𐙚

You're tossing and turning in your hammock, getting no sleep, blaming it on the humidity that’s sticking to your skin like a second layer. The stars above the Glade wink down at you, almost like they’re mocking, knowing exactly why you're restless. One particular star catches your eye, and for a crazy second, you almost think it's Minho watching you from somewhere unseen.

But, it's not. Instead, Minho's sitting by your hammock, tapping his fingers unevenly against his thigh, his knee bouncing like he's got way too much energy built up. His usual smirk is gone, replaced by something different—something that knots your stomach.

"Minho?" Your voice cracks on his name like dry timber underfoot. His fingers stop drumming for a second before resuming, faster now. The sound grates against your frayed nerves. "Question, how long have you been up, and have you been sitting next to me the whole time?"

"Depends." His knee jolts forward, almost hitting your hammock. "Would you believe me if I said since sundown?"

"You haven't slept?" You push yourself up on your elbows, the hammock swaying beneath you. His silhouette is darker than the shadows around him, tension rolling off his shoulders in waves.

The scent of pine resin and sweat clings to him, a smell you've grown familiar with, but tonight it smells like danger. Like he's been running even though his body is perfectly still. "You went in the maze earlier. I know you're tired. So why won't you sleep?"

Minho exhales through his nose, the sound resembling a scoff. "Got better things to do than sleep." His fingers tap faster now, restless. "Like making sure you don't vanish into thin air."

You blink. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

His fingers finally still. The silence between you is thick enough to choke on. Somewhere in the distance, a beetle clicks its wings, a lonely sound in the Glade's nighttime hush. When Minho leans forward, his face catches a sliver of moonlight. His jaw is tight, his eyes darker than the maze at midnight. "You really gonna make me say it?" His voice drops low, rough.

"Well now I'd like you to," you say, meeting his gaze straight on even as your pulse thrums uncomfortably loud in your ears. His lips twitch, not a smile, more like a challenge, and suddenly his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around your wrist. His grip is warm, calloused from years of gripping machetes and maze stone, but there's something desperate in the way his thumb presses into your pulse point. Like he's checking to make sure you're real.

"You're like—the first thing I've ever cared this much about since being here," Minho grits out, the words jagged, like they're tearing his throat open on the way out. His grip tightens fractionally, and you can feel the rapid-fire beat of your own pulse under his thumb.

"Is this about… your run tomorrow? Are you scared because it's with Alby or something?" you ask, your voice hushed, but Minho's scoff cuts through the night air before you even finish the sentence. His fingers flex against your wrist, not letting go, just shifting, like he's anchoring himself to you.

"I'm never scared," he mutters, but his eyes flick away, toward the maze's towering walls. His throat works as he swallows hard. For one surreal second, the cocky runner looks young, uncertain.

Then he shakes his head, snapping back into himself like a whipcrack. "Fine. You want me to say it? I've been thinking about you, about us, all damn day. How's that for pathetic?" The words come out half-snarled, like he's pissed at himself for admitting it. "And I—" His jaw clenches. "I don't know what to do with that."

"Well," you say, drawing out the word as your fingers twitch under his grip. The corner of your mouth lifts despite yourself. "You could always stop being a shank about it and kiss me again!”

Minho considers it. His gaze drops to your mouth, lingering there like he’s mapping the shape of it, like he’s trying to decide if he wants to erase that smirk or deepen it. The air between you crackles, thick with something hotter than the Glade’s usual humidity. His thumb strokes once over your pulse point, slow, deliberate, and your breath catches.

"It'll make you feel better." Your voice is sugar-sweet, taunting him, turning the tables on the boy who always has a comeback. The challenge hangs between you, brighter than the stars overhead, daring him, baiting him. And Minho was never one to back down from a dare.

His breath ghosts over your lips before he even moves, close enough that you taste the sharpness of metal on it, leftover from biting his tongue too hard earlier. The space between you shrinks to nothing, then snaps back when he exhales a sharp laugh against your mouth instead of closing the distance. "You're killing me," he mutters, but his other hand is already lifting, fingers brushing your jaw like he's afraid you'll shatter if he presses too hard.

