Emma

It starts because Mateo realizes one deeply unfortunate thing one random Thursday night:

He is in love with his neighbor.

Not casually attracted.

Not mildly interested.

Not “oh she’s cute.”

No.

Properly.

Horribly.

Pathetically in love.

He realizes this while standing in the cereal aisle at midnight after a twelve-hour shift, staring blankly at a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch because you once mentioned it was your favorite and now apparently his entire nervous system associates cinnamon sugar with affection.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself.

An elderly woman nearby eyes him warily and moves her cart away.

Fair enough.

Because Mateo Diaz is a competent man.

He works in emergency medicine. He handles trauma under pressure. He can insert an IV into a moving patient in under thirty seconds.

And yet the thought of asking you out makes him feel like he’s actively dying.

Which is ridiculous.

You already like him.

He knows you do.

You knock on his door just to talk sometimes. You steal his hoodies. You bring him coffee after night shifts with little smiley faces drawn on the cups.

Last week you fell asleep on his couch and unconsciously reached for him in your sleep like he belonged there.

There are signs.

Promising signs.

Unfortunately, Mateo has somehow forgotten how to behave like a normal human being around you.

His first official attempt happens three days later.

Mateo spends an embarrassing amount of time preparing.

He shaves properly.

Styles his hair instead of just towel-drying it aggressively.

Changes shirts four times.

He even buys flowers.

Flowers.

Dana at work laughs so hard she nearly cries when he mentions it.

“You bought flowers?”

“People buy flowers.”

“You look like you’re preparing for a hostage negotiation.”

“It’s a date.”

“It’s asking for a date.”

Mateo points at her threateningly. “I can still report you to HR.”

“You’re smiling too much for that threat to work.”

Traitor.

All of them traitors.

By the time Mateo gets home, he’s holding a bouquet of sunflowers because you once said roses felt “too aggressively romantic for a first date.”

He remembers things you say.

That’s another problem entirely.

He stands outside your apartment door psyching himself up like he’s about to enter combat.

Then knocks.

You open the door wearing oversized sweatpants and one of his old college shirts he lent you six months ago and never got back.

Mateo forgets every rehearsed sentence instantly.

“Hey,” you say brightly.

Fuck.

You’re so pretty.

“Hi.”

Your eyes drop to the flowers.

Then slowly lift back to his face.

“Oh?”

Mateo’s pulse skyrockets.

“I thought maybe you’d wanna—”

At that exact moment, your cat launches itself from somewhere inside the apartment directly at Mateo’s face.

Chaos.

Immediate chaos.

Mateo jerks backward instinctively.

The flowers fly out of his hands.

The cat claws his shoulder like it’s participating in active warfare.

You yell, “MISO!”

Mateo stumbles.

Trips over the hallway rug.

And slams backward into the wall hard enough that one of the picture frames hanging outside your apartment falls directly onto your head.

Crack.

Silence.

Mateo stares in horror as you blink at him once.

Twice.

Then say faintly:

“…Ow.”

“Oh my God.”

Blood.

Tiny amount.

But still blood.

Mateo immediately shifts into nurse mode.

“Sit down.”

“I’m okay—”

“You are actively bleeding.”

“Well that seems dramatic.”

“You have blood on your face!”

“You also have blood on your face!”

Miso hisses from atop the refrigerator like a demon victorious after battle.

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting on Mateo’s couch with an ice pack against your forehead while he anxiously checks your pupils every thirty seconds.

“You don’t have to keep looking at my eyes,” you mumble.

“You got hit in the head.”

“By a picture frame.”

“A wooden picture frame.”

You grin despite yourself.

Mateo looks miserable.

Which honestly is adorable.

“I’m sorry,” he says for maybe the fifteenth time.

“You’ve said that already.”

“I gave you a concussion.”

“You gave me a tiny concussion.”

“That’s not comforting.”

You smile at him over the ice pack.

And God.

Mateo’s heart does something pathetic.

Because somehow you still look at him warmly despite the fact he basically assaulted you with home décor.

“You brought me flowers,” you say softly.

His ears go red immediately.

“Yeah.”

