05 .ᐟ
blood binds, trust holds

            SHANE AND LORI were truly fucked, Selma thought later that day.

She wasn't sure if everyone else already suspected the nature of their relationship, but honestly, it wasn't her business. People had their own ways of coping in the apocalypse, and who was she to judge? Lori had thought her husband was dead and decided to find comfort in his best friend.

Messy choice? Definitely. But again, that was their problem, not hers.

She just hoped their drama wouldn't spill over and screw things up for the rest of the group.

Still, she couldn't help but feel bad for Rick.

Watching him through the flickering flames of the fire, she thought he seemed like a genuinely decent guy. Hell, she'd even go as far as to say he was a good cop — not that she'd ever admit that out loud. Her ego wouldn't let her. But there was something about the way he carried himself: that trustworthy, convincing look in his eyes. He always seemed to know exactly what to say, how to pick the right words when it mattered most.

Night had fully settled since their arrival, and the group had broken into smaller clusters, each huddled around their own modest fires. Shane had been adamant about keeping the flames low, warning that anything brighter could draw rotters their way.

Selma sat with Jenna nestled against her shoulder and Glenn at her other side, both listening quietly as Rick recounted the harrowing moment he woke from his coma to find the world had gone to hell.

The firelight danced like restless spirits, its golden tongues flickering and curling upward, painting the night in fleeting strokes of amber and shadow. The flames seemed alive, twisting and swaying with the wind's soft sigh, casting fleeting reflections in Rick's somber eyes as he spoke in a low, even tone.

Jenna's head was warm against Selma's shoulder, her steady breaths matching the rhythm of the quiet night. Glenn, seated close, listened intently, his gaze lost in the fire's hypnotic glow.

Selma's hair, deep auburn by day, seemed almost aflame under the firelight, the fiery hues catching and shimmering with every flicker. Around them, the night was a tapestry of sound — the steady chirp of crickets, the gentle crackling of flames, and the muted murmur of other small groups scattered nearby. Rick's voice wove through it all, low and deliberate, as if the story was meant to be shared only with the darkness.

"Disoriented. I guess that comes closest. Disoriented," the sheriff said, voice steady but heavy. He sat with Carl in his lap, his arms protectively around the boy. Lori was close by, her fingers absently combing through Carl's hair, her eyes distant.

Rick continued, "Fear, confusion—all those things. But..." He paused, rubbing his jaw as if trying to massage the memories away. "Disoriented comes closest," he said finally, his words seemed quieter now.

Selma couldn't imagine it.

Being there, all that time. Still in the hospital. How had he even survived that long? Maybe some staff had stayed behind, she reasoned, but then again... the military had been shooting at everyone. The memory sent a chill down her spine.

She cradled the warm metal cup of tea Dale had given her, the heat soaking into her palms. Across from her, Dale placed his own cup on the ground, his gaze thoughtful. "Words can be meager things," he said after a moment. "Sometimes they fall short."

Rick nodded, his eyes far away. "I felt like I'd been ripped out of my life and put somewhere else. For a while, I thought I was trapped in some coma dream, something I might never wake up from."

Carl tilted his head, looking up at his father. His voice was soft, almost hesitant. "Mom said you died."

Lori laid a gentle hand on Carl's forehead but didn't speak, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Selma understood. Who could've thought her husband would've lived?

Rick's gaze moved to Lori, then back to Carl. A small smile softened his face as he reached out to touch his son's cheek. "She had every reason to believe that. Don't you ever doubt it."

Selma's eyes shifted to Shane. He didn't say a word, jaw tight and his stare fixed on the fire.

Lori finally spoke, her voice low, tinged with the exhaustion of old wounds. "When things started to get really bad, they told me at the hospital they were going to medevac you and the other patients to Atlanta. And then... it never happened."

Rick shook his head, unsurprised. "I'm not shocked. Not after Atlanta fell."

"Yeah," Lori replied, her tone barely audible.

Rick sighed. "And from the look of that hospital, it got overrun."

Selma wanted to speak, to share what she'd seen, but decided against it. Not now.

Shane finally broke his silence, his voice gruff and measured. "Yeah, looks don't deceive. I barely got them out, you know?"

Rick's eyes met his friend's, earnest and grateful. "I can't tell you how grateful I am to you, Shane. I can't even begin to express it."

Dale smiled, ever the philosopher, his tone tinged with gentle humor. "There go those words falling short again. Paltry things."

Selma smiled softly at his comment, her grip tightening on her cup as she let the warmth of the fire and the quiet camaraderie of the group settle over her.

The quiet was shattered by a sudden clatter of wood. At a nearby campfire, Ed Peletier tossed another log onto the flames. The fire flared brightly, its glow spilling out into the night like a beacon.

Selma scoffed softly, already anticipating what was coming. Rick glanced at her, his brow raised in question. She simply shook her head.

Shane's voice cut through the murmurs. "Hey, Ed, you want to rethink that log?"

Ed barely looked up, his tone gruff. "It's cold, man."

Shane leaned forward slightly, his words measured but firm. "The cold don't change the rules, does it? Keep our fires low, just embers so we can't be seen from a distance, right?"

"I said it's cold," Ed snapped. "You should mind your own business for once."