"Oh god," you roll your eyes and grab the back of his neck, pulling him toward you until that half-laugh gets smothered against your mouth. His lips are chapped from biting them all day, but the second they meet yours, they soften—like he's been holding this back too long, like he's been waiting for permission to unravel. His hand slips from your jaw to the base of your skull, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. He kisses like he runs: relentless, full of sharp turns and breathless intensity, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before the maze takes him again tomorrow.

When you pull back, his grip tightens; not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you close. His forehead presses against yours, his breathing ragged. "Not gonna vanish," you murmur, thumb brushing the ridge of his cheekbone. He smells like dust and dried sweat, like long runs and sleepless nights.

"I know… thank you," Minho mutters, pulling back just enough to look at you—really look—his dark eyes scanning your face like he's memorizing something he's afraid will slip away. There’s this quiet ferocity in the way his fingers flex against your wrist again, grounding himself in your presence. The distant hum of cicadas fills the silence for a moment before he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head like he can't believe himself.

The next day, you watched as he got ready to go into the maze with Alby, his usual confidence back in place—mostly. You caught the way his fingers lingered a second too long on his gear, the way he adjusted his armbands three times instead of once. When he caught you staring, he flashed that cocky grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes the way it usually did. "Don’t get all weepy on me now," he teased, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

"I'm not! I'm not, just… you look really hot." The words slipped out before you could stop them, and Minho's smirk widened into something more genuine, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. He adjusted his gloves with exaggerated care, flexing his fingers as if testing their grip. "Yeah? Think about that while I'm gone," he said, low enough that only you could hear, and your face burned hotter than the morning sun creeping over the Glade walls.

Alby cleared his throat pointedly from the maze entrance, arms crossed. "Minho. Now." Minho rolled his eyes but didn't argue, striding toward Alby with that easy, loose-limbed gait of his—the one that always made it seem like he was barely containing a sprint. Halfway there, though, he paused, turning back to you with an unreadable expression. His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for something you.

"I'll be okay, Minho," you called out, voice steadier than you felt. His shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn around again—just lifted a hand in acknowledgment before vanishing into the maze's gaping mouth with Alby. The heavy stone doors groaned shut behind them, sealing with a finality that made your ribs ache. Around you, Gladers went back to their chores, but you stayed rooted in place, staring at the ivy-choked walls like they might whisper secrets if you listened hard enough.

"Y'know, you could be a runner if you want," A voice muttered behind you. You turned to see Newt with his arms crossed. He nodded towards the maze entrance. "You stand here every damn time he leaves, staring at those walls like they owe you money."

You folded your arms, fingers digging into your own elbows. "I'm not—I wasn't—"

Newt raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Yeah, and I'm a bloody fucking butterfly." He stepped closer, lowering his voice as Frypan passed by with a crate of vegetables. "Look, if you're gonna keep moping around like a lost puppy, either tell him or stop torturing yourself. The Glade's got enough drama without you two adding to it."

"He'd probably strangle sense into me if I said I wanted to be a runner," you muttered, kicking at a loose pebble. It skittered across the dirt and disappeared into the tall grass near the walls. Newt snorted, nudging your shoulder with his own, a rare moment of casual contact from someone who usually kept his distance.

"Not like the positions are full. After Ben…" Newt trailed off, jaw tightening. He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The Glade had been quieter since Ben, the air heavier. You swallowed hard, glancing back at the maze entrance, the vines rustling in the breeze like whispered warnings. Newt followed your gaze, his expression unreadable. "Point is, Minho wouldn’t strangle you. He’d just run you into the ground during training until you either quit or proved you could keep up. And," he added, shrugging, "you’re stubborn enough to do the latter."

You chewed the inside of your cheek, considering. The idea wasn’t new, you’d thought about it during sleepless nights, staring at the stars while Minho’s warmth lingered on your skin. But saying it out loud felt like tearing open a seam you’d carefully stitched shut. "It’s not just about keeping up," you admitted quietly. Newt tilted his head, waiting. "What if I slow him down? What if I—" get him killed, you didn’t say, but Newt’s knowing look said he heard it anyway.

"You'll be with Minho and maybe Thomas if Gally stops acting like a prick. And Alby too. I doubt Minho would let you slow him down, but he'd probably cut off his own arm before admitting that." Newt smirked, nudging you again before stepping back. "Think about it. Just don't stand around staring at the walls like a kicked puppy. It's unsettling."