“You were asking me out?”

He clears his throat. “Attempting to.”

“Well.” Your smile widens. “I was gonna say yes before the head injury.”

Mateo drops his face into his hands.

You laugh so hard you nearly snort.

He falls a little more in love with you right there.

The second attempt goes worse somehow.

Which honestly feels statistically impressive.

This time Mateo decides on something simple.

Dinner.

A normal dinner.

No flowers.

No potential projectile objects.

Safe.

Manageable.

He spends all afternoon cooking because apparently he’s decided to become unbearably earnest about you.

Homemade pasta.

Garlic bread.

Wine.

Candles.

The whole thing.

You show up at his apartment in a soft little dress and Mateo nearly forgets how language works.

“You look…” He exhales slowly. “Wow.”

Your cheeks pink immediately.

“You clean up nice too, Diaz.”

That does things to him.

Dangerous things.

Dinner starts perfectly.

You’re laughing.

Stealing food off his plate.

Telling him about your week while candlelight flickers across your face.

Mateo’s actually thinking maybe this time he’ll pull it off.

Then the smoke alarm goes off.

Loud.

Violent.

Startling enough you nearly throw your wine glass.

Mateo jerks upright. “What the—”

The garlic bread.

The fucking garlic bread.

Smoke pours from the oven dramatically like the apartment’s being sacrificed to ancient gods.

“Oh my God,” Mateo mutters.

You burst into laughter immediately.

Not polite laughter either.

Full-body, wheezing laughter while Mateo frantically waves a kitchen towel at the smoke detector.

“This is not funny.”

“You set bread on fire!”

“It was in there for like two minutes!”

“You’re literally an ER nurse!”

“I save lives, I don’t bake!”

You’re laughing so hard tears form in your eyes.

Mateo should probably be embarrassed.

Instead he just stares at you fondly while you lose your mind over carbonized garlic bread.

Because this.

This right here.

This is why he’s done for.

You finally calm enough to grin at him across the kitchen island.

“You know I still think this is romantic, right?”

Mateo blinks.

“What?”

“You cooked for me.” You shrug lightly. “Even if you almost committed arson doing it.”

Warmth spreads through his chest so suddenly it almost hurts.

Then the smoke detector goes off again.

You both start laughing helplessly.

By attempt number three, Mateo becomes determined.

Stubbornly determined.

“This isn’t normal,” he tells Dana during shift change.

“What isn’t?”

“I am twenty-five years old. I should know how to successfully flirt with a woman.”

Dana looks delighted. “Oh good, another disaster happened.”

“She still likes me somehow.”

“Because she’s clearly obsessed with you.”

Mateo ignores how much he likes hearing that.

“This time I’m keeping it simple.”

Dana immediately laughs.

“That’s what you said before the concussion.”

—

Simple, Mateo decides, means coffee.

Just coffee.

Low stakes.

Minimal fire risk.

You agree instantly.

Which should’ve been his first warning sign because apparently the universe takes personal offense to Mateo Diaz attempting romance.

The café is crowded but cozy.

You’re wearing one of his hoodies again.

Mateo tries very hard not to think about how domestic that feels.

Things actually go well for nearly forty minutes.

Forty whole minutes.

A record.

You’re sitting across from him smiling softly while he tells you about a ridiculous patient interaction from work when suddenly the table beside you collapses.

Just fully collapses.

Coffee flies everywhere.

A stranger screams.

Mateo reacts automatically, jerking sideways to shield you from the spill.

Unfortunately this results in him wearing approximately eighty percent of an iced latte.

Dead silence.

Cold coffee drips from his jaw.

You stare at him for one long second.

Then absolutely lose it.

Mateo starts laughing too because honestly what else is there to do at this point?

“This keeps happening,” he says incredulously.

“I think you might be cursed.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You look very pretty covered in coffee.”

Mateo chokes slightly.

You grin over your cup.

Completely shameless.

And suddenly he realizes something.

You aren’t disappointed when things go wrong.

You aren’t annoyed.

If anything, you seem more charmed afterward.

Which is insane behavior.

Then again, you voluntarily spend time with him, so clearly your judgment is questionable.

