Daryl moved quiet through the trees, crossbow steady in his grip. Tracks had led him here—boot prints too fresh to ignore, cutting across the mud near an old gas station. Somebody had been scavenging. Could be harmless, could be trouble. He wasn’t about to gamble.

He slipped past the wreck of a sedan, eyes sharp. That’s when he saw you.

You spun fast, bow raised, arrow already drawn and pointed right at his chest. Reflex had his crossbow snapping up in the same breath. Two hunters staring each other down, neither blinking, neither backing off.

Your voice came low, rough with suspicion. “Drop it. Supplies are mine.”

Daryl’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. You looked like hell—mud on your boots, blood smeared across your cheek—but steady as stone, bowstring taut without a tremor. He’d seen raiders before, but there was something different in your eyes. Fire.

“Don’t think so,” he muttered, drawl slow and sharp. “Ain’t yours to claim.” His finger itched near the trigger, but he didn’t squeeze. Not yet.

You shifted a step, circling him like a wolf sizing prey. “I know how this goes. You shoot me, take what I’ve got, and run off laughing.”

That hit him wrong. He bristled, voice harsher. “Ain’t no damn raider.” His gaze flicked over you quick—lean build, tough as iron, the same kind of edge he carried in his bones. Like lookin’ in a mirror he didn’t ask for.

“Then prove it,” you shot back, not lowering your aim.

Silence stretched, thick as barbed wire. Just the rasp of their breathing and the distant groan of a walker somewhere in the woods. Daryl’s arms burned from holding steady, but he didn’t let it show.

He finally broke it, voice low, gravel rough in his throat. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be lyin’ on the ground already.”

Your eyes narrowed, but your bow didn’t falter. “Or maybe you’re just waiting for me to slip.”

The groans grew closer, branches snapping as walkers pushed through. Daryl’s jaw locked—damn timing. He heard them before they broke the tree line.

“Guess you’ll find out,” he growled, swinging his crossbow just as the first walker stumbled through. The bolt thunked clean through its skull. He didn’t wait—reloaded in a flash, another walker down before it even reached you.

You moved too, arrow loosed sharp and true, catching one dead between the eyes. Another fell to your blade before Daryl could reload again. Quick, brutal, no wasted motion.

By the time the last corpse hit the dirt, both of you were breathing hard, weapons still up—but this time not aimed at each other.

Daryl’s gaze held yours, something different flickering behind the steel. Respect, maybe. Wariness, for damn sure. He spat to the side, lowering his crossbow just an inch.

“Told ya,” he muttered. “Ain’t no raider.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then your bowstring eased, slow, deliberate.

Didn’t mean you trusted him. Didn’t mean he trusted you. But Daryl knew one thing: whoever the hell you were, you weren’t just another scavenger.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt that same fire staring right back at him.