#hypoglycemia

At this point matt is halfway between your nurse and your service dog. Within seconds of your blood sugar beginning to drop he would smell it and he’s in caregiver mode.

As soon as he notices the shift in your sugar levels he’s coming up behind you with one hand on your back, the other holding a glass of orange juice or a spoonful of peanut butter for you eat. “This should help for now till I can finish dinner”

He would almost always know before you. He also takes note early on in your relationship that you often forget to eat on schedule. So of course he starts keeping his own log of your snacks and meals. Although his senses can usually fill in the gaps for the times he forgets to log your morning smoothie or for the pb&j you had for lunch while he’s at work.

He’s so stressed as soon as your sugar drops and he stays stressed till you’re stable again. This is the only time you notice his physical age. The wrinkles scrunching on his face to reveal the worry he’s feeling inside. You can see him using every sense he has to monitor you.

“Maybe you should sit down sweetheart” His voice is almost painfully quiet. He speaks low and filled with nothing but concern. It’s written all over his features. You feel somewhat guilty he’s so concerned but you must admit you do appreciate the personal attention.

The sun had barely climbed past the trees, but the air already hung thick with heat. The Hilltop yard buzzed with the usual morning work—voices, metal scraping, boots on gravel. Daryl had been up since dawn again, working on the wall reinforcement even before breakfast.

You’d noticed he hadn’t been sleeping well. Or eating, for that matter. Always giving his share away. Always pretending it didn’t matter.

When you brought it up the night before, he’d shrugged you off with that same line:

“Others need it more.”

And you’d wanted to argue—God, you had—but there’d been kids at the table, and you didn’t want to make a scene. It would embarrass him, and an embarrassed Daryl was a grumpy one. 

Now, as the group gathered near the supply shed, sorting scavenged food, Daryl was helping unload a crate of canned goods. His movements were sluggish, but no one else seemed to notice. He bent to pick up another box—and froze halfway up.

His grip slipped.

The crate hit the dirt, cans spilling everywhere. Daryl staggered back, blinking like he couldn’t quite see straight.

“Daryl?” You said, stepping forward.

He looked up at you, but it was unfocused. Disoriented

And then his knees just gave out.

He hit the ground hard.

“Shit!” You were moving before anyone else reacted, dropping to your knees beside him. “Daryl! Hey!”

He was pale—deathly pale—and slick with cold sweat. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. His breathing was shallow, rapid. You pressed your fingers to his neck and found his pulse. Rapid.

Carol knelt beside you, voice trembling. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know yet.” You muttered, already scanning him. His forehead was clammy, skin cool. No wounds, no fever. Then you remembered—he hadn’t eaten properly in days.

“Carol, get me water. Something to eat. Now.”

Someone from the crowd—a younger guy named Trent, one of the newer arrivals—spoke up suddenly. “Hey, um—it could be hypoglycemia.”

You froze. “Hypoglycemia?”

He nodded quickly, already reaching into his pack. “Yeah. Low blood sugar. I’ve still got my sister’s old meter and strips. Haven’t used ’em. She’s gone but—” His voice caught, but he pushed through it. “They should still work as long as the battery hasn’t given up the ghost.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Let me have it.”

Trent handed over the small, precious device like it was sacred. You took Daryl’s hand, pricked his finger with the tiny lancet, and watched the bead of scarlet bloom. You positioned the strip just above the blood for it quickly spread across the end. The screen flickered to life. Three dots. Over and over. Then:

42 mg/dL.

“Christ, that’s low.” Trent murmured. “He’s crashing hard.”

Your stomach dropped as you nodded sharply. “Yeah. He needs something now.”

Carol returned with water and an expired can of peaches, confused when you shook your head. “He can’t drink yet—not until he’s more alert. He’ll choke.” You scanned the crowd. “Anyone got sugar? Candy? Honey? Anything?”

People looked amongst themselves and you felt your patience wearing thin, smothered by panic. 

“Honey!” Maggie’s voice rang out. The crowd parted for her and she nearly tumbled onto her knees beside you, shoving the half empty bottle into your hands. “It’s old. Hard, but maybe—”

You snatched it and wrenched off the top, squeezing the bottle to force the crystallized substance to give. It didn’t. “Fuck!” As everyone scrambled to find something else, you weren’t waiting. Pulling your knife, you carved open the plastic and wrenched a piece of the honey free. It wasn’t much but maybe it would be enough. 

“Under his tongue.” Trent said urgently with a wild gesture as you pulled down on Daryl’s chin to part his lips. “It—it absorbs faster that way and he won’t choke.”

Wincing at the thought of how dirty your hands likely were, you used your index finger to lift his tongue and place the honey beneath it before pressing the muscle back down. 

“Keep his head tilted so it won’t block his airway if it moves.” Maggie said, her hand rubbing Daryl’s calf muscle. 

“C’mon, Dixon.” You whispered, rubbing his chest gently with your other hand. “Don’t you fucking do this to me. You’re fine. You’re just low. Let it hit.”

Minutes passed—agonizingly slow—but then he groaned and gagged, shifting under your hands. His eyelids fluttered open, blue eyes unfocused.

“Hey.” You said softly, relief catching in your throat. “There you are.”

He blinked, confused. Rolling his head, he spat what remained of the softened honey onto the dirt. “Wha—what happened?”

“You passed out.” You replied, keeping your voice level. “Your blood sugar tanked. You’ve been skipping meals.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked away.

You sighed, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. “You can’t do that, Daryl. You can’t. You’re no good to anyone if you’re face-down in the dirt.”

Trent handed you the peaches that had been pried open at some point by one of the bystanders. “The juice might help.”

You nodded, coaxing Daryl into a sitting position to swallow small sips. His breathing steadied. Color slowly crept back into his face.

By the time you checked his glucose again, the meter read 61 mg/dL. Still low but it was climbing.

“Better.” You murmured, letting out the breath you’d been holding.

With a smile and nod, you offered the meter back to Trent. “Your sister saved him.”

The young man smiled faintly, looking down at the meter like it meant something again.

Daryl shifted, trying to get up, but you pressed a hand to his chest. “Don’t even think about it. You need to rest. And eat. Properly, this time.”

He looked up at you, eyes still glassy but sheepish. “New people comin’. Need to make sure they’re all fed.”

You frowned. “You think any of us want you starving yourself? You keep us alive, Daryl. You’re family. You don’t get to burn yourself out like this.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off. “You eat. Every meal we have. I’ll feed you if I have to.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You ain’t gonna do that.” He challenged. 

You met his gaze, unwavering. “Try me.”

The group started to disperse once they saw he was okay, murmuring reassurances and pats on the shoulder. 

You watched Daryl work on the peaches and reached out to touch his hand lightly.

“Next time you feel lightheaded, you tell me. No excuses.”

He nodded, almost guilty. “Yeah, okay. I will.”

You squeezed his hand once. “Good. Because next time, I might not have a miracle meter and a plastic bear full of hard honey.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

You smiled, voice gentle but firm. “Now finish that can of peaches—I mean it.”

Daryl lifted a hand to his brow to give a languid salute with one finger. “Yes, ma’am.”