Chapter 5 - Daryl

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

That wasn't normal.

Not in a house with two kids under the age of five.

I stepped through the front door, scanning the room, my body tensing as I took in the scene.

Carl was sitting on the couch, Ruby cradled in his arms, bottle propped up as she drank. Ian sat at the coffee table, scribbling on a piece of paper, his tongue poking out in concentration.

Not Ella.

She wasn't with the kids.

That was the first thing that told me something was wrong.

I closed the door behind me, my boots heavy against the floor as I moved further into the house. Carl barely glanced up, but I could see the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers curled a little tighter around the bottle.

Ian noticed me first.

"Dad!" he grinned, holding up his paper. "Look, I drew a picture of us!"

I ruffled his curls, forcing a smile, but my attention was on Carl.

"Where's your mom?"

Ian didn't answer. Carl just exhaled slowly, adjusting Ruby in his arms, making sure she stayed settled.

Then, he nodded toward the stairs.

I didn't hesitate.

I took the steps two at a time, heart hammering, a pit forming deep in my gut. When I reached our bedroom door, I lifted my hand to knock—

But then I heard it.

Soft. Muffled. But unmistakable.

Crying.

Ella.

I swallowed hard, pressing my palm flat against the door. "Baby?"

No answer.

I tried the knob.

Locked.

Fuck.

I exhaled slowly, pressing my forehead against the wood, willing myself to stay calm. "Ella, please open the door."

Still nothing.

I clenched my jaw, my hands curling into fists at my sides. My girl was breaking apart on the other side of this door, and I couldn't fucking get to her.

I could've picked the lock. Could've broken the damn door down if I wanted.

But she didn't need that.

She needed space.

So I stepped back.

Walked downstairs.

Took one look at Carl's face and knew he had answers.

"What happened?"

Carl let out a slow, steady breath, shifting Ruby against his chest before turning his sharp, stormy gaze toward me. "Mary happened."

The name barely left his lips before I saw red.

"What the fuck did she say?" I growled.

Carl didn't even flinch.

"She cornered Ella after class. Said the kids weren't getting enough homework. And then..." He hesitated, like he wasn't sure if he should say it.

"Carl," I barked.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing at his face. "She told Ella she was just sitting there being depressed all day. That she needed to get over it. That—" His throat bobbed as his hands curled into fists. "That what happened to her wasn't even that bad."

The rage that had been simmering under my skin for weeks erupted.

I barely registered the chair scraping against the floor as I moved. Barely heard Carl curse under his breath as he stood, shifting Ruby into Ian's lap before grabbing my arm.

"Daryl—"

I ripped away from him.

"I swear to God," I snarled. "She's dead."

Carl stepped in front of me, his arms outstretched like he thought he could stop me.

"You can't kill her," he said, voice low, steady, but I could see the fire in his eyes. He was pissed too. "I want to, trust me, but you can't."

I wasn't listening.

I stormed toward the door, throwing it open so hard it slammed against the wall.

Carl didn't try to follow me.

Didn't stop me.

And that was a mistake.

Because Mary and her husband, Dean, were about to learn what happened when you fucked with my wife.

I stormed through the streets of Alexandria, my vision blurring at the edges, my heart pounding like a war drum in my chest. My fists were clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms, the sting barely noticeable against the white-hot rage surging through my veins.

Carl had called after me when I left the house, telling me to think, to calm down—but I couldn't. There was no calming down, not when my wife was crying behind a locked door, not when my son had to watch her break down, not when people like Mary thought they had the right to judge her.

When I reached her house, I didn't knock. I slammed my fist against the door, rattling it so hard the damn hinges groaned.

"Open the fuck up," I barked.

Rustling sounded from inside, hushed voices, footsteps. Then, the door cracked open, and there she was.

Mary.

Her lips were pressed into a thin, tight line. Her eyes flickered with something I couldn't quite place—maybe nerves, maybe irritation—but she masked it quickly.

"Daryl," she said, her voice deceptively pleasant. "What can I do for you?"

I shoved the door open the rest of the way, stepping into her space so fast she stumbled back, her fingers curling into the fabric of her cardigan like it might somehow protect her.

"Where's your husband?" I growled.

Mary opened her mouth, probably to lie, but heavy footsteps sounded from down the hall, and then he appeared.

Dean.

Broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, taller than me by a couple inches, with graying hair and a permanent scowl carved into his face. He wasn't a coward, I'd give him that—he didn't hesitate as he stepped between me and Mary, arms crossing over his chest like some kind of silent warning.

"What the hell is this?" Dean snapped.

