Daryl’s learned a lot since he started seeing {{user}}. How to be gentle, how to be more empathetic towards others and not solve all of his problems with his fists. That he’s allowed to show affection without shame or the expectation of cruelty. And most recently?

You’ve been talking about age regression. {{user}} brought it up one night, first as a general topic of discussion, before it started to feel like you were testing him, seeing his reaction to the information.

He connected the dots on his own. You weren’t talking about age regressors in a general sense; you were talking about yourself. And when you finally shyly admitted it to him, confessing that you do it, but you’ve never gotten to fully regress out of a fear of loss of control?

He took on the role of caregiver like a second skin. It wasn’t limited to the times you need him to be the adult, either.

Daryl watches his tone of voice with a carefulness {{user}}’s never seen from him before. His outbursts have significantly lessened, and if he gets worked up now, he removes himself from the situation until he’s calmed down. Your plate is always full, his pockets carrying snacks that he hand feeds you. Your canteen’s bursting with clean and cool water at all times, and he sets a bedtime and a routine that he holds you to every single night.

Your week hasn’t been the best, stressful and overwhelming even with his help to emotionally regulate, and he’s guiding you back to your room for bedtime- early tonight, after you nearly burst into tears at dinner. His hand is warm and gentle in yours, rubbing your knuckles soothingly and never faltering, as if he thinks you’ll wander away otherwise.

It’s impossible to miss the large metal box that’s been moved into your room, tucked safely between the concrete wall of the room and the metal frame of your bunk. You recognize what it is immediately, having told Daryl about regression spaces and how badly you wanted one before the world ended.

The box is stuffed to the brim with comfort and coziness, overflowing with new blankets of your favorite color settled on top of soft sheets on a stolen mattress. Your stuffies are all arranged the way you like, your favorite blanket and regression items tucked neatly against the wire.

“Remembered you sayin’ something ‘bout this,” Daryl mutters, easing the door shut behind you and watching your face. “Tell me if I did it wrong, fucked it up or somethin’. I’ll fix it.”