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insaneintheemembranev2 · 27 days ago

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Gif: @daryl-dixon-daydreams 🥰

TW: lighting, tooth rotting fluff, physical contact, mentions of past abuse (briefly)

Part 28

Dead Weight - Part 29

The wind howls outside like a dying animal, tearing through the trees and slamming rain sideways against the warped wooden sides of the old barn. Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the rafters in stark, eerie flashes.

Every thunderclap rattles the loose boards, but your asleep, soundly nestled against Daryl, in the kind of hush that wrapped around the rafters and softened the harsh world outside.

Daryl was still watching you. His eyes hadn’t moved for a while.

You stirred.

At first, it was just a subtle shift—fingers twitching, chest lifting ever so slightly with a new rhythm. You didn’t speak. Not right away. The floor beneath you was cold through the blanket, but the weight of Daryl’s arm wrapped loosely around your waist anchored you in place. In safety. In him.

You weren’t sure what pulled you from sleep—until you caught the faintest whisper.

"…ya look peaceful.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But your heart picked up a little. Your eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy from slumber, fluttered open and searched the shadows. You found him watching you.

Daryl’s eyes widened a fraction—like a kid caught doing something he wasn’t meant to.

He started to look away.

But you whispered, soft and raspy from sleep.

“Have you slept yet?”

Daryl shifted closer, head tilted just enough that his nose brushed your temple. He hesitated before answering, the heat of his breath painting across your hair.

“Nah,” he murmured, low and gravel-edged, barely audible, “Just been... thinkin’. S’nothin’.”

But it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.

He could feel your eyes on him in the dark—soft, questioning, open in a way he’d never really known how to be.

“About what?” you whispered.

He sighed, the sound brushing against your hair.

A heartbeat passed.

"Nothin' he whispered "G'back to sleep."

His hand curled slightly at your side, just enough to pull you a bit closer—but not so much that it’d scare you off. He was always careful like that. Like you were made of porcelain, like he was always one twitch away from breaking something too good for him.

There was a stillness then.

Not awkward, not empty.

Almost like it's own Holiness.

You turned a little in his hold, enough that your noses almost touched—just the barest graze. Skin to skin. Breath to breath. Your eyes, half-lidded and uncertain, held his like a secret waiting to be shared.

He didn’t move.

But his breath hitched—and stayed. Like he was memorizing this. Like he couldn’t believe you were letting him that close.

Your hand found the collar of his shirt, your fingers barely curling in the edge of the fabric. No words. Just touch. Just trust.

“You don’t have to stay up, Daryl,” you whispered, lashes fluttering shut. “We're safe. You can rest.”

But his voice came back rough, warm, and close enough to feel in your chest.

“Ain’t about bein’ safe.”

You fell asleep facing him, your cheek brushing his collarbone, your breaths slowing.

He waited.

Waited until your fingers loosened from his shirt. Until your breathing deepened. Until the last bit of tension left your body.

He watched your face for a long while. The way your lashes rested on your cheeks, the delicate rise and fall of your chest. And then—he gave in.

He shifted slowly, cautiously. Didn’t want to wake you.

But didn’t want to not be close, either.

Daryl pressed his face into the hollow between your hair and the crook of your neck—a reverent, almost bashful nuzzle, his breath spilling out like a confession against your skin.

“Don’t get why you’d ever look at me like that,”

he whispered, lips moving as if the words could be tucked into your dreams.

“Not when you’re this soft… an’ I’m just...”

His voice faded. It wasn't self-pity. Just truth. Raw and low and barely a vibration against your skin.

Your body stirred gently, a soft little sigh from the depths of sleep as the warmth of his breath and the subtle movement of his lips called you back from the edge of dreaming.

You didn’t open your eyes.

Just made a sleepy, murmured sound as your fingers wandered up, finding the tangle of unkempt hair at the nape of his neck. Slow. Drowsy. Gentle. You threaded through the still damp hair like you’d done it more then a hundred times in dreams before.

Daryl stilled. Every muscle locked tight like he didn’t trust this was real.

But when your hand settled—palm resting against the base of his skull—he exhaled, long and low, like you’d just pulled the weight off his chest.

Daryl shifted closer, his legs tangled with yours under the worn blanket, his hand settling on your waist, fingers curling against the soft cotton of your shirt like he didn’t know if he was allowed to hold you—but needed to.

