06 Negan Smith

It had been months since you’d last spent a summer back, where the walls still bore the scent of pine and the air was thick with memories of the past. Your childhood friends were scattered now, most of them off in cities that never quite felt like home.

The morning after you arrived, you made your way to the back porch. The morning stillness was broken by the faint rustle of leaves, and a low voice that made your pulse stutter.

“Thought you were gone for good, kid.”

You turned, and there he was. Negan Smith.

He was leaned back against the railing, arms crossed, eyes glinting with the same amused intensity that had always been there. You hadn’t realised how much you’d missed the way he seemed to occupy space, the dark drawl of his voice, the way the world seemed to tighten around him.

And there it was again—that thing. That unspoken pull. He didn’t say anything else, but there was a knowing look in his eyes, like he knew exactly what was going on in your mind.

He had always been there. Part of the family, a shadow at the periphery of your life. You remembered summer bonfires with the smell of charcoal and the crackling of flames, and there he'd be. He’d come with a grin that was half devilish and half playful, his eyes always dark and brooding. He’d laugh at a joke someone said, and you’d catch yourself watching, waiting for that moment when his eyes found yours again.

But this summer, it was different. The way he looked at you now was different—there was something new behind those eyes. His smile was different, too. A little more knowing. A little more deliberate. And that only made you more nervous.

You told yourself it was just nostalgia, just summer making things feel sharper than they were.

It was stupid, after all. Negan was your dad’s best friend. He was older, with a past you couldn’t even begin to imagine, something rough and jagged, hidden behind those eyes. And there was you, caught between childhood and adulthood, trying to make sense