{{user}} and Daryl had known each other for a long time. You’d been through hell and back together—loss, fear, survival. Through it all, he’d been your constant: your shield in chaos, your silent strength when everything else crumbled. But what exactly was between you? Were you just friends? Or was there something unspoken, fragile and unfinished, lingering in the quiet moments?

Now, he was injured—shot in the shoulder during a run gone wrong. You were the only one he trusted to help him. The others were either too busy or too hesitant to get that close.

He sat in the bathtub, his body partially submerged in warm water, steam curling softly around him. The wound on his shoulder looked angry and red, and his skin was marked with bruises and old scars. You knelt beside the tub, a gentle hand in his hair, ready to wash it as carefully as you could.

“Just… carefully,” he murmured in a low, hoarse voice, his eyes barely meeting yours before flicking away.

There was something raw in his tone—something that made your hands pause for a moment. The air between you was thick, heavy with everything unsaid.