She wanted to shove his face into the dirt, make him taste the soil beneath them. He wasn't just an arrogant jerk; he was a despicable excuse for a man, not only because of his attitude but for the way he treated his wife and daughter.

Shane stood, his movements deliberate as he made his way to the other fire. Rick and Lori exchanged a wary glance, the tension already thick in the air.

Shane crouched slightly, his voice dropping into something almost too calm. "Hey, Ed..."

Ed sat rigid, his expression set. "Go on. Pull the damn thing out. Go on!"

Before the confrontation could escalate, Carol, the woman sitting near Ed, quickly stood. She circled the fire, her movements swift but subdued, and pulled the log out herself.

"Christ," Shane muttered under his breath as the wood thunked to the ground, the embers sizzling against the dirt.

Carol returned to her seat silently, her eyes downcast. Beside her sat her daughter, Sophia, a girl of no more than twelve, with wide eyes that always seemed to hold a hint of tension.

Selma had a soft spot for Sophia.

She was shy but gentle, her kindness evident in every small gesture. The girl often played with Carl and the Morales children, laughter quiet but sincere, and she was always unfailingly polite.

Shane crouched at their fire, his posture softened now. "Hey, Carol, Sophia. How are y'all this evening?"

Carol offered a small, polite smile. "Fine. We're just fine."

Shane nodded. "Okay."

Carol's voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry about the fire."

Shane shook his head lightly, offering a reassuring smile. "No, no, no. No apology needed."

He glanced at Sophia, tone softening further. "Y'all have a good night, okay?"

"Thank you," Carol murmured.

Shane straightened, brushing dirt from his hands. "I appreciate the cooperation."

As he made his way back to the first campfire and settled into his seat, he let out a long, weary sigh.

Dale broke the uneasy silence. "Have you given any thought to Daryl Dixon? He's not gonna be happy when he hears his brother was left behind."

Selma jerked her head back, a strand of red hair slipping behind her ear. "Oh, bloody hell, don't remind me of that tosser."

Amy and Jenna cracked up at her remark, their laughter momentarily lightening the mood.

T-Dog, however, spoke quietly, his voice steady but determined. "I'll tell him. I dropped the key. It's on me."

Rick leaned forward, ever the reasonable leader. "I cuffed him. That makes it mine."

Glenn grimaced, glancing between the two. "Guys, it's not a competition. I don't mean to bring race into this, but... it might sound better coming from a white guy."

"He has a point," Selma muttered, narrowing her light brown eyes as she finished the last of her tea.

T-Dog shook his head firmly. "I did what I did. Hell if I'm gonna hide from him."

Selma gave him a sharp nod. "We didn't have a choice. He was being more than unreasonable."

Amy spoke up hesitantly. "We could lie."

Andrea shook her head, her voice decisive. "Or tell the truth. Selma's right. Merle was out of control. Something had to be done, or he would've gotten us killed." She turned to Lori. "Your husband did what was necessary. And if Merle got left behind, it's nobody's fault but Merle's."

"Still," Jenna murmured, absently playing with rocks in the dirt. "Nobody deserves to be left alone on top of a building with walkers swarming like maggots in the middle of a city."

Selma sighed, pushing her empty cup aside. "As much as I hate him, Jenna's got a point. But we didn't have a choice. He was beating the hell out of T-Dog, popping pills, and wasting bullets. What were we supposed to do?"

Dale held up a hand, his tone pragmatic. "And that's exactly what we tell Daryl? You think he's gonna see it that way? I don't see a rational discussion coming from that, do you? Word to the wise—we're gonna have our hands full when he gets back from his hunt."

T-Dog's voice was resolute as he stood. "I was scared, and I ran. I'm not ashamed of it."

"I would've done the same thing," Selma said, gaze sweeping over the group. "In fact, anyone here would've done the same."

Andrea crossed her arms. "We were all scared. We all ran. What's your point?"

T-Dog turned, his eyes flickering to each of them. "My point is, I stopped long enough to chain that door. Staircase is narrow. Maybe half a dozen geeks can squeeze against it at a time. It's not enough to break through—not that chain, not that padlock. Dixon's alive, and he's still up there, handcuffed on that roof. That's on us."

Without waiting for a response, he walked away from the fire, leaving the group in a heavy silence.

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Selma, Glenn, and Jenna were lying down in their tent, huddled under their blankets.

The sound of crickets chirped softly in the distance, the night air still carrying a chill.

Selma pulled the covers up to her shin, trying to ward off the cold.

Jenna's voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper. "Rick's hot."

Glenn groaned, clearly exasperated. "Are you kidding me right now?"

Jenna giggled, her voice barely audible. "What? He is."

Selma rolled her eyes, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "Seriously, Jenna? You're gonna go there?"

Glenn muttered something under his breath and shifted, clearly trying to get comfortable. "We're in the middle of a goddamn apocalypse, and you're talking about how 'hot' Rick is?"

Jenna snickered again. "Hey, a little distraction never hurt anyone."

Selma let out a small laugh, then sighed. "Yeah, well, I guess if we're talking distractions... could be worse." She glanced at Glenn, tone turning more serious. "We need those distractions, though, don't we? Keeps us from thinking too much about everything else."

Glenn nodded, looking somber. "Yeah. It's been hard, but... we get by." He turned to Jenna, grinning. "I'm not sure Rick's the best thing to focus on, though."

