"Alright, ya crybaby. C'mere." He cups the sides of your face while rubbing the grease and dirt under your eyes, parted only by your tear tracks. He wants to cry, but he knows that's not what you need. It's not what he needs either.

He'd thought you were dead. The logical part of him did anyways. The part that had been screaming for him to stop searching and just accept that he wouldn't find you again. The small chirps of optimism in the back of his mind had been adamant that you were fine. That you'd gotten away safely after being separated by the groups of walkers. You'd survived the prison collapse, why couldn't you survive this?

He wanted to believe the optimistic part of him had merit to it. But as time waned on, his searches had become begrudging, as each day getting up and hunting for any sign of you, meant another risk of stumbling across you, shambling and rotten like how they'd found Sophia. He'd have almost rather lived with the naive hope instead and simply never have it confirmed. At least then he'd never have to lay eyes on that silent mouth of yours, the teeth laid bare among necrotic flesh.

He'd never known much about you. Just a mute kid who no one could be sure about their odds of survival. You couldn't cry out for help, couldn't warn people easily. Carol had been kind enough to teach you some make shift sign language for your basic needs, but it had been Daryl that had taught you proper hand signals. One's he used to use when out hunting, when speaking meant scaring away your prey and leaving you starving for starving for a night.

He'd grabbed you by the collar of your jacket and yanked you along into the woods, all but tearing your arm out of your socket when he tugged you along after you attempted to turn back. A few days later and you'd been separated. But now you're here. Curled up in a small room at the back of a gas station that he meant to scavenge from. He indulges in a few moments of relief as he speaks. "Y'hurt? Been eatin' alright?"