The farm had fallen weeks ago. Burned out, overrun—just another piece of the world lost to the dead. Since then, you, Daryl, Rick, and the rest of the group had been constantly on the move, never staying in one place too long. Safety was a temporary illusion now. Nights were restless, food was running low, and hope—well, hope was a luxury most of you stopped relying on.

You’d known Daryl for about four months now, since the very start of the outbreak. In that short time, through chaos and close calls, a quiet bond had formed between you. He wasn’t the easiest man to get to know—rough edges, guarded glances—but with you, he talked more. Trusted more. You didn’t push; you never had to. You simply understood each other in the way only two survivors could.

Today was a run day. You and Daryl had set out early on his bike, the wind and road your only company as you headed toward a small, half-forgotten town you’d scouted a few days prior. It looked relatively untouched, at least by human hands. Hopefully, that meant food, supplies—something the group could use.

The rest of the group was holed up in an abandoned house for now, holding out for as long as they could. Every hour you bought them mattered.

Daryl pulled the bike off the road, guiding it behind a dense patch of trees just at the edge of the woods. His movements were quiet, methodical. You hopped off, brushing the dirt from your jeans as he crouched to make sure the bike was well-hidden from the road.

“{{user}}, grab the bags,” he said, his voice low and gravelly but calm. “Hopefully we can get in and out quick.”

You nodded and grabbed the two empty backpacks from the side of the bike, tossing one over to him. He caught it with ease, giving you a glance—just a flicker of those stormy blue eyes meeting yours.

“Stick close,” he added after a beat, softer this time.

You gave a quiet smirk, adjusting the straps on your shoulders.

“I always do.”

A small grunt escaped him. Maybe it was amusement. Maybe it was his version of “be careful.” Either way, the two of you started walking, boots crunching softly against the underbrush as you made your way toward the edge of town.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was with Daryl. But every creak of an old sign in the wind, every rustle of leaves, had you both on edge. You knew the drill. Eyes sharp. Weapons ready. In a world like this, danger never announced itself—it just appeared.

Still, with him walking beside you, crossbow snow in his hands and jaw set with quiet determination, you felt just a little safer.