"You need a bath," Carol said.
"I'm fine," Daryl insisted.
"Your clothes are starting to grow to you," Carol said, crossing her arms across her chest.
He sat, his back against the porch railing and stared at her. She sighed, seeing that he wasn't going to budge, and she walked over and sat down next to him.
"I don't understand," she said. "On the road—all I heard from you was that you couldn't wait to find some soap. Now we have soap. We have hot water. We have everything you need. Why are you fighting this?"
"Don't want to play their stupid ass game," Daryl said. "You an' me? We know this ain't real. They're playin' house in here. You live like this? You forget how to live out there."
Carol smiled softly at him.
"Not you and me," she said. "We don't forget."
"Look at how you're dressed. You look ridiculous—playin' their damn game."
"That's all it is," Carol said. "A game. We play this one to survive, right? Just like—all the other games. Now—come on. You need a bath. You smell like a wet dog."
Daryl sniffed himself.
"It ain't that bad," he said.
Carol raised her eyebrows at him.
"If I offer to wash your back, will that help?" She teased.
"Stop," Daryl said.
"One of these days, Daryl—I am going to stop," she warned.
Her face ran warm with the warning—with the meaning behind it. Her stomach clenched, wondering if it was a threat or truth. Daryl's face ran red, too. He got up, though, and stood in front of her.
"I'll take a bath, but…I ain't dressin' up like you."
"Fine," Carol said.
Daryl walked around her and into the house. He stopped in the doorway and looked back.
"Well," he said, "come on!"