Digital Diary

You didn’t realize how much you missed the sound of a wooden spoon clacking against a pot until Alexandria made it possible to cook again—not just boil, but cook. Real food. Garlic sautéed in oil. Dough rising in bowls. Crackling butter, eggs cracked into hot pans. You had spices now. Not many, but enough. Enough to make you feel human again.

You stirred the soup gently, humming to yourself, bare feet cold against the tiled kitchen floor. The windows were open, and somewhere down the street, Judith was laughing. That kind of laughter—the kind that didn’t sound like it came from someone holding their breath—was new. A rare luxury. You soaked in the sound.

Your little house wasn’t much. It had peeling baseboards and that one light in the hallway that flickered if you stepped too hard. But it was clean. Yours. You’d hung mismatched rugs, lit candles with no scent left in them, fluffed pillows that didn’t quite match, and named the little houseplant on the windowsill “Martha” just to remind yourself to water her.

And for some reason, lately, Daryl Dixon kept showing up.

“Got ya wrench,” he said gruffly from your doorway, holding up a rusted tool with one gloved hand.

You looked over your shoulder. “Did I… ask for a wrench?”

“Nah. Figured y’might need one eventually,” he muttered.

You quirked a brow. “You sure that wasn’t just an excuse to show up during dinner?”

He shrugged like it was possible. “Smelled somethin’ good from down the street.”

You pointed your wooden spoon at him. “Boots off.”

Daryl glanced down, pretending not to notice the trail of mud he’d already left behind. “Shit. Sorry.”

The next time he came by—two days later—he left his boots on the porch without a word.

It became a routine neither of you acknowledged. You cooked. He showed up with something—an old book, a fixed knife, once even a box of instant pudding mix he’d found “for later.” You stopped asking why. You just made enough food for two.

“Soup again?” he asked one night, eyeing the steaming bowls on your table.

You handed him a spoon. “Be grateful. It’s chicken this time.”

He gave you a crooked smile. “Damn near gourmet.”

“You ever cook, Dixon?”

He leaned back in his chair, looking far too comfortable for someone who never officially moved in. “Cooked squirrel once over a campfire. Burnt the ears off.”

You choked on your drink. “They have ears?”

“Yeah. Cute little ones. Not anymore.”

You laughed so hard you snorted, and Daryl grinned at the sound—barely, but enough.

Sometimes you’d catch him watching you. Not in a weird way. In a way that felt… reverent. Like he wasn’t quite sure how you were real. You’d be folding laundry on the couch, sleeves inside out, warm fabric tucked under your chin. You didn’t look your best—your hair was tied up in a half-falling bun, you had a smudge of flour on your cheek, and your socks didn’t match.

Still, his eyes lingered. Especially on your hands.

He didn’t know why he kept imagining them folding something smaller. Softer. Baby-sized.

Didn’t know why the thought made his heart twist like that.

One afternoon, you were putting away canned goods when you realized your shelf was suspiciously full. You stared at the neat row of tomatoes, peas, beans.

You turned toward the man fixing your porch light without being asked.

“You been sneaking in food again?”

He didn’t look back. “Ain’t sneakin’. Just settin’ it down.”

“Daryl.”

“Y’run low on stuff. I notice.”

You crossed your arms, trying to hide your smile. “You know, if you wanted an excuse to move in, there are more subtle ways.”

That made him finally glance at you. His ears went pink. “Ain’t movin’ in.”

“Sure,” you teased. “You’ve only eaten here five nights this week.”

“Six,” he corrected under his breath.

The next day, you caught him sniffing your laundry.

Not, like, creepily. He didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He’d picked up a folded shirt to move it and paused, his brow furrowing.

“Daryl?”

“Huh?” He looked up, startled, the shirt still in his hands.

You smirked. “That mine or yours?”

He glanced at it like he couldn’t tell. “Yours, I think.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat. “What soap d’you use?”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“Smells… real nice.”

Your lips curved up slowly. “You mean I smell real nice.”

He went bright red. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He dropped the shirt and muttered, “Ain’t askin’ no more favors.”

“Yes you are,” you said, grinning. “You’ll be back tomorrow.”

He tried to hide the way the corner of his mouth lifted. “Tch.”

One evening, while you were both on the porch—he was fixing your railing, you were drinking lukewarm tea—you caught him saying it.

“So,” you started casually, “you just go around fixing everybody’s house?”

“Just yours,” he said. Too quick. Too natural.

You blinked. He didn’t seem to notice.

He finished hammering in a nail and leaned back on his heels. “Was thinkin’… ya might wanna repaint this part of—” He paused, then frowned. “—your house.”

You gave him a look.

“What?” he asked, suddenly cautious.

“You were about to say home.”

“No I wasn’t.”

You grinned. “You were! ‘Your home.’ Admit it.”

He stood up, scowling. “Ain’t gotta admit shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

He muttered something under his breath about “smartass women” and stalked back inside—barefoot.

You followed him in, cheeks warm.

That night, when he left, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual.

You leaned on the frame beside him. “Y’know, you never knock.”

“Door’s always open.”

“Only for you.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Eyes soft beneath the rough edges.

“I ain’t used to this,” he murmured.

“To what?”

“This,” he said, nodding at the warm kitchen, the folded laundry, the candles melted low on the table. “Quiet. Bein’… wanted.”

You rested your hand on his arm. “Get used to it, Dixon.”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

When you shut the door behind him, you could still smell the flannel he’d left on your couch.

You picked it up, held it close, and whispered into the empty room, “You already live here, dumbass.”

From the street, Daryl glanced back once before walking home.

Or, maybe—just maybe—not home.

Not yet.

But close.

So damn close.

It started with sandwiches.

At first, just plain ones—peanut butter, or if you were feeling generous, ham with a thin slice of tomato. Then they got fancier. Little notes tucked in foil. An extra fruit wrapped in cloth. One time, you even snuck in a brownie and drew a tiny, lopsided squirrel on the napkin.

You didn’t expect him to bring anything back. But he did.

A bottle of honey. A tiny carved bear he claimed “just showed up.” A beat-up paperback with half the pages intact.

“Found this in a glovebox,” he said one afternoon, tossing the book onto your kitchen counter.

You turned it over, lips twitching. “A Beginner’s Guide to Making Soap. Is this a hint?”

“Nah,” he said, though you caught the way his eyes darted toward you. “Jus’ thought ya liked that kinda shit. Feels… homey.”

You pressed your mouth to hide a smile. “Thanks, Dixon. I’ll be sure to whip up some lavender body wash next time you stomp in here smelling like smoke and bear traps.”

He chuckled—low and gravelly. “Ain’t my fault. Nature likes me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Nature wants you to shower.”

The rhythm between you and Daryl wasn’t something you planned. It just… settled. Like dust on windowsills, or the way the kettle always whistled five minutes before he knocked.

He never asked for food. Never requested anything. He just showed up, sat down, and quietly accepted whatever you handed him.

And in return, he gave.

Little repairs around the house. Odd tools left on your porch. And one particularly cloudy morning, a shelf.

He was on his knees, screwing the last bit of wood in place beneath your window when you padded in with a mug of coffee.

“You building me furniture now?” you asked, sipping slowly.

He didn’t look up. “Ya said ya ain’t got no place for them cookbooks. Figured this’d work.”

You stared at the sturdy thing. Real wood. Sanded edges. No frills, just strong and clean.

“You made this?”

“Didn’t steal it, if that’s what yer askin’.”

You bumped your hip against his shoulder, grinning. “We’re practically married at this point.”

That made him freeze.

Just for a second.

Then he cleared his throat and rose to his feet, brushing sawdust off his jeans. “Yeah, well… ya bake good.”

The wound was stupid.

Barely a scratch, really—just a scrape along his upper arm from a rusted fence post. But it bled, and he grunted about tetanus, and you rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache.

“Sit still,” you said, holding the wet cloth to his skin.

He flinched.

“Drama queen.”

