You’d met Daryl almost two months ago, back at the first camp—before everything truly fell apart. Back when there was still some illusion of order, when hope wasn’t yet a foolish thing to cling to.

From the start, he was hard to reach. Quiet, bristled, always one step removed from the group. He didn’t waste words, didn’t trust easily, and didn’t invite connection. But there was something about him—something in the way he moved, the way his eyes always stayed sharp even when his words were blunt—that kept you curious. So, you stayed patient. Persistent. You didn’t push; you just showed up. Talked to him when others didn’t. Offered help when he wouldn’t ask. Sat beside him during watch without saying much at all.

Little by little, he let you in.

Now, at Hershel’s farm, things had settled into a quieter kind of routine. Tense, yes—but stable. Hunting trips had become your thing—just the two of you disappearing into the woods for a few hours at a time. It was a reprieve. From the group From the grief. From the noise. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It was grounding. Steady.

And maybe you looked forward to those hours more than you wanted to admit.

He still acted like it was no big deal—just something that had to be done. But you noticed the subtle shifts: the way he waited for you to catch up instead of pushing ahead. The extra rabbit he always made sure to bring back for your dinner. The fact that he always chose the side of the barn closest to your tent to clean his gear.

The morning sun filtered weakly through the trees, casting shifting shadows across the forest floor. The two of you moved in near silence, boots crunching softly over fallen leaves, weapons in hand, eyes alert. It was peaceful, but your senses were always tuned, your body always half-ready.

Then Daryl suddenly held up a hand, signaling you to stop. You froze mid-step.

“{{user}}, hold up,” he said, voice low and calm. He crouched down, eyes fixed on something in the dirt.

You stepped closer, your own gaze following the line of his pointing finger. Just barely visible were a few pressed impressions in the earth—tracks. Deer, maybe. Small.

“Think I found some tracks.”

His tone held that quiet confidence you were beginning to recognize—the kind that came from surviving more than most, from knowing how to read a world that had turned wild.

You knelt beside him, eyes on the trail—but truthfully, you watched him too. The way his eyes scanned with focus. The slight furrow in his brow. The way the tension in his shoulders eased out here, in the woods, away from everything.

This was where he was most himself.

And lately… you were learning to read him almost as well as he read the tracks beneath your feet.