Archive of Our Own

The trip back to the Bricks was longer than the way there, even if the maps said otherwise. Because leaving that place, deep down, always had a clear purpose. Entering hell is easy when you know exactly what you want to burn.

But coming back with Negan in one piece... that was another story.
A kind of punishment Maggie hadn’t foreseen — and honestly, didn’t think she deserved.
Until she did.

Because the problem was never just him.
It was what he carried.
What she left behind.
What she brought back.

Negan. Annie. Joshua.
Whole. Alive. And — worse — grateful.

That’s when Maggie Rhee’s penance began.

Of course, Negan insisted — until his voice gave out — that she didn’t owe anything. That what happened in Manhattan was everyone’s fault and no one’s at the same time. That he would’ve done the same — lie. She knew it was a lie.

But she also knew she had to do something. Anything. Not to redeem herself. Not to save anyone. Just to be able to look in the mirror without throwing up.

So she took them in. The whole family.

And he looked at her.

That very first second, right after they crossed the gates — his eyes landed on her like she was an altar.
A miracle.
A forgiveness he never asked for, but accepted anyway.

And that’s when Maggie understood.

The first thing she hated about Negan Smith was the way he looked at her.
As if she were a saint.
As if saving him was a virtue.
As if redeeming himself through her was possible.
As if she, of all people, was capable of believing that.

And maybe she was. Just for a second. Long enough to let him in.

She hated that.

And hated herself a little more every time she remembered it was her who opened the damn gates.

So she did what she knew how to do best.
Turned her back.

On him.
On his family.
On that pathetic puppy-dog face he made when he wanted something — forgiveness, attention, or hell, maybe just a hot bowl of soup packed with hidden meaning.

She asked Nina to find them a place. Far away, preferably. Some housing on the edge, where Negan’s redemptive stare couldn’t bleed through walls or dreams.

And for about two days, it worked.
Two days.

Because, of course, Negan didn’t know how to shut up.
He wanted to “help.”
To prove he was useful.
That he deserved to be there.
That his family could be part of the Bricks’ new world of peace and vegetables.

And that — that, specifically — made Maggie’s temples throb.

Because he didn’t just look at her like she was a saint — Now he started following her like she was the road to goddamn paradise.

Every time she turned a corner, there he was, hands in pockets, that trained good-boy expression on his face, asking:

“Is there anything I can do?”

Like the whole world was some half-renovated shelter and he was volunteer of the month.

Until one late morning, too much sun on her face, not enough patience in her soul — Maggie stopped, sighed through her teeth, and said the first thing that came to mind:

“You can volunteer for patrols. We always need someone who’s not scared of walking outside the walls.”

Negan lit up like she’d handed him a Christmas present.

“Patrol with you?”

“That’s not what I said.” she shot back, already walking again. “Dean handles the pairings. Talk to him.”

But he followed. Of course he did.

“Come on, Maggie. I see you going out alone all the time, that’s dumb as hell. And let’s be honest...”

He sped up two steps and moved in front of her, forcing her to stop.

“ ...we make a hell of a team. You know it.”

Oh, she knew.
Unfortunately.

She knew how well they worked under pressure.
How he caught her rhythm without needing orders.
How they completed each other in combat, in silence, in strategy.
How the chemistry was real.

More than real. It was fucking nuclear.

The kind that warms your gut and makes you want to punch something just so you don’t admit you liked it.

Maggie hated saying that out loud.
Hated thinking it.
Hated even more the fact that — under blankets, in the dark, in those dirty moments when no one’s watching — She’d thought about it.

Once. Twice. Ten times.

And that’s why it got weirder. Almost unbearable. Every time she saw his wife.

It was just before dawn.

The early breeze came in sharp, cold, dragging that kind of silence that clings to people who haven’t slept — but aren’t quite ready to wake up either. Maggie knocked twice on the iron door she already knew by heart. She waited, as always, for Negan’s wolfish grin to show up — along with some dumbass joke to break the ice he himself had frozen over.

But it wasn’t him who answered.

It was Annie.

The woman opened the door with that same polite smile Maggie remembered from seven years ago — the same one she saw back in Riverbend, when Negan had shown up with a pregnant belly and a new life stitched over the rubble of everything he'd ruined.

“He’s running a bit late” she said, stepping aside. “Want to wait in here?”

Saying no would be strange. And Maggie didn’t like being strange — at least not the visible kind.

She just nodded and stepped in.

Silence.

They sat at the makeshift kitchen table. Annie offered tea. Maggie declined. Annie insisted. Maggie gave in.

It was hot.
It was good.
It was uncomfortable.

Silence.

The kind Maggie knew too well. The kind that hides questions no one has the guts to ask.

“You know, I’m glad he’s gone back to patrolling” Annie said, eyes on the steam rising from her mug. “He’s always been good at it. Got energy to spare.”

“Yeah...” Maggie muttered. Didn’t know whether to agree or disagree.

“And it’s with you, right?” Annie turned her head slightly, with innocent curiosity. Or fake innocence. “He said you two work well in the field.”

Maggie tightened her grip on the mug. A dry “uh-huh” slipped out.

Yeah.
They worked well.
Like gunpowder and a lit match.

Then:

“It’s not a choice” Maggie said, blunt. “It’s logistics.”

Even she didn’t buy that answer.

“I see.” Annie smiled like there was no subtext at all. “But he talks about you sometimes. Good things.”

That one caught Maggie off guard. She tried to look natural, but her shoulders were stiff. Her back, too. Even her tongue felt heavy.

“I hope it’s just practical stuff” she said, forcing a half-smile more ironic than friendly.

Annie laughed, light.

“Of course. But... there’s respect, you know? I think he admires you.”

Maggie forced herself to look forward.
At the worn-out cabinet.
At the half-swept floor.
At her own shame.

Because yes.
She knew.
She knew too much.

They didn’t know each other well. Barely exchanged a dozen words in four months.
And Maggie liked it that way. Liked the distance. Liked not having to see what Negan had built — or pretended to build.

But the truth, the ugly truth, was that she couldn’t stay away from him.
And Negan never made that an option.

Maybe… neither did she.

Before anything else could be said, footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Negan showed up, dressed, thick coat on, face still half-asleep. And the way he looked at Maggie when he saw her there — part surprised, part pleased —
It was enough for her to realize how tense she’d been.

Because when she saw him...
She exhaled.

— Ready, boss? — he said, with that smug half-smile of someone who always shows up right on time.

Maggie stood up quickly, like the floor under her feet was hotter than the tea in her hands.

— Yeah.

Annie waved goodbye with a calm nod.
Maggie mumbled a “thank you” that came out sounding more like an apology, and followed him out.

Because if she stayed one second longer in that house, with that kind woman who knew too damn much, she might end up saying things she couldn’t unsay.

And that’s how she knew.

Maggie Rhee hated when he was around.

But she hated it even more when he wasn’t.

The good thing about patrolling with Negan was that he walked in silence.
The bad thing about patrolling with Negan was everything else.