You glance back at the walls one last time before shaking your head and forcing yourself to move. The Glade doesn’t stop spinning just because Minho’s gone, and neither should you. Frypan waves you over to help chop vegetables, but every swing of the knife feels too loud—too sharp—like the blade could slip any second and carve something irreversible.

Hours pass, neither Minho or Alby returning yet, though it's not unusual, runners often stay out until the maze shifts. You keep your hands busy scrubbing cookware near Frypan, but your gaze keeps drifting to the towering walls, their shadows stretching longer as the sun dips. The knife in your hand slips, nicking your thumb. Blood wells up bright against your skin, and Frypan curses, shoving a rag at you.

"Look, I get you don't exactly have a set position 'round here yet, but washing dishes ain't that hard." Frypan frowns as you press the rag to your bleeding thumb. His voice drops, glancing at the other Gladers milling about. "You're distracted, and distracted gets people hurt."

"You'd be the same way I am if your girlfriend was in the maze for hours and didn't come back," you snap before you can stop yourself, immediately regretting it when Frypan's eyebrows shoot up. The rag slips from your fingers, landing in the soapy water with a wet plop. "I mean—he's not—we're not—"

"Uh-huh," Frypan drawls, dunking another pot into the basin with unnecessary force. Water sloshes over the edge, soaking your pants. "Tell that to the whole damn Glade. You two aren't exactly subtle." He jerks his chin toward the Homestead where a group of Builders are blatantly staring, whispering behind their hands. One of them makes an obscene gesture with his hands and grins when you flip him off.

"We didn't wanna put a name on it yet, y'know? It's… complicated." You scrub at a stubborn stain on a pot with more aggression than necessary, the metal screeching in protest.

Frypan snorts, flicking dishwater at you with his fingers. "Yeah, and the sky's green. Next you'll tell me Gally's fun to be around."

"I mean, sometimes he is!" you shoot back, grinning despite yourself when Frypan chokes on a laugh. The tension in your shoulders eases slightly until the distant murmur of kids gathering near the maze doors grabs your attention.

"What's happening?" You drop the pot with a clatter, wiping your hands on your pants as you push past Frypan. The Gladers are clustering near the maze entrance, voices rising in a wave of unease. Newt's already there, his posture rigid as he stares at the doors. The sun's dipping low now, but they should've been back by now.

"What's going on?" Thomas emerges, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Even from here, you see the way his hands twitch at his sides, ready to act, but unsure where to direct that energy.

"They haven't come back," Chuck's voice murmured, small and shaky against the growing unease. Everyone clustered around the maze entrance like moths to a dying flame, necks craned toward the towering stone doors. The vines rustled in the evening wind, whispering secrets none of them wanted to hear. Newt's jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitching from ten feet away.

"Newt," you breathed, pushing through the crowd until you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him. His fingers were white-knuckled around his forearm, gripping like he could crush the worry right out of his bones.

"They're late," he muttered, more to himself than you, his gaze locked onto the unmoving doors. The air tasted metallic, like someone had shoved a coin under your tongue.

"You think…?" you started, but Newt shook his head sharply, cutting you off before the words could curdle in the air. Everyone around you shifted restlessly, toes digging into the dirt like they were ready to bolt—though none of them knew which direction to run. Above, the first stars blinked into existence, indifferent to the way your pulse hammered against your ribs.

Just then, a yell.

The sound sliced through the Glade's uneasy murmurs like a knife. Heads whipped toward the maze entrance, not the doors, but the cracks between them, where shadows and ivy twisted together. Your breath hitched. That voice was raw, ragged, barely recognizable, but you'd know Minho's cadence anywhere, even when it was shredded by panic.

"Is that…Minho? Dragging Alby?" Chuck's voice cracked with disbelief. The words barely registered before the crowd surged forward as one, bodies pressing against each other like waves crashing against a shore. Your feet moved before your brain caught up, shoving past shoulders and elbows until you hit the front, only to freeze.

