Daryl leaned against the cell wall, your baby cradled in one arm while he carefully held the bottle with his other hand. His blue eyes stayed fixed on her as she drank, her tiny fingers gripping the edge of his vest. The sight of him like this—grizzled, rough around the edges, but so gentle with her—brought a warmth to your chest despite the lingering ache from the birth.

“She’s out cold,” he muttered, his voice low as he glanced at the baby. A faint smile softened his face, though he still looked slightly awkward holding something so small.

“She just needed her daddy,” you said softly from your cot, propped up on pillows Hershel had insisted on. Strict bed rest, he’d told you, after warning that the bleeding was more than he liked.

Daryl’s gaze flicked to you, and his expression softened even further. “Hershel said you ain’t supposed to be talkin’ so much,” he grumbled, but there was no bite in his words.

You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers over the thin blanket covering you. “I’m just saying… you’re good with her, Daryl. She’s your baby, too.”

He shifted uncomfortably, walking over to sit on the edge of your cot with the baby still nestled against his chest. “Ain’t doin’ nothin’ special,” he muttered, looking down at her. “Just tryin’ not to screw it up. She deserves better than that.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers over your daughter’s downy-soft hair. “She’s got the best. She’s got you,” you said gently, meeting his eyes.

Daryl’s jaw tightened for a moment, his gaze flicking between you and her. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice soft, “I ain’t lettin’ nothin’ happen to either of you. Don’t care what it takes.”

With him holding your daughter like she was the most precious thing in the world and that fierce determination etched into his every word, you believed him. In this broken world, he was your safe place—and now hers, too.