“Ain’t dramatic,” he muttered. “Y’just heavy-handed.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

You sat on the edge of the kitchen table, close enough to smell the pine on his clothes, the sweat on his collar. His shirt was half-pulled down around his arm, bunched up awkwardly against his chest. Every time he moved, the fabric lifted just enough to show a line of taut stomach, scarred and sun-kissed.

Your fingers slowed.

His eyes flicked up—watching you, not the cloth.

“Y’almost done?” he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded, but your hand didn’t move. “Yeah. Just…”

The room felt quieter than it had a moment ago. Like something was leaning in. Like the walls knew.

You looked up, and he was already looking down—at your mouth.

And there it was.

That pause. That almost.

Your breath caught.

But then he blinked, and the spell broke, and you shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “Stop fidgeting, Dixon, you’ll get blood on my floor.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Ain’t the first time, probably won’t be the last.”

Later that week, while folding your laundry, you found his flannel again.

Still draped across the arm of your couch. Still worn and warm.

You held it up, burying your nose into the fabric. It smelled like firewood and wind. Him.

You didn’t ask if he left it on purpose.

You just folded it and left it on your bed.

“Here,” he said one evening, holding something small and metal between his fingers.

You looked up from your stew. “What’s that?”

“Knife. Cleaned it. Sharpened, too.” He pressed it into your palm. “Just in case.”

Your throat caught. “Daryl…”

“Don’t mean nothin’,” he mumbled quickly, backing off. “Y’know. Jus’ in case I ain’t around sometime.”

You closed your hand around it, blade snug in the leather sheath. It was small, light, but deadly. Like him.

“I feel safer already,” you said quietly.

He shrugged, but his ears turned red.

That night, you stood together in your tiny kitchen, washing dishes side by side.

You handed him a plate. He dried it.

You reached for a cup. He bumped your hand with his elbow.

“Careful,” you teased. “I’ll sue.”

He snorted. “For what? My crossbow?”

“Damn right. I’ll mount it above my new bookshelf. Like a trophy.”

He smirked. “Still think we’re married?”

You paused, fingers submerged in soapy water. “What, you think we’re not?”

He didn’t answer.

You turned, dish towel in hand, ready to tease him again—but he was already looking at you.

That same stare. Soft, wide-eyed, awestruck.

The towel slipped from your fingers.

Your shoulders brushed. His hand was on the counter, fingers just inches from yours.

You were close enough to kiss.

You were close enough to want.

Your lips parted slightly—but then he blinked, looked away, and rubbed his jaw with a muttered, “S’gettin’ late.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He left a few minutes later without taking his flannel.

And this time, you didn’t move it.

You curled up with it on the couch, heart fluttering against your ribs like it wanted out.

He didn’t say much the next morning. Just nodded when you handed him a sandwich, tucked it into his bag, and slung his crossbow over his shoulder.

“You comin’ by for dinner?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

He hesitated at the door.

Then, real soft: “Yeah. Reckon I am.”

He stepped out, but didn’t quite shut the door behind him. You could still hear his boots on the porch.

And just before they faded, you caught it—quiet and rough, like a secret spilled from his chest:

“Ain’t that somethin’…”

You stood frozen, dish towel still in your hand, heat rushing to your cheeks.

You didn’t know if he meant the sandwich. The shelf. The almost-kiss.

Or you.

Maybe all three.

But yeah.

It was somethin’.

It started with a vision he couldn’t shake.

You, barefoot in the kitchen. The morning light soft and golden, filtering through linen curtains you hung just to make the place “feel less apocalypse-y.” A coffee mug in your hand. One of his old button-downs barely buttoned over your chest, hanging loose over your thighs.

Your belly round, swollen, alive.

The image hit him like a punch to the gut. Not because it was hot—though it was—but because it felt like something sacred. Something he had no right touching.

He blinked hard and looked away, jaw tight.

You were just standing there. Coffee in hand. Bedhead. Sleepy eyes.

Messy and real.

And his, if he ever dared to claim it.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Didn’t mean he didn’t think about it.

Didn’t mean he didn’t ache for it.

“You okay?” you asked, voice raspy from sleep.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Jus’… starin’ off.”

You moved toward the stove, yawning into your shoulder. “You want eggs or oatmeal?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the way your shirt dipped at the collar. The way your hip swayed as you reached for a pan.

God help him, he wanted to walk over, wrap his arms around you from behind, and press his hands to the curve of your belly—his baby under your skin, your soft sigh in his ear.

He hated himself for it.

But he wanted it anyway.

The rain started around noon.

By four, the power cut out.

You lit candles like it was second nature, placing them carefully in jars, tea lights on the counter. Daryl stood in the doorway watching you, arms crossed like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Cozy, right?” you said, holding a match to a stubby wick.

He grunted. “S’quiet.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Ain’t bad. Just… loud.”

You tilted your head. “That sentence made no sense.”

“Did to me,” he mumbled.

You handed him a candle in a chipped ceramic mug. “There. You get ambiance.”

He took it, blinking at the tiny flame. “Ain’t this a fire hazard?”

You smirked. “So is your attitude.”

The storm outside turned from steady rain to thunderous sheets, rattling the windows and howling through the gaps in the frame. The wind shoved hard against the house. You pulled a blanket around your shoulders, sitting on the couch cross-legged. Daryl paced once, then settled across from you in the armchair.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Just candlelight and stormlight and the quiet.

Until you said it.

“Why do you keep coming back?”

His head snapped up.

You didn’t say it with malice. Just curiosity. Just soft and warm and real.

“You’re here almost every day,” you continued. “You fix things. You eat here. You sleep on my couch when you think I don’t notice. But you never say why.”

Daryl stared into the candle like it owed him answers.

“Dunno,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “Bullshit.”

He shrugged. “Ain’t got nowhere better to be.”

“Liar.”

“I ain’t.”

You raised your brows. “So you just happen to bring me coffee filters and screws and dried lavender you found in someone’s abandoned sock drawer for no reason?”

His lip twitched. “Weren’t a sock drawer. Was a glove box.”

You smiled, but it faded quick. “Daryl. Just say it.”

“I don’t know,” he said again, voice harder now. “I jus’… it’s quiet here. Y’don’t talk too much. Smells good. You make real food. And I—shit—I like it, alright?”

You sat back, blinking at him.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and muttered, “Ain’t mean t’get loud.”

You didn’t flinch. You just said, “You’re already a part of this place. Of me.”

He looked up.

You gave him a little shrug. “Whether you realize it or not.”

The candle flickered between you.

You reached forward to adjust the glass jar around it, and your fingers brushed his.

He didn’t pull back.

You didn’t either.

His hand turned under yours, rough palm meeting your skin.

Warm. Solid. Familiar.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You let your gaze drift up to his—those stormy, uncertain eyes, like he was at war with something inside himself.

“Daryl,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to want something good.”

He inhaled through his nose, shaky.

“Ain’t used to it,” he said. “Wantin’ somethin’.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause if I want it, that means I can lose it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full—so full it felt like the room was pulsing with it.

You didn’t let go of his hand. “Maybe it’s time to stop thinking you don’t deserve it.”

He didn’t answer.

But his fingers curled around yours.

And that was something.

You stood a little while later, candle in hand, heading to the kitchen to check on the rainwater leak above the sink. You were halfway there when you felt him behind you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just lifted a hand, brushing your hair from your cheek.

Calloused fingertips against soft skin. Barely a touch. But it made you shiver.

You turned to look at him, and the candlelight caught his face just right—softened him. His brow furrowed in thought, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

You said it for him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhaled. Shaky. Relieved.

“You promise?” he asked, voice almost broken.

You nodded, stepping in just enough that your foreheads almost touched. “You already have me, Daryl. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”

Outside, the thunder rolled.

Inside, you stayed quiet.

But your hands stayed locked together until the candle burned low.

Your lips hovered over his, waiting for him to make the next move—wanting for him to make the next move. He stared up into your eyes, hesitating.

