graceland. carl grimes

VI

vi.

please please please let me get what i want
"lord knows it would be the first time"

♱

him

I hadn't even realized that I'd fallen back asleep until I wake up to cold sheets on my right side.

The sun's spilling in through the warped shutters, bright enough to slice through the dust in the air.

I sit up slow, rub my eye, try to push the night out of my bones. Then I hear it.

The shower.

Running behind the bathroom door. She's humming. Some old tune with no words, just breath and water and her voice breaking like dawn through steam.

I rake a hand through my hair. Realize my shirt's gone, discarded in sleep, tossed off the edge of the bed.

And then there's a knock.

I swear under my breath, cross the rug, and pull the door open halfway.

Tara.

Standing there with a laundry basket balanced on her hip. Her eyes take in the scene fast—me half-dressed, bed a mess, water running, the faint sound of a girl singing behind the bathroom door.

Her mouth flattens. "Carl."

I fold my arms over my bare chest, like that helps. "It's not like that."

"You sure?" She raises a brow.

"Positive."

She sighs, shifting the basket into my arms. It's full of soft cotton and faded denim, everything folded with that care that women have when they're too tired to be neat but still too kind to be thoughtless.

"These're for her."

"So, she's staying?"

"For now." Tara tells me. "No one's gonna stop her. But Carl... We still don't know much about her people. About her mother. Anything you can get, anything she says, it would help."

"Yeah. Of course," I mutter, throat dry. "I'll talk to her."

She nods. Doesn't smile. Turns and walks away.

I close the door behind her and the latch clicks loud. The shower cuts off. The humming fades.

Lydia steps out wrapped in a towel the color of old bone. Droplets trace the hollows of her collarbones, her corn-silk hair clots wet and shining to her collarbones. Her skin's flushed from the heat. She pauses when she sees me, eyes drop to the basket in my arms.

"What's that?"

"Clothes." I say. "From Tara."

She pads over barefoot as I set the basket on the ground. When she kneels beside me, the towel rides high, pale thighs flash smooth and sudden.

I look away fast.

She catches me anyway. A blush colors her cheeks, soft pink like rose milk. She doesn't call me out for it. Just keeps sorting.

There's something reverent about the way she lifts each shirt. Smells it. Presses the fabric to her cheek. Like she's not choosing an outfit—she's choosing a life, who she's going to be in this place.

"Thank you, Carl." She begins slowly. "For... everything. I can't remember the last time someone treated me like this."

"Like what?"