"Come on," he said. "Want to show you something."

She wasn't dressed, just in underwear and her tank top, but he turned while she put on her pants and boots. She saw he had no crossbow, just the knife at his belt. Probably a gun somewhere, too.

There was nothing about him that was seductive or smooth, nothing shy or coy. But after she followed him out of the cellblock and down along the first courtyard, through to the open yard where the gardens were laid out, he took her hand.

She stopped. Looked down at their hands.

"Okay?" he asked.

She nodded, and then they kept walking. She thought maybe he'd take her to the gardens, to see the animals. Then, as they turned, she wondered if they were going to the guard tower.

But no. Another turn. Were they going outside the fence?

She didn't ask, though. Just held his hand, which stayed solid in hers. Not pulling her. He was taller but he kept his pace to hers.

They went up the walkway between her star-gazing courtyard and the laundry lines where the wash crew pinned up clothes and linens. Then some stairs, crumbling, broken cement.

"Careful," he said, his hand still in hers.

Then they edged along the ledge outside of east wing of the prison, where there were still cells to clear. There were no more walkers in there, but they hadn't been made ready for people. Not yet.

Then, he stopped. "Here," he said, motioning down. "Sit." There was a flat of particle board wedged into a corner. Bolted in, by the feel. She sat down, scooted her legs up until just her feet dangled near the edge.

He joined her, after pulling something from his back. Of course - there it was, she thought, as she saw the flash of metal at his back. His gun.

"What's this?" she asked.

"My watch tower."

She looked around. There was a view, but not of the perimeter. You could barely see the yard. What you could see, mostly, was the laundry lines, swaying with white sheets.

"Not much to see from here, Daryl," she said.

"Oh, I dunno," he said. "Some people seem to find stuff to look at." He motioned toward the courtyard, the bench where she liked to sit. "Especially late at night."

Oh my god, she thought. She felt instantly stupid. How long had he been watching?

But then his hand touched her thigh. Palm spread soft over it. She looked up at him, her face a question.

He shrugged.

"I missed you, that's all," he said.

She kissed him before he could say anything else.

Making out in Daryl's watch tower was like making out with Aaron Crowther behind his dad's store. Hot. Uncomfortable. Cramped. Though back then, she didn't worry about falling down 30 feet into a mess of laundry lines.

And back then, she hadn't known what sex was like. And right now? Right now she wanted to fuck Daryl Dixon.

Even thinking that phrase - fuck Daryl Dixon - made her reel.

And just like with Aaron Crowther, they couldn't take off all their clothes. It was all reaching in, feeling under. Rubbing from weird angles.

But she didn't care. Aaron Crowther's dad couldn't find them. Nobody could find them. And nobody could hurt them, either. Not with him here. Nobody made her feel so safe. Even 30 feet in off the ground, she felt safe.

He laid back a bit to let her hand fit better down his unbuttoned pants, and he sighed when she touched his dick.

"Good?" she asked.

"Good," he said.

"You want to?" she asked.

"Do you?"

"I'm up for it, if you are." She squeezed him down there and he groaned. Laughed.

"Oh, I'm up," he said. "Bout as up as you can get."

"I don't have anything, though," she said. Pulled her hand away. Thinking of the woman who bled, the baby who died.

"I got us covered," he said, buttoning up his pants. "Come on. You're gonna get splinters in your ass," he said.

"It feels so good out here, though," she said, re-hooking her bra and finding her shirt. "Inside, it's all stale. Air you've breathed a million times."

He pulled his t-shirt over his head.

"I know," he said. Leaned to kiss her. "But you're going to have look at them stars on your own time."

In his cell, he dug through his clothing pile. Pulled out a little pouch that looked like something a man would have kept his shaving things in, in the old world.

She sat on the bed, took off her boots and pants. Her shirt and bra. Left on her panties and slipped under his sheets. She noted they smelled fresh. Clean. Like he'd planned this.

A moment later, he started the slow strip down of his clothes. Boots. Shirt. Pants. He wore no underwear.

It was a little bit of an effort to stare at his face instead of boldly checking out his cock. There was a bit of light from the moon through the top windows, but she could see enough. She stared at his dick, swaying and hard, as he bent to tuck his gun beneath the bunk.

Then he handed her two things. Gifts. First, his knife; then the condom. She put both between the wall and the mattress and opened the sheets to welcome him. She smiled as he laid beside her. She could feel his hard dick on her thigh. She wrapped her arms around his back.

"Nice," she said.