Alby… was stung. And Minho was tugging him along with all his might. The sight knocked the breath from your lungs. Minho's arms straining, his shirt torn and streaked with something dark that could've been sweat or blood or both. His face was a mask of grim determination, lips peeled back in a snarl as he dragged Alby's limp form toward the doors.

"Minho?" Your voice barely made it past your lips, drowned out by the sudden chaos erupting around you. Someone screamed, and suddenly, everyone was screaming—yelling that Minho could do it, that he could bring him all the way to the doors.

Then… they started to close.

The maze doors groaned, the ancient stone shuddering as they began their slow, inevitable crawl toward each other. Minho's head snapped up at the sound, his dark eyes widening with something too close to fear—a look you'd never seen on his face before. His grip on Alby slipped, his fingers slick with sweat or blood or whatever hell he'd dragged himself through out there.

"Minho!" Your scream tore free this time, raw enough to scrape your throat. You lunged forward, but Newt's arm shot out like a steel bar across your chest, holding you back as the doors inched closer. The stone groaned louder than the shouts around you, drowning out everything except the ragged sound of Minho's breathing as he heaved Alby's dead weight another foot forward. His muscles trembled with the effort, his boots skidding against the dirt as he fought for purchase.

"Come on, Minho!" Chuck yelled beside you, his voice cracking with desperation. The doors were closing fast—too fast. Minho's arms shook visibly now, veins standing out against his skin as he hauled Alby another agonizing inch forward. Blood dripped from a gash above his eyebrow, painting a crimson streak down his cheek.

You stared in disbelief, tears beginning to blur your vision as Minho’s knees buckled under Alby’s weight. He staggered but didn’t fall, gritting his teeth hard enough to split skin, his grip tightening on Alby’s vest like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. The doors were halfway closed now, the gap narrowing with every heartbeat. Panic clawed up your throat as you realized they weren’t going to make it. Not at this pace.

"W-What do we do?!" you looked to Thomas, then Newt, your voice cracking under the weight of the moment. Thomas was already moving, shoving past Gladers with frantic urgency, his eyes locked on the diminishing gap between the doors. Newt swore under his breath, fingers digging into your shoulder, whether to hold you back or steady himself, you couldn't tell.

And just then, Thomas made the dumbest but bravest decision he had ever made, he sprinted straight for the closing doors. The entire Glade erupted into shouts, your own voice lost in the cacophony as Thomas threw himself against the stone, muscles straining as he wedged himself into the narrowing gap.

He made it through just as the doors closed. Thomas somehow managed to wedge his body between the grinding stone slabs long enough for Minho to drag Alby the last few feet. But it meant nothing. The doors were closed, and they were stuck in the maze.

You stared at the sealed maze doors, your hands shaking so badly they felt like they might fly apart at the wrists. The Glade was silent—no, not silent, just drowned beneath the roar of your own pulse in your ears. Someone behind you gasped. Newt made a wounded noise low in his throat. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

"Minho…" you whispered, pressing both palms flat against the cold stone as if you could push through sheer willpower alone. The wall didn't budge, rough under your fingertips like a mocking reminder of its immensity.

Newt grabbed your shoulder, spinning you around hard enough to make your teeth click together. "Don't," he hissed, his pupils so dilated his eyes looked black. "They're not dead." His fingers trembled against your collarbone, betraying the steel in his voice. "Minho knows the maze better than anyone. And Thomas—" He swallowed audibly. "Thomas is… strong."

You nodded mechanically, but your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting crescents into your palms. The scent of crushed grass and sweat hung thick in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of fear radiating off the gathered Gladers.

"What do I do…" The words slipped out—a plea more than a question—as you stared at Newt's ashen face. Behind him, Gally was already barking orders, shoving Gladers toward the Homestead with rough hands. The world tilted sideways, but Newt's grip on your arm kept you upright.

"The doors don't open until tomorrow morning," Newt said through gritted teeth, his fingers tightening around your wrist like a manacle. His pulse jumped wildly under his skin. "You don't do anything. You wait. And you don't—" His voice cracked. "Don't lose your damn head."

"I can't promise that," you muttered, ripping your wrist from Newt's grip. The air tasted like dust and panic, sticking to your tongue as you staggered away.