And then his lips...

They brushed the juncture of your neck and shoulder—a featherlight kiss, barely more than breath.

Then another.

And another.

Each one was cautious, unsure, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he was too bold.

“Ain’t never had this,”

he whispered again between kisses,

“not once.”

Your only reply was the quiet sound of contentment as you shifted, turning just a touch into his neck, burrowing sleepily against him.

And he let you, even if it was just this breathless, sleeping moment.

The others sleep across the barn floor—Rick’s soft breathing, Judith’s occasional whimper, Gabriel’s restless shifting—but to Daryl, they’re a thousand miles away.

You stir just slightly in his arms. A sleepy sound leaves your lips as your fingers loosen ever so slightly. Daryl, already so still, freezes completely.

Your eyes flutter open—half-lidded, blurry.

You were waking.

His face was still tucked in close, nose brushing the curve where your shoulder met your neck. The warmth of your skin still lingered on his lips.

When your fingers slipped from his hair, he hesitated—reluctant to pull away, but he did, just slightly, leaning back just enough to look at you.

Your eyes were barely open, sleepy and warm. A little dazed. A soft, dopey smile pulled at the corners of your mouth like you’d been dreaming of something good.

Daryl blinked slowly, his brows twitching down in the faintest flicker of confusion.

You weren’t supposed to look at him like that.

Not him.

Not like he was someone worth smiling at.

But you did.

He exhaled quietly, nostrils flaring slightly as he tried to steady himself. Then, in the dimness, his fingertips began to travel, moving up the length of your arms—slow, hesitant, like he was reading something secret off your skin.

Each touch was deliberate. Careful. Like you were breakable.

When he reached your wrists, he paused. His rough fingers worked gently, untangling yours from his hair completely.

And then—one of you moved.

Neither of you quite sure who. It didn’t matter.

Fingers threaded together like they’d been waiting for that all night. Both your hands, woven together. A subtle squeeze. That soft click of something falling perfectly into place.

There was a beat.

Neither of you moved.

You just looked at each other—like there was nothing else outside the walls of that ruined barn.

Then you noticed.

He was hovering.

Your back was on the floor, tangled in the nest of blankets, and Daryl was braced above you, one arm bent, the other not but both hands still tangled with yours. His chest close. His breath warm.

His eyes dropped—to your mouth, then back up to your eyes.

He swallowed hard.

“Y'alright?”

His voice was barely there, a low, whispered rasp.

“Didn’t know if you were… y’know. Awake. Before.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You didn’t need to.

Your smile just widened, soft and dreamy and still somehow shy. And that killed him. Because despite everything—you weren’t afraid. You trusted him.

Daryl lowered his head again, just a little. He hesitated, glancing up at you for permission—even if he didn’t say it aloud.

Your fingers are still woven through his.

His palms are callused. Yours are soft. The contrast is unmistakable.

And then you blink slowly, lashes fluttering, still drowsy.

“...What’re you doin’?”

You ask it softly—your voice thick with sleep, laced with curiosity, not fear.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

The question isn’t sharp. There’s no accusation. Just a sleepy smile and half-lidded eyes that glimmer like you already believed you where dreaming.

Daryl’s breath catches in his throat.

You blink slowly, your lashes brushing your cheeks as you fight off sleep. The corners of your lips twitch with a faint, shy smile—almost like you’re embarrassed to ask, even though the question comes from a place of softness, not suspicion.

Daryl startles just a little. Not visibly, not with a jolt—but in the way his brows pull together and his eyes flicker away for half a second, like he was caught stealing glances.

His fingers twitch in yours.

You squeeze them gently in response.

Reassurance. Permission. A silent I’m here.

He licks his lips, unsure how to answer. His voice is rough, low like gravel in his throat, but quiet enough that only you can hear it.

“Ain’t… wasn’t doin’ nothin’."

His eyes drift across your face again, slower this time. He’s still hovering, still scared he’s overstepping. So he checks in, because Daryl doesn’t want to take anything for granted—not anymore.

“Y'good? I ain’t makin’ you uncomfortable or… nothin’, right?”

His body language is different now—still guarded, but gentler. He holds himself like he’s afraid to press his weight down, not just physically but emotionally—like he might ruin the one soft thing he’s been allowed to hold onto in years.

Your voice comes out low, sleep-thick and a little shy.

