinâ. Itâs payinâ attention. Watch the ripples, the bugs, the shadows. Patience.â
He handed the older boy a small stick with a line tied to it, a makeshift fishing pole, while the younger boy leaned over, toes skimming the cold water. âNow,â Daryl said, settling behind them, âletâs see what these woods got for lunch.â
The boys were silent for a long while, focusing on the water. Every ripple, every shadow, every splash of a fish made their eyes widen. Occasionally, the younger boy let out a small squeak when a fish jumped, and Daryl chuckled quietly, careful not to startle themâor the fish.
A few nibbles and patient tugs later, the older boy finally reeled in a small trout, eyes wide with excitement. âLook, Daddy! Look what I got!â
The younger boy clapped his hands, bouncing on the balls of his feet. âI wanna catch one too!â
âSlow and steady,â Daryl said, adjusting the line for him. âPatience. Thatâs the trick.â He let the boy dangle his line, humming quietly to the rhythm of the creek. Soon enough, the younger one felt a tug, and with Darylâs steady hands guiding him, he pulled in a small but wriggling fish.
âGood job, little man,â Daryl said, ruffling his hair. The boy beamed, holding up the fish like it was a trophy.
After a while, they packed up their small catch, placing the fish carefully in a makeshift pouch. Daryl lifted the youngest onto his shoulders, the older one balancing carefully beside him, both boys holding sticks like theyâd just completed a great adventure.
Back at the cabin, the smell of carrot soup still lingering in the air, Daryl set the boys down. âMomâs gonna wanna see what we got,â he said.
The boys ran ahead, bursting into the kitchen with shouts of excitement. âMom! Look! Look what we caught!â
You crouched down to their level, eyes widening as the boys showed off their catch. âWell, Iâll be,â you said, laughing. âYou two went on a proper hunt, huh?â
The older boy handed you his trout, chest puffed out. âWe learned all the rules, Mom! Daddy taught us!â
Daryl leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching them. âThey did good.â
The younger boy held up his fish proudly, a sticky grin on his face. âWe stayed close, we listened, we watched the water, we waited!â
You laughed, taking both fish carefully. âLooks like a feast is about to happen. You boys did good.â
Daryl ruffled the younger boyâs hair and nudged the older oneâs shoulder. âWoods teach you a lot, but nothinâ beats bringinâ it home.â
He lingered a moment, watching the laughter and chatter fill the cabin like sunlight spilling through the windows, feeling the weight of these little moments, how fast theyâd grow, how fleeting afternoons like this were. He tucked that thought quietly away as he smiled.
Coming back in 4k, sorry for the wait.
Carol
The cold in Alexandria had a way of sneaking through coats, settling into bones, but the girls did not seem to notice it. Cheisa skipped ahead with the little lantern Denise had rigged up, its light bobbing over the snow-dusted street. Chia clutched Camilaâs mittened hand, tugging her along with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where the next stop was.
âSlow down,â you called, laughing as Camila nearly tripped over her own boots.
Daryl followed just behind you, crossbow slung out of habit even tonight, a knit scarf looped awkwardly around his neck courtesy of Carol. He looked out of place in the way he always did when things felt normal. But his eyes stayed on the girls, soft in a way he would never admit.
The first house opened before you even knocked. Aaron stood there with a grin, a tray of sugar cookies balanced on his arm.
âCaroling already?â he asked.
Cheisa cleared her throat dramatically and started the song. Chia joined in, Camila a beat behind, her voice small but determined. Their breath fogged the air, sweet and off-key and perfect.
When they finished, Aaron applauded like they had just performed on a stage. He handed over a tin wrapped in twine.
âFor you,â he said. âAnd I think I have something for the girls too.â
Camila gasped when he produced three little scarves, each a different color. She pressed hers to her cheek like it was treasure.
âThank you,â she whispered, solemn.
Daryl nodded once. âAppreciate it.â
House to house, the night unfolded the same way. Laughter spilling from doorways. Hands reaching out with cookies, bread, little jars of jam. The girls gave back the baskets you had spent days putting together. Dried apples, candles, bits of ribbon tied crooked but earnest.
At one porch, an older woman pressed a cookie into Darylâs palm instead of the basket.
âFor you,â she said gently. âYou look like you could use somethin sweet.â
He blinked, caught off guard, then cleared his throat. âYeah. Thanks.â
Later, as the girls compared treats and argued over which song to sing next, Daryl leaned closer to you.
âTheyâre good kids,â he said quietly.
You smiled at him, at the way his shoulders had finally relaxed, at how his hand brushed yours like it was second nature now. âThey get that from you.â
He huffed softly, but he did not argue.
By the time you headed home, the baskets were empty and your arms were full. Camila rode on Darylâs shoulders, humming to herself. Chia clutched your hand, sticky with sugar. Cheisa walked ahead, lantern swinging, lighting the way back through Alexandria.
Christmas, you thought, did not look like trees or lights anymore.
It looked like this.
Good nights
The static buzzed in your ears before Darylâs voice cut through, low and cautious, like it had always been.
âI⊠thought youâd be asleep,â you admitted, fingers tightening around the CB like it was the last lifeline to him.
There was a pause. Then his voice, rough but familiar, drifted across the airwaves. âCouldnât sleep.â
Your chest tightened, memories of the long, quiet nights under open skies flooding back. Nights where the world had been nothing but stars, firelight, and the sound of his breathing beside you. You had taken those moments for granted then, never realizing how much they would haunt you now.
âYeahâŠâ you whispered, voice small. âI just⊠wanted to say goodnight.â
Another pause, longer this time, and then a grin you could hear in his words. âGoodnight.â
The static hummed between you, but it did not feel empty. Somehow, even miles apart, the world shrank back to those nights, quiet, simple, and just yours.
Sorry, guys. I've been sick
Should we add to Extraction series?
yes
no