You had to push through. He wasn't dead. Minho didn't die, he couldn't die, not when his fingers had been tangled in your hair just hours ago, not when his breath still ghosted across your lips if you thought about it too hard. Everything blurred around you as you stumbled toward the Homestead, shoulders bumping into panicked boys who milled like startled cattle.

Just hours until the doors open again. You could do it, even though you felt like your chest was ripping open with every breath.

"It ate my damn deer!" Daryl yelled, repeatedly kicking the headless walker. Everyone else took it seriously, while you were covering your mouth and giggling. The tension of the day had been thick, and you couldn't help but find a little bit of humor in the absurdity of it all.

"Daryl, that's not gonna help." you laugh. "It doesn't even have a head anymore. You're not gonna get your deer back."

"What she said." Shane chimed in, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Y'know how much time I spent lookin' for that deer?" Daryl grumbled, finally stopping his assault on the lifeless corpse. His eyes stared at the deer on the ground.

"Daryl, cmon." you grab his arm. "It's not worth it." Your voice is soothing, trying to calm him down. His muscles tense under your touch, but he doesn't shake you off. Instead, he takes a deep breath and looks up, meeting your eyes.

"Whatever," he walked off toward the camp. "Merle!"

You followed Daryl closely, feeling the weight of his mood. You understood why he was so upset about the deer, but it really wasn't the one thing he should even be worrying about. And once he finds out about what the new guy did to Merle, it's going to be so much worse.

"Merle! Get your ass out here!" Daryl's call echoed through the dense foliage as you both approached the camp. The group had returned earlier, except…without Merle. You hadn't asked what happened, but knew Merle probably deserved it.

"Uh," Rick wipes the underside of his nose. "Merle's not here."

Daryl froze. You felt his entire body tense up as he spun around to face the sheriff. "What?"

You stood behind Daryl, hugging yourself and furrowing your eyebrows. All hell was about to break loose.

"Where is he?" Daryl blinked, glancing at Shane. "Is- Is he dead?"

"…We're not sure." Shane said, his eyes flicking to the ground. "He was on the roof, handcuffed. We had to leave him."

"Who the hell handcuffed Merle to the roof?" you butted in. "How did anyone manage to wrangle him and get ahold of his wrist anyway?"

Daryl's eyes searched each of their faces, his jaw clenching tightly. "It was that new guy, wasn't it?" He spat out the words like they were a mouthful of nails.

Rick looked like a deer in headlights. He inhaled sharply and nodded. "Yeah. Look, he was a danger to us- to everyone. I handcuffed him to that roof so that he wouldn't be."

Daryl's eyes narrowed, his fists clenching. "And you just left him there?" His voice was eerily calm.

You grabbed Daryl's shoulder and he moved away from you, stepping closer to Rick. "You handcuffed my goddamn brother to a roof all by himself and left him there?! He can't even defend himself!"

Rick raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Look, we had to. We didn't have a choice. Those walkers-"

"There were walkers too?! You left him to be food for them?!" Daryl's voice grew louder, his anger palpable. You felt your own heart sink, knowing that even in this harsh world, no one deserved such a fate. He went silent for a minute and dropped his crossbow, grabbing a knife from his pocket and moving closer.

"Daryl-" you whispered, fearfully reaching out to him, but he didn't stop.

"You had a choice!" he roared, pointing the knife at Rick. "You always had a choice! And you chose to leave him to die!"

Within seconds he swung and a fight broke out. Shane and Rick had to wrestle him to the ground just to get him to stop. You watched, horrified, as the knife clattered to the earth, just barely missing its intended target. Daryl's fury was something you'd never seen before, and you couldn't blame him.

"Alright! Let him go!" you shouted over the chaos, pushing through the group. Shane and Rick's grips on Daryl loosened and he sprang up, his eyes wild with anger and pain.

"Daryl!" you screamed his name, trying to get through to him. The fight had stopped, but the air was thick with the scent of rage and fear. His eyes snapped to yours, searching for understanding, but finding none. You stepped closer, your voice steady despite your trembling hands. "Come here."

You grab his arm, dragging him toward the RV. "We need to talk." You're firm, but your voice is laced with a gentle concern that you hope reaches through his anger.

