The argument had been stupid. You both knew it. That almost made it worse.

The house was too quiet now, the kind of quiet that pressed on your ears. Daryl stood near the small table, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward you and then away again like he was afraid you’d bolt. For two days it had been like this—sharp words, clipped replies, backs turned when you passed each other. Survival you were good at. This? Not so much.

You were standing near the bed, arms folded over your chest, staring at a crack in the wall you’d memorized out of spite. You didn’t hear him move at first. You just felt the shift in the air, the weight of him close.

“Hey,” he muttered.

You didn’t answer.

There was a soft exhale behind you, frustrated and tired, and then—suddenly—Daryl dropped.

One second he was standing, the next he slid down onto his knees right in front of you, the motion awkward and ungraceful, like he hadn’t planned it at all. Your breath caught. Before you could react, he leaned forward until his forehead brushed your stomach, then tilted his head so his chin rested there instead. His hands hovered at your sides, not touching, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

You looked down.

Big mistake.

He was looking up at you with that expression—the one he never let anyone see. Eyes a little glassy, brows drawn together, mouth pulled into something helpless and soft. No crossbow. No walls. Just Daryl Dixon, wounded pride and all, wearing the most pathetic puppy-dog face you’d ever seen.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Not gruff. Not defensive. Just honest. “I know it was dumb. I shouldn’t’a snapped at you. I shouldn’t’a kept pushin’.”

His chin nudged against you as if he were anchoring himself there, afraid you’d step away. “Ain’t been sleepin’ right,” he added, voice roughening. “And that ain’t your fault. I just… I hate fightin’ with you.”

Your hands twitched at your sides.

He swallowed, eyes never leaving your face. “You matter to me. More’n my pride. More’n bein’ right.” A pause. Then, softer, almost broken “Don’t wanna lose you over somethin’ this damn stupid.”

The room seemed to shrink around the two of you, his warmth grounding, his apology heavy and real. He stayed there, on his knees, chin resting against you like a silent plea, waiting—really waiting—for whatever you decided to give him back.