He knew the path before she did. Knew where to step without making a sound. Knew how to predict the walkers’ movements with an annoyingly low margin of error. And he knew, of course, that she hated all of that.

Back at the Bricks, the tension lingered — but not the kind that explodes. The kind that ferments. That builds up in small gestures, sideways comments, and that damn way he always ended his sentences with a hint of “you know I’m right.”

What was worse?
He was.

Another morning brought another problem for her to solve. Actually, two problems. The kind that scoff at everything and roll their eyes when you open your mouth.

Maggie always thought she explained things well.
Clear, objective, straight to the point. No fluff. No baby talk.

Which is why seeing Hershel and Ginny exchange bored looks while she tried to explain how the capillary irrigation system worked — the very system she helped implement, mind you — was particularly humiliating.

“Okay... but why can’t we just throw the bucket over the crops?” Hershel asked, frowning with that tone between curious and sarcastic, unfortunately inherited from her.
“Because that’s not how it... look, if you do that, the topsoil floods and the roots dry out. The water has to rise from the bottom. It’s a more efficient process. Capillarity. Got it?”

Ginny let out an “hm” that could mean everything or nothing.

Maggie sighed, massaging her temples. They were both sitting on the edge of the planter, too young to have so many opinions and too old to accept anything without questioning it.

That’s when he showed up.
Of course he did.
Negan, with his shirt stained with dirt and messy hair, tossed a hoe to the ground and walked up with that “I’ve got this” energy.

“Mind if I...?”

Maggie opened her mouth to say “no,” but he was already kneeling next to the planter.

“Think of it like this” he started, voice soft, smearing his finger in the dirt and drawing a line “if you only water the top, the root below stays thirsty. And thirsty plants grow crooked. But if you water from the bottom up...”

He started drawing upward arrows with his finger. One, then two, then a bunch.

“...it’s like the plant is drinking just the right amount, straight through the mouth.”

Ginny giggled. Hershel went “ahhhh.”
Maggie stayed silent.

“Like a straw” Hershel added.
“Exactly, kid. That’s exactly it” Negan patted his shoulder, like a proud coach.

And it was in that moment, while the two teens laughed and made jokes about “baby plants drinking through straws,” that Maggie wanted to throw a bucket of water — not on the soil, but on his face.

Because he wasn’t even trying to steal the spotlight. He just... did.
Effortlessly.
With charm.
With that infuriating knack for explaining things better. For knowing how to be heard.
And worse: for knowing exactly when she was about to lose her patience — and doing it on purpose.

She crossed her arms. Negan looked at her and raised a brow slightly, as if to say “see that?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned her back and walked away. But she heard it, of course she did, when Ginny whispered:

“Why doesn’t he teach agriculture?”
And Hershel replied:
“Because then he’d be the boss.”

The blood rushed to Maggie’s head so fast she had to stop and breathe.
Deep.

She walked to the water tanks on the south side of the greenhouse, grabbed one of the heavier containers, and started filling it with enough force to border on aggression. It was either that or break something.

Of course he followed.
Negan wasn’t the type to leave things alone.

Without a word, he grabbed the tank beside hers and started filling it too. They stood there, side by side, in silence. The kind of silence that says everything.

He broke it first.
“So... already thinking of kicking me out?”

The tone was playful, but Maggie knew that crack buried in his words. He was testing her.
She looked at him sideways. Weighing.

“You wouldn’t do that” he said, mock offended. “I’ve got a kid. You know, family man and all.”

She huffed, humorless.
“I’d let Annie and Joshua stay.”

Negan froze for half a second. Then let out a dry laugh, short and toothless.
“How generous. Really. What a charitable soul.”

She didn’t answer. Kept filling the container like her life depended on it.

“Just out of curiosity” he continued, leaning into his task “at what exact moment did I stop being part of the equation?”

“Maybe when you decided to explain the fucking straw.”

He laughed again, louder this time.
“Ah, so that’s it. My crime was knowing how to use a metaphor.”
“Your crime was always using that damn “I’m the smartest guy in the room” teacher tone.” She said, without even looking at him.

Negan shrugged, guiltless, effortless.
“Sometimes I am.”

She didn’t reply right away. Just watched the water flow into the container, pretending his comment hadn’t hit anywhere important.
But it had.

And the third thing she hates about him is exactly that — the fucking way he always thinks he’s right.
Because sometimes... he actually is.
And that’s infinitely worse.

“You’re an idiot.” she said at last, without lifting her eyes.

He smiled. And got back to work.

So did Maggie. Because that’s what you did at the Bricks: pretended everything was fine until it was. Or until no one remembered why it hurt anymore.

And that’s how, days later, “New Year’s” arrived.
Not the real one. No one knew what day it was anymore. But everyone swore it was as close to January first as they’d get — and that was enough to celebrate.

Seth brought out his homemade beer, strong enough to burn both throat and memory. They lit bonfires in the yard. Strung up lights that barely flickered, but gave off the right vibe. Kids ran around, elders danced, people smiled like there were no cracks underneath.

And Maggie... stayed.

She couldn’t say if it was the alcohol, the laughter, or the heat in the air, but for a few hours, the whole thing felt simple. Easy. Almost good.

Until she saw it.

Negan on the other side of the celebration. Annie beside him. Joshua in his arms. The three of them laughing at something only they knew. He kissed the top of his son’s head, then whispered something to Annie, who chuckled and leaned her head on his shoulder.

Family.
The word hit Maggie hard. Dry and sharp. No warning. No escape.

And no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t ignore the sting it brought. That feeling of being the only one there without a “we.”
Just an “I.”

And as petty and horrible as it was — the fourth thing about him was that Maggie hated he had a new family. That he got that chance.
Something she never had.

Maggie never even thought about giving Hershel a stepfather. Someone good enough for her son to look up to while growing up.

Maybe that’s why, when she felt Dean’s hand on her waist, she didn’t pull away.

He moved slowly. Respectful. Warm in the right way.
She turned to him, found his easy smile — he didn’t smile too much, didn’t talk too loud, but always said something that made people relax — sometimes with a dumb joke, sometimes with the perfect silence.

Handsome in a way that bothered her a little — tall, strong arms, deep green eyes. A thin scar over his right eyebrow and a way of looking at you that made the drink burn hotter going down.

And the worst part — or maybe the best — was that he vaguely resembled someone Maggie didn’t want to remember.
He had that same crooked smile. That same rough kind of beauty, almost out of place in this cracked world. Only younger. Less worn out. With fewer ghosts on his back.

He’d been trying for months. She never let him. But that night, she did. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the way he looked at her — like she wasn’t standing in anyone’s shadow.

Dean pulled her in slowly when the music changed. Maggie didn’t resist. His hand tightened just enough. A good shiver climbed her back — the first in a very, very long time. She lied to herself.

And when he kissed her — right there, in the middle of the yard, under the lights and the smell of baked bread, unafraid — she didn’t pull away.

Later, when he took her hand and led her away from the celebration, she didn’t hesitate either.

That night, Dean was gentle. Warm. Present.
Maggie closed her eyes. Pretended that was all it was.
Just him.

