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Story Notes:
I don't own The Walking Dead or any of its characters.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Cloudysky keeps trying (bless her heart) to get me back into this show. My mom helped urge me to watch the last episode. I'm a bit more motivated now. Doesn't mean my writing drive is back but my brain is talking to me some at least. This won't be long but it might take me a bit to update it even still. Taking my poor brain one day at a time at this point. Hopefully I can pull it off for you, my dear. I promise it'll be worth the wait if I can. *wink*

Inspired by the song My Man. Slow version by Billie Holiday. A faster one by Regina Spektor (the one I have on repeat). As well as her version of Love Me or Leave Me. Listen to them both when you can.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

You remember hearing that once, a lifetime ago when the world was a much different place and you a very different kind of woman. It’s an old saying that never held much weight, words that went in one ear and trickled out the other with no real pause in thought as you lived your life from day to day and worried over things that would no longer matter when the world decided to swallow itself whole.

Words that meant nothing came back to haunt you when you found yourself kneeling in the dirt, eclipsed by the shadow of the devil himself.

That too seems like a lifetime ago now, the everyday struggle to survive for just one more heart pounding moment replaced by thick concrete walls and some semblance of society, acquired and led by the man whose booted steps can now be heard on the other side of the door.

Though you don’t move from your spot, a glass of scotch cradled against your chest as you hug yourself and your eyes staring, unseeing, at the blinds that cover the window, your back becomes a little straighter at the signal of his approach. Of all the duties you’ve been given, this one, by far, has to be the worst. It isn’t the actions that will follow the opening of that door but these seconds just before, when your mind and heart wage a war that your expression dares not reveal. You shouldn’t be here. You want to be. You should risk death to run. Risk far worse just to stay.

The sound of his step fall still even as your pulse quickens, nerves alighting with a burst of adrenaline that sears through your veins because you know this little song and dance all too well.

And so does he.

The knuckles of your hand turn white as you grip the glass even tighter, the amber liquid sloshing close to the rim as the door knob begins to turn.

You hate him for what he did, what he makes you do.

The first thing you see is his smile, pearl white becoming exposed by that oh-so charming grin as he pushes the door open with a gloved hand. He remains there, eyes sliding up and down your body in a way more intimate than his hands could ever be. It doesn’t fool you, it never has, no matter how much you wish it could but it never fails to start a fire.

Because you love him for those very same things.
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