“No… you’re not. Just didn’t expect you to be so close… like this.”

There’s a pause. He looks like he’s about to pull back. But you squeeze his hands again, just a little firmer.

“I… I don’t mind.”

The words hang in the air like incense—thin, delicate, sacred.

He just breathes.

Neither of you speak. The silence isn't awkward—it’s thick, full of unspoken truths that haven't found the courage to be said aloud yet.

Your foreheads are nearly touching. Your fingers, still interlaced, are warm and slow between you. Your breath fans across his cheek and neck, and he soaks in the feeling like a man who’s spent his whole life in a storm and just found shelter.

He glances down at your mouth again—but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. Instead, he exhales like he’s releasing something he’s held for too long.

“Didn’t think you’d be okay with me bein’ like this,” he murmurs, eyes steady on yours.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his balance, but never letting go of your hands.

His thumb brushes a slow, absentminded stroke over the curve of your palm, like he’s grounding himself.

"I ain’t crossin’ no line?”

The way he says it—like he doesn’t trust himself not to hurt you—carries so much weight with it.

You squeeze his hands again, and this time you make sure he feels it.

“You’re not, Daryl. I’m… okay.”

Your voice shakes a little. Maybe from nerves. Maybe from the sheer softness of this moment, how careful it feels, like it might dissolve if either of you breathes too hard. But your eyes don’t leave his, and neither does the trust in them.

Daryl exhales. It’s quiet, barely there, but you see it in the slight collapse of his shoulders.

His head dips lower, tentative. His nose brushes yours—accidental, then intentional. The contact is fleeting at first, then slower, steadier. You feel the brush of his breath across your lip. Neither of you kisses. Not yet.

Instead, his forehead grazes yours, the skin cool and warm at once. Your noses bump again, soft and clumsy and perfect. He chuckles once, quietly, almost like he doesn’t mean to let it out.

“M'Sorry,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t move away.

Your heart is hammering now—not in fear, but in something far more sacred. His calloused fingers tighten just a little in yours, and when he nuzzles closer, cheek against cheek, you turn into the contact without thinking.

For a moment the entire world is still.

And he asks, voice barely a whisper, almost like a secret.

“Can I stay like this?”

It breaks something open in you.

Because that wasn’t a request for sex or even affection—it was a plea for belonging, a quiet hope whispered through years of silence. He isn’t asking for more. He just wants to be near you. To be wanted. To not be alone.

Your eyes close, your chest swelling with emotion that’s too big to name. And your answer is simple.

Just the barest nod.

He doesn’t move, not really. But something shifts. The way his body relaxes slightly, the way his thumb presses more firmly into your palm. He dips his face into the crook of your neck and stays—not like a man taking, but like a man finally allowed to rest.

You stay like that, just breathing together in the darkness.

The barn groans.

The storm doesn’t let up.

After what might be a moment but could be longer, Daryl’s face shifts upward, blue eyes meeting yours.

Something unnameable passes across his features—a relief, a tenderness, and a thousand walls crumbling at once. His posture eases, and he leans in slowly. His nose drags down yours slowly—tentative, careful, barely there.

He’s never been this close before, not like this, he’s memorizing the warmth of your skin, the shape of your smile when you think no one’s looking, the faded scar across the bridge of your nose.

You tilt your face toward him just slightly, a shy, instinctive movement. He exhales like he’s been holding it in for days, his breath warm against your lips.

Then, softly, his blue eyes meet yours again.

The kind of look that’s never asked for anything. The kind of look used when someone thinks they might get told no, and will accept it even though it might break them.

You nod.

Tiny. Gentle. Shy.

But it’s enough.

He leans down slowly, and when his lips finally brush yours, it’s not a kiss—not really. It’s a question in the shape of a breath. A touch so feather-light it barely qualifies.

His lips hover a heartbeat longer, then brush yours again—just once—a soft press, then a retreat, as if he’s afraid he might want too much.

When he finally pulls back just enough to see your face, you’re smiling.

Not big. Not bold.

Just… safe.

And Daryl?

He smiles, too.

Barely there, more in his eyes than his mouth—but you see it. The crinkle at the corners, the way the tension in his jaw eases. Like he’s home.

He watches you like you might disappear if he blinks. His blue eyes flicker across your face, lingering on your lips, your lashes, the blush creeping across your cheeks. His breath is shallow. His fingers are still tangled with yours, your hands a warm knot between your chests.

