The gates creaked open behind you. Rick walked ahead, his shoulders slumped like the world was sitting square on them. You trailed behind, steps slow, deliberate, like your body was moving out of habit more than will.

The two letters in your hand felt heavier than they should’ve. One with your name. One with his.

You didn’t cry. Not anymore. You’d used it all up somewhere between the sewer tunnels and that smoldering look Carl gave you when he said it was okay — when he told you to keep going.

The moment your boots hit the Alexandria dirt, you saw him. Daryl. Sitting on the steps by the infirmary, crossbow across his knees, chewing at his thumbnail. The second he looked up and saw your face, something shifted in him.

He stood.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t move forward.

Not yet.

You stopped in front of him and held out the letter with his name on it.

Your voice barely broke a whisper. “He wrote you.”

And then silence.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Your arms dropped to your sides like your bones couldn’t hold them anymore. And for the first time since the flames of Alexandria had died down… you let yourself breathe.

But it didn’t feel like breathing. It felt like falling apart.

He stared at the letter like it was something sharp — something that could cut just by being held. His name. Carl’s handwriting. That weight hit him square in the chest.

He didn’t take it right away.

His eyes stayed on you.

Your voice. Hollow. Empty. Like the pieces of you that made you you were still back in those tunnels with Carl.

“He wrote you.”

Daryl took a slow breath, then stood fully. The crossbow stayed behind, forgotten on the steps.

“Shit…” he rasped, rougher than usual. His hand hovered for a second before he took the letter from your fingers, careful like it might fall apart — like you might fall apart.

When his calloused hand brushed yours, you didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. You just stood there, arms limp, eyes somewhere far away.

“I’m sorry.” The words came out like gravel. Not enough. Not even close.

He looked at the letter again, fingers trembling just slightly — something you’d never seen from him before.

Then he glanced back up at you, chest tightening when he saw your lip start to quiver, even if you were fighting it hard.

“I shoulda been there,” he muttered. His voice broke on it. “I shoulda—”

You shook your head, slow.

“There was nothin’ you could’ve done, Daryl.” The words came out cracked. “He made his choice.”

Your knees buckled slightly. Daryl moved fast, arms catching you instinctively — not tight, just steady, solid. The kind of hold that says you’re not alone without needing the words.

You sank into him like your body couldn’t stand the weight anymore.

And for once, Daryl didn’t hold back.

He pulled you against him, both arms around you now, the letter still clutched tight in one hand against your back. His chin rested on the top of your head, and he didn’t say anything else. Didn’t have to.

The shaking in your body did the talking for you.

And Daryl? He held you through it.

Just like Carl would’ve wanted.