He didn't even try to fight your grip, which was unusual for Daryl. Normally, he'd resist like a feral animal. But today, his usual fiery spirit was replaced with something darker, something that scared you. Once inside the RV, you shut the door and turned to face him. His eyes were red and swollen, and you could see the grief etched into every line of his face.

"Sit down." You guide Daryl to the bed, his boots scraping against the floor. The RV felt suffocatingly small with the weight of his anger, and the tension was palpable as you both sat down, the metal frame squeaking under your combined weight.

"Daryl," you began, placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles were as tight as a bowstring. "I know you're hurting right now-"

Tears. Tears started falling down his cheeks. Big, salty drops that rolled down the contours of his face, leaving trails in the grime and sweat. You'd never seen Daryl cry before. Sure, you've seen him sad, even devastated, but this was something else. It was raw, and it was breaking your heart to witness it.

"…Daryl?" you whispered, your voice cracking. You'd never seen him like this. So vulnerable, so utterly broken.

"Merle's gone," he choked out, his voice hoarse and tight. "They just left him there to… to die." He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving with sobs.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. Daryl was never one for physical affection, but in this moment, he seemed to crave it. He leaned into you, letting you hold the weight of his pain.

"I'm sorry," you murmured into his ear. "We'll find him." It was a lie, you weren't sure you believed it yourself, but you had to say something to comfort him. The truth was, you were scared too. Merle might have been a handful, in fact he was a douche a good portion of the time, but he was part of their makeshift family. And now, he was out there alone.

"And now we're stuck fightin' those goddamn walkers!" Daryl's voice was muffled by his hands, but you heard the anguish in every syllable. You rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles, hoping it would offer some comfort.

The RV felt like it was closing in on you both, the silence only broken by his painful sobs. You took a deep breath and leaned back, gently taking his face in your hands to force him to look at you. "We'll get through this, okay?"

"No we won't!"

"Daryl, I've known you for a long time. You're tougher than this." You spoke softly but firmly, trying to be the rock he needed in this tumultuous moment. His eyes searched yours, looking for a glimmer of hope, but all he found was a reflection of his own despair.

He sniffed, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. "I ain't tough. Not anymore." His words were barely a whisper. "Merle was the only family I had left."

"Daryl," you began, "you still have me, and everyone out there. We're your family now."

"The hell they ain't." Daryl's voice was gruff, the anger and sadness melding into something that sounded almost like a challenge. "Merle's all I had left. My blood."

Your hands dropped slightly, but you didn't let go of his face. "Daryl, you're wrong." You spoke with a calmness that surprised even yourself. "You're not alone anymore. They may not be your family but they're all you got. Whether you like them or not, they're going to be the main ones protecting you out there."

He looked away, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "They ain't Merle."

"I know. But still, they care about you," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. Daryl's eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of dishonesty, but all he found was earnest concern.

"Merle's gone," Daryl murmured, his voice cracking. "What if I'm next?"

"You're not." You say firmly, your voice cutting through the dense fog of Daryl's grief. You take a deep breath, trying to steady your own racing heart. "I'd die before letting any of those walkers get to you."

He snorts, a sad smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, I know you would."

You sit with him for a long time, the silence stretching out between you like a tightrope. You can feel the sadness in the air, thick and heavy, and you're not sure how to cut through it. You just hold onto him, letting him cry, letting him feel. It's all you can do.

"I love you, Daryl." The words slipped out, unplanned but true, and you watched as he stiffened in your arms. It wasn't something you said often, and certainly not in a moment like this, but it felt right.

He took a shaky breath, his eyes flicking to yours. "You do?" His voice was quiet, almost hopeful.

You nodded. "Yeah, I do." It was strange, but in the middle of all this horror, your feelings for him had only grown stronger. You'd been too afraid to say it out loud, but now, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

Daryl looked at you, his eyes searching your face. For a moment, you saw a glimmer of something in them that you hadn't seen in a while: hope. It was as if your words had reached into the darkest part of his soul and lit a candle.

"You do?" he whispered again, his voice cracking with emotion.

"Oh god, c'mere." Daryl's arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a crushing embrace. You could feel the warmth of his body, the way his chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. It was a stark contrast to the cold, hard exterior he usually wore like armor.