Jenna winked. "Everyone's got their coping mechanisms."

"He has a wife, anyway," Selma muttered, eyes closed as she massaged her scalp, the remnants of the day's tension still hanging on her shoulders.

Jenna clicked her teeth, clearly unimpressed. Selma could practically feel the eye roll from the other side of the tent. "Yeah, well, that same wife didn't waste a second to screw his best friend."

"Are you kidding me right now?" Glenn groaned, clearly exasperated, but neither of the women paid him any mind.

"Hmm, well, everyone grieves in their own way, I guess," Selma shrugged, trying to sound casual, but the words came out with a slight mockery.

Silence fell for a moment, but Glenn broke it with an almost hesitant question. "Do you think she'll tell Rick?"

"Doubt it," Selma replied, tapping her fingers against her scalp thoughtfully. "But at this point, everybody knows. They were about as subtle as a freight train. First time I found out, I went off to pee in the forest—"

"Ew!" Glenn and Jenna blurted in perfect harmony, and Selma grinned at the synchronized disgust.

"I thought it was a walker at first, you know, you hear moans and all that, you just assume," she continued, her voice taking on an almost conspiratorial tone. "So I sneak over, all quiet-like, ready to do my duty as the protector of the camp... and there they were. Right on the ground, like two horny rabbits. Right in the middle of... well, you get the idea." Selma shuddered dramatically, making both Glenn and Jenna visibly cringe.

"Ugh, I don't need that image in my head before sleep," Glenn said, pulling his blanket up to his chin like it could shield him from the horror.

"Mhm," Selma murmured, clearly amused by their discomfort. "Traumatizing, really."

The silence settled back in, but Selma couldn't help herself. "But you're right, he's really hot."

"Who?" Glenn asked groggily.

"Merle," Selma replied deadpan, clearly messing with him.

"What?" Glenn shot up, his eyes wide in disbelief, his neck craning as though trying to make sense of the conversation. Jenna couldn't help but laugh, giggle infectious.

"Rick, dumbass," Selma teased, chuckling at the look on his face. "Those blue eyes, that jawline... and that southern drawl? Yeah, he's definitely something."

"He's your type," Jenna piped in, clearly enjoying the banter.

"How do you even know my type, missy?" Selma shot back, her voice dripping with mock suspicion.

Glenn, now fully awake and clearly over it, cut in, "Alright, can we cut the gossip session? I'm trying to sleep here, and besides, y'all owe me. I was the one who suggested bringing him along."

"Don't act like you don't enjoy it," Selma teased, her grin widening. "And I don't owe you a damn thing, mate. You owe me for waking me up at 3 AM every night just so you could pee in the woods."

Jenna burst out laughing at that, soft giggles bouncing off the walls of the tent. "Yeah, Glenn, you're real generous with your suggestions, huh?"

The young man sighed dramatically, head sinking back into his pillow. "Okay, okay, are you finished? I'm literally trying to sleep here."

Selma just huffed and buried her head deeper into the blankets, the soft warmth wrapping around her like a comforting hug.

The distant sound of crickets filled the night air, lulling her into a sense of peaceful quiet. She settled in, the last remnants of her laughter fading as the world outside continued to buzz, but inside the tent, there was only warmth, the sound of the night, and a strange sense of camaraderie.

As she drifted off to sleep, the last thing she heard was Jenna whispering, "Rick's definitely your type, though."

Selma just grinned into the darkness, muttering under her breath, "Damn right, he is."

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Morning came, as it always did, with the quiet rustling of the camp and the faint sound of birds in the distance.

Selma was the first to wake, the light from the sun barely breaking through the trees.

She dressed swiftly, mindful not to disturb the two still sleeping—jean shorts, dark blue T-shirt, knife and gun hidden just beneath her clothes—and tied her hair into a small, practical bun, eyes alert even in the quiet.

The camp was still calm, children nestled in their tents, snuggled deep under their blankets.

Only the adults were up, moving about quietly in the humid morning air. The heat from the rising sun already clung to everything, the air thick with moisture.

Selma moved towards the RV for breakfast, or more accurately, the only thing that could be called breakfast at this point: a small cup of coffee.

She greeted Dale, who was seated inside, looking over the morning's news or whatever passed for news these days, and sipped the coffee as she gazed out at the lake, the water still and reflective under the gentle light.

Her eyes caught sight of Carol off in the distance, standing by the edge of the camp. The grey-haired woman was folding clothes with a methodical, almost peaceful rhythm.

Selma sighed and took the last sip of her coffee before making her way over to her. The heat was already creeping in, making the morning air feel thick with humidity.

As she approached, Carol looked up and smiled, her face softening in the way it always did when she saw Selma.

"Hey, Carol," Selma greeted, her voice still a little rough from just waking up.

"Good morning," Carol responded, her voice warm but quiet, the soft morning light reflecting off her silver hair.

"Need any help?" Selma offered, glancing at the pile of clothes in Carol's hands.

"I won't refuse," Carol said with a small, grateful smile.

Selma picked up a shirt from the pile that she instantly recognized as Rick's sheriff shirt. With a quick glance at Carol, she hung it on the makeshift laundry line, carefully making sure it was secure with a stick.

"So, how are you?" Selma asked, trying to make conversation as she worked, her hands moving instinctively to set the next piece of laundry on the line.

