She's doing the dishes, alone, everyone else having managed to make themselves scarce after dinner. He's headed out back to clean up his gear by the pump and hears her humming to herself as she works, a snatch of words he can't really make out. He stops in the doorway and nearly laughs in surprise as he catches sight of her, doing the shimmy up against the front of the sink. The tune is some mid-tempo groove that seems familiar, but he can't really come up with the name. What she's doing turns him into a statue, dry-mouthed.
Leaning on her elbows over the soapy bucket, she pivots on the balls of her feet, her hips swishing from side to side, swiveling, bending her knees to dip down low for just a second. Jesus Christ. Daryl thinks it may be just about the sexiest damn thing he's seen in his life, head and shoulders above any sleaze humping a stripper pole. Just Carol, fully clothed, swaying to music only she can hear. Having a good time, if only for a minute. He's been thinking maybe over these past horrible months on the run she's lost that completely, and it settles him somehow to know maybe she hasn't.
Her sweater has gotten rucked up a little in the back, showing the skin above her belt. He can see the knobs of her spine, and it hurts to look at how skinny she's gotten, but more than that he wants to put his tongue right there in that bare spot. She does a delicate little side-step to put down the glasses she's just rinsed, and sings, softly, "hold me in your hands like a bunch of flowers, set me movin' to your sweetest song…" and fuck if it's not all he can do to stop himself from taking her up on that.
She rinses the last plate, and dumps the greasy wash water down the drain, leaving the rinse tub for the next round. Always conserving, his Carol.
Wait - what? His Carol, since when?
She sashays down the length of the counter with the rag, wiping up spills, her thin sweet voice coming stronger, "...I'm in love, babe… I'm in love with you, baby," spins on her toes and comes to a dead stop, her eyes flashing wide and startled, the smile dropping off her face as she realizes she's got an audience. Her face goes almost white, except for high red spots over her cheekbones, and her wet hand goes to her heart like she has to hold it in to keep it from jumping out of her chest. Her eyes drop, and she wraps her arms around her middle, not saying anything.
"'Scuse me," Daryl mutters, and ducks out the door, his own face burning, intent on getting the hell out of there and putting his mind to something besides the instant woody he's got. Some fuckin' safe house. Nothin' safe about what's goin' on in that kitchen. He reaches down and gives himself a firm, reprimanding squeeze, mumbling, "Shut it, you. Ain't nothin' happenin' with that."