Daryl swallows, throat working visibly, and then lowers his head. There’s that delicate nuzzle again—The stubble on his jaw grazes your skin, but there’s no harshness to it. He’s learning you. Savoring the permission you gave him.

Then he kisses you again.

This time, it’s a little less hesitant—just a shade bolder. His mouth moves against yours like he’s searching for rhythm, his hand untangling from yours so he can brace beside your head. The kiss is still slow, reverent, but his lips part ever so slightly, tasting the edge of something he hasn’t dared ask for before.

And you respond in kind—tilting your head, catching your breath, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

His hand finds your waist, cautious at first—fingertips brushing the hem of your shirt like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

Your body arches subtly into the touch, and he takes that as permission.

His palm unfurls across your hip, sliding along warm skin in a delicate exploration. You can feel the slight tremble in his fingers, the restraint in his grip. Daryl doesn’t take, doesn’t demand—its like he’s asking with every movement.

And then—

A soft sound escapes you. Not pain, not protest.

A whimper.

Instinctive. Breathless.

But Daryl freezes.

His entire body goes still above you, like a startled animal caught mid-step. He pulls back just enough to search your face, blue eyes wide with fear. Panic flickers across his expression like wildfire catching dry leaves.

His hands retreat instantly, as though he’s burned you. They hover above you helplessly before curling into fists against the blanket.

The old fear surges back—that he’s just like Merle, just like their father. That no matter how gently he moves, he’ll still break the things he cares about.

“Ain’t like I wanted to scare ya…”

“Didn’t mean to be like him…”

His voice drops on that last word, barely more than a whisper—so low it’s like he’s trying to bury it in the dirt.

You reach up, slowly, not to pull him back, but to anchor him. Your hand cups his cheek—warm skin beneath your fingers, rough with stubble and taut with tension. He flinches at first, but doesn’t pull away.

Your thumb brushes under his eye.

“it didn’t hurt.”

Soft words. A truth he doesn’t quite believe yet.

You take his wrist gently, guiding his hand back to your waist, resting it over the very place he had just touched. Your own hand covers his, holding him there. Safe. Welcome. Wanted.

“That sound… it wasn’t bad. Just… surprised me, I guess.” You say heat creeping up your neck.

Your eyes plead with him to understand—not just the words, but the feeling underneath. That his touch didn’t scare you. That he doesn’t scare you.

You can feel the minute tremors in him, the silent war between his desire to stay close and his instinct to flee before he ruins everything.

His voice breaks the silence, so soft it almost doesn’t exist.

“I ain’t never had nothin’ gentle.”

“I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You close your eyes and let your fingers trace the back of his neck, grounding him.

“You won’t.”

And he believes you—just a little. Enough to stay. Enough to let his hand remain where it is, pressed lightly to your side, no longer frozen in guilt.

The two of you lie there like that, skin to skin, breath to breath. Outside is rot and ruin, the rage of the storm, but here… here is something human again.

“Y'sure?” he asks again, low and rough, voice curling with that Southern rasp.

You nod, eyes still closed with complete trust, lips parted slightly with unspoken want.

He leans in.

This time there’s no pause, no hesitance—just the sure, gentle press of his mouth against yours. The kiss is bolder now. Still slow, still reverent, but there’s a weight behind it—need that’s no longer afraid to make itself known.

Daryl’s hands, begin to move. They unfurl, calloused fingers seeking the warm, smooth curve of your waist. He moves cautiously, as though touching something breakable—but the longer you stay close, the more he lets go.

His hands explore your sides, slipping just barely beneath your shirt to find the bare skin of your waistline your stomach, but no further. You shiver under his touch—not from fear, but from the heat it draws up your spine.

You answer him without words.

Your fingers trail along the front of his shirt, slow at first. Then you shift, one hand planting gently on his chest—feeling the solid weight of him there, the fast thud of his heart beneath flannel. You kiss him back slowly. There’s nothing demanding in your touch, just curiosity. Longing. Affection.

-------------------------------

Then your fingers move toward the buttons of his shirt hesitantly.

A soft slip.

The first button gives way. Daryl’s breathing hitches. His hand stiffens on your waist.

The second.

His lips stutter on yours, slightly. His brow furrows. His eyes open. There’s no anger—just something darker. Raw. Old.