"The usual," Carol replied softly, not meeting Selma's eyes but continuing with the task at hand.

Selma took a breath before continuing. "You know, you and Sophia can still come over whenever you—"

"I know," Carol cut in gently, her tone neither defensive nor dismissive, just weary. "I appreciate it."

Selma nodded, not pushing any further. She knew better than to pry when Carol wasn't ready to talk. There was an understanding between them, one that didn't require words.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the quiet rhythm of folding and hanging clothes filling the space between them. The soft sound of fabric brushing against the air was the only noise that kept the peaceful morning alive.

It wasn't much, but it was enough.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Some time later, the camp was alive with the sounds of children laughing and running around.

People were scattered about, doing their usual tasks, and Selma could hear the distinct sulking of Glenn beside her.

He was glaring at the scene in front of him — his stolen car being dismantled piece by piece by Dale, Jim, and Morales.

They were siphoning gas and taking apart the sports car like it was just another piece of scrap.

She gave him a light tap on the back of his head. "Oh for God's sake, stop bloody sulking."

"I have my reasons!" Glenn grumbled dramatically, opening his arms wide as if to present the tragic scene. Selma rolled her eyes, shaking her head at his exaggerated display.

Before she could make a witty remark, she sensed someone approaching.

Turning slowly, she found herself face-to-face with Rick.

"Morning," he greeted her with a slight nod.

"Good morning," Selma replied, giving him a small smile.

The sound of tools clanging and Glenn's continued grumbling filled the silence.

"Look at 'em," Glenn muttered, still glaring at the scene. "Vultures. Yeah, go on, strip it clean."

Dale's voice came from behind. "Generators need every drop of fuel they can get. Got no power without it. Sorry, Glenn."

Glenn huffed in response. "Thought I'd get to drive it at least a few more days."

Rick chuckled lightly. "Maybe we'll get to steal another one someday."

He gave Glenn a friendly pat on the back before turning to walk toward Lori, who was hanging up freshly washed clothes on the line.

Selma teased Glenn by bumping her shoulder against his, and he pushed her back playfully, his sour mood lifting just a little.

Just then, the sound of an approaching jeep caught their attention. Shane pulled up and hopped out.

"Water's here, y'all. Just a reminder to boil before use," Shane called out to the camp, a reminder that everyone had become used to.

Rick nodded toward Shane.

Selma glanced over at Glenn, then made her way toward Rick and Lori, who were now engaged in quiet conversation, but seemingly heated conversation. She approached them cautiously, waiting for a moment to speak.

"Hey—" she started, and both Rick and Lori turned to her.

Clearing her throat, Selma continued, "Sorry to interrupt, but I was going to ask Rick if he needed me to check his wound..." She glanced at Lori, grimacing slightly, then quickly turned to Rick and added, "From the shot, I mean."
Lori answered immediately, voice soft but decisive. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Selma's a nurse."

Rick gave a small nod, glancing down at his torso as though reminded of the dull ache there. "Alright."

Selma didn't waste time. "Come with me," she said, already turning on her heel and striding toward her tent. She didn't wait to see if he followed; she knew he would.

The morning air still carried a lingering chill, making her cross her arms briefly as she walked. The sun, however, was steadily warming the earth, chasing away the cool bite of dawn.

Camp life was bustling now—children playing, fires crackling, and the murmur of conversations blending into the background.

Reaching her tent, Selma pushed back the flap and stepped inside.

The small space was modest but meticulously organized. Three makeshift beds lined one side, and along the walls were shelves cobbled together from scavenged wood, packed with boxes and bags of carefully labeled supplies. The dim light filtering through the fabric walls cast soft shadows, giving the tent an almost serene atmosphere.

Rick hesitated at the entrance, his gaze sweeping across the interior as though trying to gauge how much space he'd need to navigate without knocking something over.

"Take a seat," Selma said, motioning to the small, weathered camp chair next to her makeshift cot. Her voice was calm, steady, as if she had done this a thousand times. "I'll grab the supplies."

Rick gave a short nod, lowering himself onto the chair with a faint wince. His movements were stiff, the wear of his responsibilities and injuries evident. Selma moved efficiently, retrieving gauze pads, alcohol wipes, and fresh bandages from her bag. She laid them out on the small folding table with practiced ease.

"This might sting a bit," she said, tone light but carrying a note of warning as she tore open the packet of alcohol wipes.

Rick nodded again, meeting her eyes briefly. She stepped closer, her gaze fixed on him expectantly, eyebrows raised as if waiting for something. Rick blinked, momentarily confused, before realization dawned.

"Your shirt," she clarified, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

"Right. Sorry," he muttered, fumbling with the hem of his shirt. He pulled it off, exposing his back, the pale skin marred by healing bruises and the faint sheen of sweat. His embarrassment was palpable, and Selma couldn't help but chuckle softly.

As he turned his back to her, she saw the old bandages, stained with dried blood. Gently, she began peeling them off, wincing internally at the raw edges of the wound. Rick winced too, his shoulders tensing.

"Sorry," she murmured, voice soft, almost apologetic. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled the air as she soaked a gauze pad and began cleaning around the injury.

"Merle's brother is probably coming back today," Selma said casually, voice cutting through the silence as she worked. She was deliberate, trying to distract him from the sting of the alcohol.

