Chapter Text
We stayed one night. Then another somewhere else. The mornings came colder. Frost coated abandoned cars. Our breath hung in front of us every time we spoke. Some nights we found houses. Other nights, we slept in the wagon in a giant pile with blankets piled over us.
Somewhere along the way, riding behind Daryl stopped feeling terrifying. Climbing onto the bike had stopped feeling like borrowing a ride and started feeling like climbing into my seat. I learned when he'd speed up, when he'd slow down. I even learned that if I looked over his shoulder instead of straight ahead, the roads somehow seemed less scary. I still complained every single time he twisted the throttle.
Somehow, we just kept going. The days all started looking the same. It turned out surviving looked a lot less heroic than I’d imagined. Nobody talked about it. Somewhere along the way, something else had changed, too. I wasn’t sure when it happened. Maybe it was all the miles. Maybe it was the quiet mornings in the woods or the evenings spent sharing campfires without saying much at all. We never talked about it. We weren’t… anything. But somewhere between surviving and simply existing, he’d become the person I looked for first every morning. Somewhere along the way, I’d started noticing the little things. The way he’d slow his pace without mentioning it if I fell behind. The way he’d hand me the better blanket on colder nights and pretend it wasn’t on purpose. The way I somehow always ended up sitting beside him at the fire. I wasn’t sure what was happening between us. Maybe nothing. Maybe I was imagining all of it. Either way… I didn’t think I wanted it to stop.
Winter had settled into a routine. Wake up. Pack camp. Drive. Scavenge. Hunt. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. The cold got into everything. Fingers. Toes. Bones. Even breathing felt different now. Some mornings, my chest felt tight before we’d even started walking. I’d wandered off by myself one afternoon after a hunt, leaning against a tree until I could catch my breath. It took me longer than I wanted to admit to remember why.
Asthma. I’d forgotten.
Dad used to make sure I refilled my inhaler. After he died… I stopped going into town. Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about it, too. I hadn’t needed it in years. At least… I hadn’t thought I had.
Days blurred together. Town names stopped mattering. They became places we’d already searched. Roads we’d already driven, houses we've already stayed in, campfires we’d already built. Winter didn’t seem interested in ending, and neither did the road. Our breath hung in the air every morning. Frost covered the windshields until the sun finally reached them. The fire never seemed warm enough. Somewhere along the way, we’d stopped asking where we were going. We just trusted each other to make it to the next day. It became normal.
Usually, I’d wake to the sound of his boots crunching through frost. He never actually asked if I wanted to come. He’d stop beside my blankets long enough for me to wake up, then start walking. Somewhere along the way, I’d started following without being told.
But today, by the time I crawled out from under my blankets, shivering against the winter chill, he was already gone.
Now, I was weaving through the skeletal remains of another abandoned town with Glenn. We’d already picked this place half-clean, and the silence of the streets felt heavier than usual.
"Wonder why he didn't wake me today," I murmured, the words slipping out before I could catch them.
"Hm?" Glenn glanced over, his expression curious. “…Didn’t realize he usually did.”
I blinked, feeling a flush creep up my neck. I pushed my black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose.
"You've been quiet all morning," he said with a small, knowing smile.
"Just thinking," I mumbled, tucking a strand of mouse-brown hair behind my ear. My chest felt a little tight—partly the biting cold triggering my asthma, and partly the nagging void Daryl had left in my morning.
Glenn nodded slowly. "It’s been a rough winter."
"Yeah." That didn't even cover it.
Our stockpiles were dangerously low. Every run felt like a losing battle, the bags coming back lighter and lighter. Even the hunts hadn't been enough to keep the hunger at bay for some weeks. As we turned down a narrow alley, the snow crunched softly beneath our boots, and the wind whistled through broken windowpanes like a low, mourning moan.
"Let's split up," Glenn suggested, stopping at the mouth of the alley. He pointed toward a row of weathered storefronts. "You take this side, I'll check the other. We'll meet back here in an hour?"
"Sounds good," I nodded.
"If anything feels off—"
"I'll yell," I interrupted with a small smile. I knew the drill.
He gave me one last encouraging grin before disappearing around the corner. I lingered for a second, the silence rushing back in to fill the space he left. My hand settled instinctively on the grip of my pistol, my fingers grazing the leather of my arm guards.
Every storefront was a mirror of the last: shattered glass, skeletal shelves, and doors hanging crookedly on rusted hinges. I checked a pharmacy—nothing but dust. A convenience store yielded one unopened pack of batteries and a dented can of peaches—a win, but not a miracle. I tucked them into my bag, my mind still drifting back to the man with the crossbow.