The thing Mateo doesn’t understand is that you fell for him long before the disasters started.

You fell for him when he carried your groceries upstairs without being asked.

When he sat outside your apartment with you after your grandmother died because you couldn’t stand being alone.

When he fixed your car in the rain and got soaked through without complaining once.

You fell for the way he always notices things.

The way he remembers.

The way he quietly takes care of everyone around him without expecting praise for it.

So honestly?

A few catastrophically failed attempts at romance aren’t exactly dealbreakers.

If anything, they’re kind of endearing.

Because beneath every disaster is Mateo trying so hard to love you properly.

And that’s devastatingly attractive.

The fourth attempt almost kills him emotionally.

Not physically this time.

Emotionally.

Which honestly might be worse.

It’s raining heavily when Mateo knocks on your door holding takeout and looking unfairly handsome in a dark jacket.

“You free?” he asks.

You smile immediately. “For you? Always.”

That sentence alone nearly takes him out.

You spend the evening sprawled on your couch eating noodles and watching terrible reality television.

Easy.

Comfortable.

Perfect.

At some point your legs end up across his lap.

At some point his hand settles absentmindedly on your ankle.

Neither of you mention it.

The rain pounds softly against the windows.

Your apartment glows warm gold in the dim lighting.

Mateo looks at you and thinks:

I’m gonna kiss her tonight.

The realization settles deep in his chest.

Certain.

Terrifying.

You’re half laughing at something on TV when Mateo finally says softly:

“Hey.”

You turn toward him immediately.

And there it is again.

That openness in your face whenever you look at him.

Like you already trust him with something fragile.

Mateo’s hand tightens slightly against your ankle.

“I’ve been trying to take you on a proper date for like three weeks now.”

You snort. “You did assault me with a picture frame.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He smiles helplessly.

Then quieter:

“I really like you.”

Your expression softens instantly.

“Mateo—”

“And I know I keep screwing this up, but—”

The couch suddenly gives out beneath both of you with an enormous crack.

Chaos.

Again.

You yelp.

Mateo grabs you automatically as the entire left side of the couch collapses sideways onto the floor.

Silence.

Then:

“…Did your couch just break?” Mateo asks weakly.

You stare at him.

Then start laughing so hard you wheeze.

Mateo drops his head against your shoulder laughing helplessly too because this cannot be real anymore.

There’s no way this keeps happening naturally.

“You’re cursed,” you gasp between laughs.

“I’m aware.”

“No seriously, I think some ancient witch hates you specifically.”

Mateo looks up.

You’re inches away.

Still laughing softly.

Eyes bright.

Beautiful.

And suddenly he’s tired of waiting for perfect moments that clearly do not exist for him.

So before he can overthink it, Mateo cups your face and kisses you.

You make a surprised little sound against his mouth.

Then kiss him back immediately.

Hard.

Like you’ve been waiting for it.

Mateo feels the world narrow sharply.

Just this.

Your mouth warm against his.

Your fingers tangling in his shirt.

The soft breathless sound you make when he deepens the kiss.

It’s perfect.

Finally.

Then Miso the demon cat lands directly on Mateo’s back from the top of the bookshelf.

Mateo jerks violently with a startled shout.

You nearly fall off the broken couch laughing.

The cat bolts away triumphantly.

Mateo stares at the ceiling in exhausted disbelief.

You are openly crying laughing now.

“I hate your cat,” he mutters.

“You love my cat.”

“I’m gonna fight your cat.”

You grab his face suddenly and kiss him again.

Quick.

Sweet.

Affectionate enough to shut him up instantly.

“You know,” you murmur against his mouth, smiling, “for a guy who’s catastrophically bad at romance, you’re doing okay.”

Mateo looks at you sprawled beside him in the wreckage of your collapsed couch.

Hair messy.

Smile soft.

Still looking at him like he’s something wonderful.

And maybe he is a little cursed.

Maybe every attempt at impressing you will continue ending in disaster.

Maybe romance for Mateo Diaz will always involve minor injuries and property damage and public humiliation.

But you’re kissing him.

You’re laughing.

