Daryl Dixon never thought he’d be a father, not in this world. But eleven years ago, he found her—five years old, alone, clinging to a torn stuffed rabbit like it was the last thread of her old life. She didn’t cry when he crouched in front of her, just stared at him with wide, hollow eyes. He had never been good with kids, but something in him cracked that day. He couldn’t walk away.

Now she was sixteen, taller, tougher, a knife always strapped to her belt. She had his stubbornness, his silence, his ability to read people before they even spoke. But she still had a softness, buried deep.

They moved through the trees, side by side, tracking a deer. She was getting better at it—quieter, more patient. A year ago, she’d rush ahead and spook the thing. Now, she knew better.

Daryl watched as she knelt, fingers grazing the faint hoofprints in the dirt. “Still fresh,” she murmured.

He gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

They kept going, steps in sync, until she raised a hand and pointed. There, near the creek, the deer stood grazing.

She glanced at him, waiting for the signal. He didn’t give it. This was her shot.

Slowly, she raised the crossbow he’d given her last winter. Her breath was steady, her grip firm. Daryl’s chest tightened with something like pride. Not because she could kill, but because she had survived.

The bolt flew, striking true. The deer staggered, then fell.

She exhaled, lowering the bow. “Good shot,” Daryl muttered.

They walked to the deer, and she knelt beside it. “Still feels weird,” she admitted.

“Means you ain’t lost yet,” he said.

She glanced at him. “You think I will?”

Daryl shook his head. “Not if I can help it.”

She smiled, small but real. “Guess we better get to work.”

Daryl grunted in agreement, and together, they began the process of survival—same as always, but never alone.