You closed the gap for him, pressing your lips into his. Dry and unmoving, you tried getting him to open up. Parting your lips, you lap at his lower lip once, twice—until he's parting his lips and taking your tongue in his.

Your tongues dance for dominance, Daryl's hands crawling lower and lower until they're rested on your hips. You suck on his lips, arching uour back to press your breasts against his hard chest. This action has the bowman grunting into the kiss, hands squeezing at your hips.

Your hands find themselves cupping his cheek and jaw as your greedily take and take and he just lays there and lets you.

As the pleasure builds inside you, so does the desperation. You're breathing harshly, your sex growing wet and hot, demanding for any kind of friction. So you give yourself exactly that.

You move your hips slowly, grinding down on Daryl's growing member. Heavy breathing fill the room as you grind harder onto him, the hard material of his jeans accentuating the feeling of bliss.

Your head starts growing light as you throw your head back, hips quickly moving back and forth as you chase after your high.

Daryl grunts and pants underneath you, eyes trained on your moving hips. His eyes shift up at yours as he looks at you through his lashes.

You smirk down at his desperate expression, planting your hand on his chest as your hips move faster. "Could you—" Daryl grits out, holding your hips down. Unable to move, you tilt your head to the right, waiting for his next move.

With his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands stay glued to your hips. The tension is thick and buzzing in the air—waiting for something, someone to move.

Then Daryl's hands move to hook your panties to the side, exposing your needy cunt. He presses his thumb onto your sensitive clit, making you roll your eyes back. He starts drawing circles, making you roll your hips.

"God, yes." You breathe out, pushing Daryl to add two more fingers, pressing onto your sex. He looks up at your for permission, only to be met with desperate eyes.

Daryl smirks, pushing his digits easily through your slick walls. A low moan leaves your chest as your hips slowly move back and forth, gringing onto his open palm.

Your fingers move nimbly to undo the last buttons of your shirt, exposing your bare breasts underneath. You can feel the way Daryl's hand hardens as soon as his gaze lay on your breasts.

Hand on his nape, you pull at him. "Open your mouth." You mutter, pulling him closer. He immediately follows your order, taking your nipple into his mouth. You let out a satisfied breath as his warm tongue circles your hardened bud.

He takes your other breast in his free hand, playing and tugging at your nipple. The stimulation from both the bottom and the top has your euphoria quickly rushing over at you.

Your moans quickly become louder as you grab and claw at the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. Your digits curl and tug as your orgasm washes over you, making your back arch and your pussy walls flutter around Daryl's digits.

You lift and lower yourself as you ride out your ecstasy. It quickly washes off, bringing you back to the present.

Looking back down at Daryl, you can't help but giggle at how desperate he looks. "Mmmm, your fingers are amazing." You move your hips into a slow circle, lifting them up.

Daryl's digits easily slip out of your cunt as you move into him, closing the gap between the both of you. You taste him once more, notes of cigarettes and musk filling your tongue.

Daryl's hips move on their own, pressing against your dripping cunt. His lips slowly move toward your neck, biting and nipping and leaving small marks until he reaches where your shoulder and neck meet.

His hands move quickly, undoing his belt and pants. His breathing is ragged and quick, but you don't point out his neediness.

"Condom?" You whisper, making him freeze.

He slowly looks up at you, eyes searching your face. You can practically see the wheels in his head turning as he thinks of another way through this.

"No..." He whispers back, still thinking of a different solution. You smile, pressing your lips into his. "Good." You watch as his eyes grow wide with your unexpected response. "Had to make sure."

"What do you—" You cut him off by taking his cock in your hand, pumping it a few times before lowering yourself on it until his head is pushing up against your ready folds.

You cradle his head, looking into his eyes before you continue lowering yourself. His size isn't something new to you, but you could never get used to his overall size. He was thick, filling you up completely, so much that it's hard to breathe.

When he's completely inside you, he stalls for a moment, holding you in his arms. He loves staying still inside you, just feeling the way your cunt pilses and grips around him.

He pulls back, only to roughly thrust in again. That first act pulls a surprised moan out of you until he's ramming his length in and out of you, his cock has the right curve to hit that bundle of nerves you love.

His hips snap at you roughly, forcing your tits to bounce and your moans to become more high-pitched, more whiny. And God knows Daryl loves hearing you come apart because of him.

With a new-found motivation, Daryl flips the both of you, pinning you to the couch. He grabs at your thighs, parting them even more to give himself more space to work with.

"God, yeah." He breathes out, eyes rolling to the back of his head as his jaw grows slack. His eyes arebshut as his hips move mechanically, as if he isn't thinking about anything else, anything at all, really.

With his head thrown back, his hips move selfishly for his own pleasure. You love how he uses your body greedily, but you don't dare tell him so he doesn't overthink his actions.

His thrusts become faster, more shallow; like he's moving less to feel you and more because he's—

"Close," He grunts, "I'm so fucking close." He's almost slurring his words as he thrusts into you, obviously nearing his release.

You gather your breasts together, looking up at him with wide eyes and scrunched brows. "Daryl?" You call out, his head snapping in attention to you. "Put a baby in me?"

The second he drinks in your lewd look, you immediately feel his release coating your walls. "Is—Is that what you want?" He hiccups, hips going still as he finishes releasing inside you.

"Want me to put a baby in ya?" He breathes into your neck, hand wrapping around your neck. Squeezing lightly, a grin stretches across your lips.

You love bringing this side out of him.

He straightens himself out, his hips resuming to deeper and slower thrusts as he regains his composure. "Hmm? That what the lil' lady want?" He mocks, tilting his head to the side.

His gaze digs into yours, moans spilling from your chest as he slowly reels upur own high in. His movements are slow but languid, building up the tension until you're ready to snap.

"Please, please!" You whine, digging your nails onto his shoulders as he squeezes your left breast. He stares at your nude body, legs eagerly open for him.

"You look ready to be a mommy." He chuckles, grunting as he feels his own release quickly approaching. "Tell ya what—" He breathes out, "Come with me," He looks into your eyes, "And I'll make sure you won't have to worry 'bout no period cramps for nine months."

The thought of him so willing to impregnate you is what pushes you over the edge. Unprepared and incredibly sensitive, your walls clamp down at his dick. Daryl groans as he releases inside you for a second time, your walls milking him dry as you pull him closer.

You can't get him close enough.

He keeps you plugged full until you've completely ridden out your orgasm, slowly pulling himself out. You feel his release slowly dripping out of you.

"Need ya pregnant by tomorrow." He mumbles into your neck, making you giggle.

"That's not how it works, Dare!" You squeal, his fingers tickling you as he slowly wraps his arms around your waist. He flips the both of you once more, settling you on top of him.

You yawn, the sense of home and peace overcoming you. It's like a big, warm hug. It's Daryl.

You look up at him one last time, studying his features, memorizing your favorite ones before letting your lids fall shut.

He woke up before you did. He usually did.

Even in Alexandria, with safety stitched into the walls and comfort stacked in jars on the shelves, Daryl’s instincts still buzzed before dawn. But for once, he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for a weapon. Didn’t sit up and scan the corners.

He just lay there.

Watching you.

You were curled up under the quilt you insisted on keeping even when the nights were warm, one leg poking out, hair a wild mess against his arm. Your breath was steady. Soft. There was a crease by your mouth from the pillow, and you had this stubborn little frown, like even in sleep you were fighting something.

He reached up and gently ran a finger across your cheek.

Didn’t know why, but the sight of you—real, messy, completely unguarded—made his chest feel too tight and too full at the same time.

He’d never had this before. Never thought he could.

Peace.

Warmth.

You.

He could’ve laid there forever.

But then you stirred, mumbling something unintelligible and blinking up at him.

“Mornin’,” he said, voice low and scratchy.

“God,” you rasped, stretching with a dramatic groan, “do you always look this good at sunrise, or is that just my dumb luck?”

He snorted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Pretty sure it’s the other way ‘round, sunshine.”

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Come on. Let’s make something that doesn’t come out of a can.”

