KyWasLost

Daryl couldn't stop thinking about you, and he looked for you every opportunity he got. When a walker resembled you with similar clothing or hair, he had to make sure it wasn't you, just in case. His heart would jump into his throat and pound loudly in his ears until he knew it wasn't you, and his fear fell away the moment the walker dropped lifelessly to the floor.  

When he couldn't finish searching the shipping containers at Terminus, Daryl convinced himself that you were gone. That you were still in prison, trapped, or suffered a worse fate out there on your own. After losing Beth, Daryl couldn't get his hopes up anymore; he needed to mourn. 

You were out of a run with Deanna's sons, Aiden and Spencer, which should've been a day's job at most, but unfortunately, when the overrun warehouse plunged into darkness, the three of you were gone for five days. Ruthlessly and strategically fighting your way out with no guns or dropping a single supply; luckily, you were experienced and driven enough to make sure the three of you would make it out alive.

Arriving back in Alexandria in the middle of the night wasn't what you wanted, but another night of sleeping in the car with two brothers who had a serious snoring problem would've killed you off for good. 

"We're done for today." Aiden smiled, wiping some blood off your forehead.

You smiled back, "I think we're done for a long while after that," you managed to laugh lightly before saying good night and going back to your home, dragging your feet, feeling sore and tired.

You climbed into bed, too tired to erase the four days' worth of blood, dirt, and grime built up on your body and face, and went to sleep; little did you know Daryl was three doors away, alive and under a roof not too different from your own.

When you first walked into Alexandrea and went through Deanna's gruelling interview process, you felt reluctant to share your story with her. Still, when you were promised that Aaron would do his best to track down your people, you couldn't stop yourself from telling her everything.

"Daryl is hard to figure out at first," you smiled as you made yourself comfortable on Deanna's couch, enjoying her lit fire, "he doesn't let people in."

"He let you in, all the way it seems," Deanna responded, her gaze intense.

You nodded your head, "Yeah, but it took him a long time to trust me, we've been together since the start... we're always together, this is the longest we've been apart."

"Is he a good man?"

"Without a doubt. Daryl and that group are my family, I wouldn't be here if it weren't for them."

When you were on that run with Aiden and Spencer, Aaron lured Daryl and his group back to Alexandria. Whilst they were rightfully wary after what they went through at the prison and terminus, when Aaron name-dropped you and gave them a picture of you looking alive and happy, they agreed to go with him to this new community.

Deanna put every one of them through the same process, shoving her camcorder in their presence, asking them question after question, but it was Daryl who was the most impatient and on edge; unable to keep still. 

"Where is she?!" Daryl grumbled,  "Am gettin' sick of waitin!"

"She's on a supply run with my two sons," Deanna replied calmly with a smile, "she'll be back soon."

"Where is she?!" Daryl repeated, pacing around the room.

"An old warehouse, a couple of miles out, they are clearing through it and are coming back," she sighed, feeling slightly anxious at the thought of her sons not returning, "if she isn't back by tomorrow night, I'll send for others to search for her.”

When your eyes opened the next morning, you forced yourself into your shower, scrubbing away the dirt caked on your face and neck before digging the dried blood from underneath your fingernails. When massaging your scalp under the warm running water, scrubbing in the shampoo you took from the warehouse, you could hear Daryl's voice, calling out your name. 

At first, you thought you were still dreaming, trapped in a nightmare or experiencing another reality similar to what life was once like, but when you finished your shower, got dressed and could still hear his voice, you knew this wasn't a dream, and you knew you weren't hearing things.

"Daryl! Daryl, stop!" Rick's voice boomed. 

Your eyes widened as you ran down the stairs, your hair still damp and your feet sockless. 

Daryl tried every door in the community, trying to force his way through people's homes to find you, convinced that you were being hidden from him. Rick had to grab him and use all of his strength to pull him away from the last door he hadn't opened: yours. 

Your hand brushed at the doorknob and you gripped it with tears welling up in your eyes. As you pulled the door open, Daryl looked up with hope and froze for a split second in disbelief that you were standing right in front of him, without a single scratch or bruise. 

Rick let go of Daryl, his arm dropping and dangling by his side. 

"Is-Is that really-" Rick started almost breathlessly. 

"Daryl-"

He rushed towards you and lifted you up in his arms, his face nuzzling into your neck, inhaling the scent of your soap. Your heart thumped ferociously against his, and you wrapped your arms around Daryl tightly, afraid that if you let go, he'd vanish into thin air. 