When he wrapped his arms around her thighs and lifted her into his lap, when his mouth found the curve of her neck with almost cruel precision, Maggie clawed at his back and bit her own lip hard.
And still, a name almost slipped out.
It wasn’t his.
She swallowed it. Buried her face in Dean’s shoulder and let the rest of the world dissolve.

The next morning, she woke up smiling.

The sheets were wrinkled, the room reeked of sweat and cheap beer, and the sunlight broke through the cracks in the window like everything had somehow been forgiven.

She tied her hair back, laced her boots, drank her coffee like it tasted good.

Didn’t even get mad when Ginny put her machete in the wrong place again — and she spent fifteen minutes tearing the house apart like a maniac trying to find it.

Not even when she found out someone had left the garden gate open and a goat had gotten in, ruining three rows of kale she’d planted the week before.

Not even when she saw they were serving porridge for breakfast.
Porridge. After a party.

The world felt... lighter.

Or maybe it was her.
Or maybe it was just the good kind of hangover — the kind that comes from being, for the first time in a long while, wanted.
Seen.
Chosen.

And what if that was enough?
The right touch. A warm body. A name swallowed down.

As she left, she headed straight for the meeting point. Today’s patrol was with Negan — and for some reason, that didn’t bother her as much.
Maybe it was the Dean effect.
Maybe it was her body still warm.

Only he wasn’t there.

“He’s probably with Hershel,” she thought. The two had become almost full-time blacksmiths lately — fixing tools, sharpening blades, heating metal in the Bricks’ makeshift forge.

She walked down the corridor to the foundry area. Hershel was there — grown, sweaty, smudged with soot. He wiped his forehead with his forearm and gave her a lazy grin when she asked.

“Negan went to chop wood for the furnaces,” he said simply.

Maggie frowned.
Thanked him and followed the path.

She found him at the back of the Bricks, in the clearing where they kept the firewood. He had his back to her, no jacket, just his rolled-up sleeves, the axe rising and falling with a force that didn’t match the age he claimed to have.
“What now?” she thought. “Fight with Annie? Nicotine withdrawal? Or just the same old guilt?”

She approached calmly, still feeling light, the taste of the previous night lingering in her mouth.
Stopped at a safe distance and teased:
“Forgot you had a date with me?”

Negan didn’t stop. Didn’t even look at her.
“I’m busy.”

She raised an eyebrow.
“Busy chopping wood like it murdered someone?”
“Maybe it did.”

Silence. Just the sound of blade splitting another log.

She crossed her arms.

“This isn’t optional, Negan,” she said firmly. “You have responsibilities. To me. To the community. You don’t get to just decide what you will or won’t do when you wake up in a mood.”

He stopped. Stayed still for a moment, axe buried in the log.
Then grabbed the rag nearby, wiping the sweat from his neck in a hurry — like the heat was her fault.

“Ask Dean.”

She blinked. Didn’t get it right away.
“What?”

He dropped the rag on the stump, finally turned around.
“He seems pretty interested in keeping you company these days.”
The name came out tasting like rust.

Maggie felt a twist in her gut. Not pain. Just that itchy, scraping kind of discomfort.
“What the hell, Negan?”

“Nothing,” he said too fast. “Just thought if you’re gonna start sharing things with him, maybe patrol duty should be one of them.”

She stared at him. Long and steady.
He held her gaze — he always did.
But something was off. The way he gripped the towel. The way he wouldn’t stand still. His jaw tighter than usual.

She didn’t know what exactly was going on.
But she knew he was lying.
And that was enough.

Because Maggie could take a lot.
But not him lying to her face.

And maybe — just maybe — that was the fifth thing she hated most about him.

“I’m not going, Maggie,” he said finally. Low. Steady. “Hershel needs me here. The furnace is a mess.”

She kept staring, waiting for him to back down. To say something that made sense — or at least sounded true. But he just turned his back like that was the end of it.

Maggie didn’t reply. Didn’t argue.
Because if she said anything right then, her voice would crack.

It wasn’t that he refused. It was how.
Like he’d never been there with her at all.
Like everything they’d done, everything they’d survived, was interchangeable.
Replaceable.

She needed him, too.

Would never admit it — not to him, not to herself — but she’d gotten used to having him there. To his breath nearby. To the kind of silence that let her watch. Used to someone watching her back.

And now… there wasn’t.

She nodded once and walked away.
Didn’t look back.

But she hated the absence before she’d even left the Bricks.

Later that night, clean, hair damp, the same old tank top clinging to her ribs, Maggie waited for the water to boil. The evening had come fast, and the house was sunk in that kind of silence she usually appreciated.

Until she heard the laughter.

Two deep voices. Male. Strangely close.

She froze.

She heard the front door slam. The muffled sound of boots on wood.
Hershel saying something.
Negan laughing back.

In her house.

Of course.

So Maggie pretended it was nothing.

Nothing big. Nothing out of place. Nothing worth twisting her stomach over.
She pretended she hadn’t heard them walk into the kitchen — as if that sound, them together, laughing, didn’t have the power to unravel every inch of what she’d been trying to hold in place.

She pretended to be focused on the pot, on the steam, on the wait.
She didn’t look up. She didn’t have to. Because she felt it.

Felt the kind of bond that had been growing between them since New York.
That silent, instinctive trust that only forms when two survivors go through something no one else can quite understand.
They’d faced a kind of hell together — something like the Dama — she knew that.
She’d seen it in their eyes. In the way Negan had started looking at Hershel like he was... more than just her son.

And she let it happen.
Let it, because she knew the kid didn’t deserve to carry the same grudge she did.
His wound didn’t have to bleed the same way.

Hershel was allowed to like Negan.
To laugh with him.
To trust him.
To look up to him.

He had the right to forgive.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t even look too long.
Because if she did... maybe she’d understand.
And Maggie didn’t want to understand.

She wanted to hate.
It was safer that way.

Hershel spoke first.
“Hey, Mom.”

Maggie looked up. Finally. Just to see her son — sweaty, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to his forehead. He looked taller. Broader in the shoulders. More... almost a man.
Give it a year or two, and he’d be taller than Negan.

She smiled, faintly.
Not because she felt like it — but because she had to.

Negan was beside him, just as filthy. Ash on his arms, soot on his face, that damn rugged air that made him feel more present than he really was. The scruff on his face, the worn-out shirt, and that look of his — the one that said I know exactly what not to say but I’m gonna say it anyway.

Maggie thought: Jesus, doesn’t even feel like I had sex last night.

“Want lemonade?” she asked, voice even. “There’s still some in the fridge.”

Hershel shook his head.
“I need a shower. I’m disgusting.” He took two steps toward the hallway, then stopped. Turned to Negan with a glint in his eye Maggie knew too well — the kind of glint that only came with admiration.

“If you wanna hang out... feel free.”

In her house.
Feel free.
Like it was his call.

She shot the boy a warning look. He didn’t see it. Or pretended not to. Hershel disappeared up the stairs.

And Maggie stayed.
With boiling water.
And the taste of a new hate rising in her throat.
That sixth one.

