a large serving of lukewarm meat and vegetable soup from Hershel’s kitchen sloshed around in a cream colored bowl as you slowly nudged open a white door with your back, entering a room you’d grown accustomed to.

softly kicking the door shut with the heel of your boot, your eyes landed on him.

Daryl, his back facing you, laid covered by pale-brown sheets which covered the worst of the bandages near his arrow’s stab wound, pairing the wrap around his temple, which was slightly reddened with aged blood from where Andrea’s bullet had grazed.

“didn’ i tell you? ‘m fine, Carol.”

you smiled, amused, setting the food on one of the bedside tables, before crossing your arms.

when no response was given, Daryl painfully turned, tangling himself in the bed’s blankets; greeted by your kind eyes.

“you’re not Carol.” he stated simply; eyes roaming your face, before sighing.