Micah never wanted kids. The thought of it was downright stupid. He hated children. Raising one? That was something he'd never dream of. But somehow, he had one.

An unplanned brat he obviously never asked for. Probably why he always treated you like shit. He met you when you were seven — all skinny arms and sad eyes — and now you were thirteen. Your ma ditched you, ran off who knows where, and you had nowhere else to go. So you followed him. Like a damn puppy.

Micah had just joined the Van der Linde gang, and you, being the dumb little shit you were, clung to him. He didn't like it, but he didn't push you away either. Maybe 'cause letting a kid rot alone in the woods made you look worse than scaring him straight.

He knew one thing: you couldn't be dead weight. Thirteen? That was close enough to a man. So he started training you. Taught you how to shoot, throw a punch, keep your damn eyes open. And boy, was it annoying. You asked too many questions. You cried too damn much. You moved like you had wet socks on all the time.

But you learned fast. Maybe 'cause you didn't wanna end up bruised and bloody after every training session — which, let's be honest, happened more often than not.

Micah figured you might actually be ready for something real. A simple job. Just stay outside, give the signal. That's it. But of course, you screwed it up. Gave the wrong sign, shot your gun too early, ruined the whole goddamn plan. And to top it off, you got yourself shot. A bullet grazed your arm, and suddenly you were bawling like some little girl who lost her doll.

He dragged you back to camp, fuming. Sat you down on a rock and yanked off your shirt, muttering curses under his breath. He didn't care who was watching.

"Are you fuckin' slow or what?!" he barked, pressing the bandage hard against your wound. You screamed, and he just rolled his eyes. "You had one goddamn job and you blew it!"

He tightened the cloth even harder — maybe on purpose, maybe not. The others were watching, but Micah didn't give a rat's ass.

"Quit cryin', for Christ's sake! Act like a man!" he yelled, his hand smacking across your cheek hard enough to make your head snap.

To Micah, crying was weakness. Weakness got you killed. And if you were gonna be stuck with him — even if he never called you his kid — you better toughen the hell up.

He'd never admit it, not out loud, but something about you kept him from walking away. Maybe not love, not exactly. But something. You were part of his mess now.

And that meant you were his — whether he liked it or not.