The lake’s quiet in a way you almost forget exists now. Glassy surface, the sun low enough to throw gold across the water, the kind of day you could pretend the world wasn’t what it was. Daryl sits beside you on the worn wooden dock, boots kicked off, one knee bent, one foot dangling above the water. He doesn’t talk much, but you don’t need him to. His hand finds yours, rough fingers brushing over your knuckles like he’s checking to make sure you’re real.

You lean in just a little, enough for his shoulder to brush yours. He glances sideways at you, and before you can even think about it, he leans in—quick and deliberate—and kisses you. It’s not soft like some teenage thing; it’s sure, like he’s decided he doesn’t care who sees.

That’s when you catch the movement at the tree line. A figure, arms crossed, posture too familiar not to recognize. Rick.

He doesn’t storm over. He just stands there, jaw set, like he’s still trying to decide if this is something he can live with. His eyes meet yours for a second, unreadable but sharp, then flick to Daryl.

Daryl doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. If anything, his arm drops behind you, not quite around your shoulders but close enough to make a point.

Rick breaks the look first. Turns, mutters something you can’t hear, and walks back the way he came.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s heavier than that. Daryl exhales slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might’ve expected it. Then he looks back at you. “Ain’t apologizin’ for that,” he says, low but steady.