"Mmm," he said. Kissing. Kissing and touching. His hand rubbing over her panties, then slipping fingers under them, inside of her. He pushed them down, eventually, to get at her better and while he did so she started working his cock. It felt so good to feel all of him, his skin on hers, the sweat, the smell of it. She was shuddering, it felt so good. She felt like she couldn't wait. Couldn't keep quiet. Couldn't stop all the noises she was making from his hands on her.

Finally, after she sure she might die if they didn't do it, after she'd tried to work up the nerve to tell him to do it - fuck me, Daryl, please - he was the one who asked: "You ready?"

"Yeah," she said, in a soft voice. How could he not know it? She was so wet she knew there'd be a spot on his fresh sheets. A big one.

She pulled the condom from beside the knife. He laid on his back and shoved one of the sheets onto the floor. She almost stopped him - the floor was filthy and they were strict about wasting water and time. But seeing him lying there, naked and waiting for her, made her breath hitch in her throat.

She put the condom on him and then he reached for her, pulled her so she was over him, his hands on her hips. She ducked her head so it wouldn't knock the upper bunk.

Thank god it's dark, she thought. She couldn't remember being on top with Ed.

But he didn't notice her hesitance. He was shifting her hips over him, his palms on her ass, notching himself inside her.

She slid down him, slowly. It'd been a while for her. She wondered if it would hurt.

"Christ," he said, once he was all the way in. "Carol. Christ."

She didn't say anything. They started a rhythm, her body bent over his, sliding up, slamming down. She was sure she wouldn't come - she had her method, proven and tested through the years - but she wasn't about to interrupt him and explain it. Or reach down and see if she could make it happen now. She just wanted to feel him in her, feel his hands on her breasts, on her hips, his lips when he reached up to kiss her. Hear his breath deepen and catch. He might go any time, the way he was groaning. His whole body was tight and tensed. She laid her hands on his chest, bucked against him harder. Wanting to feel him come. Wanting to see his face, up close, when it happened.

"Carol, I..." he said.

She slammed down on him harder and his eyes squeezed shut and his neck snapped back against the mattress and she lifted over him, feeling him shake beneath her.

He was up and moving around the cell when morning came. She rubbed her eyes. The air was thick and hot. He was naked, the sheet he'd tossed on the floor in a bunch under his arm. Then she saw him lift the sheet up over the cell door, tying the corners around the bars.

She sat up. They'd shared one blanket, which she pulled over her. Her clothes were on the floor, in his pile.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"Shoulda done this last night," he said, springing down from his work. It only partially covered the door, and did nothing for sound. He had to be aware of how that noise carried; it was a kind of vanity that made people tie up sheets like this and she felt a little shy, knowing she'd sent him to that place.

He got back in bed with her, flinging the blanket off them, his mouth everywhere, his palms gripping around the small of her back.

"I need to rinse out my mouth," she said.

"No, you don't," he said.

"Daryl."

"Just hush for a minute," he said. He kissed her more - he had morning breath too - and then he slid down her belly, pausing just a minute at her breasts, and then he settled between her legs, kneeling, his ass sticking up in the air. No wonder he wanted to hang up a sheet.

She wanted to object. God knows what she tasted like at this point - it'd been a couple days since she washed, not to speak of the sex they'd had - and in the bright daylight, she didn't want to know what her body looked like. Especially that part of her. It wasn't like that part of her got a lot of attention.

The strange thing, though, was that it actually felt good. He was teasing her; he didn't know it, but he was: his scruffy-face tickling her sensitive parts. But the sucking thing he did! Soft and slow, just like how he kissed. And just the right amount of pressure, too. She was starting to think she might actually come this way. Could come this way. She'd never come this way. Ed had only done this once when he'd been very drunk and it hadn't felt like much.

Daryl's hands curled around her hips and belly. She shut her eyes, imagining the sagging curve to her stomach, the silver and red stretchmarks that never went away. Wishing them away. Wishing it was dark again.

But then, his patience, his steadiness paid off. It was building and she thought he might stop but he seemed to know that he was getting someplace and he kept it up, that same sucking he'd settled on, and she knew it was going to happen and it made her so happy when it did: the familiar rush all through her body, and her stomach clenched beneath his hands and she wasn't thinking about stretch marks or sagging, but just stars.

When she woke again, he was standing there. Fully dressed. With a bowl of grits and a bunch of her clothes under his arm. Fresh clothes. He must have gone to her cell. She was sweating now, the heat of the Georgia day in full swing, but she still gripped the grimy blanket under her armpits as she sat up, her legs in a bow under the blanket.

