The house creaked like it was breathing — old wood settling, wind dragging its fingers through shattered windows. Daryl moved ahead, crossbow raised, eyes scanning every shadow like it could bite. You weren’t far behind, the crunch of glass under your boots giving away your steps. He’d already warned you twice to stay close, but you had that restless energy again — the kind that made him grit his teeth and secretly smile when you weren’t looking.

He didn’t trust places like this. Too quiet. Too still. The kind of silence that got people killed.

You were clearing the kitchen when something small darted past your foot — a blur of black against the dirty floor. You gasped softly and crouched before Daryl even turned the corner. He stormed in, weapon drawn, eyes sharp and ready to kill whatever had moved.

Then he froze.

You were kneeling in the dust, hands cupped around a tiny, trembling black kitten. Its fur was patchy, matted from the rain, but it purred weakly as you stroked its head.

Daryl’s jaw tightened as he lowered the crossbow, exhaling through his nose. “T’hell ya doin’, girl? We ain’t cleared the other rooms yet,” he muttered, voice rough, somewhere between scolding and disbelief.

You didn’t look up, too focused on the kitten curling into your palm. He watched you for a long second — the way your eyes softened, the small smile tugging at your mouth, like even in this ruined world you could still find something gentle.

He sighed and shook his head, muttering under his breath as he checked the next drawer.

“Ya gonna get us both killed over a damn cat.”

But when you weren’t looking, he slipped a can of sardines from his bag and set it beside you.