You cooked like it was therapy. Barefoot, hair up, music humming from the old record player someone scavenged last month. Daryl didn’t know the song—it had twang and heartbreak and something about wildflowers—but it made you sway around the kitchen like you were dancing just for yourself.

Or for him.

He stood behind you, cutting up potatoes. Clumsy but focused.

“So,” he said slowly, like the words might spook you, “what would ya name a kid if ya had one?”

You dropped the spatula with a clatter.

“Jesus, Daryl.”

“What?” he shrugged, defensive but not really. “Just askin’. Ain’t like I’m handin’ ya a ring or nothin’.”

You gave him a look. “Uh-huh. That a proposal in disguise?”

He flushed, ears turning pink. “Ain’t what I meant.”

You grinned. “You’re blushing.”

“Ain’t.”

“You so are.”

He turned back to the potatoes, grumbling, “Well, you didn’t answer.”

You bit your lip, stirred the eggs. “I dunno. Something sweet. Maybe something old-fashioned. Nora, if it’s a girl. Eli for a boy.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Nora Dixon. Got a nice ring to it.”

You turned, arching a brow. “You just assigned your last name without even blinking.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, smirking, “ain’t givin’ ‘em anyone else’s.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flutter.

Later that day, you were on a supply run near the edge of town—clearing a half-looted baby store you’d always skipped, assuming there wasn’t much worth salvaging. Most shelves were dust and crumbled boxes, long since picked over.

But Daryl stopped dead in the middle of an aisle.

You turned to find him staring at something.

A crib.

Wooden, pale. A little dusty but intact. A tiny mobile still hung from one corner, faded stars and clouds gently turning.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked up to it, gave it a little push, and watched it creak back and forth.

Then—without a word—he bent down, lifted it, and carried it to the cart.

You blinked. “What… are you doing?”

He didn’t look at you. Just said, “Ain’t gonna be here next time. Someone else’ll take it.”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “You think we’ll need it?”

He paused. Just long enough to say everything without saying a word.

Then: “Hope so.”

That night, the crib sat in the corner of your bedroom, not built yet—just leaning against the wall like a promise waiting to be made.

You lay beside him in the low light, one hand on his chest, the other tracing lazy patterns across the thin scar just above his collarbone.

He was quiet. Tense in that way that meant his brain was working overtime.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded once. Then again. Then finally spoke.

“Ain’t never had a real home,” he said, voice soft. “Not one where I felt like I belonged. Always someone else’s rules. Someone else’s roof. Got used to leavin’. Got good at packin’ light.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just let your hand rest over his heart.

“But you,” he continued, “you make me wanna build one. Y’know? With walls I picked. With shit on the shelves. With meals that ain’t cold. With you in it.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, heart full to the point of aching.

“Daryl,” you whispered.

He looked up at you, expression unreadable.

You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his stubble.

“We already are.”

Then you kissed him—slow, deep, like sealing a vow you hadn’t even needed to speak aloud.

The next morning, you found his crossbow mounted on the wall.

You hadn’t heard him do it.

But there it was—above the fireplace, neat and proud and deliberate. Not tucked by the door like he was waiting to leave.

You touched the edge of it, smiling.

A silent signature.

This is where I stay.

The sun was setting when you brought two mugs of tea out to the porch. The air was warm and sticky, the sky painted in shades of honey and fire.

Daryl was already sitting there, legs stretched out, eyes on the horizon.

You handed him his mug and sat beside him, your thigh pressed to his, head resting on his shoulder.

For a while, you just breathed together.

No words.

No pressure.

Just that quiet kind of peace that only shows up when you’ve got nothing left to prove.

“So what now?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you when he answered, but his fingers laced with yours.

“Now?” he said, voice low and sure.

That night, you’re in your room with the lantern turned low. You’re sittin’ on your cot, pickin’ at your nails, tryin’ not to check the window.

But then—

You hear it.

Three soft knocks.

You freeze.

Your heart stutters like it’s been kicked awake.

You open the door slow.

And there he is.

Daryl.

Hat pulled low. Shoulders hunched. That beat-up vest still clingin’ to him like armor. His eyes find yours in the dark, unreadable. Heavy.

“Thought you was at the cabin,” you say quietly.

“I was,” he says, thumb hooked in his belt loop. “Came back a while ago.”

You nod, tryin’ not to feel too much. “Leah’s back.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

You step aside without askin’. Just like always.

He walks in slow. Doesn’t sit. Just stands in the middle of the room, breathin’ like he walked miles just to get here.

“Needed air,” he mutters.

You glance at him. “That why you came all this way?”

His eyes lift. “No.”

You nod. Look away.

He steps closer, voice low. “I just… I didn’t wanna be there.”

Your throat tightens.

“Did she say somethin’?” you ask.

“She don’t gotta,” he mutters. “She knows.”

That hits you harder than it should.

You swallow. “So what now?”

He doesn’t answer.

His hand finds the back of his neck, rubbin’ slow like he’s tryin’ to ease the weight off his shoulders.

Then, finally—

“I kept thinkin’ ‘bout this mornin’,” he says. “You wearin’ my shirt. Cookin’. Actin’ like it weren’t nothin’. Like it was just… normal.”

“It felt normal,” you whisper.

He looks at you, and for a second, you see it again—that softness, that ache. The way his face shifts when he ain’t guardin’ it.

He steps close enough that you can feel the heat off him. His hand brushes yours.

“I ain’t tryin’ to make this harder than it is,” he says, voice almost breakin’. “But it don’t feel right over there no more. Not since…”

“Since me?” you ask, barely breathin’.

He nods once.

And that’s all it takes.

You pull him into you, slow, like it’s inevitable. His hands find your back. Your face. Your hair. Like he’s been missin’ this—you—for longer than he’ll ever admit.

No kiss. No rush. Just closeness. Just breath.

You lean your head against his chest. Listen to his heart.

Steady.

Real.

“Stay?” you ask, voice trembling.

He doesn’t say yes.

But he don’t leave either.

It starts with a knock.

Not like the others. Not casual. Not confident. Just one single, hesitant tap—barely there.

Daryl already knew it was you.

He’d been sittin’ on the edge of the bed for over an hour, boots still on, elbows on his knees, jaw locked tight like he was tryin’ to keep somethin’ in.

Leah had left that morning.

Longer hunt this time. Said she’d be gone two nights, maybe three. Didn’t look him in the eye when she said it. Didn’t kiss him either.

Just slung her pack over her shoulder, muttered somethin’ about the traps near the ridge, and walked out.

And now here you are.

He opens the door slow.

You’re standin’ there in the late afternoon sun, arms crossed over your chest, eyes flickin’ past him like you’re afraid of what might still be inside.

“You sure she’s gone?” you ask, voice low.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just steps back, holds the door open.

“She’s never really here,” he says, almost too soft to hear.

You step inside.

This time feels different.

Not like the others—not like before when the ache between you was buried beneath guilt and secrecy, held back just enough to keep things from fallin’ apart.

This time, it’s already broken.

You both know it.

You stand by the table, fingers brushing the edge of the wood, and glance at him from under your lashes. “We shouldn’t.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I need you.”

And it comes out like a confession. Like a prayer.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

And then he says it again, breathless this time. “I need you.”

That’s all it takes.

You crash into each other like gravity’s been waitin’ for its chance. His hands are on your face, your hips, your thighs—all at once. Your mouth is on his, kissin’ him like it’s the last time, like it has to be. He backs you toward the bedroom, knockin’ into furniture, breathin’ heavy, muttering your name like it’s the only thing he remembers.

And when you fall into the bed, when your hands claw at his shirt, when your voice cracks around his name—

You don’t notice the boots on the porch.

You don’t hear the cabin door open.

You don’t hear Leah’s steps. Careful. Silent. Her breath held in her throat like a storm brewin’ in her lungs.

You don’t see her shadow pass down the hallway.

Because Daryl’s too busy murmur’n “I got you… I got you, baby,” into your neck.

You’re too busy trying not to cry.