Rick grunted, his tone equal parts interest and irritation. "Where's he been?"

"Hunting in the forest. Been gone two days now, I think," Selma replied, carefully dabbing at the wound. The flesh was pink and clean, the signs of infection thankfully absent. "It's healing up nicely. Another two weeks, and it'll be good as new."

Rick exhaled through his nose, a mix of relief and exhaustion. "Good to hear."

Selma reached for a fresh bandage, securing it over the cleaned wound with deft fingers. "You'll have to keep an eye on it, though. No heavy lifting, no heroics. And definitely no rolling around on the ground with walkers."

A faint smirk played on Rick's lips. "I'll try to avoid it."

Selma chuckled softly, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "There. All set. Try not to get yourself shot again, yeah?"

Rick stood, pulling his shirt back over his head. "Thanks, Selma."

"Anytime, love," Selma said, packing up her supplies with practiced efficiency. "Just try not to make it a habit, yeah?"

Rick gave her a faint smile, but he didn't leave the tent. Instead, he lingered, watching her as she finished cleaning up—organizing what she could salvage, icing down supplies, and tossing what was beyond saving. His staring was enough to make her glance over her shoulder.

"Everything okay?" she asked, pausing mid-motion, a faint crease forming between her brows.

Rick took a deep breath, his hand absently finding his hip in that distinctly Rick Grimes way. "I wanted to ask you something," he started, voice steady but carrying a hint of hesitation. "Do we... know each other? I feel like I've seen you somewhere before."

Selma froze for a moment, then exhaled softly. "I used to work at Harrison Memorial," the nurse said abruptly.

The words felt heavier than they should have. And it's not like It was a secret either way, but somehow saying it aloud now, in the middle of this chaos, felt like unloading a burden she didn't know she'd been carrying.

Rick's brows lifted slightly in recognition, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful. "Harrison Memorial?" he echoed, tone tinged with genuine surprise. His hand slid up to scratch at his scruffy jaw as the memory tugged at him.

"Yep," Selma confirmed, offering a small shrug. "But I doubt you remember me. We never really talked."

Rick's lips twitched into a faint smirk, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as if replaying some distant memory. "No, no, I do," he said.

Selma blinked, caught completely off guard. "You do?"

"Yeah," Rick replied, his southern drawl giving his words a deliberate, almost thoughtful rhythm. A hint of a smile played on his lips. "How could I forget your hair?"

Her brows lifted in surprise, her hand instinctively brushing against the loose strands framing her face. "My hair?"

He gave a slight nod, his blue eyes twinkling with something close to teasing. "I mean, it's kinda hard to miss. That red hair—stands out. Makes you easy to spot."

Selma let out a soft laugh, a mix of disbelief and amusement bubbling up. "That's what you remember? My hair?"

Her fingers toyed with the strands now, almost in an afterthought, as if seeing it through his eyes for the first time. She was used to blending in, not standing out—certainly not for something as ordinary as her hair.

Rick's head tilted slightly, his expression steady but with a faint glimmer of humor in his eyes. "Like I said, hard to miss," he said, tone carrying that quiet, straightforward honesty he was known for. "Back then, it was this wild mess—you'd come stormin' into a room, and it was like your hair was tryin' to keep up with you. Couldn't forget it if I tried."

He let out a short, soft chuckle, his gaze shifting momentarily to the camp before settling back on her. "Don't mean that in a bad way," he added after a pause, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Just... it was you. Guess some things stick, even in times like these."

The words landed heavier than she expected, like an anchor to a past life she'd almost forgotten. Selma blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone, and felt her own lips curve into a smile. "I'll take that as a compliment, then," she said lightly, though her voice had softened.

Rick nodded, his smile dimming into something quieter, more reflective. "You should. Ain't a lot of constants left these days... but seems like you're still one of 'em."

Selma blinked, caught completely off guard.

What did he mean by that? He was so confusing—or maybe it was her, overthinking his words too much.

"Well, uh," she stammered, her voice catching as heat rushed up her neck and spread across her cheeks. "It's, uh..."

Her thoughts scrambled for a response, but words seemed to escape her. This was mortifying. So, so mortifying.

Say something, she urged herself, but her brain betrayed her, leaving her floundering in the silence.

Rick's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, into the shadow of a smile.

It wasn't his usual stoic expression, but something softer, more human—like he found her flustered reaction both amusing and endearing. His gaze held hers for a moment longer than necessary, and she could feel her blush deepening under the weight of his steady, unflinching attention.

Of course, he noticed.

Of course, he did.

The man seemed to read people like a book.

And here she was, fumbling like a teenager because of a simple compliment.

She'd never dealt with anyone quite like him before. American men—let alone Southern ones—weren't exactly in her wheelhouse. Their easy charm, that unhurried drawl, the way they could make the most casual words feel personal...

It was unsettling in ways she didn't know how to handle.

"Don't mention it," Rick finally said. He tipped his head in a subtle nod before shifting his focus back toward the camp toward the camp through the open tent flap.

His blue eyes swept across the scene—Dale and Jim tinkering with the car, the kids darting around in laughter, the quiet bustle of survival playing out in its usual rhythm.

"We better get movin'," he added. "Lots to do."

Selma nodded quickly, tightening her arms across her chest in a subconscious effort to pull herself together. Her mind raced as she turned to glance at the bustling camp behind him.

