They didn’t trust you.

Why would they? You’d worn the colors of a raider crew, had blood on your hands, even if it wasn’t by choice. When Daryl dragged you through the gates, bound and bruised, you saw it in their eyes: fear, hatred, suspicion.

But his eyes were the worst.

Blue, sharp, cutting straight through you like arrows. Every move you made, every word you spoke, he was there in the corner of your vision, watching.

At night you slept under guard. In the day, you were forced to haul water, gather firewood, prove you weren’t a danger. Still, the whispers followed you. Raider. Killer. Can’t be trusted.

And then there was him.

Daryl never spoke more than he had to. But when a walker stumbled too close to you in the woods, it was his knife that buried into its skull before you could even scream. When someone in camp shoved you, he stepped forward, silent, but his glare alone made them back down.

He was protecting you, even if he hated himself for it.

One evening, you found yourself alone with him on watch duty. The forest stretched dark and endless, and the silence between you was heavier than the night air.

“Why’d you stay with ‘em raiders?” he finally asked, his voice rough.

You swallowed hard. “Because I didn’t have a choice.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and for the first time you thought you saw something other than suspicion in his gaze. Something like understanding.

“I ain’t like them,” you whispered. “Never was.”

He grunted, turning his eyes back to the trees.