Daryl slowly pushes himself inside you, seven inches already a chore to take in and his girth doesn't help either. He fills you up and you can't help but greedily take all he gives you.

His hips snap, deep and deliberate, your whimpers bouncing off of the four walls. Leah's little trinkets all over the room that confirm her presence in the bowman's life bring such a heavy sense of dread into your chest, you can't even look at them.

Eyes shut tightly, you pull Daryl closer to you, a weak attempt at muffling the pathetic sounds slipping past your lips.

The door creaks open slow.

And suddenly the air turns solid.

You feel it first—not in sound, but in the shift of energy, like the heat’s been sucked outta the room. Your eyes snap open, heart slammin’ into your ribs. You gasp—

And Daryl still doesn’t know why.

He’s still lost in you, his face buried in your shoulder, body heavy on yours, breath ragged like he’s still tryin’ to stay inside the moment.

Until she speaks.

“Well, shit.”

The voice is sharp. Hollow.

Your stomach drops.

Daryl freezes.

His whole body goes still like he’s been turned to stone. You feel his breath catch in his throat. His hands still on your skin.

Slowly, he turns his head.

And there she is.

Leah. In the doorway. Rifle in one hand, jaw clenched so tight you’re shocked it ain’t cracked.

Her eyes don’t blink. Don’t move.

They’re locked right on the two of you.

Right on him.

And then—

On you.

Your chest rises like you can’t get enough air. You scramble for the sheet, pulling it over yourself even though it’s far too late for shame.

Leah just stands there.

Still.

“I always knew you were a liar,” she says to Daryl, voice flat. “Didn’t think you were this much of a coward.”

Daryl’s mouth opens. But nothin’ comes out.

You sit up, clutchin’ the blanket, heart hammerin’. “Leah…”

She looks at you then, and the betrayal in her face is visceral. It’s not just jealousy. It’s not even anger.

It’s grief.

She’s lookin’ at you like you broke somethin’ she didn’t even know she still had.

“You?” she says bitterly. “You were the one he kept sayin’ wasn’t a threat.”

Your eyes burn.

“I—I didn’t mean for this to—”

“Don’t,” she snaps, voice hard now. “Don’t feed me that ‘I didn’t mean to’ bullshit.”

She turns to Daryl, steps closer.

“And you,” she spits, venom seeping into every word, “you could’ve told me. You could’ve looked me in the damn eye instead of fuckin’ her in our bed like I was never comin’ back.”

Daryl stands now, sheet pooled around his hips, bare chest rising and fallin’ like he’s been shot.

He tries to speak. “Leah, I—”

“Don’t.” Her hand lifts slightly, like she’s half a second away from throwin’ the rifle through the damn wall.

“I shoulda known,” she growls. “You were never really here. Not with me. You were always somewhere else. Somewhere she was.”

The words hit like bullets.

Daryl’s face twists, but he doesn’t move toward her. Doesn’t chase her.

And that’s what finally breaks her.

She laughs. Just once.

Cold.

“I hope it was worth it.”

She turns, stormin’ down the hallway, steps echoing like war drums.

A door slams. Hard.

And then… silence.

You sit frozen, wrapped in the sheet, eyes still glued to the spot she stood.

Daryl stands over you, pale, breathin’ heavy, lookin’ at the floor like it might offer him a way to crawl outta his own skin.

You speak first.

“You didn’t even see her.”

He looks up.

Your voice is hoarse. “You didn’t even notice when she came in.”

He doesn’t answer.

Because you’re right.

You pull the sheet tighter, eyes stinging.

“This was never just about sex, was it?” you whisper.

His jaw tenses. “No.”

You nod slowly. “Then what is it, Daryl?”

He takes a step forward, then stops.

Looks at you like he’s standin’ at the edge of a cliff, and the only way forward is down.

“I think…” he starts, voice breakin’, “I think you’re the only place I ever felt right.”

The words hang in the air between you.

And they don’t fix a damn thing.

Because now the damage is done.

Now Leah knows.

And there ain’t no takin’ it back.

The silence after she slammed the door didn’t last long.

Leah comes storming back before either of you can move, the air in the cabin thick enough to choke on. You’re still clutching the blanket against your chest, sitting on the edge of Daryl’s bed like you don’t know whether to run or beg the floor to swallow you whole.

Daryl stands between you and Leah now.

But it’s not enough.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” she hisses, fury rising from her throat like smoke. “You think I wouldn’t feel it? The way you looked right through me these past few weeks?”

“Leah—” Daryl starts, but she cuts him off hard.

“No. Don’t you Leah me right now, Daryl. Don’t even try to act like this was some one-time mistake.” She throws her arms out, laughing bitterly. “What the hell was I, huh? Just a warm bed while you waited for her to come knockin’ again?”

You close your eyes.

It burns.

Every word.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you say, voice hoarse.

Leah’s eyes snap to yours like knives.

“Oh, don’t,” she snarls, stepping closer. “Don’t you dare pull that I didn’t mean to card like it wasn’t you crawlin’ into my bed with him every time I turned my back.”

You try to stand, try to say something—anything—but your voice catches in your throat. Shame claws up your spine, bitter and cold.

“I should go,” you whisper, more to Daryl than to her.

You take a step toward the door, barefoot, still wrapped in nothing but a sheet and regret.

But then—

“Don’t,” Daryl says, voice low. Rough. “Stay.”

You freeze.

Leah does too.

She turns on him, eyes blazing. “That’s what this is?! Some side piece bullshit?! You gonna let her stand here wrapped in your sheets, beggin’ for scraps while I’m screamin’ for answers?”

“It ain’t like that,” he mutters, stepping forward.

“Then what the hell is it?” she snaps, chest heaving. “Tell me, Daryl. Tell me what this was. What she was.”

Daryl’s jaw clenches.

He looks at you. Then at her.

And he finally says it.

“It was never just that,” he says, voice deep and broken. “Not with her.”

The room stills.

You hear it like a slap.

Leah stumbles back a step, face cracking down the middle.

Your throat closes.

You’re still trembling, the shame mixing with something deeper. Older. Wider. The kind of grief that don’t go away with time, only learns how to sit quiet in your chest.

“I didn’t wanna be this,” you say, voice shaking. “Didn’t wanna be the woman who sneaks around. Who hides. Who waits for the real girlfriend to leave so she can be with the man she—” You stop. Choke on it. Then breathe. “I didn’t wanna love someone who belonged to someone else.”

Daryl’s eyes go soft.

And that’s what finally shatters Leah.

She makes a wounded sound. Not a scream. Not a curse. Just… pain. Real pain. From deep in her gut. Like she just realized she lost a war she didn’t know she’d been fightin’.

“I was here,” she whispers. “I stayed. I fought for you. And you never even looked back.”

“I’m sorry,” Daryl says quietly. “I shoulda ended it sooner. I just—”

“You just what?” she says sharply. “Didn’t wanna be alone?”

He doesn’t answer.

And he doesn’t have to.

Leah looks at you again, something unreadable flickering in her eyes—rage, grief, betrayal, all tangled up into something feral.

Then she turns.

Walks out the door.

This time, she doesn’t slam it.

Just closes it soft. Final.

And she’s gone.

The silence that follows is the loudest it’s ever been.

You stand there for a second, frozen in the quiet aftermath.

Then, slowly, you sit on the edge of the bed again, hands still fisted in the sheet. You don’t look at Daryl.

Not yet.

“Say somethin’,” you whisper. “Please.”

He moves toward you.

Drops to his knees in front of you, hands resting on your thighs like he’s afraid you might vanish if he touches you too much. His blue eyes lift to yours.

“Look at me,” he says gently.

You do.

Barely.

“What am I, then?” you ask. Voice small. Voice raw.

His hands slide up, cupping your face.

You feel the calluses against your skin. The way he cradles you like you’re the only soft thing left in his whole damn world.

“You’re who I shoulda picked from the start,” he says.

Your eyes well up instantly.

And this time, you don’t stop the tears.