"I thought-" Daryl sobbed.

"I know, I thought too," you cried, your voice wobbly.

"You've been 'ere, the whole time?" he asked, his voice gruff, reluctantly pulling away. 

The rest of the group piled around outside your house, watching with wide smiles and tears in their eyes, relieved that you made it. 

"The whole time," you sniffled as Daryl wiped a rolling tear away. 

Daryl shook his head, "If you didn't come back, I..." his croaky voice trailed off, and you shushed him. 

"It's okay now," you cooed, "it's okay."

Daryl finally put you down but still kept his hand around yours, allowing the rest of the group to come and embrace you in tight hugs, and as you scanned the group, you noticed new faces you had yet to meet, but noticed the absent faces of those you were certain had safely left the prison unharmed. 

Just find Natasha. 

Electricity buzzes from the convenience store beyond the bathroom wall. The water bottle you grab from a cooler starts to sweat against your hand. You pay and smile politely, and make it outside. The city air reeks of sulphur, smoke, and something else you can’t quite place. The aroma is hot and heavy against your cheek. The trudge through the city begins, trying to find this stupid tower that news articles had fawned over.

Avengers Tower equals Avengers, Avengers equal Nat.

After navigating the city for an hour and a half, you suddenly find yourself in front of the glowing juggernaut of architecture. Stumbling through the door, the environment around you swallows up any air you had left in your system. A few curious gazes meet your black eye before you make the unconscious decision to move to the front desk.

“Hello there, can we assist you today?” The man behind the desk tilts his head‌, unable to find your gaze.

“Where can I find Agent Romanoff?” leaning against the wood, you realize your legs are starting to feel like jelly beneath your tired weight. It’s getting harder to speak, and your vision begins to swim.

Almost there, we’re almost done.

“Excuse me? I couldn’t hear you.”

An exasperated sob rips itself out of your throat, “Romanoff, please, where is Natasha Romanoff?!” The panicked gaze that meets the man takes him aback; his eyes go wide when he sees the state of your face.

“Kid?”

Turning to the right, your gaze finds Natasha just as your vision goes black around the edges. “I found you, Tash,” you sense your body crumpling under itself, Natasha’s arms catching you as your vision goes black.

You wake after a few hours, eyes protesting to the bright, sterile lights overhead. Your head is throbbing before you fully wake up, taking in the room. There are some IV drips in one arm, some monitors connected to your chest. Turning the other way, you find Natasha staring from the room's corner, seated in a small chair.

“Hi Tash,” a smile forms between your lips, tears welling at the corners of your eyes.

“You scared the hell out of me, walking in here and fainting like that.” Her eyebrows raise, smiling ‌back. “You okay, kid?” She stands and moves to the side of the bed.

“I got away,” mentally you start debating on telling her everything that had happened from the last time you had seen her until now. “For good.”

She nods, smoothing a hand over your hair, hand coming down to cup a cheek. “You’re pretty banged up, but you’re safe here. I can promise you that.”

“Can I get out of here?” sitting up slowly, you grunt as your muscles protest to the movement.

“Not yet, Doctor needs to come in to make sure they don’t need to do anything else for you, after that you should be good. Want me to grab him?”

You nod, catching her hand “Stay while they’re in here, please?”

“Of course, kid.”

The doctor comes in after a few minutes, giving you essentially a “good enough” bill of health, instructing to take it easy. You nod.

Natasha provides some clean clothes, sweatpants and a crewneck that is a size too large, before guiding you both up to the top of the tower. “Listen, you’re about to meet a lot of people, but I can tell you I trust each of them enough to know that you are safe. They won’t hurt you, okay kid?”

She slowly walks down a hall, at the end of which a few voices can be heard discussing something with each other, which you slowly realize to be you. Another nod, and Natasha continues to lead the way.

From behind her, you can safetly listen to the cacophony of voices slowly die down as Natasha appears in the doorway. She looks back over her shoulder, jerking her chin to say “come here”. A few small, careful steps, and you make your way to her side, staring down. There is a deep repressed pit in your stomach, aware of how horrible you feel, let alone look, especially in front of company. You press it down, shake your head.

None of that now, not anymore.

You lift your gaze to look up around the room, flitting from one set of eyes to the next, all of which are trained back on yours. Natasha whispers gently, “You ready?” A small, anxious smile graces your face as you whisper back, “Okay.”

Walking slightly behind her, you fix your gaze forward as Natasha introduces the group of people to you. Some are recognizable, notably Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, remembering the news clips you had seen of them on TV. Natasha nudges your side gently.

