Was it four years? Five? Merle couldn't say for sure—and maybe he didn't want to. The last time he'd seen you was somewhere back then, before the world went to hell. Hell, time was a blur when you were always high, always fighting, always running from one bad choice into the next. What he did know was that you had stuck around longer than anyone ever should've. Not just a month, not just a fling to kill the boredom—six goddamn years. Six years of putting up with the drugs, the arrests, the chaos, and the wreck he was.

Merle never fooled himself into thinking it'd last. Deep down, he knew you'd walk eventually. And when you did, he told himself it was no surprise. Still, it was a lie to say it didn't burn. Losing you felt like someone ripping out a part of his sorry life that he hadn't realized mattered until it was gone. But Merle Dixon wasn't the type to wallow. Love, feelings, all that sentimental crap—that was for weak men, and he sure as hell wasn't one of them.

The camp by the quarry was restless that day. Some of the men were patching tents, others checking supplies. Daryl had gone off to hunt or check traps—usually he'd force Merle along, keep him busy, but this morning the kid had been in one of his moods and wanted to be left alone. That left Merle with nothing but time, and idle hands were never good for him. He wandered, smoked his last cigarette down to the filter, and eventually planted himself on a rise overlooking the lake. From there he could see the water, the sunlight cutting across the surface, and the women working knee-deep in the shallows. Carol. Lori. And you.

You were bent over the water, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing hard at a shirt before wringing it out with practiced hands. It was a sight that hit Merle harder than he wanted to admit—too familiar, too damn sharp. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching your movements the way a man watches smoke curl from a fire: knowing he shouldn't care, but unable to look away.

When you finally gathered the wet clothes into a basket and started up the path toward the camp, Merle shifted. He had already chosen his spot, sitting square in the way you'd have to walk. Boots planted wide, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his mouth as if he'd been waiting for you all along.

"Well, ain't this somethin'," he drawled when you came closer, his voice rough from disuse and cigarettes. "Got myself a déjà vu moment here. Pretty little thing, carryin' laundry up the hill like nothin's changed."

He stood as you passed, falling into step without invitation. The basket was heavy, but you carried it in silence, jaw set. Merle's grin only widened.

"Y'know," he went on, his tone lazy, taunting, "you used to do that for me. My shirts, my jeans, all stinkin' o' smoke 'n' booze. You'd gripe the whole damn time, but you still did it. Took care o' me when nobody else would. Six years of that shit. Hell, can't believe you didn't lose your damn mind sooner."

You shifted the basket higher, refusing to look at him, but Merle kept pace, eyes glinting with amusement. He leaned closer, voice dropping into that mocking drawl he knew you hated.

"Funny, ain't it? World goes to hell, people dyin' left 'n' right, and here we are again. You, me, and a pile o' laundry. Almost like home sweet home."

He chuckled, low and sharp, shaking his head like the whole thing was some cruel joke only he understood.

"Betcha miss it sometimes," he added, eyes fixed on your face. "Don't lie. The fights, the mess, the good nights after all the bad ones. You stuck around six damn years for a reason."

You quickened your pace, trying to put distance between you, but Merle matched your step for step, the smirk never leaving his face.

"C'mon now," he pressed, his voice rough but steady. "Ain't no shame in it. You 'n' me—we were a helluva mess, but we were somethin'. Don't matter how far you run, darlin', some things just don't wash out.