The forest was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears until every small sound felt louder than it should’ve been. Daryl moved ahead, light on his feet, crossbow in hand, eyes locked on the faint trail of a deer. You trailed behind him — not on purpose, not trying to distract him, just following his lead like you always did. You talked when you were nervous, or bored, or when silence felt like it would swallow you whole.

He didn’t say much. He never did. A grunt here, a mutter there. That was just Daryl. But today, he was tense — shoulders rigid, jaw tight, movements sharper than usual. The group was running low on food again, and he’d taken it upon himself to fix that. You wanted to help. You wanted to be useful.

The woods smelled of rain and earth. A soft breeze brushed through the trees. Daryl stopped, crouching slightly, his crossbow slowly rising. His breathing steadied — that kind of focus that could silence the whole world.

Then you saw it. A tiny red ladybug on your forearm. It made you smile in a way nothing else could anymore.

“Oh! A ladybug! Look, Daryl—”

The deer bolted, white tail flashing once before disappearing into the thick trees. The snap of its hooves echoed through the silence that followed.

You froze. Daryl didn’t move for a long moment, his hand still gripping the trigger that never got the chance to fire. When he finally turned, his face wasn’t angry right away — it was tired. Just tired. But then something cracked behind his eyes, something heavy.

“Don’t you ever shut up?” His voice broke through the sound of the rain beginning to fall. “You stupid—” He caught himself too late, the word spilling out anyway. “—bitch!”

The words hit harder than the thunder that rolled through the sky above you.

You stared at him, heart hammering in your chest, rain beginning to soak your clothes. He didn’t shout again. He just stood there, breathing hard, hands trembling slightly as if he hated himself the second the words left his mouth. Then he looked away, jaw tight, and turned back toward the trees.

The rain came harder.

By the time you found the old cabin, night had fallen. The place smelled of damp wood and dust, but it was dry. Daryl dropped his pack near the wall and started a small fire. The orange glow flickered against his face, shadows cutting across his expression. He didn’t look at you at first.

For a long time, there was only the sound of rain tapping the windows and the quiet crackle of fire. Then Daryl finally spoke, voice low, rough, almost ashamed.

“Didn’t mean that,” he muttered, eyes on the floor. “Just… don’t know how to think straight sometimes.”

He didn’t wait for an answer — just handed you his jacket and sat on the floor, next to you, staring at the flames like they might forgive him before you ever could.