You’re here.

It happened by accident.

Mostly.

The team had been driving for nearly fourteen hours straight, chasing unstable systems across Kansas before dropping south again after sunset. Everyone was exhausted, running on caffeine and stubbornness.

The motel you ended up in looked barely legal.

Dim flickering sign.

Questionable carpet.

One ice machine for the entire building.

You’d barely gotten your duffel into the room before thunder cracked overhead hard enough to rattle the windows.

You jumped slightly.

Boone noticed.

Of course he did.

He always noticed.

“You okay?” he asked from the doorway adjoining your rooms.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He studied you for a second too long, eyes narrowed slightly like he was trying to solve something.

Then his gaze dropped.

You followed it.

Right.

Your clothes were soaked.

The last storm core had hit harder than expected, leaving you drenched during equipment retrieval. Your sweatshirt clung cold against your skin, hair damp around your shoulders.

Boone’s jaw tightened almost immediately.

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I said—”

“You’re bad at lying.”

You glared at him.

He stared back.

Unfortunately for you, Boone had the kind of face that made arguments difficult. Strong jaw shadowed with scruff, tired eyes that always looked storm-dark, broad shoulders that somehow took up too much space even when he was standing still.

Worse, he knew exactly how to wait people out.

And you were tired.

So tired.

“Okay,” you muttered. “Maybe a little cold.”

His expression immediately softened.

Not dramatically.

Just enough to hurt your feelings a little.

Without another word, Boone disappeared back into his room.

You frowned after him.

Then he came back holding a dark gray hoodie. The one he'd been wearing earlier.

And your heart did something deeply embarrassing.

“Boone—”

“Take it.”

“I have clothes in my bag.”

“You also look like hypothermia’s annoying younger sister.” He tossed the hoodie at you. “Wear it.”

You caught it automatically.

It was warm from his body heat.

God.

That alone nearly killed you.

“You sure?” you asked quietly.

Boone leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Sweetheart, I’m not offering because I hate you.”

Sweetheart.

That word had become dangerous recently.

He used it sparingly. Casually. Like it meant nothing.

Which somehow made it worse.

You swallowed. “Right.”

Then you escaped into the bathroom before he could see how affected you were.

The hoodie was massive on you.

Of course it was.

Boone was built like someone designed specifically to survive natural disasters.

The sleeves hung over your hands completely. The hem reached your mid thighs. It smelled like cedarwood, rain, coffee, and something distinctly Boone that made your chest ache unexpectedly.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long second.

Then groaned softly.

“Oh, this is bad.”

Because you already liked him too much.

And now you were wrapped in him.

There was no surviving that.

When you finally stepped back into the room, Boone was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through weather models on his laptop.

He looked up absentmindedly.

And froze.

Completely froze.

You stopped mid-step.

“…Boone?”

Nothing.

No response.

His eyes just locked onto you like his brain had genuinely stopped functioning.

It would’ve been concerning if it wasn’t so incredibly obvious.

You looked down at yourself self-consciously. “What?”

Still nothing.

His laptop slowly tilted shut beneath his fingers.

Thunder rumbled outside.

Boone blinked once, hard, like he was rebooting manually.

“You’re wearing it.”

You stared at him.

“…Yes?”

His jaw flexed.

Then flexed again.

Like he was actively fighting demons.

Something warm curled low in your stomach.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, suddenly delighted. “Are you short-circuiting?”

“No.”

Immediate.

Too immediate.

You narrowed your eyes. “Boone.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you just got hit by a truck.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You stopped blinking.”

“I blink plenty.”

“You absolutely do not.”

A muscle in his cheek twitched.

And then—because apparently the universe loved you—his ears started turning red.

You nearly lost your mind.

“Oh my god,” you laughed softly.

Boone dragged one hand down his face slowly.

“You should take it off.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“Not because I don’t like it,” he said quickly, voice rougher now. “That’s actually the problem.”

The room went very still.

Your pulse skipped.

Boone looked at you the way storm skies looked before turning violent—heavy with something barely restrained.

“You have any idea what you look like right now?”

Your throat suddenly felt dry.

“Probably tired?”

