He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it. Actually, it would be the biggest, fucking flat-out lie ever. This has been on his mind, hounding him on long hunts or quiet nights when he manages to catch a fragment of sleep. Daryl hasn't been able to stop himself from thinking about it since he saw the moment between Glenn and Maggie, a week ago.

And now here he is, and Carol lays the opportunity in his hands casually, with a wry grin and a sparkle in her eyes as she turns, bearing her sore shoulders to him. He has trouble fathoming the fact that he's even gotten this far – that he found it in himself to be bold enough to offer. (A simple "here" and a nod of his head should not have taken as much nerve as it did.)

Now Carol's standing a few inches away from him, and Daryl can't see her face but he just knows she's got that smile playing on her lips, and suddenly he feels that familiar knot of nervousness build within him. (Though the feeling is nothing new when he's around her.)

His hands begin to feel listless, like strange, alien things, and as he begins to think he's forgotten how to use them, he channels the memory. Glenn and Maggie, huddled close to one another, a good distance between them and the rest, as usual. Daryl's still not entirely sure why he was watching them in the first place, but he stared as Glenn gently massaged Maggie's shoulders, and the muscles in her face visibly relaxed, and the delight in her eyes shone evident...

All he could think about was Carol, and how she would look if someone rubbed her shoulders like that. Would her face slack with relief? What if he was to try? And what if he was capable of putting that expression on her face?

The first time he attempted anything like this was months ago. Back when Lori was still alive.

This is harder than passing Carol a goddamn bottle, though. This is touching her.

Daryl swallows hard. When his fingers make contact with her shoulder, he hopes she can't feel the subtle tremble his hands have taken on, prays to fucking God that she can't detect his skittish nervousness. (But oh, of course she can, he knows. The woman always does.)

He has not the faintest clue what he's doing – he's never given anyone a massage before. (Probably never even knew what that was when he was a kid.) His fingers work her delicate shoulders and – he can't help it – his eyes are drawn to her long, beautiful neck. Just as a part of him, in the back of his mind, begins to worry that he's hurting her, Carol turns her head. Locks eyes with him. Smiles.

Fuck.

That's what does him in. Her expression, illuminated by the silver moonlight, and the knowing glint in her eyes – makes the maddening whatever-the-hell-it-is building in his chest kick up to the highest notch.

"Better get back."

It's too late, anyway. He already knows what he'll be dreaming of tonight. And every other night. For a year.