The woods were thick with shadows and the damp smell of moss. Daryl moved through them like a ghost, his crossbow slung low, boots crunching quietly against the underbrush. He wasn’t looking for trouble, but trouble always had a way of finding him.

Except this wasn’t trouble.

It was her.

He froze when he saw her—sitting on the edge of a broken stone wall, the remnants of some long-forgotten cabin. Her hair was longer, tangled by the wild, and a faint scar cut across her cheek. The weight of years pressed between them, unspoken and raw.

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought he was seeing a ghost.

She turned her head, eyes widening in shock before narrowing with something harder. Defensive. Ready for a fight. That hurt worse than any walker bite ever could.

"You've got a hell of a lot of nerve showin' up here," she muttered, standing slowly, her hand resting on the knife at her hip.

Daryl swallowed, his voice rougher than usual. "Ain't lookin' for a fight."

"Could've fooled me," she shot back, but there was a tremble beneath the anger.

"I looked for ya," he admitted, the words grating in his throat like rusted metal. "A long time.".