Get ahold of yourself, she chastised silently.

He's a married man, Selma.

Married.

Complicated.

And besides, she reminded herself sharply, it was the literal apocalypse. This was not the time or place to let her thoughts stray to things like... that. She cleared her throat and straightened her posture.

She was meant to fade into the background, to be useful, to survive—nothing more.

"Right," she said briskly, forcing herself to focus on anything but the way his voice lingered in her ears. "Guess I should, uh, get back to it, too."

Rick gave her one last glance, before he turned away. "You take care, now," he said over his shoulder as he walked off, tone more habit than sentiment.

Selma stood there for a moment, watching as he crossed the camp to check in with Lori.

The heat that had bloomed in her chest lingered, but she shook it off with a quiet exhale and moved to grab the nearest laundry basket.

Focus.

Jenna sauntered up beside Selma, twirling a lollipop between her fingers. She popped it into her mouth with a smirk, her brown eyes dancing with mischief. "Was that Rick I just saw you with earlier?" she teased.

"Yep," Selma replied without breaking stride, her arms full with a basket of laundry, eyes fixed ahead.

Jenna's grin widened. "So?"

"So nothing," Selma said firmly, shooting her a quick look. "He's a married man."

"Well—"

Jenna's retort was abruptly cut off by a piercing scream that shattered the stillness of the afternoon. The sound came from the woods, raw and full of terror.

Selma's heart dropped, and without hesitation, she set the laundry basket on the ground and sprinted toward the sound. Her small knife was in her hand before she even realized it. Jenna, startled but unwilling to be left behind, ran after her, lollipop forgotten.

As they raced through the trees, the screaming grew louder.

"Carl!" someone yelled, the boy's name echoing through the forest. Children's frantic cries followed, desperate and disoriented.

Selma pushed past the frightened kids as they darted in the opposite direction, her mind locked on the source of the chaos.

Her chest burned as she ran, branches whipping at her arms. The forest seemed to close in around her, every rustle and snap of twigs amplifying the urgency.

Something was very, very wrong.

Selma and Jenna skidded to a halt in a small clearing, their breaths sharp from the sprint. Before them, a man was hunched over a deer carcass, tearing into it with grotesque hunger. Shane already had his gun raised, aiming at the figure's back.

"Don't shoot!" Selma hissed, stepping up beside him. "You'll bring more walkers!"

The man—or rather, the walker—let out a low, guttural growl, still feasting on the carcass. Bits of flesh and blood dripped from its rotting mouth, the sickening sound of tearing meat filling the air. Andrea and Amy arrived next, both halting abruptly.

Andrea gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Ew," Jenna muttered, wrinkling her nose.

Selma pressed her hand to her mouth in silent agreement, her stomach churning. Her gaze drifted to the carcass—it had arrows sticking out of it. That was supposed to be our dinner, she thought grimly. Daryl's back.

As if sensing the group, the walker finally stopped gnawing and turned, blood smeared across its face, its milky eyes locking on Rick. It growled, lunging weakly forward, but Rick was ready. He gripped his shovel tight and swung it down, cracking the walker's skull with a sickening thud.

The creature hit the ground but kept moving, clawing feebly at the dirt. The others jumped into action—Morales, Glenn, Jim, and Dale stepping forward, beating it with whatever weapons they had. The walker twitched and growled until Dale stepped in with his axe, bringing it down hard and severing its head with a wet crunch.

The clearing went eerily quiet, save for their labored breathing.

Dale looked at the remains, his face pale but composed. "It's the first one we've had up here," he said grimly. "They never come this far up the mountain."

Jim wiped his brow, his expression tense. "They're running out of food in the city, that's what."

Before anyone could respond, a sudden snap of a branch made everyone whirl around. Selma raised her knife instinctively, her muscles taut. Shane leveled his shotgun, scanning the trees.

Footsteps approached, heavy but deliberate.

Then, from behind an outcrop of rocks, a figure emerged, a crossbow slung over his shoulder. Shane lowered his gun, exhaling loudly as everyone else relaxed.

"Oh, Jesus," Shane groaned, rubbing his face.

Daryl stepped into view, his expression dark as he took in the scene. His eyes landed on the mutilated deer. "Son of a bitch," he spat, kicking the lifeless walker. "That's my deer! Look at it. All gnawed on by this..." He kicked it again, harder, Southern drawl thick with disgust. "...Filthy, disease-bearing, motherless poxy bastard!"

Selma arched a brow, unable to help herself. "Feel better now, Daryl?"

Daryl shot her a glare, his lip curling. "You got somethin' smart to say, Sparky?"

She raised her hands in mock surrender, stifling a smirk. "Just making sure you got it out of your system."

Daryl only shook his head, exhaling a sharp breath as he turned back to the deer, muttering something indecipherable under his breath. His frustration hung in the air as he crouched beside the carcass, yanking an arrow free with a grunt.

Dale stepped forward, voice steady but firm. "Calm down, son. That's not helping."

The redneck turned, his expression darkening as his temper flared. "What do you know about it, old man? Why don't you take that stupid hat and go back to On Golden Pond?" His tone clearly dripped with derision, though he didn't linger to wait for a response.

He sighed again, crouching down to pull the remaining arrows from the mutilated deer. "I've been tracking this thing for miles," he grumbled, more to himself than anyone else.

