You and Daryl were out on a supply run for Alexandria, the sun already starting to dip low behind the trees. The roads were empty, the air thick with silence that only broke under the crunch of your boots and the faint jingle of Daryl’s crossbow strap. He never let you stray too far—three minutes tops before he called your name or appeared beside you, muttering something about how “ya ain’t invincible.”

Even though you both lived in the same house, you weren’t together. Not officially. You just… existed together. Ate together. Patrolled together. Fell asleep on opposite sides of the same couch after long days. It was trust, routine, something deeper neither of you dared to name.

The shack you found wasn’t much—just four walls and a roof barely holding together. Still, it was worth a look. You moved through the kitchen, rummaging through dusty drawers and cracked cupboards, searching for anything useful.

Then—something small darted across the broken tiles.

You froze, heart leaping, just as Daryl came barreling around the corner, crossbow raised, eyes sharp. “What is it?” he barked, scanning for walkers. But instead of danger, he found you kneeling on the floor, laughing softly.

A tiny puppy—muddy, ribs showing, tail wagging weakly—had crawled out from under a cabinet and into your hands. You cradled it like it was made of glass.

Daryl exhaled, lowering his weapon with a shake of his head. He stared at you for a long second—your smile, the way the pup nuzzled into your palm—and something inside him loosened.

“Figures,” he muttered, voice low and rough as gravel. “We out here huntin’ food, and you find yourself a damn dog.”