It was easy to see — Daryl was caught up in your gaze. One of the reasons he had followed you in the first place, he admitted silently, though he’d told Rick it was only to make sure no walker got you while you gathered firewood.

“Alright, alright, m’comin’,” he grumbled, trudging down the hill behind you. Crossbow in hand, he moved with that slow, careful tension he always carried, though the sun was dipping low and time was short.

You reached the lake first, the quiet stretching between you as the water lapped gently at the shore. Daryl’s gaze lingered on it — the way the light hit the surface, the way it caught your reflection. He didn’t say it, couldn’t really admit it, but it was beautiful.

When he didn’t recive an response, he let the silence settle.

He didn't know what the fuck to say, i like you, blah-blah, it felt childish, stupidly-so. He was a man with more passion of eating squirrel every night than say something like that.

His crossbow hung loose in his right hand, but his attention didn’t waver. The warmth of the sun brushed the back of his neck, the quiet around the two of you strangely comforting.

“You wanted me to see somethin’?” His voice broke the stillness, gruff, casual, but there was a flicker in it — a twitch of his hand, almost reaching toward yours before he let it drop.

He chewed at his lower lip, staring down at the water, watching the sun glint against it. “We’re supposed to get back soon,” he muttered, voice low.

It wasn’t anything spectacular, not some grand gesture. Just the two of you, the quiet lake, and the sun fading behind the trees. And somehow, Daryl didn’t mind. Not now. Not at all.

“Guess we could… sit here a bit.”