Wiping the blood off one of the arrows, he straightened and glanced at the group. "Gonna drag it back to camp, cook us up some venison. What do y'all think? You think we can cut around this chewed-up part here?"

Shane, resting his shotgun casually on his shoulder, shook his head. "I wouldn't risk it."

Daryl sighed again, this time deeper, the disappointment palpable. "That's a damn shame." He rubbed the back of his neck before adding, "Got some squirrel, though—'bout a dozen or so. That'll have to do."

Jenna, ever eager to diffuse the tension, flashed a too-bright smile and chirped, "That's great, Daryl. Thanks. Like, really." Her tone bordered on exaggerated enthusiasm, earning a raised brow and a skeptical side-eye from Selma.

Daryl, however, didn't so much as grunt in response. He was too preoccupied with inspecting the ravaged deer carcass, his focus honed as he muttered under his breath about the mess.

Glenn, standing nearby, seized the opportunity for some mischief. He leaned over and gave Jenna a playful poke in the stomach. She groaned, doubling over slightly, and hissed at him under her breath, "I'm trying to stay on his good side."

Before Selma or Glenn could respond, a grotesque sound cut through the moment—the severed walker's head snapped its jaws, the movement grotesque and unnatural.

Amy shrieked, stumbling back. "Oh God," she whispered, face pale with horror.

Her sister grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the grisly sight.

Daryl rolled his eyes at their reaction, stepping forward with his crossbow at the ready. "Come on, people. What the hell?" He didn't hesitate, firing a bolt directly into the walker's head, the arrow piercing clean through its eye socket with a sickening squelch.

He pressed his boot against the decaying skull to hold it steady as he yanked the arrow free, wiping it clean on the grass. "It's gotta be the brain," he said matter-of-factly, tone carrying a hint of condescension like always. "Don't y'all know nothing?"

The man spun on his heel, muttering under his breath as he hoisted his crossbow onto his shoulder. "Merle! Merle! Get your ugly ass out here! I got us some squirrel! Let's stew 'em up!"

Selma watched him march off, one hand resting on her hip as she glanced down at the forest floor. This is gonna be a disaster, she thought, biting the inside of her cheek.

A light tap on her back snapped her out of her thoughts. It was Glenn, signaling that the group was heading back to camp. She exhaled, adjusting the gun behind her jean shorts, and trudged after the others.

Meanwhile, Daryl walked ahead with purpose, boots crunching on the dirt and twigs. Shane quickened his pace, falling into step beside him.

"Daryl, just slow up a bit. I need to talk to you," Shane said, his tone serious but slightly hesitant.

Daryl didn't even glance at him. "About what?"

"About Merle," Shane replied, his voice lowering. "There was a—there was a problem in Atlanta."

Daryl finally stopped, turning to Shane with narrowed eyes. "He dead?" the way he questioned seemed like it was if he asks out the weather.

Selma, trailing a few steps behind, winced at the sheer bluntness of the question.

A part of her silently wished the answer was "yes," though she kept that thought buried deep, saying nothing. Instead, she lingered in the background, easing herself onto the narrow steps of the RV. From her vantage point, she had the perfect view of the unfolding chaos—like an impromptu theater performance.

It was free entertainment, and though she knew the matter was serious, she couldn't deny that a little drama was exactly what she needed right now. Life out here was grim and monotonous, and any break from the routine, no matter how messy, was a welcome distraction.

"We're not sure," Shane said cautiously.

Daryl's face darkened. "He either is or he ain't!"

That's when Rick stepped in, walking over with that measured authority he always carried.

"No easy way to say this, so I'll just say it," Rick began.

Daryl's eyes snapped to him. "Who the hell are you?"

"Rick Grimes," Rick said simply, meeting his gaze.

"Rick Grimes," Daryl repeated, as if testing the name. "You got something you wanna tell me?"

Rick didn't flinch. "Your brother was a danger to us all. So I handcuffed him to a roof, hooked him to a piece of metal. He's still there."

The camp fell silent, the tension so thick it was almost tangible.

All eyes were locked on Daryl, watching him like he was a ticking time bomb—and in a way, he was. Jenna leaned against the RV, nervously biting her nails, her gaze darting between Daryl and the others. Meanwhile, Selma remained seated on the narrow steps of the RV, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, silently taking it all in.

T-Dog appeared, his arms full of firewood, just in time to see the explosion.

Daryl's jaw tightened as he processed the words. "Hold up. Let me get this straight. You're saying you handcuffed my brother to a roof... and left him there?"

Rick nodded, his expression firm but not unkind. "Yeah."

Daryl growled, his frustration boiling over. In a quick motion, he ripped the rope of squirrels off his shoulder and hurled it at Rick. The bundle hit him in the chest and fell to the ground with a dull thud.

Selma and Jenna couldn't help it—they let out small, involuntary chuckles at the absurdity of the moment. But as soon as Daryl lunged, Shane moved like lightning.

The two men collided, Shane tackling Daryl to the ground with a force that made Selma cringe. She stood up from the stairs instinctively, her hand going to the gun she tucked into her waistband earlier that day.

"Shit," Selma muttered under her breath, leaning slightly toward Jenna. Her eyes remained fixed on the scene unfolding before them, like a car crash you couldn't look away from. "And here I thought Merle cornered the market on hotheads in that family."