His laugh came out low and disbelieving.

“No, sweetheart.”

And there it was again.

That dangerous word.

Except this time it sounded different.

Lower.

Warmer.

Like it belonged between the two of you.

Boone leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to regain control of himself.

The oversized hoodie across your frame, sleeves swallowing your hands completely.

You shifted under his stare.

Big mistake.

Because Boone’s eyes dropped instantly to the movement.

Then stayed there.

“Oh,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself.

Your stomach flipped violently.

“What?” you asked.

His gaze lifted back to yours slowly.

“You can’t wear my clothes around me.”

Your breath caught slightly. “Why?”

Boone stared at you for a long moment.

Then said, very honestly:

“Because apparently I’m weaker than I thought.”

That should not have affected you as much as it did.

And yet.

Heat crawled up your neck.

Boone noticed that too.

Of course he did.

His expression shifted subtly—something softer slipping through the cracks of his composure.

Like he couldn’t decide whether this was torture or the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Probably both.

“You’re staring,” you mumbled.

“You’re wearing my hoodie.”

“That doesn’t explain the crisis you’re having.”

“It explains plenty.”

You laughed quietly despite yourself.

Boone watched the sound happen.

Actually watched it.

Like he loved hearing you laugh more than he knew what to do with.

And suddenly the air between you felt too close. Too warm. Too full of things neither of you had said yet.

Thunder cracked outside again.

Neither of you looked away.

“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who faces tornadoes professionally, this seems to be rattling you pretty bad.”

Boone huffed out another low laugh.

“Tornadoes make sense.”

“And I don’t?”

His eyes met yours immediately.

“No,” he said quietly. “You really don’t.”

The honesty in it hit harder than flirting would have.

Because Boone didn’t flirt much.

He confessed accidentally.

In fragments.

In truths he probably didn’t mean to say aloud.

You took a small step closer before you could overthink it.

Boone noticed instantly.

Every inch of him sharpened with awareness.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered.

“Trying not to.”

“That seems difficult for you.”

“It is.”

Another step.

Now you were standing between his knees where he sat on the edge of the bed.

Too close.

Way too close.

Boone looked up at you slowly, and something in your chest squeezed painfully at the expression on his face.

Like he already cared too much.

Like it scared him a little.

His hands flexed against his thighs once.

Twice.

Not touching you.

Definitely wanting to.

“You smell like me now,” he murmured.

Your heart nearly exploded.

“That sounded possessive.”

“It probably was.”

You swallowed hard.

Neither of you moved.

Then Boone finally reached out.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he was giving you every chance to stop him.

His fingers caught lightly on the sleeve hanging over your hand, thumb brushing the fabric softly.

The touch itself was innocent.

The way he looked at you wasn’t.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he said quietly.

Your chest ached suddenly with how much feeling lived inside those words.

Not lust.

Not just that.

Something bigger.

Something terrifying.

Because Boone looked at you like you mattered already.

Like you’d rooted somewhere deep before either of you realized it was happening.

And maybe that was the real problem.

Not the hoodie.

Not the staring.

Not the tension thick enough to choke on.

It was the fact that somewhere between storm chases and motel rooms and late-night drives under fractured skies, Boone had become home to you.

And judging by the look in his eyes—

You’d become the same thing to him.

His hand slid gently around your wrist.

Warm. Steady.

“C’mere,” he murmured.

You went without hesitation.

Boone pulled you carefully into his lap, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you this way. The hoodie bunched beneath his hands as he settled you against his chest.

Then he just… held you.

Forehead resting lightly against yours.

Breathing.

Close.

You could feel his heartbeat.

Fast.

“You okay?” you whispered.

Boone laughed softly under his breath.

“No.”

You smiled helplessly. “Because I stole your hoodie?”

“Because you wore it.”

Your chest tightened.

And then, finally—like the inevitable thing it had always been—he kissed you.

Slow.

Warm.

A little wrecked around the edges.

Like he’d wanted to do it for longer than he’d admit.

You melted into him instantly, fingers tangling in the fabric at his shoulders while his arms tightened around your waist like he couldn’t get close enough.