A quick “Hi,” spills out of your mouth before you can stop it, “Thank you, Mr. Stark, for having me. I’ve been looking for Natasha for a very long time.” Your gaze shifts up to his face, analyzing his reaction.

Natasha walks over to a couch amongst the group and you follow behind slowly, sitting silently beside her. The following conversation turns into background noise as your nervous system catches up to where your body physically is.

“She was also taken by the Red Room,” Natasha explains, “A sister program, technically, but it was all the same to us.” another absent nod.

“So,” a deeper voice cuts through, catching your attention, “are you also a deadly assassin like Romanoff over here, do you have some kind of hidden dagger?” looking up to meet Tony’s gaze, your eyes stop at his crossed arms for a second before meeting his eyes.

“Not exactly,” you furrow your brows, and then glance over to Steve. “They wanted us to be like you, actually.”

The room freezes. Steve’s entire demeanor changes, his jaw tightening. Tony’s smirk vanishes within a second.

“Pause,” your eyes go back to Tony. “Are you saying you have a shield shining business, or am I missing something?” Without looking over to Natasha, she rubs your shoulder, and you continue.

“The sister program that I was in was focused on replicating the super soldier serum. They couldn’t ever get it to work all the way, there was always something slightly off. So, a lot of us ended up stronger, faster… They were designing us for stealth. Tweaking the serum to make us leaner or even curvier..They thought a woman with Captain America’s strength would be unassuming.” A drop of sweat beads at your forehead as you shift in your seat.

“They wanted an army of pretty soldiers, Barbie dolls that could rip a car’s door off its hinges.”

The room still feels stagnant. Steve exhales slowly, the information that had just been revealed settling onto his shoulders as an invisible weight. His expression softens.

“But you got away,” Steve says quietly.

You hum, “I’m the only one.” and wipe a tear that has rolled down your cheek. “The other girls either went mad or didn’t survive the serum. There were few of us who weren’t severely affected. The ones that fought were…” you feel the need to stretch your neck, “disposed of.”

Natasha rubs your shoulder again, "That's enough for now, gentlemen.” She gently pulls you up, stating it had been a long day and you needed your rest. She brings you to a bedroom, hers, you realize.

“Are you okay with sleeping in my room, kid?” the air is colder in her room, just as you remembered. You follow along silently.

Your bag is already sitting in a corner of the room, shoes politely sitting next to it. “Do you have any water?” you ask, pulling at the hem of the crewneck as you walk back over to Natasha. She silently hands you a bottle.

“How’d you get away?” you don’t look at her as you contemplate her question, weighing if telling the truth is worth it.

“I ran.” She nods, and pulls back the covers for you to lay next to each other, staring at the ceiling. “Do you believe that?” You hear her shift around, before she answers.

“Not at all.”

The next morning you’re greeted by a bright light filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Natasha’s room. Her side of the bed is empty, and as you continue to look around, you spot a note with your name written on it. Natasha’s tight handwriting is found across the page as you unfold it.

Hey kid, you’re welcome to take a shower in here or wherever. I had Tony find some of Wanda’s old training clothes for you, they should fit you fine. If not, feel free to rifle through mine, we’ll get you some of your own eventually. Breakfast should be happening in the kitchen, come on down when you’re ready.

You spot the clothes Natasha had mentioned, some tight fit t-shirts and leggings folded nicely on a chair sat next to the dresser. The sound of a hot shower sounds great, and you decided to do exactly as Natasha had recommended before making your way down the hall, where you hear more jovial conversation occurring.

The moment you walk in the room, the conversation dampens. You swallow once. “What, the beat-up kid walks in and no one can laugh anymore?” Tony snorts before ushering you to come over to him.

“Alright Karate Kid, this is everyone,” Tony gestures around, “Everyone, this is Karate Kid.” A few smiles are on the faces around you and polite wave from the only other woman you’ve seen thus far. “So listen, if you’re going to crash with us, you’re gonna have to pull your own weight, capeesh?” You nod before looking around for Natasha, realizing she isn’t here.

“What do you need me to do first? Clean or cook or what?” A confused look crosses Tony’s face before he shakes his head.

“The first thing you can do is eat, and then go and meet up with Natasha for some training.” Now you’re the confused one. Tony smirks. “Natasha told me what you’re capable of. Don’t worry, she left out all the nitty-gritty, just get some fuel in you before training. Welcome to Avengers Tower, kid.”