She hated that her son liked Negan so much.

If Negan were a decent man, he would’ve said goodnight and left.
But he wasn’t that man.

So of course he went to the fridge.
Grabbed the damn lemonade.

And made a point of walking to the dish rack — right next to her — where she stood waiting on the water.
Like the kitchen was his.
Like she was just some background figure in a painting he’d already memorized.

He opened her cabinet, took out a glass without asking.
Poured himself a drink — slowly. Way too close.
Too close.

His arm brushed against hers, just enough to remind her he was there.
Real.
Warm.
Unwelcome.

She dropped her gaze for a second. Looked at his hands.
Big. Tattooed. Thick fingers. Dark hair on his arms catching sweat and heat.

Negan had that posture — like he knew the effect he had.
Like he never asked for permission.

He was every textbook daddy issue bundled into one: too much authority, too much presence, that damn look like he always knew better.
And worse — the voice.

Fifteen-year-old Maggie would’ve fallen for him in two seconds.
Thirty-something Maggie wanted to smash a glass over his head for noticing.

He took a sip of lemonade. Turned slightly toward her, still too close.
“Thought you’d be longer on patrol,” he said, with that casual filth layered into everything he said. “Used to take you, what, two days? Remember?”

Maggie didn’t look at him.
“Didn’t go far,” she said flatly, cold as steel.

He let out a soft chuckle.
“Dean-boy didn’t wanna tag along?”

She gripped the dish towel. Tight.
Didn’t answer.
But she looked at him.
With contempt.

Or tried to make it just contempt.

Truth?
She’d gone alone.
From the start.
Dean didn’t even know she’d left.

But Negan didn’t need to know that.
He already thought he knew too much.

The silence stretched — thick, dense, the kind that doesn’t break easy.
And of course, Negan couldn’t take it.
He never could.

“What are you making?” he asked, chin nodding toward the stove where the water was starting to bubble. “You trying to poison someone?”

Maggie didn’t look.
“Dinner.”
“Oh yeah? What kind?”

She shrugged.
“Something hot. Decent. So I don’t have to eat stale bread again.”

He smiled. That sideways smile — almost genuine, almost bait.
All his morning bitterness had apparently evaporated.

She didn’t know what she hated more — grumpy Negan or this one: smiling, helpful, domestic.
Both were dangerous.

“Need help?” he offered, like he didn’t have his own house to go to.
Like helping was normal for them.

“You’re disgusting,” was all she said, dry.

Negan raised his hands theatrically.
“You do know there’s this wonderful things called water and soap?”

Before she could reply, he was already at her sink. Turning on her faucet.
Washing his wrists.

Maggie rolled her eyes.Didn’t say anything.

Because part of her didn’t want to stop him.
Shit.

The water boiled.
He leaned against the counter, still rinsing his arms. Droplets trailing down the dark hairs, following the veins.

The air between them shifted.

And that’s when he couldn’t resist.

“You look pretty wound up for someone who woke up in such a good mood today. What happened? The joy wore off already?”

He said it light. Almost playful.
But his eyes... weren’t.

Maggie stiffened.
He knew.
Of course he knew.

He knew enough not to ask directly.
Knew just how to press the blade to the skin.

She kept her tone steady.
“Everything went to hell the moment you showed up.”

Negan laughed. A real one.
Slow. Venomous. Charismatic in the worst way.

“Wow. If me not doing something with you is enough to ruin your mood... then I guess it wasn’t all that memorable, huh?”

The jab hit.
She felt it.

In her face.
Her neck.
Her chest.
Everywhere.

But the worst part — the absolute worst — was that her body reacted.

Her nipples hardened under the thin tank top. Like her own blood had turned against her.

And of course, he noticed.
He saw when she turned her face.

But he’d already looked. Already caught the thin shirt, the skin beneath, the visible proof that anger could look a lot like want.

He didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.

Because he didn’t need to.
And that was the problem.
Negan knew.
He always knew.

He knew when she was angry, when she was lying, when she wanted to kill him or kiss him — or both at the same time.
He knew what to say, what not to say, where to look.
He could read her mind like he was the one who wrote it.

And that was hate number seven.
She hated the way he could read her mind.

She looked away.
Not fast enough.

He stayed there, like he hadn’t just torn out everything she’d spent the entire day trying to bury.
Like all he wanted was to help with fucking dinner.

Maggie crossed her arms, slowly.
Leaned against the counter, watching his posture — the way water still dripped from his forearms onto her kitchen floor.
Her sink.
Her house.

“Funny,” she said, voice low, almost sweet. “You talk like someone who knows a lot. But for a guy who doesn’t give a shit… you’ve clearly thought about this way too much.”

He turned his face toward her, eyes narrowing just a little.
But he didn’t answer.
Just looked.
Slow. Hot. Burning.

Maggie held the gaze for one second too long.
Then turned her back.
Walked to the stove, lowered the heat, and dropped fresh pasta into the pot — just to have something to do before saying what she was about to.

“Go home, Negan.”

He didn’t move.

She stirred the pot once more, a silent period at the end of the sentence.
“Your wife must be waiting for you.”

Silence.
The spoon hit the bottom of the pot with a dry clack.

When she turned around, he was gone.
Or at least no longer where she could see him.

But his air was still there.
And that was worse than if he had stayed.

Negan didn’t come back that night.
Or the next.
Or the one after.

His absence became a new habit.
As comfortable as it was strange — like that old armchair no one ever sat in, but everyone noticed when it was gone.

So the routine returned.
Bricks kept going.

She threw herself into what she knew: work, the crops, kitchen logistics, fixing the fence, arguing with Seth over whatever kitchen disaster he caused.
Bit by bit, life at Bricks went back to the lukewarm sound of pans clattering, hammers in the shed, children’s voices tangled with the silence of people still too alive to believe in much of anything.

Eventually, she and Negan found a new normal.
Back on patrol.
Less often.
More quietly.

His presence didn’t press on her like before. But it didn’t go unnoticed either.
It was like a low-grade fever: it didn’t knock you down, but it stayed.

Dean stayed too.
Now he was a new habit Maggie could almost appreciate.

At least the view was great.
Tall, handsome, charming just on the edge of irony.
A warmth that didn’t try to melt everything.

One morning, coming down to the kitchen, she found a new mug on the table.
Dark ceramic, crooked handle, and a badly drawn rabbit holding a shotgun.
Next to it, a note in his spaced-out handwriting:

“Felt like you.
The bunny, not the shotgun (or maybe both).
— D.”

Ginny thought it was cute.
“He’s so thoughtful,” she sighed mid-sip, drinking too much tea and saying too little.

Maggie smiled. Small. Fake. But sincere enough to pass.

Hershel saw the mug. Picked it up. Read the note. Didn’t say a word.
Just put it back in the same place and headed out to the yard — with the same silence he’d inherited from her.

Later that day, while coming down the stairs with a bundle of herbs in hand, Maggie heard voices below.

Negan and Hershel.

She didn’t want to peek.
But she didn’t want to not listen either.

