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Dinner in New America was always a noisy affair—everyone crammed around battered picnic tables, the air thick with campfire smoke and the scent of beans and whatever meat Dale's team managed to hunt that week. Tonight, though, Raven barely noticed the noise or the food. Her mind was elsewhere, tracking every small detail: the way Carl sat close enough their knees touched under the table, the way he listened when she talked, the way he laughed at her dry jokes like he actually found them funny.
They sat at the end of a long table near the fire, their plates balanced on their laps. Carl handed her a mug of that terrible, burnt coffee he'd promised, and she took it just to have something to do with her hands.
"Did you ever think we'd end up here?" Carl asked, glancing around at the patchwork crowd. "Not just surviving, but... all of this?"
Raven shook her head. "I didn't think I'd make it past the first month." She meant it as a joke, but her voice caught at the end. Carl's eyes softened.
"Hey," he said, nudging her gently. "You're tougher than you think."
She looked away, uncomfortable with praise, but Carl didn't press. He just sat there, close and steady, like an anchor in a world that liked to tip sideways.
Across the fire, Rick watched them. He had a plate of food he wasn't eating, hands clenched tight around his fork. He'd been there before, sharing that same spot with Raven, back when things were simpler, before the world got ugly and people started changing in ways you couldn't always see. Rick was good at blending in, keeping his face blank, but even now his jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed every time Carl leaned a little closer or made Raven laugh.
Raven didn't notice. Her world had narrowed to the circle of light cast by the fire, the warmth of Carl beside her, the way conversation flowed so easily between them. They talked about dumb things—old movies, the best music to listen to on guard duty, the time Dale tried to fix the generator and nearly blew up the shed. Carl told stories about growing up in the city, about how he'd learned to fix engines because nobody else would, about his sister who'd always wanted to see the ocean.
Raven listened, really listened, for the first time in a long while. She found herself telling Carl things she hadn't told anyone—about the time she tried to run away as a kid, about the stray dog she'd kept hidden in her closet for two weeks, about her mother's hands, rough from work but always gentle.
Between the laughter and the stories, there were quieter moments—long stretches where neither of them said anything, just sat together, content. Carl would reach over sometimes, his hand brushing hers, not quite holding it, but not pulling away either. Each time, Raven's heart lurched, and she wondered if he could tell.
Across the fire, Rick's eyes never left them. He watched every smile, every shared glance, every touch. He'd seen the way Raven used to keep her guard up, how she never let anyone close. Now she was letting Carl in, and Rick hated it. He hated the way Carl made her laugh, the way she looked at him like he was someone she could actually trust. Rick remembered when she used to look at him like that.