Most if not all of the progress made between the youngest Dixon and everyone else was out the window, but nothing bothered him more than the way you suddenly avoided him like the plague. Skittering away any time he got even close or called your name. All of the men, actually.

If one of the men enters a room you’re in, you find the quickest reason to leave. You won’t eat meals with the whole group, either eating in your cell or secluding yourself away in a corner, back to a wall and eyes on an exit strategy.

Contrary to recently renewed belief, Daryl Dixon is anything but stupid. He recognizes these patterns and between you and Maggie… he doesn’t like the picture being painted.

So he takes the Daryl way of handling things and comes to your cell when the fewest people are in the prison, sleeping in their cells or on guard or doing god-knows-what elsewhere. He convinces himself that his heart doesn’t ache when he watches you startle, scared by the male silhouette in your doorway. You don’t relax when you meet his eyes and that is nearly as devastating as the change to your cell.

Gone are your belongings spread across the cell in a cheery attempt to make it look more as a bedroom. Your mattress has been dragged from your bed, shoved into the small nook between the wall and the head of the bunks. Your backpack, your boots, and your other belongings form a wall around the foot of the mattress, effectively blocking you in.

It’s not a bedroom anymore, it’s the equivalent of an animal trying to protect themselves in their den and he tries to ignore the faint crack of his heart breaking.

“What are y’doin’ in there?” His voice comes out gruff but attempting to be… what, conversational? He knows what he’s here to ask and it’s not about the weather outside. “Mattress goes on the bed.”

Normally that would’ve earned him a huff and a sarcastic comment dripping with easy wit, but all he gets is those scared eyes looking at him like he’s the big bad wolf. Like he’ll eat you whole.

“Just me,” Daryl softens his voice as much as he can and steps into the cell, slowly and making minimal noise. He ignores the way you flinch, stopping outside of arm’s reach,  a trick he learned as a kid, and eases to sit in a mimic of your own posture. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

The way you look at him screams that no, you don’t know that, so Daryl does something very rare and completely disarms himself. Not a knife, not a bolt, nothing on him other than his clothes, and he passes the weapons over to you. “Body’s tellin’ you I’m a threat. I ain’t a threat to you an’ you know it.”

A small sniffle as you grab his weapons and pull them into your makeshift nest. “Feels like a threat,” You mumble softly and wipe at your eyes. “Everyone does.”

He takes a moment to think about that before shaking his head. “Nah. Not everyone.” You know what he’s getting at and he knows you know, but you seem determined to be stubborn. That’s okay- he’s even more stubborn and a bastard to boot. “Y’get raped?”

The freezing of each and every atom in your body and the shift in the air tells him all he needs to know. You make some strangled attempt to protest, to deny the claim out of shame or fear or guilt, but he simply nods and holds eye contact. “Was it Merle?” His brother is a misogynistic, racist, homophobic piece of shit, but he’s never gone so far as to sexually assault someone- not to Daryl’s knowledge, at least.

If he finds out Merle laid even a finger on you, he’ll skin him alive himself and let you feed the walkers with the pieces. He’ll kill him if he hurt you, if he violated you in the worst possible way someone could be hurt.

“No,” you whisper softly with a shake of your head. He can’t deny the relief he feels that his brother had nothing to do with it, but that doesn’t ease the anger and concern for you.

“Governor?” Daryl lists the second name and there you go, freezing again and avoiding eye contact. Nail on the head. “Look…”

Daryl scoots closer on the floor until his boots are close enough to brush the blanket in your lap if you shift. Close but not too close. He’s an observant person. Everybody in the prison knows how much you thrive on touch, on physical closeness. It’d practically your lifeblood and as far as he knows, you’ve gone over a week without it. He’s extending an olive branch.

“Ain’t gonna make you talk,” He promises once you relax some, body realizing that if he was going to hurt you, he would’ve done it already. “Ain’t gonna make you pretend t’be alright. That’s bullshit, you’re the furthest thing from alright.”

It’s over 10 minutes of silence before the words slowly start to spill from your lips, a slow trickle at first before pouring out in a waterfall. How Merle got the drop on you. Being dragged into a room by myself. Having to listen to Maggie and Glenn scream while not knowing what’s happening, if they’re okay.

How the Governor tried to play good cop before forcing you to undress, making you bend over the cold table.

You’re sobbing in Daryl’s lap, face buried into his neck by the time you admit aloud just what the Governor did to you. The extent he forced you to take, the pain and the shame and the need to get away from everybody your brain deems a threat, which is everyone.