“That his?” Negan asked — that tone of his, trying to sound neutral but already dripping with three gallons of diplomatic ugh.

Even without looking, Maggie knew he was pointing at the mug.
Then came the dry sound of it being tapped on the table.

“Yeah. He left it for my mom.”

Pause.
Maggie pictured Negan’s face: furrowed brow, squinty eyes, probably shaking his head like he was some kind of decor taste expert now.

“Hm.”

Silence.

The kind that isn’t about a lack of things to say — it’s about too many.
The kind you only get when someone’s about to say something they probably shouldn’t.

“He a good guy? Or, like... decent?” Negan asked, like he was commenting on the weather.
His tone was low. Almost disinterested.
Almost.

Maggie raised an eyebrow in the dark of the stairwell.
Good guy?
Seriously?

Who are you? My father?

She bit the inside of her cheek not to laugh.

“I don’t know,” Hershel replied, slowly. “He tries.”

Another silence. Long.
“I don’t trust people who try too hard.”

Maggie rolled her eyes.
Of course not.
Negan only trusted the ones he wanted to — that was the whole thing.

“Sometimes that’s all you’ve got,” Hershel said.

She couldn’t tell if he was defending Dean, ending the subject, or just throwing in the towel altogether.

“That his thing or hers?” Negan asked at last, more clipped now. Sharper.

Maggie frowned.
Oh, fantastic.
Now they were dissecting her love life like two nosy neighbors by the garden fence.

Hershel took a while to respond.
When he did, it was simple:

“It’s just what I see.”

And that was it.
Done.

Negan said nothing else.
Just the sound of a glass being nudged. A chair scraping. Some other topic kicking in.

Maggie stayed frozen on the stairs, staring at nothing, herbs still in hand.
She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or smash her head into the wall.

She didn’t want to be with someone her son hated.
But maybe it was just the age.
Maybe Hershel was trying to protect her.
Or pretend he didn’t care when he clearly did.

She’d have to talk to him.
But not that night.

Because that night, Dean showed up with fresh sweetbread — the first since the last honey harvest.
He brought it wrapped in a warm cloth, smelling like childhood or maybe just a time none of them actually had.

They ate together.
Laughed together.
Slept together.

His touch was firm but light, almost rehearsed.
Like he knew where he could and couldn’t step.
Like he understood Maggie was a minefield — and still wanted to stay.

She didn’t know if that was good or dangerous.
But she let it happen.

Because it was easier than overthinking.

And easy, Maggie should’ve known by now, never lasts.

It didn’t happen on a specific day.
Or a single line.
It started more like a noise — small, inside — that got louder.
Like something scratching beneath her ribs until she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The problem with Dean wasn’t Dean.
It was Negan.

Or more precisely, what Negan said about Dean.

They were on a night patrol when it finally came up. Their third that month — ever since they resumed the “silent agreement” that they’d partner up when necessary.
Not always.
Only when Dean couldn’t.
Or when Maggie needed someone who knew where to step.

The sky was clear.
The air warm.
Summer creeping in, and the breeze cutting through the dark was the only decent relief that time of night.

Negan whistled softly, tuneless. That was already a warning sign.

“Look, I’m gonna be honest,” he said, after a long stretch of silence.
“I’m not a big fan of the armed bunny.”

Maggie frowned.
“What?”

“The mug. That stupid drawing. It’s ugly. Kind of childish. Gets on my nerves. But…” he shrugged, exhaling, “I’m glad you found someone. Really. Like... someone who can handle you.”

She turned just enough to glance at him.

His tone was cynical. Politely cynical. The kind of courtesy that comes pre-poisoned with a grin.

And she knew there was a but coming.

“…but?”

He smiled.
“But I kinda thought it would’ve happened sooner, to be honest. Like… I don’t know. That time with Alden, for example.”

She paused. Just slightly.
Enough for him to notice she noticed.

“Alden?” she repeated, neutral.

“Yeah. You two seemed close during that mission near Meridian. I don’t know. I kinda bet on it. Figured something was going on.”

Maggie swallowed hard.

She remembered the mission.
She remembered the tension.
She remembered the cabin.

But not because of Alden.

Negan had been there too.

And the way he was talking now — like he was just shooting the shit — carried way too much weight in the subtext.

She could read between lines.

And Negan, even when hiding behind a joke, always let something leak through the cracks.

He wasn’t talking about Alden.

“You don’t know anything about my love life,” Maggie said, voice steady.

“True,” he replied. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

She scoffed, annoyed.

“Dean’s decent. He listens. Works hard. He shows up. Helps. Doesn’t slow me down. Doesn’t butt in. Doesn’t piss me off.”

“Sounds boring as fuck,” Negan said with a shrug. “But hey, maybe that’s what you need.”

“He listens to me.”

“Bet he barks when you tell him to, huh?”

She ignored it.

“He cooks, he’s good with Hershel, he treats Ginny well. Fixes everything that breaks. Helps without making a fuss. He’s good at what he does. And—”

“Oh my God.” Negan raised both hands. “Are you trying to convince me to date the guy?”

She turned her face, pissed.
He kept going:

“Do you want me to be jealous, or are you just reading off his resume? What’s next — gonna tell me he’s hung like a horse too?”

Maggie froze.
There it was.
The joke. Always the fucking joke.

And that was hate number eight.

Because Negan did this. Always.

In the middle of chaos, on the edge of something real — when she was just about to feel something — he’d open his mouth and toss gasoline on the fire.

Maggie Rhee hated when he made jokes right in the middle of all the shit.

But the worst part?
Sometimes… she wanted to laugh.

And that was even more unforgivable.

Maggie stopped walking.
Negan did too.

The barn was just a few meters ahead. A silent silhouette in the dark, wood worn, door half open — like it was waiting. Like it knew.

She crossed her arms, jaw clenched.

“You’re such an asshole,” she said, flat.

Negan smiled, but it was that lazy, bored smile — the one he wore when he wanted to pretend nothing mattered. He leaned against the barn wall with his shoulder, ankles crossed, like they were just chatting.

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “But you won’t last with him. You’ll get bored, Maggie. Sooner or later. Because you’re too much. And your world with him…” he snapped his fingers. “It’ll dry up.”

She blinked slowly. Blood rushing in her ears.

“Oh,” she said, with a bitter, low laugh. “So that’s what this is.”

“What is?”

“The problem here isn’t Dean. It’s you. You’re just pissed that I stopped looking at you like you’re the fucking center of the universe. That I stopped giving you the attention you so clearly need.”

Negan stopped smiling.
Stayed still for a second, breathing deep — then straightened, still leaning against the wall.

“Me?” he said, voice low, bitter. “Worried I might lose you to some guy who probably doesn’t even make you come properly?”

It was like time stopped.

Her eyes widened. Nostrils flared.
The world narrowed into a sharp, cutting line.

Then she moved.

The knife came out of the holster on her hip like it was part of her rage. A quick, precise motion, built on stored fury.
The blade met his neck with a kiss of steel and flesh. Drew a thin, red line — just enough to sting.

