You had made a habit out of torturing Daryl with names he hated. It had started the day he groaned about his back after a long run. The way he’d scowled when you called him old man had been priceless. From then on, you used it whenever you wanted to rile him up.

Sometimes it was “grandpa” when he dozed off in a chair after patrol. Sometimes it was “grumpy old man” when he snapped at you for leaving gear out. Once, when he stumbled getting off his bike, you nearly had him growling when you muttered “careful there, fossil.”

You mostly did it because you loved how easy it was to push his buttons. The way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes narrowed, the way his ears went faintly pink when he realized you weren’t scared of him at all—it was addictive.

And even though he grumbled and threw sharp words back at you, he never told you to stop.

That night by the fence, you were busy fastening loose wire when a younger survivor strolled over, grinning like he thought he had a chance.

“You know,” he said, leaning in just a little too close, “someone like you shouldn’t waste time out here. Bet you and I could watch each other’s backs.”

Before you could answer, Daryl’s boots crunched against the dirt behind you. His voice cut through the air, low and sharp enough to slice. “She don’t need kids hangin’ off her. Go find someone your own age.”