It’s subtle. A slow, sharp inhale against your lips. His hand falters against your side. Your fingers have only slipped two buttons when you feel the change. He’s gone still—not from want, but fear.

His forehead rests against yours, eyes clenched shut. You can feel his jaw tight beneath your palm.

“Daryl…?” you whisper, uncertain.

He pulls back half an inch—just enough to look down, not at you, but away from you. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Shame is a silent, crushing thing in him. You see it in the way his shoulders curl inward slightly, like he’s trying to hide.

“S’fine,” he mutters after a moment. But it’s not. His voice is rough, guarded again. “Just… leave it. S’all right.”

But it isn’t all right. You can see it in the way he won’t meet your eyes. The way his sits up fingers fumbling to re-fasten the buttons.

You sit up slowly, carefully, he almost flinches. He’s bracing for rejection—has been since you started undoing the buttons.

He’s not scared you’ll mock him.

No.

He’s scared you’ll pity him.

That if you see the old scars on his back and realize what they mean—what kind of man he comes from.

That you’ll see him the same way he sees himself—broken, tainted by things he had no control over.

For a man like Daryl, who was taught love comes with pain, the act of being seen—really seen—is terrifying.

He finally glances at you. His eyes are dark with something distant.

Haunted.

“Ain’t nothin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says lowly. “Ain’t like I got anythin’ you wanna see.”

Your brows furrow gently. You don't understand, not completely, but that deep ache in your chest isn’t just for him, it’s for the boy he was. The one who was never told he didn’t have to carry shame for someone else’s cruelty.

You'd heard of his father, and while Merle wasn't cruel to you, you knew what Daryl's brother was capable of, but you didnt know all of it just enough to know why he flinches, you'd picked up on it long before he'd voiced it.

You reach for him again, slower this time.

Your fingers find his jaw, brushing it with the featherlight touch of someone who isn’t trying to fix him, just be with him. You guide his eyes back to yours, and there’s no judgment in them—just soft concern and something much deeper.

"Hey" you whisper "I'm sorry"

Daryl’s throat bobs. His lips part, but the words tangle.

"D'want you ta see… what I am.” he says eventually. Just that. Raw. Honest.

You shake your head, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.

“I already do,” you whisper. “I like who you are.”

He doesn’t answer. Just leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours again. This time, you feel him shake—not with fear, but with the slow unraveling of decades of guardedness.

"More sleep?" You ask quietly.

"Yea, C'mon" Daryl responds, a gentle hand guiding you down to settle against him, you curl and arm against his chest, laying your cheek against his shoulder. You don’t try to undo his shirt again. You just let him hold you.

Daryl shifts the blanket to cover you both, his arm curling you closer pulling you more firmly into him. His nose brushes your hair, just for a moment—barely there.

“Storm’ll pass,” he mumbles into your hairline. “Always does.”

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insaneintheemembranev2 · 28 days ago

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TW: walkers (zombies), fluff, mostly domestic cuteness, banter with Carol.

Part 25

Dead Weight - Part 26

The sun had long dipped below the treetops, smearing streaks of fading orange across the sky before surrendering to indigo and shadow. The air smelled of damp moss and charred wood. The camp was being set up in a shallow clearing—just enough space to give visibility but still hugged by trees thick with underbrush.

Daryl knelt beside a fallen log, stringing up an old tin can using a frayed bit of wire. A makeshift alarm. It clinked softly as he tested the tension, brows furrowed, calloused fingers working with instinctive precision.

“You always this jumpy after dinner?” came Carol’s dry voice.

He didn’t look up. “Ain’t bein’ jumpy. Bein’ careful.”

Carol crouched beside him, a smirk curling on her lips. She handed him another tin. “Mm. Right. Careful."

The silence stretched again—tight, uncomfortable.

And then Daryl spoke.

It was low. Hesitant.

“Found a cabin… when we split off from the prison. I… I got drunk.”

Carol paused, stilling her hands.

“She fell asleep. Like it was nothin’. Like it didn’t matter I ain’t clean or—whatever. I just… laid there.”

His voice dropped further, like it hurt to say aloud.

“All I could hear were Merle’s words. And my old man. Sayin’ she’d never want someone like me. Not really. Just usin’ me ‘til somethin’ better came along.”

He let out a bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Stupid, huh?”

Carol sat back on her heels, watching him. “She stay close?”

