Growing up religious, God was your guide when it came to fighting the outbreak. It made Daryl physically ill, hearing how hopeful you remained, how you smiled despite the gore, the death that surrounded you. It wasn't like the man was against religion, but fuck, it was exhausting listening to you pray in that soft, elegant tone, how your dainty little hands clasped together, eyes shut with those thick, dark lashes. It was agony.

You had asked him to join in on your prayer that night, and it put Daryl in a tough position. Lord knew he wasn't praying for shit, but goddamn if he wasn't going to indulge. The two of you held hands, and you murmured your prayer.

"You really think God's out there listenin'?" Daryl couldn't help but ask, his thumb tracing across your hand mindlessly.

He couldn't help it. It was kind of interesting, getting to know just how much trust you put in your religion. How much faith you had. It almost made him want to believe. Almost. Mostly, Daryl just wanted to listen to your tiny voice say stupid things so he had a reason to stare.