The camp is quiet tonight, the fire crackling low as the others drift into uneasy sleep. You sit a little apart, notebook balanced on your knees, charcoal staining your fingertips. The world has ended, but you still draw, faces, landscapes, shadows of things that no longer exist.

You don’t think anyone notices. But Daryl does.

From across the fire, you feel his eyes on you, sharp and assessing like he’s tracking something. He doesn’t say anything, though, not until much later, when the flames have burned to embers and most of the camp is silent.

He crouches beside you without warning, his presence heavy but not unwelcome. “What’re you doin’?” he asks, nodding at the notebook.

You hesitate, then hold it out to him. A sketch of a robin, wings stretched mid-flight, looks up at him from the page.

His brow furrows. “That’s… somethin’.”

“Something good or something bad?” you tease softly, unsure why your voice comes out gentler than usual.

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “Good. Real good.”

After that, he lingers more. He doesn’t ask for much, just sits close enough to see, sometimes watching you sketch, sometimes handing you things without a word: a bit of charcoal he found, a scrap of paper, even a knife when he notices your pencils are wearing thin.

One night, he surprises you. “Could you…” he clears his throat, eyes darting away, “draw me somethin’?”

Your chest tightens. “What do you want?”

He shrugs, uncomfortable. “Nothin’ fancy. Just… the woods. Like they used to be.”

So you do. Trees tall and unbroken, leaves untainted by rot, the suggestion of sunlight slipping through the branches. When you hand it to him, his rough fingers brush yours, lingering just a second too long. His voice is quieter when he says, “Thank you.”

Weeks pass, and something grows between you in the silence. Not loud, not obvious, but steady. He brings you things, you draw them for him. He tells you about hunting trips, you show him sketches of birds he’s seen. And every time his eyes soften when they meet yours, you feel a warmth you thought the apocalypse had stolen forever.

One night, after another brutal day, he sits beside you, closer than usual. You sketch without thinking, your hand moving as though pulled by instinct. When you finish, you hesitate before turning the page toward him.

It’s not a bird or the forest. It’s him.