Then, across the street, I saw it. Faded, peeling lettering clung stubbornly to a cracked window: HUNTER’S SUPPLY.
My heart hammered against my ribs, and my pace quickened. A hunting shop. Please. Broadheads, fishing line, a spare bowstring, or even just some cleaning oil—I’d take anything. I pushed the door open, and the bell above it let out a sharp, piercing clang that echoed through the dead street.
"Oops," I winced, freezing in place and holding my breath, listening for the shuffle of walkers.
Silence returned. I breathed out a shaky sigh and stepped inside. The main aisles were a graveyard of empty hooks and bare shelves, but I refused to give up. I knew how people scavenged; they got greedy and rushed. They missed the small things.
I spotted a faded sign: STOCKROOM.
I pushed open the heavy door, which groaned on rusty hinges. The room smelled of damp cardboard, ancient dust, and old wood. It was dim, forcing me to squint through my glasses. Boxes were stacked nearly to the ceiling, most of them ripped open and discarded like trash. I knelt beside one. Empty. Another. Just some old fishing lures.
I reached deeper behind a collapsed shelf, my fingers brushing against something cold and plastic. I pulled it out, and my breath hitched. A bundle of crossbow bolts.
"Angel's gonna love these," I whispered, a genuine smile breaking across my face. I could already imagine the look on his face—the way he’d try to hide his gratitude behind a grunt, though his eyes would soften.
I carefully slid them into my backpack and kept digging, driven by a sudden burst of stubbornness. I found a small tin, but it was empty. I found a rusted knife, too far gone to be useful. Then, tucked beneath a soggy piece of cardboard, something soft caught my eye—a knitted, dark green hat.
I pulled it out, shaking off the dust. "Well... you're kinda cute."
I tugged it over my head, the wool immediately trapping my heat. It was far warmer than my hood. Just as I was turning to leave, I spotted a pair of leather work gloves hanging from a lone hook. They were worn at the fingertips, but the leather was still strong. I slid them on; they fit almost perfectly, hugging my small hands.
I slung my pack over my shoulder, feeling a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the hat. Crossbow bolts for him, and a bit of warmth for me. It was more than I’d hoped for.
The bell clanged again as I stepped back out into the cold, my pace lighter as I headed back toward Glenn—and the thought of Daryl.
The winter air didn't just hit me; it bit. It sliced right through my jacket, triggering that familiar, suffocating squeeze in my chest. I tugged the brim of my new knit hat lower, trying to shield my ears from the frost, and began the trek back to the meeting spot.
Halfway there, my lungs decided they’d had enough. The air felt thick, like I was trying to breathe through a wet cloth. I slowed my pace, my heart hammering against my ribs—not from fear, but from the sudden, sharp lack of oxygen. I ducked behind the rusted corner of an abandoned laundromat, pressing my back against the brick. I stared through a jagged crack in the front window, focusing on a discarded detergent bottle on the floor to ground myself, waiting for the whistling in my bronchi to settle.
“Stupid lungs,” I whispered, my voice sounding thin and fragile in the silence.
I waited until the tightness loosened its grip before pushing away from the wall. I couldn't let Glenn think I’d vanished; he was already pacing the corner up ahead, his silhouette sharp against the grey sky.
“There you are,” he said, a genuine smile breaking through his exhaustion. “Thought maybe you’d found another bookstore and decided to move in.”
I let out a small, breathless laugh. “Not this time.”
His gaze drifted to my head and hands. “Nice find.”
“I know, right?” I grinned, tugging on one of the ear flaps. “Found them in a hunting store a few blocks back. High quality.”
“The gloves too?” he asked as we fell into step, heading back toward the safety of the camp.
I held my hands up, flexing the fingers of the sturdy leather. “Fashionable and practical.”
Glenn chuckled, shaking his head. “Didn’t know those two things still existed in the world.”
“They do if you believe,” I teased, bumping my shoulder against his. He rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed. He’d grown used to my sarcasm by now—it was the one part of me that didn't shake when things got tense.
“So… any luck?” He nodded toward my dark green backpack, which felt satisfyingly heavy against my spine.
I shifted the strap, swinging the bag around to my front. I zipped it open slowly, like I was revealing a treasure chest. First, I pulled out a bundle of heavy-duty crossbow bolts, wrapped carefully to keep them from clattering.
Glenn’s eyebrows shot up. He stopped walking for a second, giving me a look that was far too knowing. “Those’ll make Daryl happy.”
