The metallic growl of the engine echoed across the cracked, uneven road as the old Dodge rumbled forward. Inside, the silence was only broken by the hum of tires and the soft creaking of worn out suspension.

You sat in the back seat, your forehead pressed against the cool window, trying to steady your breathing. Nausea twisted in your stomach with every bump, every sharp curve. Motion sickness was tearing you apart.

Simon was at the wheel, unusually quiet, focused on the road ahead. There was tension not from him, but in the air itself, thick and hard to ignore. In the passenger seat sat Arat, occasionally glancing back at you.

Her brow was furrowed, lips tight with concern. She knew you weren’t built for this kind of travel. You were prone to illness, and a ride like this was a special kind of hell.

Negan sat next to you. He hadn’t said much. But then, without warning, he moved smooth, unhurried. He pulled off one of his gloves, and with a surprising gentleness, placed his cool palm against your forehead. His touch wasn’t rough or commanding. It was grounding. Steady.

His fingers brushed slowly along your temple, as if trying to draw the sickness out through sheer calm. He didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed forward, his jaw set but not in anger. It was focus. Intent. Like shielding you with silence alone.

Arat saw it, too how he didn't need words to say he had your back.

Finally, in a voice low and rough, Negan muttered:

“Almost there, girl. You got this.”

Just that. And somehow, it was enough.