you're cooking dinner. as you stand at the stove, humming, he stands beside you, shoulder to shoulder, comfortably. you hum a soft tune and he gently reaches for your loose sweater sleeve, fiddling with it.

instinctively, you jump back, hand flying to cover your arm. but it's too late, your sleeve has ridden up and he sees on your arm a deep, red walker bite. his face drains of colour and he grabs your arm.

"daryl.. y're hurtin' me."

"when was this." he mutters.