He lets you sob and wail, lets you grieve and work through your emotions silently. He knows you need someone to listen to you, not to pacify you. You need the physical comfort you’ve been lacking and the sensation of being safe. Daryl would kill a hundred men to keep you safe. To take this experience away from you, to take it for you.

-----------------------------------------The lights in Alexandria were out again.

Someone said it was the grid, someone else blamed a blown fuse, but you didn’t really care. The dark made the room feel smaller, safer, lit only by a couple of candles you’d shoved onto the dresser. Outside, you could hear a few distant voices on the street and the faint creak of the wall. Inside, it was just you and Daryl.

He sat on the edge of your bed at first, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to take up space there. Vest off, hair a little messy, hands twisting together in his lap. That alone tugged at your chest—Daryl Dixon, deadliest man you knew, nervous in a dim little bedroom because of you.

“You don’t gotta look so tense,” you teased gently, nudging his knee with yours. “I’m not gonna bite.”

He snorted, eyes flicking to you with the quickest of smirks. “Yeah, well. Can’t say the same ‘bout you a few days ago. You nearly took my head off for stealin’ your coffee.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was justified.”

The small talk calmed you both. Eventually his hand found its way to yours, fingers brushing your knuckles, rough skin dragging over softer. When you didn’t pull away, he laced your fingers together, looking down at the way your hands fit like he was memorizing it.

“Still sure ‘bout this?” he asked, voice low, accent thicker in the quiet. “Ain’t in no hurry if you ain’t.”

You nodded, heart skipping. “I’m sure, Daryl.”

He swallowed, nodded once, then leaned in.

The first kiss was soft—softer than you expected from a man who spent most of his days covered in mud and blood. He tasted like cigarette smoke, his hands moving up to cradle your jaw with surprising care. He kissed you like he was trying not to scare you off.

You leaned closer, fingers sliding up into his hair. He made a sound low in his throat, almost surprised, and the kiss deepened. Slowly, carefully, he let the tension bleed out of his shoulders.

Minutes passed like that—slow kisses, quiet breaths, both of you finding your rhythm. When he shifted to guide you back onto the bed, he paused halfway, eyes checking in.

“Still good?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still green.”

He huffed a little laugh at the word, remembering the conversation. “Alright then.”

You lay back, and he followed, bracing one arm beside your head so his weight didn’t crush you. His other hand roamed—over your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hip—always broad, always warm, but never grabbing. Each touch gave you time to feel it, recognize it, decide if you wanted more.

You did.

He kissed down your neck, slow and reverent, drawing out a shiver. “You’re shakin’,” he murmured against your skin. “Cold?”

“Not cold,” you admitted, cheeks burning.

“Good.” There was a smile in his voice now. “’Cause I ain’t bringin’ no damn blanket.”

You laughed, and the sound loosened something in him. His mouth wandered, his hand slipping under your shirt to rest flat against your stomach. His thumb traced mindless shapes there, the touch sending little sparks through your nerves, but nothing overwhelming yet.

Time blurred.

He explored in inches, not miles—up your spine, down your side, pausing every so often to ask, “Here okay?” or “This alright?” Each time, you answered yes. Each time, you meant it. The slow build made you feel safe, anchored, wanted.

You almost forgot there was a world outside that room.

Eventually, though, the heat crept higher. The kisses grew a little hungrier, his breathing rougher against your cheek. His leg slid between yours as he shifted his weight, pressing you more firmly into the mattress.

At first, the pressure felt good—solid, grounding. You curled your hands into his shirt, pulling him closer, chasing the warmth of him. He went willingly, a soft curse caught in his throat.

“Damn,” he rasped, nose brushing your jaw. “You’re gonna kill me, girl.”

You smiled, dizzy in a good way. “You’re the one on top of me.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and fond. “Lucky me.”

He trailed kisses down to your collarbone, his hand sliding higher under your shirt, fingers splaying over your ribs. The sensation made your breath hitch—but still okay. Still wanted.

Then his grip tightened without meaning to, his fingers pressing into old bruises and old memories. The combination—his weight, the trapped feeling, the way your lungs suddenly felt too small—sent a flicker of static through your brain.

It wasn’t a hard shift. It wasn’t a violent snap. It was more like the volume in your head turning up one notch too far.

Your chest started to feel tight.

You tried to focus on him—the warmth of his breath, the familiar scent of sweat and leather and smoke. But your heart was beating too fast now, and your body was sending mixed signals. Half of you was still here, wanting him; the other half was somewhere else, pinned down by hands that didn’t listen, years ago.

