Time-worn wool frayed beneath her fingertips as Beth twisted the fabric of her sleeves in her hands. Winter had fallen and fallen fast, bringing with it air that burned her lungs when she breathed. The only shelter they had for the night was the canopy of live oak leaves above them, but they had made do with worse.
But she couldn't sleep. Beth had tried everything, yet her mind refused to trade consciousness for peace.
Daryl was on watch. He sat frozen (perhaps literally, as he had given her their only blanket) in the shadows, his crossbow nestled in his lap. Daryl always insisted on taking first watch. He thought he was sneaky; that she wouldn't notice if he let her sleep longer than was fair to him.
Tonight, though, sleep would not come, so she watched him instead.
They had had to risk a fire to combat the frost and she watched as the light danced across his cheekbones, in his eyes, glinting against his hair. He looked to be made of stone, as if some age-old hand had carved him in place to watch over this wood until he crumbled to dust.
A draft swirled between the trees and seeped in through her blanket, and she shivered as she drew it closer to her chest. The movement caused Daryl to flick his eyes up to meet hers.
"Take it you can't sleep," he said, stating the obvious.
Things had been awkward since they'd escaped the funeral home, but not terribly so. They had learned to dip their toes into conversations before plunging into them, dancing along the perforation lines between what they knew and what was new. So far, it had worked for them.
She shook her head. "It's cold."
Daryl regarded her from across the campfire, and for a moment his face was framed by a different sort of fire, by the golden tint of so many candles, dancing in unison and splashing the walls of the tiny kitchen with their light.
They hadn't finished their conversation, yet.
But Daryl broke his gaze and it appeared that, for now at least, it would hang in the air between them.
Daryl stood, ducking around the base of the tree. She realized he was gathering stones and her eyes followed him as he laid them in a row, just beyond the campfire's greedy reach.
He was closer, now, and she could see the way his hands shook as he arranged the stones. He was freezing. His jacket had been left behind at the funeral home, and his vest provided little reprieve from the cold.
"Daryl."
"Mm?"
"Take the blanket. I've got a sweater."
He pretended to not hear her. Instead, he tended to the rocks by the fire, flipping the first of them as it began to darken.
"Ain't that cold," he said after a while, his back still turned to her.
But that was bullshit, she thought, regarding the way his hands still shook, despite their proximity to the fire.
Without a word she rose, the blanket sliding away and exposing her to the bite of the twilight air. She brought it to him and, kneeling, draped it over him, minding the fire before them.
Daryl's eyes flashed to hers and her breath caught.
"I said it ain't that cold."
"Lied, you mean," she said, turning her palms over the campfire. When she looked back at him, he was still staring at her. She felt warm then and something told her it had nothing to do with the heat beneath her hands.
"You callin' me a liar?"
His voice was gruff, severe, and it invaded her senses too much like moonshine on her lips, but she knew he was joking. A month ago, he might not have bothered.
"And if I am?"
"If y'are?" He had stopped blinking and so had she, taking the opportunity to drink him in. "Can't have that."
"Then I can't have you lyin' to me, Mr. Dixon." Beth grinned at him and she could swear that his lips twitched, too.
He blinked and the moment must have been broken for him; he turned from her then, scooping the rocks out of the fire with two sticks.
"What're you doin'?" she asked him.
"This."
Daryl laid the blanket down on the forest floor and nestled the heated rocks in it, folding it up to make a little woolen burrito. A few minutes passed before he flipped the rocks out, and stubbornly wrapped the blanket around Beth's shoulders.
Beth had to admit that she welcomed the toasty warmth that enveloped her; but she couldn't very well enjoy it when Daryl shivered beside her.
"Get some sleep," the stubborn man told her. "Long walk tomorrow. 'Bout three hours to the next town, as the wolf runs."
Beth clutched at the blanket, suddenly a little shy. "How am I 'sposed to sleep with your teeth chatterin' so loud?" she asked, summoning up another smile.
She hesitated, but only for a moment before scootching closer to him. She lifted the corner of the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.
It wasn't big enough for both of them so she pressed in close. The outline of his arm pressed into hers, and she felt him freeze despite the shared warmth.
His eyes were locked on hers and she froze, too.
It was the funeral home all over again, but this time, there was no whispered, Oh. There was no realization.
She had already realized.
Time stood still and they didn't wait for it to catch up to them, and in the morning when she woke, she was still wrapped tight in his arms, cradled against the chest that beat a rhythm to match her own.