Daryl knew pain—he’d lived with it, fought through it, let it carve into him like a dull knife. Pain wasn’t unfamiliar. Never was. Never would be. But as he looked at you now, standing there with blood on your hands, arms trembling under the weight of a man you’d once laughed with, fought beside, maybe even loved—he realized he had never seen pain quite like this. It wasn’t just grief. It was devastation, the kind that settled in deep, that hollowed a person out from the inside.

He had never quite figured out what you and Jesus were to each other. Maybe you were family, maybe something more. It didn’t really matter—what mattered was that the love was real. And instead of breaking down, instead of screaming or shutting down like most would, you were here, gripping the lifeless body of someone who had once been full of so much fight, so much warmth.

The weight of him was heavy, and not just in the physical sense. Every step toward Hilltop was another reminder of what was lost. Of what couldn’t be undone. Daryl could see it in your eyes—the way they glistened but refused to spill over, the way your jaw locked so tightly it looked like it might shatter. The way you carried this burden like it was the last thing you could do for him.

Still, the sight of it made something tighten in Daryl’s chest. He wasn’t the type to comfort, wasn’t good with words, but damn if he was going to stand by and let you carry this alone.

"You don’t gotta do this, someone else can carry him.