A pause.

Daryl’s eyes flicked up toward the campfire—toward you, where you were crouched near Eugene.

The firelight danced over your face as you handed him something you’d found. Probably an old can of fruit. You were soft-spoken, but your smile was gentle, patient.

The same smile Daryl remembered seeing through blurred vision that night in the cabin.

No judgment. Just… understanding.

“She stayed,” he said quietly.

Carol’s smirk returned, tinged with something knowing. “You’re hooked.”

“I ain’t.”

“You are.”

He grunted again and busied himself with another wire. “She’s… nice. Too damn nice. Talks quiet, don’t push.”

Carol tilted her head. “And that scares you.”

“I ain’t scared of nothin'.” He snapped almost automatically, like the response was trained.

“You are when you think you don’t deserve something.”

Daryl didn’t respond. But his hands slowed.

The traps were set. The fire had been built. Everyone was finally settling down—Rick on first watch, Glen tucked against Maggie with Judith nestled close, and the rest finding whatever soft patch of earth or moss-covered log they could.

Daryl leaned against a tree, arms crossed, jaw tight.

You were still chatting with Eugene, nodding along to one of his rambling scientific explanations about plant viability or solar radiation—something too complex for most people to bother with this late in the day.

But you were listening, even if your brows furrowed occasionally in confusion.

Daryl found himself staring again. He didn’t even realize it until Carol sidled up beside him and murmured, “You got that look again.”

“What look.”

“That ‘I’d kill a hundred walkers if it meant I could sit next to her without gettin’ nervous’ look.”

He huffed and looked away. “Ain’t nervous.”

Carol raised an eyebrow. “You’re holding your breath.”

He looked down. Loosened his shoulders. Exhaled slow.

“She’s just… ain’t like the others.”

Carol’s gaze drifted to you by the fire. You were laughing quietly at something Eugene had said, your hand tucked over your mouth in that shy way of yours.

Carol smirked.

"Maybe your right, maybe she's terrible. You should probably stay away.”

Daryl snorted. “Shut up.”

“well I mean she held your hand? In a cabin? In the dark?” Her teasing was light, but laced with warmth. “Was there a blanket involved?”

He gave her a glare.

Carol gasped, mock-offended. “Oh, there was a blanket!”

“Ain't like that.”

“No? But you’re watching her now like you’re trying to solve a mystery.” Carol’s voice dropped just a little.

“Daryl. You like her.”

Daryl looked down at the dirt between his boots.

“Don’t matter.”

Carol shrugged. “Maybe not. But she sees you.”

His jaw clenched. The muscle twitched. But he didn’t deny it.

Carol bumped his shoulder with hers. "Go sit with her pookie."

He glanced at you again. You were now poking gently at the fire with a stick, occasionally glancing toward the shadows. Your eyes landed briefly on him—but you looked away too quickly. Like you’d been caught.

That made his stomach twist. In a good way. Maybe.

“She’ll think I’m…”

Carol shrugged. “She already knows your emotionally constipated.”

The campfire popped and hissed, tossing up sparks like little fireflies that never lived long enough to dance.

The scent of ash mingled with dirt, sweat, and the faint sweetness of pine drifting in from the nearby woods.

Most of the group had spread out, settling into a kind of restless silence that only came with hard-won survival.

You sat near the edge of the light, thumbing through the sparse contents of a scavenged cupboard haul, a single can of peaches, a packet of instant grits, and a mostly-empty jar of peanut butter.

You weren’t alone.

Eugene had ambled over like a raccoon sniffing at something curious—skittish, but determined.

“You know,” he began, arms awkwardly crossed over his chest, “peanut butter has extensive shelf life. High protein value too. Possibly a relic of pre-apocalyptic genius.”

You gave a gentle nod, unsure what else to say.

He squinted slightly. “You’ve got a curious cadence when you talk. Colonial British… no. Antipodean?”

You smiled politely, surprised. “not ... quite.”

Eugene frowned, clearly still trying to figure it out. “There's a linguistic distinction between ‘i’ and ‘e’ sounds in your dialect.”

“Mm. That’s… yep,” you offered, voice quiet, still a bit overwhelmed by how much of him there was in a conversation.

Undeterred, he continued. “It’s rare to encounter another demographic out here. Especially in a radius once considered geographically American Southeast. How’d you find yourself here ?”

