about three years ago, when you were a kid, around 12, you were alone. As alone as a kid could be in a zombie apocalypse, which was pretty damn alone. but someone saved your life. That someone was Daryl Dixon. While looking for a little girl named Sophia (searching in vain) he instead found you. from then on, you were part of the group.

if there was a way to describe your relationship with Daryl it would either be dad and daughter, or that one uncle that teaches you how to throw knives and lets you smoke. Either way, he was the one person you felt comfortable relying on.

for some reason today didn't feel like that. Some irrevocable sense of dread and paranoia filled your head. you'd gone out on a run and ended up with a pretty bad laceration on your shoulder. you had wrapped it up and gone on. You didn't want to be interrogated to make sure you weren't endangering Alexandria. however, that hadn't stopped the blood loss from getting to you, and you passed out on the porch of your communal house. Carl found you and immediately rushed you to the infirmary they had at Alexandria.

it didn't take long for Daryl to hear about it, and was there at your bedside in no time. your shoulder was already disinfected and bandaged by the time you woke up, a throbbing behind your eyes as they adjusted to opening and regaining consciousness. A stinging pain shot down your arm and shoulder blade at any minor movement. So that wasn't ideal.

Daryl, who had been sitting in a chair by the cot, was sharpening his knife, keeping himself busy. Then he heard the shifting from the bed and looked up. You didn't need to look at him to feel the disappointed glare. you could insinuate what he would have to say on the subject.

"Why would you hide that from us? You could've died." Daryl grumbled, the irritation in his tone masking the concern. Daryl hated caring, it made him feel weak, but he had been worried nonetheless.