the run was supposed to be simple. in and out. antibiotics, bandages, anything Herschel could use to slow the sickness spreading through the prison. you, daryl, tyreese, and michonne moved like a unit, quiet and practiced, nerves wound tight but controlled. then the horde came spilling out from between the buildings, bodies pressing and screaming, and zack’s car was gone in a blur of chaos and teeth and gunfire. there was no time to think about it. only time to run.

the place you broke into afterward felt wrong the second you stepped inside. too quiet. lockers lining the walls, faded murals peeling away — maybe a school once. you split up, checking rooms, the air thick with dust and old rot. every step echoed too loudly. your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

outside, while the others searched, you told daryl about the day he found you. about the store. the wine bottle. how you hadn’t meant to grab it, how your hands had moved before your brain caught up. how the shelf collapsed, glass everywhere, you trapped. how zack tried to help you and didn’t make it back out. the words tasted like rust. like confession.

he told you it was a load of bullshit, but he wasn’t cruel about it. it was sharp, blunt, like ripping off a bandage. the way he said it made you think he cared more than he wanted to admit. maybe not about the addiction. but about you.

later, everything went wrong again.

you jumped through the window without thinking, hitting the roof hard, breath knocked clean out of you. your bag snagged on the frame, dangling over the edge, walkers piling below, hands clawing, jaws snapping. you wrapped your arm through the strap and held on, muscles burning, refusing to let go even as your vision blurred.

when they finally pulled you back up, your arms were numb, your chest aching. daryl didn’t say a word. he just crouched, unzipped your bag, and froze. the bottle caught the light as he pulled it out.

“you ain't got no meds in your bag? just this?” he said.

shame hit harder than the fall. you opened your mouth but nothing came out.

“you should've kept walking that day.” he muttered.

he lifted his arm to throw it. instinct took over — your hand went to your gun. the movement was enough. enough to stop him cold.

“don't.” you said.

he stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time, like the ground had shifted under his feet. he closed the distance, crowding your space, breath hot with anger and disbelief. you couldn’t meet his eyes. his hand was fast, rough, pulling the gun from your holster.

he didn’t trust you anymore. that realization hurt worse than his grip when he grabbed your shirt, knuckles white, jaw clenched like he was holding himself back from saying something unforgivable.

“just let it go, daryl. they've made their choice.” tyreese called out. “nothing you can do about it. you just gotta let it go.”

the words cut deep, landing heavy between you both. choice. like it was that simple. like it didn’t haunt you every second of every day.

daryl dropped his hand and stepped away, shoulders tight, eyes dark. you stared at the floor, throat burning, knowing if you looked at him you’d break. the silence that followed was thick and painful, filled with everything neither of you knew how to say — the fear, the care, the helpless want to save someone who might not be able to save themselves.

and for the first time since the world ended, you felt truly alone, standing right beside the man who mattered most.