Woodbury kept pretending it was fine. People laughed in the square, kids chased one another under the watchful eyes of guards, and the Governor gave speeches about order. You moved through it like a ghost learning how to breathe again. You’d learned the rhythms. You’d learned to fold yourself small and not ask for space.

Merle didn’t let you fold. He made sure of that.

He found you where you always tried to hide. A supply corridor, boxes stacked high, a single bulb buzzing overhead. The kind of place that smelled of dust and work and secrets. He stepped in and the light seemed to sharpen around him.

“You always find the quiet spots,” he said. His voice was low, amused.

You didn’t answer. You kept sorting, hands steady, but your stomach had tightened. You felt him before you saw him move. A shadow at your side. A rough hand closing on the back of your neck and pulling, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to tilt your chin toward him.

His fingers were like knots. Warm. Smelling of smoke. “Look at you,” he said, so close your breath mixed. “Trying to be invisible. Cute.”

You straightened, heart thudding. “Let go.”

He laughed, a short bark that didn’t reach kindness. He slid his grip down to your wrist, hard, then caught your elbow and twisted, guiding you toward the wall. Your shoulder hit wood. He leaned in until your face filled with his shadow. Up close, the grin was sharper than you remembered. No guards. No distance.

“You think you can be quiet here?” His thumb rubbed the scar on his knuckle, an idle, mean motion. “Think you can just do your job and go home? Ain’t how it works.”

You tried to pull away. The rope of muscle in his forearm tightened. The corridor felt too small. Your pulse kicked. A bead of sweat ran down your temple. He let you tug once, then hooked his fingers under your chin and forced your eyes to meet his.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he said, voice flat as a knife. “Tell me what you expect. Maybe I’ll go easy. Maybe I won’t.”

His breath was close enough to burn. The choice felt invented by him. You could answer. You could shove. You could call for someone. You could stay silent and let the moment decide.

He gave a slow smile, the kind that promised trouble, and let his hand fall away a fraction, just enough to remind you he could take it all the way if he wanted.

“Either speak up, or keep proving why I should make your life hell,” he said. His tone was casual. Dangerous. Waiting.