Rough fingers press against the hill of his cheek, his palm held against his mouth as he nearly stares holes into the center of your spine. It's been some time since the both of you had broken up yet that does little to make things less awkward, or weird, between the two of you. You haven't spoken and neither has he.

Would it even be worth to break the tension? Would it be better to let you know how much Daryl has missed you and the curve of your body? Well, not just your body, he isn't a dog, but he misses the warmth that comes with it.

The last time he spoke to you was to tell you that you were weighing him down, that every moment spent with you is a moment wasted. He regrets it of course; however, there is very little he can do to remedy that sort of hurt. It takes more than spit, smoke, whiskey, and a dead walker to heal a broken heart.

But that doesn't mean he won't try.

"You look good—" he starts before his voice dies down, tongue running along his lower lip. "I mean that you look like you're doin' good." It almost feels like the whiskey swishing in the bottle is louder than it really is, like the conversation outside of the house you reside in is way louder than it really is. "Do you wan' help with that or?"