You hesitated, trying to figure out how much to share. “I was traveling. Holiday. Got stuck when it all… happened.”

Eugene nodded solemnly, as if you’d just admitted to witnessing the end of Atlantis.

“That’s tragic, in a statistical sense,” he said, eyes too focused. “But fortuitous, for this group. You’ve clearly integrated well. High emotional intelligence. Socially disarming. Might even say—exceedingly charming.”

Your eyes darted down.

Was this guy flirting?

Or was this just… Eugene?

Your stomach twisted a little. Compliments from him felt like being studied more than admired. Not bad—just… clinical. Still, your cheeks warmed involuntarily.

Eugene edged closer, tone shifting just slightly. “I must admit, I find your presence in camp quite grounding. Like a—uh—like a chicken pecking through chaos. Steady. Unexpectedly effective.”

You blinked.

“…A chicken?”

“Well. A metaphorical one,” he said quickly.

“In the positive sense.”

There was a beat of silence as you stared at him, trying to find your balance in the conversation. Your nerves prickled under your skin—flushed and itchy.

Oh no. He's flirting. Or maybe he's not. What if you're misreading it and make things awkward? What if you're right and it’s worse?

The pressure built in your chest. The air was too thick. You needed an exit—an anchor—anything.

You blurted, “Have you… um… met Daryl?”

Your voice cracked in the middle, soft and unsure. But the name—Daryl—was a lifeline tossed into the storm.

Eugene paused, visibly confused by the pivot. “I—yes. We’ve exchanged limited dialogue. He seems… intense. A man of taciturn disposition and predatory awareness. Respectfully.”

You smiled weakly, already scanning the campfire shadows.

Daryl's eyes narrow slightly, but he approached, crossbow held casually but ready in his hands.

As he draws closer, you can almost see the question in his eyes, the slight tilt of his head that asks if you're okay without him needing to voice it.

"Eugene, this is Daryl," you say quickly. "He's our best tracker. Keeps us all fed with his hunting skills."

Eugene turns to face Daryl, seemingly oblivious to the hunter's increasingly suspicious expression. "Your proficiency with that crossbow is statistically improbable given the weapon's complexity and the limited availability of proper training in pre-apocalyptic society. I'd be interested in analyzing your technique from a scientific perspective."

Daryl glances at you, then back to Eugene, his expression a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

"Ain't nothing to analyze. You point, you shoot."

"On the contrary," Eugene continues, undeterred. "The variables involved in successful distance targeting with a manually cocked weapon, accounting for wind resistance, trajectory arc, and target movement, require considerable calculation and physical aptitude that most humans do not possess without extensive training."

A small smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth as you watch Daryl try to process Eugene's verbose compliment. His eyes narrow further, clearly unsure if he's being mocked or praised.

"Right," Daryl finally mutters, then looks at you.

“We gotta check our gear,”

You blinked. “We do?”

Daryl gave you a slight look, the tiniest tilt of his head. You caught it. A silent rescue.

“Oh. Right. We do.” You stood quickly, offering Eugene a small smile as Daryl turned without waiting and walked off. You followed, heart thudding—not from Eugene’s weirdness, but from Daryl's quiet offer.

The way he'd just known.

You followed him a few steps toward the tree line, where your packs rested against the base of a wide cedar.

He didn’t say anything right away—just crouched, pretending to check the straps on his crossbow. But his eyes flicked to yours when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“For what?” he muttered, still not looking at you directly.

You gave a small shrug. “For... rescuing me.”

He huffed quietly through his nose, brushing a fallen leaf from your bedroll. “Ain’t nothin’. He just talks too much. Gets in folks’ heads.”

There was a beat of silence. Not awkward—but charged.

You dropped to a crouch, reaching to adjust the strap on your pack—more to have something to do than any real need.

Your palm barked with pain. You sucked in a hiss and pulled your hand back fast.

Daryl noticed.

“Lemme see,” he said immediately, voice rough but low. Not demanding. Just… insistent.

“It’s not a big deal,” you murmured, turning slightly to shield the scrape.

But he shifted forward, squatting beside you. His hand, big and sun-darkened, came to hover near yours.

“I ain’t askin’ if it’s a big deal,” he said, his tone more serious now. “Lemme see, woman.”

Woman. The way he said it wasn’t condescending. It was almost soft.