“You’re the one I think ‘bout when I wake up,” he continues, voice thick. “You’re the one I see when I close my eyes. Even when she was right next to me, it was you. It was always you.”

You close your eyes, let your forehead fall to his.

“Then why didn’t you?” you whisper.

He pulls you closer, leans in until your breath is his, your tears on his fingers.

“‘Cause I’m a damn coward,” he says. “Didn’t think I deserved somethin’ that felt like this. Didn’t think you’d still want me after everythin’. After all the time. After her.”

You let out a small, broken laugh. “I hated every second I wasn’t with you. And I hated myself every second I was.”

He exhales slow.

Then presses a kiss to your forehead—just once. Gentle.

Like a promise.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go again,” he whispers. “Not this time.”

You nod, because it’s all you can do.

And when he holds you—really holds you—you feel the weight lift. Not all the way. But just enough to breathe again.

The sun’s already slippin’ behind the treeline when you make your way up the hill. You keep your steps light, your breath shallow, like maybe if you’re quiet enough, you can turn back without anyone ever knowin’ you came.

But there he is.

Sittin’ on the cabin steps like he’s been waitin’ since you left. Elbows on his knees, head tilted down. The late light glints off his hair, makes the strands look gold. He’s got dirt on his boots and a cigarette burnin’ slow between his fingers, the smoke curlin’ into the dusk.

Your chest aches at the sight.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just keeps his gaze fixed on nothin’. But his voice cuts through the stillness when you’re still a few feet away.

“Kinda hoped you’d come back.”

You stop.

Not because of the words, but because of the way he says ‘em.

Like he didn’t expect you to.

Like he didn’t think he deserved it.

You swallow the lump in your throat, wrap your arms around yourself even though it ain’t cold. Your voice comes out small. “You alone?”

That’s when he finally looks up.

Blue eyes soft. Tired. But honest.

“Yeah,” he says. “Been that way since she left.”

You step forward, slow.

He doesn’t say another word. Just shifts on the step and pats the empty space beside him.

You hesitate.

And then you sit.

The wood’s warm from the day’s heat. Your knees bump. You don’t pull away.

There’s a long stretch of silence—not uncomfortable, but full. Like the quiet between lightning and thunder. Like the weight of everything that ain’t been said yet is still hangin’ in the air, waitin’.

“She’s not comin’ back,” he says after a while, voice thick with something like guilt and relief all tangled together. “I ain’t askin’ her to.”

You nod once, eyes on the horizon. The sky’s turnin’ orange, soft around the edges.

“She left anything behind?” you ask, not even sure why.

He shakes his head. “Just memories.”

You let that hang there a moment. Then, softly: “So what now?”

Daryl turns to you.

He studies you like he’s still learnin’ your face—even after all this time. His gaze moves slow. Tender. Reverent, almost. Like he’s afraid he might blink and lose it all again.

He exhales deep. Scratches the back of his neck. Then:

“Now I stop runnin’.”

Your heart stutters.

He shifts closer, leans in just a little. “Been runnin’ a long damn time. From everythin’. From people who wanted me. People who loved me. From you.”

You blink fast, tryin’ to push down the sting in your eyes.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your hand. Not grabbin’. Not holdin’. Just… touchin’.

“I didn’t choose right before,” he says. “Didn’t fight for what felt right. What felt like home.”

You turn your palm, let his hand settle in yours.

“And now?” you whisper.

He squeezes gently. “Now I’m hopin’ you’ll stay.”

Your throat closes up.

You look at him—really look—and see it: the man beneath the guilt. The one who fought his way through hell and still forgot how to believe he was worth anything more than scraps.

The man who never asked for love but needed it more than anyone.

You nod once. Then again. Your voice breaks when it comes out.

“I don’t wanna go.”

His eyes soften. He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours.

“You don’t gotta,” he murmurs. “Ain’t lettin’ you go this time.”

You sit there in the quiet, the two of you curled into the kind of peace you didn’t think you’d get to feel again.

Daryl’s hands worked the blade over the wood, but his mind weren’t on the damn thing.

He sat on the steps of the porch, one boot planted firm on the ground, the other bent at the knee. A half-carved piece of pine sat in his lap, some rabbit or fox he’d started hours ago but never bothered to finish. The blade scraped, uneven, too shallow one second, too deep the next.

His jaw clenched when the cut split the grain clean through.

“Shit,” he muttered, tossing the wood aside into the growing pile by his feet.

You said you might stop by today. Didn’t say for sure. Didn’t have to. Not anymore.

Sun hung low now—late afternoon, the kind of golden light that touched everything like it was sacred. But Daryl weren’t lookin’ at the sky or the trees. He just sat there, fidgetin’ like a man waitin’ on somethin’ he wasn’t supposed to want.

He heard the soft crunch of boots on the dirt path before you even reached the clearing.

Didn’t move at first. Just listened. Every step you took lit a fuse in his blood.

Then you knocked—once.

He opened the door before your hand even drew back.

You stood there, a little out of breath like maybe you’d rushed. You didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But your eyes softened the second they landed on him. Just like always.

“Leah ain’t here,” he said.

You already knew that.

“She’s out huntin’. Left ‘round noon.”

“I know,” you said, quiet. “Ain’t here for her.”

Daryl didn’t answer. Just stepped aside.

You walked past him into the cabin like it was habit. Because it was. The heavy door creaked shut behind you, sealing the heat, the silence, the tension in like a damn tomb.

You never stayed long. Never more than a few hours. And never, never when she was around.

But you always came. Always knocked once. Always looked at him like that.

And he always let you in.

“I brought some dried peaches,” you said, settin’ the small jar on the table like that meant somethin’. “Figured you might be runnin’ low.”

He gave a grunt that might’ve meant thanks. Or not. It didn’t matter. That wasn’t why you came.

Daryl picked up the knife again and went back to the porch without sayin’ a word. You followed, just like you always did, and sat yourself on the step below his. A little too close. Not close enough.

“Workin’ on somethin’?” you asked.

He held up the mangled lump of wood, half a rabbit and half a mess. “Guess not.”

You huffed a quiet breath through your nose. Almost a laugh. “You used to be better at that.”

He looked down at you then, that half-glare of his, all narrowed eyes and twitchin’ mouth like he wanted to bite and kiss all at once.

“Maybe I ain’t been concentratin’ lately,” he drawled, his voice low and scratchy with disuse. “You got anythin’ to do with that?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you leaned back on your palms and looked out at the trees. Let the silence stretch between you like rope, thick and heavy and close to snappin’.

He lit a cigarette. Offered you one without askin’. You took it.

That, too, had become routine.

Smoke curled between you. Summer heat clung to your skin. The cabin creaked every now and then like it knew you were both lyin’ to yourselves.

“You eat today?” you asked.

He shrugged.

You didn’t push.

After a while, you stood, brushing your hands on your jeans, and passed behind him to head back inside. Your fingers—just barely—skimmed his shoulder as you did. Warm, brief. Just a touch.

Daryl flinched like he’d been branded.

He sat there for a moment after, jaw tight, heart beating hard in a chest that didn’t feel like his anymore. Then he stood and followed you in.

You were by the counter, fiddlin’ with a pot that looked like it hadn’t been used in days. “You got stew or somethin’ I can heat up?”

“Don’t need to do that,” he said, but didn’t stop you.

You poured water. Found the jar of dried meat he kept under the cabinet. Daryl leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, watchin’ you move around the place like you belonged in it.

That was the part that scared him most. You fit here. Like you’d always fit.

But Leah’s boots were still by the door. Her rifle leaned against the wall. Her scent lingered in the sheets. He was tryin’ to build somethin’ with her—something normal, stable. Safe.

And yet—

“Daryl,” you said without turning, your voice low. “Why do you still let me in?”

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

You turned around slowly, holdin’ his stare. There was no fight in your eyes, just that quiet, tired ache he’d been tryin’ to pretend he didn’t see.

“‘Cause it ain’t just sex anymore, is it?” you asked.

He looked at you like you’d just said a thing that couldn’t be unsaid.