Negan wasn’t smiling anymore.
He stood still, eyes locked on hers. Serious. Dark. Cold.

“Really?” his voice came thick, heavy with restrained anger. “You really wanna go back there, Maggie?”

Her pupils were so blown the green had all but vanished.
She looked ravenous. Savage.
And Negan saw it in her eyes — clear as crystal.

“You’re a fucking old man. Pathetic as hell,” she snarled through clenched teeth. “You don’t know shit about him. Or about us.”

Negan stayed still for one more beat. Just one.

Then he did what Maggie least expected.

He grabbed her by the waistband — a raw, beastly motion — and yanked her forward, slamming her body into his.
The blade cut deeper. The blood ran hot and thin.

“I don’t give a fuck about him,” he growled in her ear. “This is about us.”

Maggie felt her muscles tighten — like every cell in her body screamed.
The knife was still between them. So was the blood.

But the rage had shifted into something else.

She lowered the knife.
Let it fall slowly, like it weighed more than it should.

Still pressed against him, she felt the ragged breath, the heat between them, and tried — tried — to take a step back.

Negan didn’t let her.

His hand slid up her side, rough, insistent.
Fisted her hair at the nape of her neck, pulling with the kind of precision that only came from knowing someone too well.

She closed her eyes the second his mouth found hers.

It wasn’t pretty.
It was messy. Uneven. Clumsy.

A crash of teeth and breath, like they were still fighting — maybe they were.

But Maggie let it happen.
She let it.

Because his touch was fire in the right places. It was brutal. It was real.

And she didn’t want gentle.

The kiss lasted seconds. Or years. Who knew.

Until Negan exhaled against her mouth, frustrated — like he was holding back too much.

He pulled her back for a moment, but didn’t let go.

His eyes were dark, intense, unbearable.

Then he tugged her by the arm — the way only he could do without seeming like a monster — and pushed her inside the barn.

The wood creaked under their steps. The air was thick — old hay, humidity, and unresolved want.

Maggie was spinning.

Breath short. Thoughts tangled.

She could’ve walked away.
Could’ve turned around.
Could’ve screamed, stabbed, run.

She did none of that.

Instead, she looked at the narrow staircase leading to the loft.
And said, voice low, hoarse:

“Upstairs.”

Negan didn’t ask why.
He just obeyed.

The floorboards upstairs were warm from the heavy heat of the day. The air, still.
But her body was what burned the most.

Negan climbed first. Stopped by a firmer pile of hay in the corner, tested it with a knee, then sat down with the casual ease of someone who knew exactly what was coming.
Without looking much, he pulled Maggie by the hand.
He didn’t ask.
Just pulled.

She went.
Half hesitant. Half wanting it.

He opened his legs and pulled her onto his lap — facing him, straddling him — their hips locking into that kind of tragedy that felt inevitable.

His height. His body.
The way he held her — like she wasn’t a grown woman, but a stubborn girl about to hear what she needed.

“You like this, don’t you?” he murmured, one hand spread across her back, pressing her against his chest.

Maggie was about to spit something sharp. Something mean.

But then he grabbed her face again, strong fingers on her chin, and said — low, rough, and way too close:

“Open your mouth.”

His voice was dark velvet. Rough iron. The kind of sound that made her knees weak from pure hatred.

She hesitated for a second — just long enough to pretend she didn’t like it.
But she opened.

And he kissed her again. Properly, this time.
The way she didn’t let anyone else kiss her anymore.
His tongue pushed inside, rough, unapologetic, without asking — and her body answered like it had been waiting just for that.

When his fingers found the hem of her shirt, he lifted it slowly, pulling the tank top up and tossing it over his shoulder. Then he looked at her breasts like he was seeing them for the first time.
Like they were his.

Maggie felt her nipples harden under the warm air.
He didn’t touch them — not yet.
He just looked.
And that was enough.

She tried to grind against him, desperate for friction.
Negan grabbed her hips and held her still.

“Easy. I’m in charge.”
The whisper hit her straight between the legs.

Maggie gasped.
Her nails dug into his shoulders.
Her face twisted — somewhere between hatred and hunger.

“You’re such a son of a bitch,” she spat, because she had to say something.

Negan laughed, low.
“And you love it, you ungrateful little slut.”

She moaned.
Not because of the insult.
Because of the tone.

He said it like he knew what kind of girl she was when no one was watching.

And he did.

Which is why, for her ninth hate, Maggie despised that goddamn touch of his.
And hated even more that she never pulled away.

She slid off his lap in one fast, almost impatient motion.
Her hands went straight to the button of her jeans, popping it open with a sharp snap in the barn’s silence.

Negan watched from below, his eyes glued to the act.

Maggie dragged the zipper down, slowly, like the sound of denim against skin was part of the ritual.

She kicked off her boots first — a practical move, but one that made her breasts bounce just slightly.
Then she shoved the jeans down her legs and let them fall beside the hay.

She stood there.
In nothing but a pair of black panties.

Naked.
Lit by summer heat.
Skin damp. Nipples still hard.

Negan looked.
Slowly.
No rush.

Like he was staring at something sacred and profane at once.

Maggie crossed her arms.
Not to hide — to command.

“On your knees,” she said.

Negan narrowed his eyes.
Head tilted.
That half-smile — the one he wore when he wanted to see how far she’d go.

“Hm?” he let out, one brow arched slow.

She stepped closer.

“On. Your. Knees.”
No irony.
Just steel.

Negan didn’t smile. Not this time.
He rose from the hay. Then knelt. No more questions. Hands resting on his own thighs. Head high. Eyes locked between hers.

And Maggie…
Maggie took a breath. Deep.

How many times had she imagined this exact moment?
Not like this. Not this way.
But him.
On his knees.
Submissive.
Ready to die.

She’d kill him. Humiliate him.
Drive the blade in.

But right now, all she wanted was to make him lick her pride clean.
Until nothing was left.

She moved toward him. Her hands went to his hair — not tender, but dominant. Fingers tangling in the rough dark strands. Nails scraping his scalp.

Negan didn’t move.
Just looked up.
Like he was saying: Command me.

She didn’t need to ask.
He understood.

Negan leaned in — mouth meeting her belly in a hot, wet kiss. Then another, lower.
A crooked trail of blasphemous worship.

One of his hands slid up her thigh — wide, rough fingers pressing firm — pushing her forward until her knees nearly buckled.

The other hand...
It moved between her legs and pressed, over the fabric.

A slow, knowing touch.
Exactly where. Exactly how.

Maggie bit her lip. Hard.

It wasn’t just the pressure.
It was his eyes.
From below.

Like she was an altar.
And he’d just committed sacrilege.

A shaky breath escaped her lips, her grip still tangled in his hair.
And when his tongue touched the fabric — hot, damp, relentless — she arched against it with a gasp she couldn’t control.

Negan licked her over the panties first.
Deliberate.
Taking his time.
Feeling the texture.
Savoring every twitch of her body.

And when she moaned — raw, unwilling — he smirked.

But he didn’t say a word.

Because now, she was in charge.
Or… almost.

