Freya Quinn was uniquely herself despite the events of the apocalypse she was thrown into. She was a paradox to understand and a combination of heaven and hell thrown together to create such a woman. And the only person in the whole wide world that...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
LORD AND HEAVENLY FATHER DID Freya feel like she had been run over serval times with a 18-wheeler truck. Freya shifted on her couch and rolled over, facing the ceiling as she tried to stare at it long enough to make sure that it wasn't spinning around anymore.
Her head ached with a throbbing sensation that nearly made her want to cry from it, and she missed all those times from when she was young and sneaking her parents liquor and waking up with no consequences at all. Her legs both felt like they were stabbed with pins and needles, and it felt weird to stretch them.
Suddenly, Freya shot up, regretting it as her head was quickly screaming at her, but she didn't care because she remembered just how she got into this hungover state...and all the way until she realized the ceiling was a greek villa colour. Her eyes went wide as she cupped her hand over mouth, shocked by her own actions. Yes, she was drunk, but that still did not make it okay. Daryl may have been drunk as well, but Freya was the one to come on to him...
right?
It was foggy, but Freya remembered it. Freya had only just gotten Daryl as a friend, and in no means was she ever thinking to swap spit with him. She hoped that maybe the man had forgotten or didn't remember himself. Her sanity depended on it.
A cool breeze passed by Freya and she shivered slightly. Then another horrified feeling crept over Freya as she realized just where she left her shirt. In the same place she left it. Where it was taken off her. In a room. Daryl's room. Freya groaned and smacked her face back down into the pillows, feeling the head ache again from the sudden movement.
A few minutes passed, and Freya was awake enough to roll herself out of the couch, or the makeshift bed, as she crawled over to the bag of her clothes, rummaging through them to find something to wear. Freya found a low cut orange t-shirt that she gladly put on, followed by the same jeans and belt she wore into the CDC. She didn't do much with her hair, as it was washed and clean, but she did plait it loosely, letting a few curly strings fall down to frame her face. It very may be the end of the world, but who said one couldn't look pretty in the midst of it.
Sighing, Freya decided to push everything that happened last night away and she confidently walked to the closed door of her room. All the confident quickly faded away from her as she opened the door to see none other than Daryl Dixon holding her shirt folded up and his other free hand forming a fist about to knock on the door Freya just opened.
"Oh." It would be impossible to tell who said it first.
The most antagonizing moment went by and Freya felt like she wanted to start scratching at the walls for how long she just stared at Daryl with probably the most stupid look on her face.
"I got ya shirt." Daryl held up the shirt, in all it's glory. Freya knew it was definitely not folded when it was carelessly thrown on the ground when she and Daryl were basically 10 seconds away from ripping all other clo- "Thought you might want it back."
