You thought you’d buried that part of your life.

The Reapers had taken you in, forced you to fight, to kill. You left before the worst of it, ran when you realized they weren’t soldiers, they were predators. But leaving didn’t erase the blood on your hands. It just made you a ghost with nowhere to go.

Until you crossed paths with him.

Daryl Dixon. Crossbow steady in his grip, eyes narrowing the moment you stepped out of the trees.

“Don’t move,” he warned, suspicion sharp in his voice. “Tell me why I shouldn’t put a bolt in your skull.”

You raised your hands. “Because I’m not with them anymore.”

Trust didn’t come easy. Not from him, not from anyone. You felt the weight of their stares in Alexandria, their fear, their anger. But it was his eyes you felt the most, watching you, judging you, testing you.

And then came the ambush. Reapers in the woods, fire and arrows raining down. You didn’t think, you just moved, knocking him out of the line of fire, shoving a knife into the throat of the man who would have killed him.

When the dust settled, your arms were bloody, your breath ragged. Daryl’s gaze met yours, blue fire burning in the night.

“You saved me,” he muttered, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Guess I did,” you answered, shaking.

Later, sitting beside him with wounds patched, he broke the silence. “Why’d you leave ’em?”