I bared my teeth. "You tell me, Dean. You tell me why your wife thinks she can talk to mine like that. Why she thinks she can tell Ella how to feel. Why she thinks she's got any right to open her mouth about anything after today."

Dean's brow furrowed. He glanced back at Mary. "What's he talking about?"

Mary squared her shoulders, rolling them back like she wasn't afraid, but I saw the way she swallowed, the way her fingers twitched against her sides.

"I told Ella what everyone else has been thinking," she said, lifting her chin. "That she's lucky it wasn't worse, and that she needs to stop acting like she's the only one who's suffered. We've all lost people. We've all been through hell."

Something inside me snapped.

I grabbed the closest thing—a ceramic bowl sitting on a nearby table—and hurled it against the wall. It shattered on impact, shards flying, some of them grazing Mary as she flinched away.

Dean spun on her. "Jesus Christ, Mary!" His voice was sharp, a warning. He turned back to me, his hands raised slightly. "Daryl, I didn't know—she shouldn't have said that."

I wasn't listening.

"You don't get to say that shit!" I roared. "You don't get to tell her how to feel! You don't know what she went through! You don't know what that bastard did to her! She is my wife, and if you ever speak to her like that again, I swear to God, I will make damn sure you regret it."

Dean turned fully to Mary now, his expression dark. "What the hell were you thinking?" He grabbed her arm, like he was trying to pull her back, trying to stop her, but Mary just shook him off, glaring at me.

"Oh, please," she scoffed, brushing glass off her sleeve like she wasn't just shrinking away from me. "You're just proving my point. You're an animal. And she's just as bad for being with you."

I lunged.

Dean barely had time to react before I had him pinned against the wall, my forearm crushing against his throat. Mary shrieked, backing up so fast she knocked over a lamp.

Dean gasped for air, his hands scrambling at my arm, but I didn't let go.

"You say one more fuckin' word about her," I growled, my voice barely more than a breath, "and I'll make sure you never say another."

Dean's face flushed red, his eyes wide. He wasn't fighting back. He wasn't even looking at me.

He was staring at her.

"Mary, shut up," he wheezed. "For the love of God, just shut up."

But Mary had no idea when to keep her goddamn mouth shut.

"You are an animal," she spat. "Just like I said."

I reared my arm back, ready to break his fucking face, ready to let every ounce of rage explode out of me—but hands grabbed my shoulders, yanking me back.

"Enough!"

Rick's voice cut through the haze.

I struggled against him, my breath ragged, my muscles twitching, but another set of hands—Aaron's—joined in, forcing me to take a step back.

"Let go of me!" I snarled.

"Not until you calm the hell down," Rick snapped. "I get it, Daryl. I do. But this ain't the way."

Dean was still coughing, rubbing at his throat. Mary was staring at me with an ugly sneer, her face red with anger, but she wasn't saying anything now. She knew better.

Rick's grip on me tightened.

"Don't say another word, Mary," Dean wheezed, glaring at his wife.

She didn't.

But I saw it. I saw it. That look. The one that said she wasn't sorry. That she meant what she'd said. That she still thought she was right.

I ripped myself free from Rick and Aaron's grip, my chest rising and falling like I'd just run a marathon.

"I ever hear you talkin' about my wife again," I said, my voice shaking with rage, "I won't stop next time."

Then I turned and stormed out, my blood still boiling, my hands still shaking.

I had to get home.

I had to get to Ella.

I was still burning with it. The fight. The rage. The need to fucking do something that wouldn't make this all worse.

My hands were still shaking as I slammed the front door behind me, breathing hard. I half expected to find Ella waiting for me. Maybe standing in the kitchen, maybe pacing, maybe sitting on the couch with that look on her face—the one she got when she worried.

I expected relief.

I expected something.

But the house felt cold.

Carl was at the kitchen table with Ian, Ruby dozing in his arms. He didn't say shit when I walked in, didn't look surprised to see me all wound up. He just watched me, like he was waiting for something.

I didn't stop moving. I just needed to see her. To tell her I handled it, that those two assholes wouldn't be bothering her again. Maybe she wouldn't say much, maybe she wouldn't even look at me, but maybe—just maybe—some of this weight in my chest would fucking let up.

I took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for the bedroom.

The door was locked.

I froze. My breath punched out of me, like something had reached into my chest and squeezed my lungs, hard.

"Ella?" My voice came out hoarse, rough.

Nothing.

I tried the handle again, rattling it. "Babe—"

"I'm fine." Her voice was thin, distant. Not fine at all.

I exhaled sharply, pressing my forehead against the door. "Can you let me in?"

