You woke up to an empty space beside you, the warmth on the sheets fading. The early morning light filtered through the window, casting soft shadows across the small room. For a moment, you thought last night had been a dream—until you shifted, wincing slightly, a reminder that it definitely hadn’t been.

Pulling the thin blanket around you, you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. The cabin was silent except for the faint rustling outside. Then, you spotted him.

Daryl stood by the far side of the room, his back to you, his shoulders tense as he pulled on his shirt. But it wasn’t the movement that caught your breath—it was the scars. Long, jagged lines crisscrossed his back, old wounds now healed but still raw in their own way. A past he never talked about, a history written in flesh.

Your stomach twisted. You’d seen glimpses before, but never like this. Never with him unaware, his guard down.

“Daryl,” you murmured, voice still laced with sleep.

He stilled. For a moment, he didn’t turn. Then, slowly, he looked over his shoulder, blue eyes unreadable.

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he muttered, reaching for his vest.

You shook your head, hugging the blanket closer. “You didn’t.”

He hesitated, fingers tightening around the fabric of his vest. “Last night…”

“Was everything,” you finished for him, offering a small, sincere smile.

His jaw clenched, eyes flickering away. “Rick’ll kill me.”

You sighed, knowing he wasn’t wrong. Your dad had barely spoken to him since he found out. Had even punched him, a moment you weren’t sure either of them would ever fully recover from. But that hadn’t changed how you felt. Four months together, and your feelings hadn’t wavered.

Standing, you crossed the room, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“I promise you he wont,” you whispered.

Daryl exhaled, one of his hands coming to rest over yours.

He didn’t say it. He never did. But the way he held onto you like you were something worth keeping, said enough.