veni, vidi, vici.

Daryl had never experienced love before. His brother and father taught him that love meant a good smack on the back of the head, or a good right hook across the face.

But when he thinks of her, the whole premises of the term 'love' evolves completely.

He remembers how it sounded when she exhaled his name on his neck, or whispered his name like a prayer. The distinct junction of her clavicle that he'd run the pad of his thumb across, winning an eye roll and a query.

Why do you obsess over that part of my anatomy, she'd ask, and she'd wrap her arms around his shoulders as her nimble fingers would curl the small sandy brown hairs at the nape of his neck. In response, he'd shrug, and ask what she thought.

The girl would sigh, smile, then bump her forehead against his, "You could love the soles of my feet, the backs of my knees, the palms of my hands," she'd give him a small peck on the lips, "but you chose there. Why?"

He'd never been able to answer the question properly. So she'd always stay on that topic until he'd distracted her in other ways.

He remembers the day when she came home from work early on his birthday, before Merle and his friends would take him out to hunt for the weekend. She tells him to sit down, turns her back to him, and pulls her shirt off. At first, he had a completely different idea of what she was going to do, but when she turns, a slight twinkle in her brown eyes, his eyes land upon her collar bone.

In script, the name 'Daryl' was inked into her skin. This meant something. It meant she was his. His. His. His.

As he stood, barely ghosting his thumb over the ink, trying to not irritate the skin. It's the first time he says three special words to her. Three words that had become increasingly difficult to say after his mother's death.

"I love you."

His affection for her had always been discreet, they never felt the need to expose their feelings in front of Merle and the rest of their friends. Whether it be bumping their knees together under the table at the diner, her fingers brushing over his knuckles as she hands him a bottle of beer, or him pressing

his forehead against hers and breathing in her essence.

At times like those, Kenja wanted to condense into a liquid for him to drink so she could always be a part of him.

Although these three words were never often said, they knew it from the beginning.

Thinking back now, Daryl remembers saying 'his' and now 'love'. 'His' only contained three letters, whilst 'love' had four. He was amazed in the evolution of linguistics that could invoke a feeling so terrifying, yet so beautiful inside of him.

"Hey, dummy! Y'gonna stand there all day?"

Daryl responds to his brother with a grunt, pulling back the string of his crossbow as he loaded in another bolt.

Of course, some little voice in the back of his mind was screaming that his brother wasn't actually there. He knew that. Officer Friendly rolled into camp and said that he locked up his brother on top of roof. It was probably the heat getting to him.

His mind had been reeling. Emotions confused and undone when he'd originally left Atlanta with his brother.

He missed Kenja.

It wasn't like in those dumb romance novels she read where one person couldn't function properly unless the other person was in their presence (in her words, it was 'downright unhealthy') but he missed just being around her. Hell, he loved her. Of course he'd miss her.