I felt the heat creep up my neck, my cheeks flushing a deep red. I looked down at the bolts, a small, goofy smile tugging at my lips. “That’s what I thought.”
I didn't give him time to tease me further. I started rattling off the rest of the haul: a silver whistle, fresh batteries, a few tins of peaches, and a handful of odds and ends I’d scavenged from a bedside table.
“You win!” Glenn whistled, leaning over to peek into his own bag. “A can of beans, some duct tape… and about fifteen pounds of disappointment.”
I laughed, the sound light and genuine. “That’s rough, Glenn.”
“We should hurry before Rick decides we’ve wandered off into a herd,” he said, nodding toward the side road that led back to the farm.
I adjusted the weight of the pack, pulling the straps tight. As we walked, I tucked my hands deeper into the warmth of my new gloves, feeling the leather's rough texture. My chest still felt a little tight, a lingering reminder of my asthma, but I pushed the feeling aside. There was something much more pressing on my mind.
I could already picture the look on Daryl’s face—that subtle, barely-there softening of his eyes when he realized I’d been thinking about him. Just the thought of my Angel made the freezing wind feel a little less biting.
The sun was dipping low, bleeding orange and gold through the skeletal branches of the trees. It caught the frost on the grass, making the ground shimmer in a way that almost felt peaceful, if I let myself believe it. The sharp, familiar scent of woodsmoke hit me first, drifting through the chilly air long before the silhouettes of the cars came into view.
“Looks like they got a fire going already,” Glenn said, his voice breaking the silence.
I hummed, the sound small and soft. I adjusted my glasses, pushing them up the bridge of my nose as we crossed the final stretch of dirt. Rick was standing by the fire, locked in a low conversation with Lori, while Carol began sorting through the bags we’d scavenged.
“How’d it go?” Rick asked, his eyes scanning us for any signs of trouble.
“Found a little,” Glenn answered, shrugging the weight of his backpack off his shoulders.
“Batteries. Peaches. A whistle. A couple of odds and ends,” I added. I reached into my pack quickly, pulling out the smaller items and handing them over before anyone could dig through my things.
As I reached back in, I felt Glenn’s gaze on me. I pulled out the bundle of crossbow bolts, the fletching brushing against my palm. I caught him looking—that same curious, knowing look he’d had earlier.
“What?” I asked, furrowing my brows.
“Oh, nothing,” Glenn smirked. He didn’t say another word, just shuffled off toward Maggie with a suspicious glint in his eye.
I shrugged it off and scanned the camp. Daryl was where he always was—on the periphery, perched near the edge of the fire. His crossbow lay across his lap, his calloused fingers methodically checking the tension of the string. My heart gave a small, traitorous thump against my ribs. I wandered over, the dry leaves crunching under my boots, and dropped onto the blanket beside him.
“Found you somethin’,” I mumbled, my voice barely audible over the crackle of the flames.
“Hm?” He didn’t look up, though I saw his shoulders shift.
I held the bundle of bolts out between us. He paused, his eyes finally snapping to the gear. He reached out, his rough fingers brushing against mine for a split second as he took them.
“Where the hell’d ya find these?” His eyebrows lifted, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face.
“Hunting supply store,” I replied with a small shrug, feeling a sudden wave of shyness.
He didn’t answer immediately. He turned them over in his hands, checking the fletching and the tips one by one with a practiced eye. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the kind of look he only saved for things he actually liked.
“Good find,” he rasped.
A surge of warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading fast and hot, and it had nothing to do with the fire. I pulled my knees up to my chest, rubbing my gloved hands together to ward off the chill. He glanced down at my clothes, noticing the heavier layers I'd picked up.
“’Course ya found clothes,” he snorted, though there was no real bite to it.
“They’re warm,” I whispered, offering him a soft smile.
“Mm,” he grunted, settling back.
Just then, a shift in the wind pushed a thick cloud of grey smoke directly into my face. I gasped, the acrid air hitting the back of my throat like a physical blow. My lungs seized, that familiar, tight constriction clamping down on my chest. I jerked my head away, coughing sharply into the crook of my sleeve, trying to stifle the sound so I wouldn't draw attention.
When I finally caught my breath and looked back, Daryl was already watching me. His gaze was intense, his eyes narrowing as he read my expression.
“Ya good?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
“Yeah,” I nodded, perhaps a little too quickly. “Just... breathed in wrong.”
I cleared my throat again, the lingering wheeze vibrating in my chest. He held my gaze for a long second, his expression unreadable but focused. He didn’t say anything else, just grunted and looked back down at the bolts, but the way he lingered in my space told me he didn't believe a word of it. I wasn't sure I believed myself, either.