And you had.

You’d known Daryl longer than Leah ever did. You’d seen him bloodied and broken, seen him with calloused hands and soft eyes, seen the way he shut the world out but always left the door cracked for you.

Leah never saw the whole picture. She only saw what he let her.

But you… you saw everything.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered finally, voice rough. “Ain’t right.”

“But you let me in.”

Another silence.

Another step closer.

“You don’t have to say it,” you said gently. “I already know.”

Daryl swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours like he was at war with himself.

“I keep tryin’,” he rasped. “Tryin’ to make it work with her. To be what she wants. What I’m supposed to want.”

You nodded. You understood.

“But every time she leaves, you’re the one I think about,” he added, quieter now. “Ain’t proud of that. Don’t make it right. Just… is.”

You moved closer still, slow like you didn’t wanna spook him. Reached out and touched his arm, steady this time. Real.

“Tell me to go, Daryl,” you whispered. “And I will.”

He didn’t.

Instead, his hand came up to cup your waist. Not possessive. Not rushed. Just… there.

You leaned into him, foreheads almost touching.

“You stayin’ for dinner?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

Your answer came just as soft.

“If you want me to.”

And now it’s night. Now you’re in his bed again.

Sheets that don’t smell like you. Pillows that ain’t yours. The faint scent of Leah’s perfume clingin’ to the corners of the room like a ghost that never left.

But you’re here anyway. You’ve been here before.

And so has he.

Daryl’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, jaw clenched like he’s tryin’ not to feel too much all at once. The muscles in his back are tight beneath his shirt, that old threadbare fabric stretched thin where your fingers want to be. The candlelight flickers soft over his shoulders, his neck, the wild strands of his hair.

You watch him in silence from where you lie half-covered, heart pounding like a secret you can’t bury.

“You sure ‘bout this?” he asks, voice gravel-low, southern drawl thicker than usual. It always gets that way when he’s thinkin’ too much. When he’s tryin not to want you.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Instead, you reach for him—just your fingertips on the curve of his wrist. His hand turns, rough palm catching yours like instinct.

Like home.

He exhales. Stands. Moves toward you slow like always, like he’s fightin’ every step of it even though his body already made up its mind.

By the time his lips brush yours, the war’s already over.

He’s careful when he kisses you. Always has been. It ain’t like how you imagined the first time. Ain’t violent or desperate. It’s deliberate. Like he wants to taste every part of you slow. Like he already knows what it does to you.

Your hands go to his shoulders. His shirt hits the floor. Your spine arches. His breath stutters when you sigh his name against his mouth.

This dance the both of you do—it's all-consuming. Nothing else in the world matters except for the both of you in each other's arms.

Daryl's lips trace the side of your neck, lowering until he reaches your shoulder. His breath is hot and lips are chapped and dry, but you don't find yourself complaining. Daryl was never soft, you never knew him to be that way. And you wouldn't have him any other way.

His hands travel down your waist to your hips, squeezing as you grind down on his growing, hardening sex. Daryl pulls your hips down, desperate for more. More pressure, more movement, more you.

"C'mon baby," You breathe out, a quick and rough tug pulls your head back, surprising you. "Don't fuckin' call me that." He mutters into your neck. You bring your hand up, ghosting uour thumb pver his hard jaw.

"Then what should I call you, hmm?" You egg him on, looking down at him with a daring look in your eyes. "Scumbag? Liar? Snake?" Your eyes are steeled as you look down at him, literally and figuratively.

Daryl's fingers find their way around your throat, squeezing gently in warning. "Cheater?" You breathe out, your heart dropping to your stomach the second his grip on your neck tightens.

Daryl pushes you to the side and off of him, pinning your hands to either sides of your head as he settles his hips between your legs. You try getting yourself free, pathetically compared to Daryl's strength, but you do honestly try.

"You keep runnin' that smart mouth of yers and I'll just have ta fuck that attitude outta you." His breath tickles your lips. You smile up at him, teasingly brushing the tip of your nose against his. "You wouldn't." You whisper in an overly mocking, fake-shock expression.

Daryl takes your mouth, immediately dominating your tongue. He tastes of cigarettes and bad decisions, and God help you, you love some bad decisions. He gathers your wrists in one hand, squeezing softly before bringing his free hand lower.

He squeezes your bare breasts, drawing circles arounf your hard areolas before lowering to your waist. He squeezes at your soft stomach, hand still trailing down until it reaches your drenched cunt.

He dips his palm into your pants, under your panties, finger slipping between your soft folds. "Wetter than a mothafucka'..." He mutters, pumping his finger inside and out, making your back arch in pleasure.

"Daryl—" You gasp, unable to form any more words as your brain becomes overcome with pleasure. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you arch your back, hips grinding into Daryl's hand in desperation.

A devious smirk is stuck on the corner of his mouth as he watches you hastily chase after your euphoria. It isn't until he completely pulls his hand back from your needy cunt that another sound other than begging leaves your lips.

"You fucking—" You don't get to finish your cursing. Not when Daryl immediately replaces his hand with his cock. It's red, and angry, and hard, and dripping from the top.

It's a soft nudge at first, almost like he's waiting for you to change your mind—for you to say no. But you're completely overcome with pleasure, hips jutting as you beg and whine for more.

Daryl cuts your begging short, pushing his entire length inside you. Despite months of this being your new normal, you can't get used to his size. Seven inches is already impressive, but his girth just fills you up in a way that's so aaddicting you just can't leave the man alone.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head, pleasure filling your head like cotton. Daryl pumps inside you, teeth gritting and jaw hard as he focuses on one thing and one thing alone—

How good you look all stuffed full and stupid of him.

Daryl's fingers dig into the soft skin of your hips as his thrusts become faster, harder—more powerful. He pushes himself up, looking down at where you're connected. The way you're spread open for him, taking him so deep like such a good girl. Daryl's breath stutters as he throws his head back, pleasure filling every single one of his senses.

He loses himself to the feeling of your tight, wet cunt. The thought of you so willing and obedient under him, just taking everything he gives you.

He doesn't even last another thought until he's finishing inside you, filling you with his white come. The feeling of his hot release being pumped deep inside you has you reaching your own peak, your walls spasming and squeezing his cock until he rests his dead weight on top of you.

Once your brain goes back to proper functioning, the candle’s burned down lower.

Your skin’s still hot. Sticky in the places he touched you most. His arm is slung low over your waist, hand open against your hip like he don’t wanna let go.

You’re both quiet. That kind of silence that buzzes. Like if either of you speaks, the whole thing’ll shatter.

He’s lookin’ at you again.

You’ve caught him doin’ it more lately—starin’. But not in that hungry, impatient way he used to. Not like you’re a thing he wants to devour. More like he’s tryin’ to memorize you. Etch you into his brain. Every line of your jaw. Every curve of your mouth. Every flicker of your lashes when your eyes start to close.

You roll onto your side, meetin’ his gaze full on. His hair’s a mess, eyes heavy-lidded, lips pink and parted like he wants to say somethin’ but ain’t sure if he’s allowed.

Then he says it.

“I missed you.”

Your chest squeezes.

It’s soft. Quiet. Like it snuck outta him without permission.

That’s new.

That’s dangerous.

You swallow. “Daryl—”

But he shakes his head, eyes closing for a second like he regrets it. “I know. I ain’t— I shouldn’t’a said nothin’.”

“No,” you whisper, “I just… I wasn’t expectin’ it.”

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t make it mean somethin’ it don’t.”

“Then why say it?” you shoot back, softer than you mean to.

He looks at you. Really looks.

And you can see it in his face—that tension, that pull. Like he’s hangin’ on by a thread between two lives he never asked for. The man he tries to be with her. The man he is with you.

You reach up, fingers brushing the side of his jaw, your touch featherlight. “You ever say that to her?”

Daryl doesn’t answer.

He don’t have to.

The air gets heavier.

Your eyes drift toward the ceiling, to the shadow of the rafters. “She won’t be back till tomorrow, right?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just stares at the ceiling, then shifts onto his back, hand dropping from your skin like it burns.

