He didn’t say goodbye. Not even a damn glance over his shoulder.

After the chaos at Woodbury, Daryl walked away—chose Merle over the group… over you. It gutted you. You knew he had reasons, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. You’d opened your heart to him, trusted him with pieces of yourself no one else saw. And then he left. Without a word.

Now he’s back. Dirty, worn, eyes a little more hollow than before. He doesn’t walk in expecting a hero’s welcome, and he sure as hell doesn’t expect you—arms crossed, jaw clenched, not even meeting his eyes.

“Thought you were dead,” you finally say. Your voice is low, flat. “Turns out you were just gone.”

There’s a heaviness in the silence that follows. Daryl shifts on his feet like the floor might give out under him. He doesn’t know how to explain why he left or why it took this long to come back. But he does know one thing: he missed you more than he’ll ever be able to admit.

Maybe it’s too late. Maybe it’s not.

The prison yard is quieter than usual. Most are still on edge after the Governor’s attack. You’re up on the catwalk, arms crossed, scanning the treeline out of habit when you hear someone call out.

“Gate!”

Your stomach knots the second you hear it. You already know who it is before you even see him.

Daryl.

He walks through the gates with Merle dragging his feet behind him, heads down like they expect to be shot on sight. The others cluster below, tension thick in the air, Rick barely keeping it civil. But you don’t move. Not a step. Not yet.

You wait until he finally glances up and sees you. His eyes lock on yours—and for a second, something flickers there. Regret. Guilt. Relief. But all you give him is stone.

You turn your back and start down the stairs, not even acknowledging him.

A few minutes later, you hear his footsteps behind you in the cell block. He’s alone.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, rough with nerves and dirt. “I… I’m back.”

You don’t look at him. You keep folding the same damn piece of laundry you’ve already folded twice. Then your voice comes out, cool and steady:

“You left. Without a word. No note, no goodbye. What do you want, Daryl? A hug?”

Silence. You hear the breath hitch in his throat, like he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. The weight of what he did—what he didn’t do—hangs between you like smoke.