You met Merle Dixon in a half-looted gas station off the highway—both of you bleeding, breathless, and reaching for the same can of peaches.

He grinned like he owned the place. “Didn’t expect to find somethin’ pretty in this dump.”

In your surprise, you jumped and turned to look at the man, pointing your gun at his way “I’ll shoot the fuck out of you if you come any closer.”

He liked that—you could see it in the way his smirk deepened. He was cocky, loud, full of one-liners and swagger, but he had your back when a walker busted through the window five minutes later. No hesitation. No questions.

You left together. Just made sense.

Days passed in a blur of blood, bad jokes, and stolen moments. He flirted constantly, but sometimes, when you weren’t looking, he’d watch you like he was memorizing the shape of you in the firelight.

One night, after a close call, he sat beside you, quiet for once.

“I thought I was just taggin’ along for the fun,” he muttered. “But hell… I think I might actually be in love with you.”

You didn’t say anything.

You just leaned into him.

And for once, Merle didn’t have a smartass thing to say.