You hesitated, then slowly turned your palm over. The raw skin stretched across your flesh in angry pink lines, still streaked with soot and dark grit. You winced a little as the air hit it.

Daryl’s face went still. Not blank—just focused. He tilted your hand up with a gentleness that startled you, considering how roughly he handled weapons & walkers.

“This from Terminus?”

You nodded. “Explosion. When it went off while i was in the railcar… I tripped.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just shifted his weight, unscrewed his canteen, and poured a careful stream of water across your palm.

The water traced cool lines through the grit, and though it stung, it wasn’t unbearable.

His other hand cradled the back of yours the whole time.

“I didn’t even notice how dirty it was.” you said softly, half to yourself.

Daryl’s jaw twitched. His thumb brushed a little dirt off the scrapes.

“Tch, y'busy thinkin’ ‘bout everyone else. S’what you do.”

You blinked up at him. He wasn’t looking at you. Not directly. Just past your face—at the trees, maybe. Or nothing.

He didn’t say a word—just pulled his poncho over his shoulder and let out a low sigh.

For a minute, you stayed upright, uncertain. The two of you had shared sleeping space since the Claimers, first out of necessity, now out of quiet habit.

Still... you didn’t know if it was okay to just assume.

His eyes cut up to yours quickly, then away again just as fast.

You hesitated. The unspoken question hung in the air, Are we doing this ?

He didn’t answer it out loud.

Instead, he sat back, then tugged his poncho tighter around his shoulders again like a makeshift barrier.

You shifted a little. “Um… should I—?”

Daryl turned his head just enough to glance at you. His eyes, even in the dark, were softer than they used to be.

“Y'don't hafta”

You took a step closer. “I can, um… sleep further away, If you want the space.”

Daryl blinked hard, like the suggestion startled him. His eyes locked on yours for a moment—wild, searching. Then he looked away and muttered, “Ain’t what I said.”

He bit his lip, anxious, absentminded—like he was trying to keep some storm of thought inside. His thumb went to his mouth, chewing the nail, eyes on the dirt.

“I just—” He shifted awkwardly, voice gruff. “Didn’t wanna assume. Figured maybe you… I dunno… didnt wanna.”

You felt a slow warmth bloom in your chest. He wasn’t pushing you away. He was just afraid you didn’t want the closeness anymore.

You sat down beside him gently, the soft sound of your jacket brushing against the bedroll the only noise for a few seconds.

“I just wasn’t sure if you were okay with it.” you said, quietly but with certainty.

Daryl gave a quiet grunt—almost a sigh of relief. “Been okay with it.”

His voice had softened, and his hand finally dropped from his mouth. He fidgeted with a stray thread on the hem of his poncho instead.

You lay back on your makeshift bedroll, watching as he carefully lay down beside you.

He moved slow—not out of laziness, but like he was thinking about every motion, measuring it. He turned onto his side, facing your back.

Close, but not touching yet.

Then his arm, slow and unsure, found its way across your waist like it had every night for the past few days.

It rested there now with a strange kind of gentleness—like he didn’t trust himself to hold something without breaking it.

His breath hitched a little when your hand gently found his and threaded your fingers between his. He froze—but only for a second.

Then his thumb shifted. Brushed over your knuckles once.

And stayed there.

You whispered, “You’re always warm.”

He grunted. “You’re always cold.”

That made you smile. A small, private thing.

“Thought Eugene was gonna talk yer ear off,” he muttered after a moment.

“I panicked,” you admitted. “Said your name just to… change the subject.”

His chest moved behind you in a soundless laugh. You could feel it more than hear it.

“Smart,” he murmured. “Ain’t no one sticks around when they hear my name.”

You twisted slightly, not enough to break the closeness, just enough to glance over your shoulder. “I do.”

That brought silence.

A long one.

Then, so quiet you almost missed it.

“…Yeah. Guess you do.”

Across the fire, Carol—who hadn’t truly gone to sleep—lifted her head on one elbow and watched. The flicker of flames lit her face just enough that Daryl could see her when he glanced up.

She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

She smirked slowly, eyes glittering. Then—mouthing the words across the dim light—she said.

“You’re screwed.”

Daryl narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening in that stubborn, wounded-puppy way. He gave her a look that said, shut up, but he didn’t pull away from you.

Didn’t want to.

Carol only rolled over with a quiet chuckle, still smirking into the dark.

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