He didn’t pull her panties aside. Not yet.

Because he knew that was part of it.

His tongue kept gliding over the fabric — wetting more than drying, teasing more than soothing.

Each movement said: You asked for this.

And Maggie... hated how true it was.

She was too hot, too tense, too alive to pull back.

“Negan…”
Her voice came out lower than she wanted.
Shaky.

He looked up — still moving his hand.

And only then did he slide the fabric aside with his thumb, that slow bastard confidence of someone who won.

One finger — his index — traced her entrance.
Just that.
A polite touch.
Testing how ready she was.
How wet.

She was.

Fuck, she was.

One hand went to his shoulder, like she needed the world to stop spinning.

Negan chuckled. Low.

Not mocking.
Just savoring.

The finger slid in.
Slow. Steady.
Devastatingly deep.

And when another followed — she gasped.

Because he didn’t stop.

The second finger sank in, sure. Solid. His palm held her inner thigh open — exposed. And the fingers — oh, those fucking fingers — vanished inside her, until even the tattoos on the back of his hand disappeared from view.

She felt it all.
The stretch. The heat. The depth.

And she felt him laugh against her belly.

“You shake every time I touch you here…” he whispered, lips grazing her lower stomach.

She didn’t answer. Just moaned. Low.
Because he was right.
And they both knew it.

His fingers moved with cruel precision.
Pushing. Curling. Reading her.

Then his tongue came back.
Now — no fabric. No barrier.

His mouth fit perfectly between her thighs.
Like it belonged there.
Like this wasn’t the fucking apocalypse.

Like they were just two bodies.
In hay.
In heat.
In sin.

But there was history.
Oh, there was.

Each lick was payback.
Each thrust of his fingers a collected debt.

Maggie clung to his shoulders — fingers digging in.
Trying to stay in control.
Failing.

Because he knew.
The rhythm.
The pressure.
The moment to pause just so she’d beg — not with words, but with her body.

And when she moaned louder, shaking, breathless — he looked up.
Still between her legs.
And said, hoarse, low,
that spine-scraping tone:

“I want you to look at me when you come.”

She didn’t answer.
Her body did.

Legs trembling.
Hips grinding.
Heart slamming like it wanted out.

Negan knew.
Knew she was close.
Knew every twitch. Every stolen breath.

He felt how her body pleaded before her lips ever could.

“Open your eyes, Maggie,” he said again.
Fingers deep.
Tongue relentless.
“I wanna watch you give in.”

She clenched her jaw.
She didn’t want to.

But she opened them.

And what she saw made it worse.

Negan. On his knees.
Staring up.
His beard wet with her.
Eyes dark.
Dilated.
Hungry.

An animal under control — or pretending to be.
Because the control… was his.
She breathed on his rhythm.

His mouth moved again — and his thumb pressed right where she’d tried to hide from him for years.

Didn’t work.
Never did.

Because he knew.

“Fuck, Negan…” She gasped, knees buckling.

He smiled. But didn’t reply.

Just pushed his fingers deeper.

And this time —
Maggie moaned.

Loud.
Wet.
Shameless.

A sound she had never made with Dean.
A sound he would recognize in any lifetime.
That sound betrayed her.

And Negan knew.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “Let it go. Show me.”

She was so close the hate became something else.
An impulse.
An eruption.
A bottomless fall.

And then—she came.
With her eyes locked on his.

Negan didn’t move away. He felt all of it. Took in every pulse of her, swallowed every contraction with his mouth, kept his fingers inside her, steady, like he was trying to hold it all — the pleasure, the shame, the collapse.

Maggie lost her footing.
Literally.

She slid down to her knees, shoulders heaving, her chest pressed against his. Her hands gripped his shoulders just to stop herself from falling further — but she was already too far gone.

Negan brushed his nose along her cheek and murmured, hoarse, still holding her in that trance:

“This part... this part, you’ll never give to another man.”

He breathed against her neck, feeling every tremor, every leftover tremble of what he had just torn out of her — with his tongue, with his fingers, with that wounded pride that no longer served as a shield for anything.

He laid her down gently, like she was made of gunpowder.

The hay scratched her arms, but she barely felt it.
Her body still vibrated.
Skin hot.
Breathing wrong.
A little too breathless.
A little too surrendered.

She opened her eyes at the exact moment he stood and unbuttoned his jeans.

The zipper sounded too loud.
The tension too.

His jeans dropped — nothing underneath. And honestly, there wasn’t much to hide — his arousal was obvious, firm, almost aggressive.

But Negan didn’t hide.
He never had.
He wanted her to see.
Wanted her to know exactly what she did to him.

Still, he pulled off his shirt.
Slowly. Like he was peeling his own history from his skin.

And then she saw it.

All the tattoos — faded lines along his ribs, his shoulder, his chest. Old scars turned to memory. Marked skin. A lean but broad body. Strong in the way she hated admitting she liked.

The trail of hair darkened down his abdomen, leading to what still pulsed hard between his thighs.
And right there, in the most unexpected place...

Maggie arched a brow.

“Seriously? That’s where you have a white hair?”

Negan scoffed, rolled his eyes — couldn’t help the cynical smirk as he leaned over her.

“Stop calling me old.”

She rose a little, her mouth too close to his, her body already responding before any coherent thought could form.

“But it’s not a lie...”

His face hardened — but not like before.
This was a different kind of hardness.
Dirtier.
Urgent.

He leaned over her and growled:

“And it’s this old man you’re so damn desperate to get fucked by, huh?"

Maggie didn’t respond.
Because it wasn’t a lie either.

The hay rustled beneath her, rough and hot against her back, but nothing burned like the weight of his body above hers.

Negan looked at her like he had all the time in the world.
Like he was already inside her just by being there — by filling her completely with his gaze, with the hand still resting on her ribcage, feeling every jagged breath.

His hips pressed against hers with a confidence that bordered on insolence.
Like he knew she wasn’t going to run.

And maybe he did.

Her hand slid along his side, tracing the line of hair down his torso.
His skin was hotter than the air in the barn.
Lean body, but solid.
She realized she was staring too long when he arched a brow, slow.

“You gonna say something or just map me out with your eyes?” he murmured, that gravel voice brushing her face.

She didn’t answer.
Just ran her fingers up his neck.
Stopped where the beard thickened.
Where the fresh cut still bled.

Then moved her hand to his shoulders — as if exploring old territory.
One she knew had scars.
And forgot how much they hurt to touch.

Negan lowered his mouth to her jaw. Bit lightly.
His tongue brushed her ear, and Maggie shivered.

“You’re so quiet, Maggie,” he said, with that teacher tone she hated as much as she craved. “I thought you’d be bragging by now. About having me exactly where you wanted.”

She turned her face like she needed air — or to deny the rest.

But he pulled her back.
Again by the nape.
Fingers in her hair, palms firm.
Demanding.

“Say it,” he whispered against her lips.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Her mouth parted — not for a reply.
But from hunger.

Then the kiss came.
Heavier now.
Deeper.

His hips pressed harder.
A moan escaped her throat — not loud, but real.

