The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter six

TW: (consensual) Sexual content, nothing explicit happens in this chapter or story, but I want people to be cautious when reading when this makes them uncomfortable

Stepping into the shower felt like stepping out of a nightmare. Warm water cascaded over Measi's shoulders, carrying the mud, the dried blood, the weight of the last few days down the drain. She closed her eyes, breathing in slowly as her muscles finally began to loosen.

Nathan stood close behind her, careful, steady. His fingers threaded through her hair with a tenderness that made her chest ache, working patiently to rinse the dark strands until the water ran clear. He didn't rush her. He never did. Every movement felt deliberate, like he was afraid she might disappear if he wasn't gentle enough.

When she turned to face him, the steam hung thick between them. Her smile was small, tired—but real. It was the first one she'd managed in what felt like forever.

"You okay?" he asked quietly, his thumb brushing along her jaw.

She nodded, even though the word felt too simple for everything she meant. Safe. Here. Alive.

Measi leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his for a moment before kissing him—slow, unhurried, full of relief more than urgency. His arms came around her instinctively, anchoring her as if he'd been holding his breath this whole time.

Her right hand rested against his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of him breathing. With her left, she tugged lightly at his hair, smiling against his lips. For a few precious seconds, there were no walls, no sickness, no gunshots echoing down cellblocks.

Just warm water. Just them.

And for now, that was enough.

She woke to the sound of footsteps outside the cell, followed by a gentle knock against the concrete wall near the door. Measi groaned softly, burying her face into the thin pillow for a second before shifting.

"I'm coming," she murmured, her voice rough with sleep.

Carefully, she untangled herself from Nathan's arms, easing out from under the blanket so she wouldn't wake him fully. She slipped the curtain aside and smiled when she found Hershel waiting patiently outside the cell. He returned the smile, warm and reassuring, and gestured down the hall.

They walked together toward the old cafeteria, the prison quiet in that fragile, early-morning way. Hershel motioned for her to sit as he gathered his supplies, his brow furrowing in concentration as he examined her hand.

"I can take the stitches out now," he said gently. "Your skin's healed well. Veins, too."

Her face lit up instantly. "Really?"

He nodded, handing her a flashlight. "Hold this for me."

Measi angled the light as Hershel worked. The tweezers tugged at the first stitch, sharp enough to make her hiss through her teeth before the scissors snipped and the thread slid free. He worked slowly, methodically, murmuring reassurances as he went. Each pull stung, but it was a clean pain—one that meant progress.