The room smelled like dust, damp wood, and old blood.

You sat on the floor with your back pressed against the rough wooden wall, one knee drawn up against your chest as darkness settled around you. The small storage room barely deserved to be called a room at all. Four walls. One locked door. No windows.

Just another place they’d decided to throw you when they were tired of dealing with you.

A dull ache pulsed through your ribs every time you breathed too deeply.

You ignored it.

Pain was easy.

The waiting was harder.

The not knowing.

The wondering whether anyone was still looking.

Whether anyone had survived the day you disappeared.

Your jaw tightened.

No.

You refused to think like that.

If your people were alive, they wouldn’t stop searching.

Especially him.

Daryl.

The thought appeared before you could stop it.

You could practically hear his voice in your head. The constant grumbling. The irritated comments he’d throw around whenever he was worried about someone.

A humorless laugh escaped you.

If he could see you now, he’d probably yell at you before asking if you were okay.

The thought should have been comforting.

Instead it hurt.

Because hope was dangerous.

The group holding you had made sure you learned that.

You’d tried escaping more times than you could count. Every attempt ended the same way—caught before you got far enough, dragged back, and reminded exactly who was in control.

Not because you were weak.

There were simply too many of them.

Too many guards.

Too many guns.

One person could only do so much.

Outside, distant voices drifted through the walls as the camp began settling down for the night.

You leaned your head back against the wall and closed your eyes.

Then you heard it.

A sharp crack somewhere outside.

Your eyes snapped open.

Silence followed.

Then shouting.

Confused voices at first.

Then running footsteps.

A gunshot shattered the night.

Another followed.

Then another.

Your pulse spiked.

The entire camp seemed to erupt at once.

People yelling.

Orders being barked.

Someone screaming.

You pushed yourself to your feet despite the protest from your aching ribs.

Something was happening.

Something big.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the noise died away.

Not completely.

Just enough to leave behind a tense, unnatural silence.

The kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

A few seconds later, footsteps approached.

Heavy.

Purposeful.

Coming straight for the door.

They stopped outside.

The handle rattled.

Your fists clenched automatically.

The lock clicked.

And the door swung open.

Moonlight spilled into the room.

For a moment, the figure standing in the doorway was only a silhouette.

Broad shoulders.

Crossbow.

Kńife strapped to one thigh.

Then the light shifted.

And you saw him.

Daryl Dixon.

Covered in dirt.

Covered in blood.

Breathing hard.

His eyes immediately found yours.

For a second, neither of you moved.

After weeks of searching.

After every dead end and sleepless night.

He’d finally found you.

Relief flashed across his face before it disappeared behind a familiar scowl.

His gaze swept over every bruise, every scrape, every sign of what had happened while you’d been trapped here.

The grip on his crossbow tightened.

For one dangerous moment, he looked ready to k*ll every person left in the camp.

Then his eyes met yours again.

“Damn it,” he muttered hoarsely.

He took a step forward.

“You got any idea…”

The words died halfway out of his mouth.

Because now that he was actually standing here, now that he could see you alive, whatever speech he’d planned seemed to vanish.

For the briefest moment, relief cracked through the walls he’d spent weeks building around himself.

Then he swallowed hard and looked away.

“You got any idea how long I’ve been lookin’ for ya?”