𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 || ᵈᵃʳʸˡ ᵈⁱˣᵒⁿ

ix

|[part nine]|
-҉

AS THE CAR VIBRATED with newfound energy, ready to carry you both away from this moment of levity and into the unknown, you couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement for the adventure that lay ahead. Fishing with Daryl, an idea so simple yet so foreign in these times of survival, promised a brief respite from the constant fight for existence. It was a reminder of the fragments of normalcy and human connection that you both fought to preserve in a world that had been irrevocably changed.

The journey began with a jolt, the car protesting slightly before succumbing to your insistence, trundling forward on the deserted road. Daryl, ever the navigator in this duo, instructed you with a calm certainty born of countless hours spent traversing unknown paths. "Keep driving straight, I'll tell ya when to take a turn," he said, his attention partially on the small map he'd salvaged from a library stand. The triumph he felt in finding something of value in a place he'd deemed a relic of the past had been palpable, almost infectious. His pride in that moment had made you smirk, remembering how he'd returned, map in hand, vindicated in his unexpected success.

As he unwrapped the CD, anticipation painted your features with a sly, knowing grin. The motion of him sliding the disc into the player was filled with a reverence, a silent preparation to reconnect with a piece of his past, his favorite band. However, the moment the music began, it was clear something was amiss. Instead of the gritty guitars and raspy vocals he'd been expecting, the car was filled with the pop anthem of Britney Spears.

"What the hell?" Daryl's confusion was a tangible thing, his frown deepening as he hastily pressed the button to skip the track, only to be met with more of the same pop beats, no sign of the rock anthems he craved. Turning towards you, his expression was a mix of betrayal and incredulity. "What is this?"

Your response was immediate, a burst of feigned enthusiasm as you declared, "Britney Spears, baby!" Drumming on the steering wheel, you hummed along to the familiar tune, your performance exaggerated to the point of absurdity.

Daryl's reaction was to retreat slightly into himself, an arm propped against the window, fingers finding solace in the car's interior as he shook his head. "You're so dumb," he muttered, a statement that was more affectionate than insulting in the context of your shared banter.

Your laughter filled the car, a light, carefree sound that was abruptly cut short as you nearly confessed something more profound. "You love me—" The slip, the nearly uttered words of affection, left you momentarily frozen, your gaze locked on the road ahead as if it demanded your undivided attention. Internally, you berated yourself, feeling the heat of a blush coloring your cheeks, betraying your turmoil.

Attempting to recover, you leaned forward with a sense of purpose, retrieving the actual CD from its hiding place within the waistband of your jeans. Offering it to him was a silent plea for normalcy, an olive branch extended in the form of music. He accepted it with a cautiousness that was almost comical, treating the disc as though it might self-destruct at any moment.

His accusation of "Idiot," though sharp, somehow diffused the awkwardness that had briefly enveloped you, his tone lighter, teasing.

Your retort was quick, a playful jab at his expense. "Hey, you fell for it. Not me."

As the correct CD finally began to play, Daryl's demeanor shifted dramatically. The familiar strains of his preferred music seemed to ignite a spark within him, his enthusiasm palpable as he gave a satisfied slap to the car door. "That's what I'm talkin' about!" he exclaimed, his voice carrying over the music, filled with genuine joy.