INTO THE SHADOWS. Negan

TWENTY THREE

"You've got fire in you, girl," Negan said, his voice low—like gravel dragged across concrete. "Most people crack the second I lean on 'em." His eyes glinted with something darkly amused. "But you?"

He tilted his head, studying her. "You glare at me like you'd slit my damn throat the moment I turned my back."

Tessa's jaw tightened. "Maybe I would."

Instead of anger, a laugh rumbled out of him—low, rough, disturbingly pleased.

"Goddamn," he said. "I almost believed you."

He reached across the table and snatched her glass. Their fingers brushed—brief, barely anything—yet her entire body jolted as if shocked. Heat flashed up her arm, sharp and unwelcome.

Negan's eyes flicked down instantly.

Of course he noticed.

His smirk sharpened.

He refilled the glass slowly, deliberately, then slid it back toward her—his fingers lingering just long enough to graze hers again.

"Drink up, sweetheart," he murmured. "Can't have you losin' that bite."

She pushed the glass back toward him. "I don't need it."

Negan tilted his head, studying her—not the way a man looks at a woman, but the way someone studies a locked door they fully intend to break through.

"Stubborn as hell," he said thoughtfully. "That's either gonna keep you alive..."

He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his voice sinking into something softer—and infinitely more dangerous.

"...or get you killed."

Tessa forced herself to meet his gaze. "Maybe both."

For one breath—one heartbeat—something shifted.

His grin faltered.

Not fully. Just enough.

A flicker slipped through the cracks.

Grief.
Regret.
The weight of a man who had buried too many versions of himself and built something monstrous on top of the bones.

Her chest tightened.

She hadn't meant to look that closely.
Hadn't meant to see him.

But she did.

And he realized it.

His stare sharpened instantly, like she'd crossed a line—caught her noticing something he'd rather keep locked away.

The grin snapped back into place, crueler now, sealing the crack shut.

Slowly, Negan pushed back from the table. Lucille dragged along the chair beside him, metal scraping against wood in a long, grating sound that crawled straight up her spine. He rose to his full height, shadow stretching across the room as he circled toward the door.

Halfway there, he stopped.

Turned.

And looked at her.

Really looked.

His gaze lingered—slow, deliberate—until her breath stuttered in her throat and she hated herself for it.

"Careful, sweetheart," he drawled.

His voice was velvet stretched tight over a blade.

"Stare at me too long, and you might start likin' what you see."

Heat crept up her neck. Her stomach twisted hard.

A dozen sharp replies fought their way to her lips—but nothing came out. Her voice betrayed her entirely.

Negan saw it.

Savored it.

His grin widened.

"Sweet dreams," he said, almost softly.

Then he stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him.

The dull thud echoed through the room—through her ribs, her skull, her pulse.

Tessa stayed frozen, hands curled into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. Her heart thundered so loudly she could feel it in her teeth.

She hated him.
She feared him.

But his words, his nearness, that glimpse of something real he'd tried to bury—it all clung to her skin like smoke she couldn't scrub off.

Eventually, she forced herself to stand.

A Savior was already waiting, guiding her back through the dim, sterile corridors of the Sanctuary. Each step felt heavy, her thoughts looping around things she didn't want to replay.

Back in her room, she collapsed onto the small cot in the corner. The mattress was thin and cold, the blanket rough against her skin. She curled onto her side, but sleep refused to come.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.

The smug grin.
The dangerous softness beneath it.
The warmth of his hand brushing hers.
The scrape of Lucille against wood.
The heat of him leaning in, voice rumbling low and close.

She clenched her jaw, furious with herself.

She should be thinking about escape.
About Daryl.
About her people.
About the friend she'd lost.

Not the man who destroyed everything.
Not the man who hated weakness and thrived on control.
Not the man who held her life in his hands.

Not him.

And yet, every time her eyes drifted shut, he was there—

Uninvited.
Unwelcome.
Unavoidable.

A shadow she couldn't outrun.