Jenna snorted quietly, biting back a grin as she nudged Selma with her elbow. "Guess it runs in their blood," she whispered, just as Daryl's voice escalated into another round of cursing.

Selma shook her head, her lips twitching with amusement. "This is gonna be a long day."

She didn't like Merle—or his little brother, for that matter—but she knew things were about to spiral out of control. And for better or worse, she was stuck right in the middle of it.

T-Dog dropped the firewood with a loud clatter and sprinted toward the commotion.

"Hey! Hey!" he shouted, trying to intervene.

Daryl didn't stop.

He yanked out his knife, his movements fueled by pure rage, and charged at Rick.

"Holy fucking shit," Jenna muttered next to Selma, voice low but tinged with undeniable amusement. Selma glanced at her, eyebrows raised, but a little smirk was on her lips.

"Watch the knife!" T-Dog yelled as the chaos escalated.

Daryl swung wildly, the blade slicing through empty air as Rick dodged and countered with a sharp punch to Daryl's gut. The impact sent Daryl stumbling, but before he could recover, Shane lunged, grabbing him from behind and locking him in a chokehold.

"Okay, okay!" Shane barked, wrestling Daryl to the ground with practiced force.

Rick moved quickly, snatching the knife from Daryl's grip before stepping back.

"You'd best let me go!" Daryl snarled, his face red with anger and exertion.

"Nah," Shane replied, his tone calm but firm. "I think it's better if I don't."

Daryl struggled, gritting his teeth. "Chokehold's illegal."

Shane smirked. "File a complaint. Or we can keep this up all day."

Rick crouched down, leveling his gaze with Daryl's. His voice was calm, measured, but there was a firmness that brooked no argument. "I'd like to have a calm discussion about this. Think we can manage that?"

Sweat glistened on Rick's brow, trickling down his temple under the relentless sun. He tilted his head slightly lower, maintaining eye contact with the man still locked in Shane's chokehold. "Think we can manage that?" he repeated, the words deliberate and unwavering.

Shane glanced at Rick, seeking his silent approval, then loosened his grip cautiously. "Hmm? Yeah?" he muttered, releasing Daryl and taking a careful step back, his hands ready in case Daryl made another move.

Freed, Daryl slumped forward slightly, his breath ragged and uneven. His face, now flushed red from the struggle, twitched with suppressed fury as he struggled to steady himself.

Rick stayed kneeling, his gaze locked with Daryl's. "What I did wasn't on a whim," Rick began. "Your brother doesn't work and play well with others."

Selma let out a quiet snort, crossing her arms. "Well, that's the understatement of the year," she muttered under her breath.

T-Dog stepped forward, his voice tinged with guilt. "It's not Rick's fault. I had the key... and I dropped it."

Daryl's head snapped toward him. "You couldn't pick it up?"

T-Dog hesitated, then admitted, "I dropped it in a drain."

Daryl's lips trembled slightly as he processed the words. His eyes glistened, but he blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. "If you're tryin' to make me feel better, it don't," he said, his voice raw and strained. With a sharp motion, he hurled the stone he'd been gripping to the ground, the impact echoing his frustration.

But T-Dog wasn't done. "Well... maybe this will. Look, I chained the door to the roof. Padlocked it. The geeks can't get to him."

Rick chimed in. "It's gotta count for something."

Daryl's hand shot up, roughly wiping at his eyes, his knuckles grazing his skin with a bitter, almost violent force. His face was twisted with frustration, the raw emotion spilling out with every movement. "Hell with all y'all," he growled, his voice thick with anger. "Just tell me where he is, so I can go get him."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, but before anyone could respond, Lori's voice cut through the tension. "He'll show you. Isn't that right?"

Selma whipped her head toward Lori, her eyes wide with disbelief. Her eyebrows shot up as her gaze narrowed on Lori. What? Isn't that your husband? she thought, studying Lori with a mix of suspicion and amusement. The woman's demeanor, her controlled calm in the face of this chaos, made Selma want to shake her head. It felt like she was putting her husband to the test, as if challenging him in some way.

Rick, breaths heavy from the altercation with Daryl, turned to face the camp. His posture was tired but firm, hands resting on his hips as he met Daryl's gaze with a look that was resigned, almost apologetic. "I'm going back," the sheriff said quietly with finality.

Lori's face contorted with a flicker of something darker—anger, frustration, or perhaps even regret—and without a word, she turned sharply on her heel and stormed off toward inside the RV.

Selma tilted her head, a sharp, exasperated sigh escaping her lips as she holstered her gun back into the waistband of her jeans.

One thing was clear—she had no intention of following Daryl into that madness. She didn't give a damn about Merle, and though the truth tasted bitter, it was undeniable. She wasn't about to dive headfirst into that mess.

As for those who decided to follow him into that madness, they could have all the luck in the world. But she wasn't about to get dragged into it.

Some battles weren't worth fighting, and this one? It wasn't hers.

A/N : Lori defender for life btw 🙏 free my girl from the hate she ain't do nothing wrong

She's not my fave but how could people liked Shane more than her?? How😭😭😭

On a more serious note, I hope everyone enjoyed reading, and I hope the characters didn't feel too out of character. I'm not very experienced in writing for TWD yet and am still trying to familiarize myself with the characters :)

English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes !!