(No outbreak)

Two years had passed, and somehow, this life had become yours. The quiet moments, the safety of his arms, the little house you both made into a home. And now, the tiny boy sleeping against Daryl’s chest, small fingers curled into the fabric of his vest.

You watched from the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over your chest as a tired but content smile pulled at your lips. Daryl sat on the edge of the bed, one arm cradling Theodore, the other holding the bottle steady as their son fed, his small breaths the only sound in the room.

“You’re staring,” Daryl muttered without looking up.

You huffed a small laugh, pushing off the frame to step closer. “Can you blame me?”

His lips twitched, but he kept his focus on Theodore. “Ain’t much to look at.”

You rolled your eyes, dropping onto the bed beside him. “I beg to differ.”

Silence settled between you, but it wasn’t heavy. Just the quiet kind that came with comfort. Daryl ran a gentle hand over Theodore’s back, the same hands that had held you steady through every storm, through every fight, through your father’s anger when he first found out.

Rick had come around—mostly. He still had his moments, his quiet stares, the way his jaw tightened every time he saw you pressed against Daryl’s side. But he loved his grandson. That was something.

You rested your head against Daryl’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.