You feel colder instantly.

Finally, he mutters, “Yeah. She said she’d be gone ‘til mornin’.”

You nod. Slow. “Then I’ll stay the night.”

More silence.

Daryl’s chest rises once. Falls. He turns his head to look at you, somethin’ caught in his throat.

You offer the smallest smile, even if it aches a little. “If that’s what you want.”

He don’t say yes.

But he pulls the blanket over your shoulder.

And he don’t let go.

Mornin’ slips in slow through the cracks of the window—soft, golden light spillin’ across the floorboards like it’s got no idea what kind of mess it’s walking in on.

You’re barefoot in his kitchen, standin’ by the stove in his shirt. That old one, the one with the threadbare collar and the faint motor oil stain near the hem. It hits your thighs just right, worn soft from too many washes, and still smells like smoke, pine, and him.

The skillet sizzles low. You stir with one hand, holdin’ the pan steady with the other. Ain’t much food—some eggs, couple of wrinkled tomatoes, a scrap of jerky cut small—but you make do. Always have.

You hear the floor creak behind you. Feel the weight of him leanin’ on the doorway even before he speaks.

“Never seen Leah do that,” Daryl mutters, voice scratchy from sleep. “Cook in the mornin’.”

You pause, hand stillin’ mid-stir.

Don’t turn around. Not yet.

Instead, you let the silence sit for a beat, then another, before you answer, low and even: “Then why are you with her?”

Behind you, nothin’ moves.

No breath. No shufflin’ step. Just that stillness he does when he’s cornered and don’t know what to say.

You turn then. Slow. Wooden spoon still in hand, brow lifted like you’re askin’ a question he damn well knows the answer to.

Daryl’s standin’ there shirtless, jeans halfway buttoned, hair a mess and guilt painted thick across his face.

He shrugs, eyes flickin’ anywhere but yours. “Ain’t that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” you ask, voice sharp now. “You’re playin’ house with someone who don’t even see you, Daryl. You think she knows you can’t sleep unless the fire’s dyin’ low? That you hate eggs unless they’re scrambled with hot sauce? That you won’t touch coffee unless it’s been sittin’ for at least ten minutes?”

He looks up at that—surprised. Hurt.

“Don’t do that,” he says, jaw tight. “Don’t talk like she ain’t—”

“Ain’t what?” you cut in. “Ain’t here? Ain’t watchin’? Ain’t me?”

It hits him square in the chest.

You see it.

He don’t answer. Just stands there like you knocked the wind outta him, bare toes curlin’ against the wood.

The eggs are burnin’ now. You don’t care.

You set the spoon down gentle, wipe your hands on a towel, and start movin’—toward your boots by the door. You need to go. The minute’s stretchin’ too long, and the truth’s sittin’ too loud in the room.

“I shouldn’t have stayed,” you say softly, not lookin’ at him. “This was a mistake.”

You bend down to grab your things, but his voice stops you cold.

“You ain’t just someone I—” He swears under his breath. “Fuck.”

Your chest tightens. Real tight.

You straighten slow, boots still in hand, and look at him. Really look.

Then, quiet as a whisper, you ask, “Then what am I?”

Daryl stares at you, his mouth partin’ like he’s about to say it—whatever it is—but no words come out. Just breath. Ragged. Uneven.

You tilt your head, heart beatin’ in your throat. “Say it. If you know.”

He takes a step forward. Then another. His hands flex at his sides, like he wants to touch you but ain’t sure he’s got the right anymore.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’,” he finally says. “With her. With you. With any of this.”

“You knew what you were doin’ last night.”

“That ain’t fair,” he says, pain flashin’ behind his eyes.

“No,” you breathe. “It’s not. But neither is this.”

He flinches.

You pull your boots on in silence, hands trembling slightly, throat dry like you swallowed dust. You keep waitin’ for him to say somethin’. Anything.

But all he does is stand there, starin’ like if he watches hard enough, you’ll just… stay.

You grab your jacket. Turn toward the door.

But his voice catches you one last time.

“I don’t feel like this when I’m with her,” he says quietly.

You freeze.

His words hang in the air, heavy, thick like smoke. They wrap around your ribs, make your spine straighten, your chest throb.

You turn halfway. “Then why keep choosin’ her?”

He looks down. Rubs a hand over his face.

“I ain’t good at lettin’ go,” he mutters.

You nod, slow. “Yeah. I know.”

You should walk out. Should slam the door behind you and never come back. Should let him have his silence, his guilt, his half-life.

But instead, you step forward. Just once.

“You’ll have to eventually,” you whisper, eyes meeting his.

And then you’re gone.

Out the door. Into the morning light. Into the ache that’s been waitin’ for you since the second you knocked the night before.

And Daryl?

He stays in the doorway long after you disappear down the path, hands curled into fists, heart beatin’ loud in his chest.

Because it’s never been Leah.

Not really.

Not when it’s always been you.

The screen door creaks open before the sun’s fully up.

Boots crunch the dirt. A rifle hits the wall a little too hard.

She’s back early.

Leah steps into the cabin, shoulders tight and eyes sharp, like she’s expectin’ somethin’ to be wrong—like she already knows it is.

Daryl looks up from where he’s sittin’ at the table, still shirtless, thumb pressin’ a dent into the rim of a chipped mug. There’s another cup next to it. Still faintly warm.

You’re already gone.

He’d felt the emptiness the second the door shut behind you. The silence after. How it echoed in his bones.

Leah wipes her brow with the back of her hand, squints toward him. “Didn’t expect you up.”

He grunts. “Didn’t sleep much.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just walks in slow, settin’ her gear down, eyes skimming the space like she’s lookin’ for a reason to be suspicious.

And she finds one.

Her gaze lands on the counter.

The dish towel’s wrong.

Folded different. And there’s an extra fork in the drying rack.

She narrows her eyes slightly. Then looks toward the table again.

Two mugs.

One with lipstick.

Daryl catches her glance, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“You drinkin’ twice now?” she asks casually, not accusin’ yet—but close.

He shrugs, keeps his voice level. “Thought I’d pour a second one. Ended up not drinkin’ it.”

“Right,” she says, drawlin’ it out. Her boots thud soft against the wood as she makes her way across the cabin. She pauses at the edge of the bed.

The sheets ain’t tucked how she left ‘em. There’s a dent in the pillow she didn’t use.

And a hair tie on the nightstand.

Not hers.

She doesn’t touch it. Just stares. Then turns.

“You been alone the whole time?” she asks, voice low.

Daryl looks up at her.

Nods once. “Yeah.”

She watches him for a second longer, like she’s waitin’ for him to break eye contact. Waiting for guilt to leak out of his mouth like blood.

But he doesn’t blink.

Just leans back in the chair, arms crossed like he’s got nothin’ to hide.

She doesn’t push.

But she doesn’t believe him either.

Not really.

She walks to the window, stares out into the trees, and mutters, “Cabin smells different.”

Daryl doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t expect him to.

You’re back at Hilltop before noon.

Dust still clings to your jeans. Dried leaves in your hair. Your throat feels tight, like the morning’s caught there.

You drop your bag on your cot and lie back hard, arms over your face, tryin’ not to think. Not to feel.

You can still feel him.

His hand on your waist. His mouth on your neck. That look in his eyes when he said, “I missed you.”

You’ve known Daryl long enough to know what that meant. He ain’t careless with words. Don’t say shit unless it claws its way outta him.

And that one did.

You stare at the ceiling, countin’ the wooden slats like they’ll anchor you.

You tell yourself not to hope.

Not to wonder what it means that he said it.

That he watched you go without stopping you.

But it plays again in your head like it’s on loop—the way his eyes tracked your every move, like if he blinked, he might lose you for good.

You make it through the day in pieces. Nothin’ you do sticks. You drop a wrench. You forget someone’s name. You burn your hand on a kettle and don’t even curse.

They ask if you’re okay. You nod.

Lie.