When he pulled back slightly, Boone looked at you with the kind of expression people usually reserved for witnessing something life-changing.

“You’re keeping the hoodie,” he said quietly.

You laughed breathlessly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed your cheek softly. “Looks better on you anyway.”

The prison had been tense for days.

Not the normal kind of tense, either. Not walkers-at-the-fence tense or food-running-low tense. This was people tense. Too many close calls. Too many arguments. Too many exhausted survivors trying to pretend they weren’t unraveling.

Everyone was frayed thin.

You especially.

You’d spent the entire morning hauling water, patching torn clothes, helping Hershel with the sick, and trying to keep two terrified children from crying after another nightmare. By the time evening rolled around, your head hurt, your back ached, and all you wanted was ten minutes alone.

Instead, you got Daryl storming into the cellblock covered in mud and blood after a disastrous run with Rick.

He looked furious before he even opened his mouth.

“Where’s the damn medical bag?” he barked.

The entire room went quiet.

You looked up from where you were sorting canned food. “What?”

“The bag.” He yanked an arrow from his quiver harder than necessary before immediately shoving it back in. Agitated. Pacing. “The one from storage.”

“I moved it to the infirmary yesterday.”

“Well it ain’t there now.”

His voice cracked through the room like a whip.

Normally, you would’ve snapped right back. Daryl respected people who bit back. But today every nerve in your body already felt scraped raw.

“I didn’t lose it, Daryl.”

“Didn’t say ya did.”

“You’re acting like I did.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can nobody in this place put shit where it belongs?”

The words themselves weren’t even the problem.

It was the tone.

Sharp. Angry. Exhausted.

And because you were already hanging by a thread, it felt personal.

You stared at him for a second too long.

Daryl noticed immediately.

His irritation faltered.

“...What?”

You swallowed hard. “Nothing.”

“Ya got somethin’ to say, say it.”

That did it.

Not because he was being cruel intentionally.

Because he wasn’t.

Because Daryl’s rough edges usually hid something careful underneath, especially with you, and right then you were too tired to brace yourself against the impact of his temper.

Your eyes burned before you could stop it.

Embarrassment hit instantly afterward.

God, no.

Not here.

Not in front of everybody.

You looked away fast, but it was too late. Your vision blurred and suddenly tears were sliding down your cheeks before you could suck in a steady breath.

The silence afterward was horrific.

Daryl froze completely.

You heard Glenn quietly go, “Oh, man.”

Like someone witnessing a car crash.

“I’m fine,” you said too quickly, wiping at your face. Which only made more tears come. “Forget it.”

Daryl looked genuinely horrified.

Not uncomfortable.

Horrified.

Like he’d accidentally kicked a puppy off a cliff.

“Hey,” he said immediately, voice dropping hard. “Hey, I—I weren’t yellin’ at you.”

You shook your head once, mortified beyond belief. “I know.”

But your voice wobbled.

Daryl visibly panicked.

“No, I didn’t mean—shit.” He took a step toward you and then stopped like he wasn’t sure if approaching would make things worse. “I weren’t mad at you.”

“It’s fine.”

“It ain’t fine, you’re cryin’.”

“Please stop saying that.”

His eyes widened further.

Wrong thing. Wrong thing.

Everyone in the room suddenly found somewhere else to be.

Carol disappeared first, because Carol was smart.

Rick abruptly remembered he needed to check the fences.

Glenn physically dragged Maggie away while whispering, “Do not stare at them.”

Within seconds, the entire cellblock emptied out until it was just you and Daryl standing there in unbearable silence.

You covered your face with your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

And Daryl looked like that sentence stabbed him directly in the chest.

“Why’re you apologizin’?”

“Because now you feel bad.”

“Well, yeah, I feel bad!” he burst out. “Yer cryin’!”

You made a strangled sound halfway between a laugh and another sob.

Which somehow made him even more frantic.

“Jesus Christ.”

Daryl started pacing.

Actually pacing.

You’d seen him fight walkers with less visible distress.

