It's not the best thing I've got, but it's something." Daryl grumbled, taking the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, a mocking hiss being heard from his lips as he read the advertisement on the cigarette box that said smokers died sooner.

He wasn't wrong, Daryl knew it very well, but who cared? One way or another it was their fate and they would have to accept it sooner or later.

Luckily, before he died, he met you.

And after going through so much with you, from cannibal groups, hordes of zombies, or just plain weird people. He was proud to say that he would share your last drag.

The moon was beginning to shine, the rest of the group set up in their houses, the wind blowing through Daryl's tangled hair, while you were here, sitting in the rough cement penthouse, the cheap cigarette with the bottle of cheap wine combined with the cork already half sour and in a darkened shade of purple, the rest of the group was in their new clothes, vulnerable and weak as if they were playing house as if they were never one hair away from being torn apart by zombies, their teeth ripping off their leg, just the thought of it, Daryl shudders.