"What time is it?"

"Does it matter? You got any shifts?"

"No, but..."

"You were worn out," he said. With a little sideways grin. Like he couldn't help it.

She put her hands over her eyes. He handed her the grits. She ate a few bites, as politely as she could. She was starving but didn't want to slop up food in his bed.

He sat down beside her.

"Finish it up," he said, nudging her. "We've got to go. There's a crew headed east toward that old chicken barn off the highway. I signed us up."

She spooned up more grits. He'd added honey to them.

"What are we looking for?"

"Whatever they got," he said. Shrugged. "A short run."

She nodded and handed him the bowl. He took it and set her clothes in her lap. Grabbed his gun from under the bed, then reached for his knife between the wall and mattress.

"Hey," he said, his hand sweeping over her shoulders. "Something wrong?"

She paused. She wanted to say "nothing" and shake her head. She wanted to just get up and put on the clothes in full daylight and not be upset. She saw him, sweaty and tanned, in his same old rags, putting his knife on his belt. Same old Daryl.

"I just, I don't know. I'm shy. I'm an old lady. I don't, you know, walk around naked, hanging up sheets in broad daylight." She clutched the pile of clothes toward her.

He nodded, but she knew he didn't understand. He chewed his lip a minute.

"You think I do that? Run around naked for the world to see?"

"No."

"And you think I care if they did?"

She shrugged.

"I'm gonna look at you, as long as you're here to look at. Been looking at you this whole time, even when you and I weren't like we were, before. Because I like looking at you, Carol. And not just because you're damn pretty woman."

She ducked her head, ashamed of how much his words pleased her. Embarrassed that she liked being told this much.

But he pressed his face near hers, his hands on her shoulders.

"And not just because there ain't nothing a man want to look at more than a woman all wet for him down there," he added, his voice low. His hand dipped down toward the blanket between her legs.

"Daryl..."

He pulled his hand back, set it on her knee. "I like looking at you, because you've always seen me. Me: just like I am. And you never walked away."

"Well, I kind of did," she said. "Since this place grown so much, it's been different. I figured we couldn't always be the same as we ever were. Things change."

"They do," he said. "Things are always changing, Carol. That don't mean it's always for the worst."

Her eyes were watery now, but she kept looking at him, trying to be brave. Tears slipped anyway.

"Don't cry," he said. "Ah, god. I'm not good at this shit."

She smiled, wiped her eyes. "You're plenty good," she told him. Kissing his face around the places where her own tears dripped. Letting the blanket fall between them.

It was a good day, foraging at the chicken barn. Not too much hazard and nothing the group couldn't handle. A rooster and a hen came back with them, along with more fencing, some tools and buckets, wild wheat for Herschel to try to plant, some apples from the orchard, cuttings from the tree. Herschel wanted every run to look for certain plants. He wanted to rebuild it all: medicine cabinets, food pantries, tool sheds. The bricks of their lives, one by one, made new out of the old.

Tanae was with them, keeping watch while everything got loaded up. Carol asked about Jeannette.

"Little trouble-maker," Tanae said. "She's not one to listen. Just like our momma."

Carol nodded. Couldn't think of a thing to say about it. Didn't want to ask about Tanae's mother. But she liked the fight in Tanae all the same; liked the way she jumped from the back of the pick-up the second they stopped to maneuver around a tipped over semi on the way to the chicken barn. Liked that Jeannette was alive, trouble or not.

Once everything was loaded, Carol waited for Daryl. He was coming back from the barn with a couple of other guys and the light was in his eyes, his hand shading his forehead. She didn't know if he could see her, so she just stood and stared, hoping he'd put together that it was her eventually.

The other guys swerved around her and Daryl walked up to her, kissed her on the cheek.

"Hey," he said. "How're you doing?"

"Pretty good," she said, hopping a little to pace with him. They didn't say anything, just glanced back and forth the whole way, not able to hold hands because he was carrying a full gas can and his crossbow and she needed to be handy with her knife if it came to that. You couldn't be cute outside the fence.

When they got to the truck he was driving, the other two guys peeled off and found others to ride back with.

Once they got in the truck, buckled up, and started the engine, he reached across the seat for her hand.

"Ready to go home?"

"Yeah."

"Me too," he said. "Never thought I'd say that in my life."

"Me neither."

Then he turned out of the dirt road, slow and sure, their eyes up and alert for danger, always. But their hands together, linked across the seat.