“I didn’t mean t’make ya cry,” he said rapidly. “I weren’t mad at you, I was mad ‘bout the run an’ Rick keepin’ dumb shit from me an’ then the bag bein’ gone an’—”

“It’s okay.”

“It ain’t okay!”

He sounded deeply offended by the very concept.

You stared at him through watery eyes.

Daryl stopped pacing long enough to point at your face helplessly.

“That’s not okay!”

You let out another watery laugh despite yourself.

And for one tiny second relief flashed across his face.

Good. Laughing was better. Laughing meant you weren’t devastated. Maybe he hadn’t permanently ruined everything.

Then you wiped your eyes again and his panic returned full force.

“Don’t cry again,” he said immediately.

“I can’t exactly turn it off.”

“Try harder.”

You blinked at him.

Daryl looked horrified at his own words the second they left his mouth.

“Not like that,” he said quickly. “Shit. I mean—”

Another laugh escaped you.

Small, shaky, but real.

Daryl seized onto it like a lifeline.

“There y’go,” he said urgently. “See? Better.”

“You’re acting insane right now.”

“Probably.”

He rubbed both hands over his face hard enough to drag his skin downward.

Then, abruptly, he vanished.

Just turned and walked away so fast you barely processed it.

You blinked after him.

“…Okay.”

An hour later, there was a dead rabbit outside your cell.

You stared at it.

Then at Daryl.

He stood three feet away with his arms crossed, aggressively refusing eye contact.

“…Is this an apology rabbit?”

“No.”

“It’s definitely an apology rabbit.”

“Ain’t.”

“It has flowers.”

There were, in fact, several badly crushed wildflowers shoved beside the rabbit’s ear.

Daryl looked furious you’d noticed.

“Carol said girls like flowers.”

Your mouth twitched.

“You asked Carol for advice?”

“No.”

“You absolutely did.”

“She said I was bein’ stupid.”

“She’s right.”

Daryl grunted.

You crouched carefully beside the rabbit, emotion swelling unexpectedly in your chest.

Because this was Daryl.

Daryl, who barely spoke when he didn’t have to.

Daryl, who hated emotional conversations so much he treated feelings like active landmines.

And somehow this man had decided the solution to making you cry was emergency gift-giving.

“I really am okay,” you told him softly.

He finally looked at you.

Still guilty.

Still miserable.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “didn’t look like it.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

The thing was, Daryl wasn’t good with polished comfort. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d sit you down and talk through emotions gently.

Daryl loved like an animal did.

Protective. restless. instinctive.

He’d sooner bleed for someone than say something vulnerable out loud.

And right then he looked ready to crawl out of his own skin because he thought he hurt you.

“It wasn’t really about you,” you admitted quietly.

His brow furrowed immediately.

“What?”

“I was already overwhelmed.”

“You still cried ‘cause of me.”

“You just… happened to be the last thing before I cracked.”

That somehow looked worse.

“Oh, that’s great.”

“Daryl—”

“So yer sayin’ everybody else managed not t’make ya cry an’ I’m the one dumbass that pushed ya over?”

You stared at him.

“That is not what I said.”

“S’what happened.”

He looked genuinely stricken.

Like this revelation had devastated him personally.

You stood slowly. “You didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“Still did.”

There it was again.

That brutal honesty.

No excuses. No defensiveness.

Just guilt.

You stepped closer carefully. “Hey.”

Daryl’s eyes flicked toward yours.

“You’re not a bad person because you snapped after a terrible day.”

His jaw tightened.

“You cried.”

“You’ve yelled at Rick worse than that.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

He looked at you like the answer should’ve been obvious.

“Because it was you.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your heart stumbled hard against your ribs.

Daryl seemed to realize what he’d admitted a second too late.

He immediately looked away.

“Forget I said that.”

“No.”

His ears went red.

“It come out wrong.”

“It came out honest.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Breathing space suddenly too small.

Daryl shifted awkwardly, looking cornered now in a way walkers had never managed.

“You hungry?” he blurted.

You blinked.

“…What?”

“I cooked the rabbit.”

“You cooked my apology rabbit?”

“Was I supposed t’keep it as a pet?”

A startled laugh burst out of you.

Daryl visibly relaxed again at the sound.