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I waited. I'd have waited all fucking night.

But then—

"I just need to be alone right now."

That was it. That was all she gave me.

The burn of rage I'd carried in from the fight with Mary and Dean twisted into something else—something bitter, something fucking wrong.

I stood there, my hands flexing at my sides, my whole body tight with frustration, with exhaustion. With the helpless, gnawing ache of losing her and not knowing how the hell to stop it.

I had fought for her. For us. I had done what I always did—protected what was mine.

But she didn't want me here.

She didn't want me.

I swallowed back the frustration clawing up my throat and forced myself to nod, even though she couldn't see it. "Alright," I muttered. "I'll be downstairs."

She didn't answer.

I backed away from the door like it was pushing me out, like the space between us had turned into a goddamn canyon I didn't know how to cross.

I made it back down the stairs, my legs feeling heavier with each step.

Carl was still at the table. He didn't say a word, just shifted Ruby a little, resting his chin against the top of her head. He wasn't gloating, wasn't smug about it. Just there. Just filling the space I couldn't.

I couldn't fucking breathe.

The walls were closing in.

I needed air. I needed space.

I needed to not be in this house, where everything felt wrong, where the woman I loved was locked away from me, shutting me out like I was the problem.

Like I hadn't done everything in my power to fix this.

I turned and walked right back out the front door.

I didn't come home that night.

Not because I didn't want to. Not because I didn't ache to be there—to walk back through that door and pretend, just for a second, that things weren't completely falling apart between us.

But I wasn't wanted.

So I wandered.

I stuck to the outskirts of Alexandria, pacing the same fucking streets over and over until my legs burned and my lungs ached. I ended up at Aaron and Eric's for a little while, sitting on their porch while Aaron handed me a drink and didn't ask questions. Eric had hovered like he wanted to say something, like he wanted to fix something, but he must've thought better of it. Because when I didn't talk, neither did they.

That was fine.

Silence was easier than talking about how the woman I loved didn't want me near her anymore. How no matter how hard I fought for her, it didn't matter. I wasn't what she needed.

Eventually, I ended up in the watchtower, staring out past the walls, fingers twitching against the railing. I thought about leaving. Just for a while. Just long enough to get my head straight, long enough to make it hurt less.

But I didn't.

Instead, I sat there until the sun started bleeding over the trees, exhaustion finally weighing down on me. I forced myself to my feet, stretched out the stiffness in my back, and started the long walk home.

When I got there, the house was awake. I could hear Ian talking in the kitchen, the scrape of a chair against the floor, the sound of Ruby babbling.

I hesitated before going in.

Like an outsider looking in on his own damn life.

I took a slow breath, rolled my shoulders, and pushed the door open.

Ella was in the kitchen with the kids. Ian was sitting at the table, his brow furrowed over some kind of drawing, and Ruby was strapped to Ella's chest in that little wrap she always carried her in.

She looked up when I walked in.

Our eyes met.

Something lodged itself in my throat.

She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Didn't lock herself in the bedroom again.

But she didn't smile either.

She just looked at me.

Tired. Guarded. Unreadable.

"Hey," I said, my voice scratchy from lack of sleep.

"Hey."

Nothing else.

No Where were you? No Are you okay?

I cleared my throat, stepping further inside, rubbing the back of my neck. "Didn't mean to be gone all night."

"I know."

I waited.

For something.

For anything.

For her to tell me she missed me, that she needed me, that maybe—just maybe—I could still fix this.

Instead, she took a slow breath, glancing down at her hands like she was trying to find the right words. "Daryl... I think I need some space."

The floor fucking crumbled underneath me.

"Space," I echoed, the word thick on my tongue.

She nodded, looking up at me again, her brows pinched together, her voice softer now. "I just—I need time to figure things out, to breathe without feeling like I have to—" She shook her head, exhaling sharply. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to think I don't—"

But I wasn't listening anymore.

I was already nodding, already backing up a step, already swallowing back the fucking ache in my chest.

"You don't gotta explain," I muttered, my voice tight, unfamiliar. "I get it."

"Daryl—"

"You ain't gotta worry about it, alright?" I forced a smirk, the kind that didn't reach my eyes, didn't mean anything. "I'll give you all the space you need."

And I meant it.

Even though it felt like someone had reached into my ribcage and ripped my fucking heart out.

Even though I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs that I wasn't the enemy. That I loved her more than life itself. That I'd die before I hurt her.

None of that mattered.

Because I was the problem.

If she needed space, I'd give it to her.

No matter how bad it fucking killed me.

I turned around and walked out the front door.