The forest was heavy with silence, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the crunch of boots against the damp earth. The air smelled like pine and smoke, a reminder of everything they'd just lost. Night was falling fast, shadows stretching long and deep between the trees.

Daryl’s crossbow rested against his shoulder, his gaze sharp as it swept the terrain. He hadn’t spoken much since the chaos at the prison—just enough to keep them both moving.

"We gotta find somewhere to camp," he muttered, his voice low, rough with frustration. "Ain’t gonna last much longer out here without food or rest."

He didn’t look at her when he spoke, his eyes fixed ahead like the forest itself might spit out a solution.

Damn walkers. Damn Governor. Got us scattered like damn leaves in a storm.

The weight of the moment pressed hard against them both, the ache of exhaustion and hunger gnawing at every step. He glanced over his shoulder at her, just for a second, noting how she moved—quiet, like she belonged to the woods. Like she wasn’t scared.

Still, she was here because of him. Because he’d told her to run, given her cover when the gunfire had been too close, too loud.

Should’ve stayed with the others...

But he didn’t say it. Just turned back to the path ahead, his grip tightening on his crossbow. "C’mon. Sun ain’t waitin’ on us."