“There it is,” he muttered quietly.

“What?”

“That laugh.”

The way he said it made warmth spread through you so quickly it almost hurt.

He looked embarrassed immediately afterward, like he regretted letting the thought out.

So you saved him.

“You know,” you said carefully, “most men just say sorry.”

Daryl scoffed softly. “Most men ain’t me.”

“No,” you agreed. “They’re not.”

Something unreadable crossed his face then.

Something soft.

Terrified.

Hopeful.

He cleared his throat roughly. “C’mon. Before Carol steals half the damn food.”

You started noticing things after that.

Maybe they’d always been there.

Maybe you’d just finally learned how to see them.

Daryl lingering near you constantly.

Daryl silently handing you the better portion during meals.

Daryl checking the fences nearest your cell first every night.

Daryl appearing out of nowhere anytime someone upset you.

And God help anyone who did.

A week after the crying incident, one of the newer survivors grabbed your wrist too hard during an argument.

Daryl saw it from twenty feet away.

The transformation was immediate.

One second he’d been skinning a squirrel.

The next he was across the yard like a storm.

“Take yer hand off her.”

The man let go instantly.

Mostly because Daryl looked fully prepared to kill him.

You touched Daryl’s arm quickly. “I’m okay.”

He didn’t look away from the man.

“Didn’t ask.”

The survivor backed up fast and wisely disappeared.

Daryl stood there breathing hard for another second before finally turning toward you.

“You okay?”

The difference between the softness in his voice now versus the anger from before nearly melted you on the spot.

“Yeah.”

His eyes scanned your face carefully anyway.

Checking.

Always checking now.

Like he never wanted to accidentally hurt you again.

You reached up before you could second-guess yourself and touched his wrist lightly.

Daryl went completely still.

“You know,” you said softly, “one crying incident doesn’t mean I’m made of glass.”

His gaze locked onto yours.

“Ain’t worried you’re glass.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

His throat worked once.

“That somebody’s gonna hurt ya.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

Because he meant everyone.

Including himself.

You stepped closer.

“So don’t.”

Daryl looked wrecked by that sentence.

Absolutely wrecked.

Like wanting you was the most dangerous thing he’d ever experienced.

“You make this real hard,” he muttered.

“How?”

His laugh came out quiet and disbelieving.

“Sweetheart, I about lost my damn mind ‘cause you cried once.”

Your breath caught.

Sweetheart.

He seemed startled he’d said it aloud.

But this time he didn’t take it back.

You smiled slowly.

Daryl stared at you like the sight hit him directly in the chest.

Then, with the hesitant uncertainty of a man approaching a wild animal, he lifted a hand and touched your face.

Rough fingertips.

Unbelievably gentle.

“You cryin’ now?” he asked suspiciously.

You laughed softly. “No.”

“Good.”

“You’re still panicking, though.”

“Ain’t panickin’.”

“You brought me three different flowers today.”

His expression turned defensive. “Found ‘em while huntin’.”

“You hate flowers.”

“They were there.”

You grinned.

Daryl groaned quietly, realizing you were making fun of him.

Then his thumb brushed your cheekbone once.

Tender. Careful.

Like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

The smile faded from your face slowly.

Not sadness.

Just feeling.

Too much of it.

Daryl noticed instantly and looked alarmed again.

“Oh hell, are you cryin’ again?”

“No!”

“You got that face.”

“What face?”

“That face before the tears start.”

You burst out laughing.

Real laughing this time.

Daryl stared at you for a second before something in him finally loosened completely.

Relief flooded his face so openly it made your chest ache.

“There y’are,” he said quietly.

And before fear could stop either of you, you leaned forward and kissed him.

Daryl made a startled noise against your mouth.

Then he kissed you back like he’d been starving for it.

One rough hand cupped the side of your face immediately, protective even now, while the other settled carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might disappear.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathing hard, Daryl rested his forehead against yours.

“You got any idea what ya do to me?” he muttered.

You smiled softly. “Probably something close to a panic attack.”

He barked out a laugh.

“Yeah. Sounds ‘bout right.”

Then he kissed you again.