Cherokee Rose

Carol's POV

I knew from the start he was different. Everytime we made eye contact, I could feel my heart flutter and my stomach flip. I couldn't help but glance at him every chance I got, couldn't help but try to make small talk with him during uncomfortable silences.

I also knew it was wrong to like him. Although my husband, Ed, was a jerk, I still loved him. But the feeling I felt when he looked at me, the stutter in my voice when we talked, was something I never felt with Ed.

Sophia liked him, which was comforting to me. I knew that if anything ever happened between us, Sophia wouldn't mind. I think that in her own sense, she thought he could be a better dad than her own father ever was.

I didn't know about him. All I knew was that he was quiet, and kept to himself. I feel as though we all think he would be a better leader than Rick, but he would rather not make the tough decisions. He knows that if anything happened to the group, he wouldn't want to bear with the guilt.

He was a lifesaver. When Sophia went missing, he was out in the woods, always looking for her. I could see the glimmer of hope in his eyes, even though he would deny it. I felt so guilty when he fell off the horse. Seeing him weak, bandaged, unable to hardly move made me feel like it was my fault. I noticed the slight flinch jolt throughout his body when I bent down to kiss his temple, although I never said anything about it.

The most sincere thing he ever did for me was bring me the Cherokee rose. When I thought all hope was lost in finding her, he brought me the rose. I watched with dreary eyes as his dirt covered hands set the rose down gently, his voice barely a whisper as he told me the story of the rose.

Then, when Sophia was found in the barn as a walker, he was right there beside me. As desperately as I wanted to run to her, to be able to hold her like I did every night, he held me back. I still remember the firm grip he kept on me, how he never said a word, just held me back. It was almost as though he was telling me to stay back, to not go back to her. As though he was telling me that he was there for me.

And I knew he was.

As I stood in the back of the group, waiting to be told which car I would stay in for the ride to the highway, I watched him carefully. Watched when he flung one leg over the side of his motorcycle, gently kicking it to life. I watched his dirty knuckles turn white as he gripped the handlebars, the crease in his forehead when he waited for directions. I watched his eyes turn into slits as he looked impatiently up to the sun, drumming his fingers quickly. And as I slowly got into the back of a car smelling of death, I felt a longing. A longing to be behind him, my arms wrapped around his waist, head on his shoulder as he drove smoothly to the highway.

And that's when I realized I loved Daryl Dixon.