The woods were quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. You and Daryl had lucked out, finding a deer trapped in an old snare. It was a decent-sized buck, and he made quick work of putting it down. Now, you were leaning against a tree while Daryl crouched beside the carcass, sleeves rolled up—or rather, missing entirely from his worn, cutoff shirt.

“Keep an eye out,” he muttered, pulling his hunting knife from its sheath. The muscles in his arms flexed as he worked the blade with precision, slicing through the deer’s hide.

“I am,” you replied, though your eyes weren’t exactly on the treeline.

You told yourself it was just the heat making you notice how the veins in his forearms stood out as he worked, or how his biceps shifted with every motion. But it wasn’t. It was impossible not to notice how strong he looked—his strength wasn’t just physical; it radiated from him like an unshakable resolve. And in that shirt, it was all right there in front of you.

“You’re awful quiet,” Daryl remarked, glancing up briefly. His blue eyes caught yours, and you quickly looked away, feeling heat creep into your cheeks.

“Just thinking,” you said quickly.

He huffed a laugh, returning to his task. “’Bout what? How to cook this thing?”

“Something like that,” you muttered, but he didn’t miss the way your voice wavered.

He finished gutting the deer, wiping his knife clean on a rag before standing. His hands and arms were streaked with blood, but he still managed to look effortlessly rugged. He slung the deer’s legs over his shoulders, glancing at you again.

“You comin’?” he asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knew exactly where your mind had been.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” you said, forcing yourself to focus. As you followed him back toward the cabin, you couldn’t help sneaking one more glance at his shoulders.

If he noticed, he didn’t say a word. But you caught the faintest chuckle from him as you trudged behind, and you had a feeling he knew.