“Daryl,” you tried, voice thin. He hummed against your skin, not quite catching it.

The pressure didn’t increase, but your awareness of it did. His forearm bracketed your head, his thigh between yours, hand spread under your ribs. You could move if you needed to—you knew that—but your body didn’t fully believe it.

The air felt thicker. Thoughts started jumbling.

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowed, and reached for the one thing that cut through it: the word you’d chosen together, sitting on the wall with his boots kicked up and his eyes on the trees.

“If you ever say it,” he’d told you, “I ain’t gonna argue. I ain’t gonna sulk. We just… stop. Reset. That’s it. No shame, no nothin’. Just means we listen.”

Now, you listened to that promise.

“Starlight,” you said, clearer this time. “Starlight.”

Everything slowed, like someone eased off the gas instead of slamming the brakes.

He stopped moving immediately. His hand went still, his mouth lifting from your skin. He didn’t vault away or make a scene; he just shifted his weight off your chest, moving his knee so you had more room.

“A’right,” he said quietly, breathing hard but steady. “Okay. We’re pausn’. You good to sit up? Or want me to roll off first?”

The calm in his voice grounded you more than anything else.

“Roll off?” you managed.

“Gotcha.”

He eased himself to the side, careful and deliberate, leaving one hand resting light on your forearm—there but not heavy. Once he was on his back beside you, he tilted his head, watching you with those searching eyes.

You drew in a few deeper breaths, feeling the room widen out again. The ceiling came back into focus. Your heart started to slow.

“There she is,” he murmured, a little relief coloring his tone. “Talk to me. Head too loud?”

You nodded, wiping at your face before you even realized you’d gotten teary. “It was good and then it just… flipped. Didn’t wanna ruin it.”

He shook his head faintly. “You didn’t ruin nothin’.” The drawl wrapped around the words, warm and sure. “You said starlight. I stop. That’s how this works.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You make it sound easy.”

“Ain’t easy,” he said. “But it *is* simple.” He tapped the mattress between you. “This is the deal: you listen to your head and your gut; I listen to you. If that means we stop, we stop. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you. Doesn’t mean I’m mad. Just means we’re smart.”

You turned your head toward him, searching his face for any hint of frustration. All you found was concern and a gentleness he probably didn’t even know he was showing.

“You okay?” he asked. “Like… do you need space, or you want me closer?”

“Closer,” you said immediately, surprising yourself.

His mouth twitched into a tiny smirk. “Yeah? Thought so.” He scooted just enough that your shoulders touched, then slowly—very slowly—lifted his arm in silent invitation. “You wanna…?”

You moved into him before he finished, tucking yourself against his side, head on his chest. His arm came around you, resting easy at your back. No pressure. Just warmth and steady weight.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, feeling his heart still thumping fast under your ear. “You’re still… um,” you said, flushing even in the dark.

“Worked up?” he supplied, a low chuckle rumbling under your cheek. “Yeah. Ain’t gonna lie. But that’s my problem, not yours. I can walk it off. Or think ‘bout Merle singin’—that usually kills the mood.”

You snorted, the mental image ridiculous enough to break the last of the tension. “That’s evil.”

“Effective, though,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “Point is, you ain’t gotta carry that. You ain’t responsible for every feelin’ flyin’ ‘round my dumb ass.”

You relaxed fully then, the guilt easing out of your muscles. “I’m glad we have starlight,” you admitted quietly. “I’m glad you… meant it.”

He pressed his chin lightly against the top of your head. “’Course I meant it,” he muttered. “Ain’t say things I don’t mean. ‘Specially not to you.”

The room settled into a softer silence. His thumb started tracing lazy circles where his hand rested at your side—a comforting touch, nothing more.

After a while, he asked, “You think maybe, sometime, we try again? Slower, or different. Only if you want.”

“Yeah,” you said, surprising yourself with how sure it sounded. “I do. I just… might need starlight now and then.”

“That’s what it’s there for,” he replied. “Hell, I might use it one day. You get me all twisted up, I might need a breather, too.”

You smiled against his chest. “Deal.”

His breathing evened out, syncing with yours. The candles burned lower, shadows crawling across the ceiling. Outside, the world was still harsh and unforgiving. Inside, wrapped in Daryl’s arms with your safe word honored and your voice heard, everything felt… survivable.

You didn’t feel guilty for saying it.

You felt trusted.