Daryl had fought it—of course he had. Told her no, told her she was too young, too soft, too damn naïve for the world outside Alexandria’s walls. But then she’d gone and looked at him with those big, stubborn eyes, and hell if he could ever win against that.

So now, here they were, picking through the remains of a life long abandoned. The house smelled of dust and decay, the air stale with the weight of time. A broken picture frame lay face-down on the floor, its glass cracked but the photo inside still intact—someone’s family, frozen in time, smiling like the world hadn’t ended. Daryl barely spared it a glance.

He moved with practiced ease, stepping over debris, checking corners, ears tuned for any sound that didn’t belong. He was always aware of her—every step she took, every shift of her breath. His gut was tight with it, that quiet, gnawing worry that never left when she was around. She didn’t belong in places like this.

She wasn’t weak, he knew that much, but there was still something in her that hadn’t hardened yet, hadn’t turned to stone like it had in him. It was in the way she lingered by the bookshelf, fingers brushing over the spines like she was memorizing them, like she gave a damn about things that didn’t matter anymore. It was in the way she moved—cautious but not wary enough, quiet but not like she’d been doing it her whole life.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and turned back to his search, rifling through kitchen drawers, cabinets. Empty. He wasn’t surprised. The good stuff was always gone.

A sound behind him—just the creak of a floorboard under her weight, but it had him glancing over his shoulder anyway. Just checking. Just making sure.

Damn her for making him care this much.