When Negan pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, he whispered:

“Open more for me.”

Maggie obeyed before thinking. Her left leg bent — guided by him — wrapped around his hip, opening the space between their bodies with a gesture as intimate as confession.

The heat between her thighs was already an invitation.

But Negan didn’t rush.
Not yet.

He looked at her for what felt longer than the road between Manhattan and the Bricks.

With his fingers, he traced her side — from her ribs, over her breast, up to her throat.
He rested his palm there.
Feeling her pulse.
Like he was measuring something invisible.

She was trembling.
Of course she was.

But she wouldn’t say it.
Didn’t need to.
He knew.
He always knew.

Negan lowered his eyes slowly and slid his hand between her thighs.

The panties were still there.
Damp.
Clinging.

He pulled them aside — one finger.
Then two.
Until the fabric slipped down her legs.

Maggie helped, rushed — as if the air touching that exposed skin was more intimate than any thrust.

And it was.

Negan tossed the underwear aside without a glance.
His eyes were on her again.
On her face.
Her parted lips.
The subtle roll of her hips against nothing — as if her body already knew what her mind was still refusing.

He leaned in.
Maggie’s nails dug into his shoulder.
Her breath shattered.

And then he whispered, hoarse:

“Say it.” His mouth brushed her chin. “Say you’re still mine.”

She shut her eyes.
Bit her lip.
Her leg instinctively wrapped tighter around him.
Her hips sought more contact.

Negan groaned against her skin.

“Say it.”

She didn’t. Because saying it meant naming something she couldn’t explain — and worse, admitting he was right.

That even after everything...
She was still his.
Even if she’d never been.

But her body didn’t lie.

Her hips arched. Her thighs squeezed. Her chest rose too fast to blame it on rage alone.

Negan felt her — raw, tense, pretending she still had control when she was already unraveling.

And still, he didn’t rush.
Not yet.

His fingers trailed down her thigh, over her belly.
Touched that aching spot — without warning — just to see how she’d twitch.

And she did.
It was involuntary.

“Still mine,” he growled.

And Maggie said:

“And you’re a fucking coward,” she spat, voice rough, low, breaking between her teeth.

Negan paused. His face still too close. Breath hot against hers.

“You had all these years,” she snapped.
“All those nights. Every chance. And only now?”

The question hung there, like a blade without a sheath.

Negan didn’t answer.
He just moved.

His hips pressed harder against hers — and the pressure rose until she felt it.
What was coming.
What was about to happen.

She stared into his eyes.

“And now you’re here,” she whispered, “Jealous of a man who had the balls to do what you never did.”

Negan didn’t look away.
Didn’t deny it.

He just pushed.

Slow.
Cruel.

Like a punishment.
Like an answer.
Like he was saying: This, Maggie. It was always going to be this.

She gasped, loud.
Her whole body reacted, arching beneath him.
Her arms wrapped around him instinctively, her legs tightened around his hips.
Breath became sound, and sound became a moan.
Almost a sob.

He filled her completely.
Slow.
Deep.
And then he stopped.
Buried.
Just to look at her. Just to feel.

“I should’ve done this back when you really hated me,” he said, low, more to himself than to her.

She bit her lip, rage overflowing into tears that never quite fell.

“You always knew I never hated you the way I was supposed to.”

Negan started to move.
Slow. Rhythmic.
As if it wasn’t just sex — it was punishment, revenge, confession.

“And still,” he growled between clenched teeth, “you let someone else touch you first.”

“And you,” she fired back, her nails digging into his back, “you looked at me for years like I was yours… and never had the guts to do anything.”

The pace picked up.

The sound of skin slapping against hay.
The smell of sweat and fury.
Pleasure laced with hurt. With reckoning.
With that cursed silence that had always existed between them and now exploded in every thrust.

Negan grabbed her face with one hand.
Made her look.

“You’re looking at me now,” he snarled. “This is how I should’ve fucked you from the start.”

She wanted to respond.
But only moaned.
Because it was true.
And there was no turning back.

What hurt the most was understanding what he meant by “from the start.”
It wasn’t just about Meridian.
Or when she came back to Alexandria.
Or Dean.

It was about before. Way before.

When everything between them was pure hate. When her body still shook remembering the clearing, and his voice, and the sound of the bat hitting the ground — and still, still…

She’d heard once. A muffled story, whispered like a rumor, told by someone who knew someone on the road.
That Negan, sometime after it all, had looked for her.

That he wanted to take her.
Make her something.
Part of something.

Maggie never wanted to believe it.
Because believing meant imagining everything that could’ve happened if he had found her.

And now… now he was saying it, plain and clear:

“From the beginning.”

From that beginning.

The filth of it all poured through her like another kind of heat.
Hot. Rotten. Too right.

Maggie shivered.
Her spine arched again.
Her hips met his with more force, more hunger.
Her moans came muffled against his neck, where she bit him just to keep from screaming.

Because she understood.

He had wanted her since back then.

And she…

She came with that image in her head.

His hands gripping her hips tighter.
The sound of skin on skin mixed with the sound of what couldn’t be said.
And shame exploding inside her right alongside the pleasure.

Because it was dirty.
Because it was wrong.
And that was exactly why she came.

With him inside.
With him watching.
With him smiling against her mouth like he’d always known it would be this way.

The old Maggie would be disgusted with the one moaning now.
The one trembling.
The one crying without tears, coming without guilt.

The old Maggie — the one who buried her husband, who carried her son alone, who felt her knees buckle in front of a bat — she’d never accept this.

But the Maggie now had too many scars.
And too little time.

She knew things the other didn’t.
Knew what it meant to feel rage down to the bone and still stand up the next day.
Knew what it was to sleep beside an enemy and feel safer for it.
Knew the world didn’t make room for pure heroines — only for the ones who survived.

And she had survived with him.

Negan.

The man between her thighs.
Sweating. Moaning. Burying his head in the curve of her neck like it was a place he knew. A place he remembered.

The man she’d known longer than she was married to Glenn.
The man she hated.
The man she knew.
The man she wanted.

It wasn’t love.

It was worse.

It was obsession.
It was understanding.

Hours later, the sky had already begun to lighten through the cracks in the barn wood.
They got dressed in silence, like covering a corpse to pretend it didn’t happen.

He pulled his shirt on without looking at her.
She tied her boots with the same precision as always — except now, her fingers shook.

At the door, both standing, not knowing who should walk out first, they said the one thing they knew had to be said:

“We’re not going to talk about this,” she said, looking away.

“And it’s not gonna happen again,” he added, with a half-mocking nod.

A goddamn lie.

Because it did.
Not once. Not twice.

More times than Maggie could count on her fingers.

Sometimes with hate.
Sometimes with thirst.
Sometimes just to prove they could.
That they were still there.
That they could still hurt each other in the best possible way.

And that was their sin.
The most intimate.
The most unforgivable.

Because above all else, the one thing Maggie Rhee hated most about Negan Smith — the tenth thing —
was the fact that she didn’t hate him.

Not even a little.
Not anymore.