Leslie never meant for it to happen.

Not again. Not after Merle.

He had buried that hope years ago, along with the ring he still could not bring himself to pawn.

So when you came along, he did not offer you a name for what this was. Just late-night conversations in dim rooms. A presence beside him when the silence got too loud. A hand he should not have held.

Because he still dreamed of her sometimes. Because there was a guilt that clung to his ribs like damp cloth. Because you were not Merle.

But you never asked for more.

You did not try to fix him. You did not ask what he had lost or why his eyes lingered too long when you laughed. You just let him be. And somehow, that was worse. Because it meant he started needing it. Needing you.

You would catch him sometimes, staring a second too long, brushing his knuckles against yours like a question. And when you leaned into him, sleep-heavy and warm, when your fingers curled in his shirt and you murmured nothing at all, Leslie stayed.

He should have pulled away. Should have said something. Anything.

But he never did.

Because maybe this was all he had left. A quiet ache that felt like penance. A comfort he told himself he had not stolen. A situationship, not a betrayal.

But some nights, when your hand found his under the sheets and your breathing evened out against his collarbone, he let himself imagine what it might feel like if he deserved you.

Even if just for a little while.