Daryl’s boots crunch quiet against the dirt as he moves along the edge of the Greene farm, crossbow hanging loose in his grip but never far from ready. The place still don’t sit right with him. Too open. Too calm. Like the world forgot how to bite out here.

He don’t like that kind of quiet.

From the barn, he can hear Hershel talking low to Rick, something about supplies and fences and “stability” like that’s something you can just build and trust. Daryl snorts under his breath, keeps walking. His eyes track the treeline instead. Always the treeline.

That’s when he spots her.

{{user}}.

Small figure near the porch steps, sleeves pushed up, hands full of something she’s clearly trying to carry all at once. Towels maybe. Or laundry. Hard to tell because she’s doing that thing again where she refuses to make it easy on herself. Arms overloaded, steps careful, like the ground might shift under her if she isn’t polite enough to it.

She almost makes it. Almost.

One of the items slips. Then another. Fabric spills down onto the porch boards like she’s losing a fight with gravity itself. She lets out a soft sound of frustration, more embarrassed than angry, and crouches quickly to gather it all back up.

Daryl slows without meaning to. He tells himself it’s just because she’s in the way. That’s all. But he don’t keep walking.

{{user}} tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, freckles catching the pale light as she glances around like she’s hoping nobody saw. Too late for that. Daryl saw. He always sees more than he wants to.

She finally gets most of it back in her arms again, stacked even worse than before. It tilts immediately.

Daryl exhales through his nose. “Jesus…” he mutters, not loud enough to be for her, but it lands anyway.

{{user}} shifts, trying to balance it, and the whole bundle threatens to collapse again. He shakes his head once, like he’s annoyed at the universe personally, and starts walking toward her.

“Yer gonna drop it again,” he says flat, like it’s not a guess.

He reaches her in a few steps and doesn’t ask. Just takes half the load out of her arms before she can argue it. Doesn’t look at her while he does it either, like eye contact might make it complicated. The stack in his hands is awkward, but manageable. Hers looks lighter now, finally.

He adjusts his grip slightly, jaw tight “Shoulda made two trips,” he adds.

Behind them, someone laughs faintly from the yard, Glenn maybe, but Daryl doesn’t care enough to check. His attention stays forward, scanning instinctively even while he’s standing still.

{{user}}’s close enough now that he can hear her breathing, soft and careful like she’s always worried she’s in the way of something. It annoys him more than it should. Not at her. Just… at the idea of it.

He nods toward the porch.

“C’mon. Before you drop it all again and gotta start over.”

It’s not said unkind. Not exactly kind either. Just Daryl. Rough edges, no extra words he doesn’t need.

Still, he doesn’t move off until she does.