By the time we’d finished eating, the sun had dipped completely below the tree line, leaving the woods in a heavy, ink-black shroud. The fire crackled between us, casting orange flickers across Daryl’s weathered face. I settled onto the log beside him, the warmth of the stew bowl seeping into my palms.
Nobody looked twice anymore. It had just become my spot. For a long time, neither of us spoke. He focused on his food, and I watched the embers dance. Across the pit, Lori sat with Carl, her hand resting absently on the curve of her stomach as she murmured something to Carol. Every time I looked, the bump seemed more prominent, a fragile miracle in a world that wanted to kill everything.
“Think she’s close?” I whispered.
“A couple of months, maybe.” He followed my gaze, his expression unreadable.
I nodded, pulling my blanket tighter. “Can’t imagine being pregnant right now.”
“Hm.” He grunted, an odd look on his face, his eyes returning to the flames.
“I mean… we’re sleeping in cars, eating squirrels, and somehow we’re all just acting like this is normal.” I huffed, a flash of frustration bubbling up.
“Hm.” He shrugged, adding nothing.
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the air. I stirred the last bit of stew, the silence stretching between us. I could feel my overthinking spiralling, did he find me annoying? Was I talking too much?
“You know, sometimes I wonder why I even bother talking,” I grumbled, rolling my eyes.
A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “‘Cause ya like hearin’ yerself.”
I shot him a look, though I couldn't keep the softness out of my voice. “I was going to say because you’re good company.”
“Bullshit,” he scoffed, but he didn't move away.
A smile pulled at my lips. He just grunted again, but the silence that settled back over us wasn't heavy. It was familiar. It felt like home.
“Hey,” I said after a minute, glancing at him. “Why didn’t you wake me this morning?”
“Wanted t’hunt alone,” he muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire.
I blinked, the words stinging more than they should. “Oh. Fair enough.”
I looked away, biting my lip, my mind racing. He does this often, I don’t know why I’m upset about it. I thought back to the other mornings he’d slipped away without a word. Maybe I was being too clingy. Maybe I was just a burden he had to drag along. My chest felt tight, not from my lungs, but from that familiar, nagging fear of being too much.
“Ain’t you.” He grumbled low, nudging me with his elbow.
I froze and looked over. He was actually looking at me, his gaze intense.
“I know,” I lied, giving a faint, shaky smile. “I do kinda follow you everywhere.” I shrugged, trying to play it off.
“Damn near,” he scoffed, but there was no heat in it.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. I felt small, my confidence slipping through my fingers. We were just friends. I had to remember that.
“Don't mind ya. Just need t’be alone sometimes.” He shrugged.
The silence returned, comfortable once more. I took another bite of food, but a sudden, sharp tickle settled in the back of my throat. I turned away from the fire, coughing hard into my sleeve. The cough lingered, turning into a wheeze that made my chest tighten like a vice. I swallowed hard, forcing my breathing to slow, fighting the panic that always came when the air wouldn't come.
When I looked back, he was watching me, his brow furrowed.
“Cold gettin’ to ya?” he grumbled.
“Probably,” I shrugged, trying to hide the tremor in my breath.
“Hm.” He studied me for a second longer, his eyes searching mine, before he looked back at the fire. He didn't push, but he didn't move away either.
As the night deepened, the fire burned down to a low, pulsing glow. Lori climbed carefully into the station wagon, her movements slow and heavy. Everyone was exhausted, tiredness that went deeper than bone.
I yawned and slid off the log, slipping my black-rimmed glasses off my face. The world blurred into a smudge of grey and orange. I carefully folded them and rested them on the log right beside Daryl.
“Don’t sit on those,” I mumbled sleepily.
“Ain’t plannin’ on it,” he murmured back.
I wrapped my blanket around my shoulder and eased onto my side on the hard ground. It was cold, but it didn't bother me as much as it used to. Behind me, Daryl shifted on the log. I heard the familiar creak of his leather vest and the soft, rhythmic scrape of him checking his crossbow string. That sound, that steady, careful routine, was the only thing that could truly quiet my mind.
A year ago, the idea of sleeping five feet from a volatile, armed redneck would have terrified me. Now, as I closed my eyes and listened to his breathing, it was the safest I’d ever felt in my life.
The fire cracked softly. Someone coughed somewhere across camp. The wind rattled bare branches overhead. I pulled the blanket a little higher around my shoulders. Tomorrow we’d wake up. Pack camp. Drive. Scavenge. Hunt. Sleep. Repeat. Winter wasn’t finished with us yet.