A/N: "Kelsey" by Metro Station.

swim the ocean for you

When he drifted back into consciousness, the memories of the night before trickled through his brain like a slow-moving river. He could still smell her, and for a second, he thought he could feel her beside him. But then he opened his eyes and realized the bed was empty except for him, and so was the bedroom.

At first, his heart remained lifted with hope. He began to sit up, imagining walking out and hearing the shower running, or finding her smoking a cigarette in one of his oversized T-shirts on the balcony. Then his feet touched the floor and he looked down: her clothes were gone. Her phone was nowhere in sight. And the apartment was completely silent. Empty.

He rushed over to the doorway and peeked out into the living room. Her boots were gone, too. And her purse and coat. She was gone.

There was a fifty-dollar bill sitting beneath the Bluetooth speaker on the desk. And when he finally returned to the bedroom and picked up his phone, he found a single text message waiting for him. The timestamp was from two hours ago - while he was still dead asleep.

The money is for my share of the bar tab.
I love you. And my heart will always belong to you. I was always yours... But you've never been mine.
I'll see you around. xoxo

She'd always been a little overdramatic, and this was no exception. Nonetheless, he knew exactly what she meant.

There was no point in sending a text back. It would just be left as "Read" and end up causing him more grief.

He spent the rest of the morning lying in bed with a cramping stomach, fighting the urge to vomit. And he wasn't even sure it was because of the hangover.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. Not that he really tried to stop.

It certainly didn't help when she ended up texting him the next day, and then again a couple of days after that. Simple conversations that usually began with "how are you doing" or "what's up" and ending with "haha oh okay" or "lol yeah." He didn't dare push it any farther. He wouldn't allow his fingers to tap out the long and pathetic message that he really wanted to send. Though his heart still leapt and raced every time he saw those little animated dots on his screen, every time he found a message with her name on it.

He wasn't sure what game they were playing, but he was almost positive that she was attempting to continue the 'just friends' charade. And he knew it wouldn't last - he had a strong feeling in his gut that it would end up falling apart as it always had before. But he couldn't resist indulging himself while he had the chance. Putting on his own facade, grasping at every opportunity to get just a little closer to her. He couldn't fight off the urge to reinsert himself into her life.

And how was he supposed to move on from someone who still haunted his dreams and weighed heavily on his mind every waking moment of every day? Just when he began to think he might be able to stop longing for her, he would get another message. And that thread would tighten itself around his entire being, yanking him back in.

He kept replaying their night together over and over in his head, relishing in the painfully euphoric sensation it brought to life at the bottom of his stomach - like reliving the last split-second of his orgasm before being stabbed upwards through his very core with a dull knife. A knife he'd been sharpening for years to no avail.

It was every other day for a couple of weeks. And then three long days passed without any word from her. She'd followed him on Instagram - after he'd made sure to unblock her - and he'd even gone as far as reactivating his Facebook account just to accept her friend request. It somehow made him feel like she was a part of his life again, like maybe they could be 'friends.' She didn't post very much, and she wasn't the type to broadcast her life over social media, so he didn't feel the need to check up on her or try to be nosey. But he couldn't help searching for clues or hints as to what she was up to after not receiving a text in a few days.

Her relationship status was still hidden - months and months ago, it had happily declared "in a relationship with Jimmy Duncan." Not anymore. Now she omitted that info altogether. Jimmy wasn't even in her friends list, nor was he following her. All the photos that contained his face or any hints of their relationship were deleted. It gave Daryl an odd and somewhat shameful satisfaction to discover that.

She'd been posting photos of her small group of friends out at bars and parties (no guys, though - he'd searched every photo for a potential suitor but there was none to be found). It appeared that when she wasn't working, she was drinking and hanging out with large groups of rambunctious college kids. The only thing that made him slightly curious was the caption below her latest photo, which was timestamped from a couple days prior - another shot of her and her half-drunk friends with red cups in their hands. The caption read: "2 cool 4 school #sorrydad."

But he didn't let himself overthink it. He remembered that those stupid social media posts could mean anything. And if she wanted to talk to him or involve him in her life, she would. He needed to continue moving on, living his own life and navigating the path that separated him from her. He was his own person. And she was hers. And if she wanted to find her way back to him… well, it wasn't like he'd made it difficult for her. She was the one who'd said 'see you around,' whatever that was supposed to mean. So if anything, the ball was in her court. It had been in her court.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Three days was slipping into four and Daryl was sitting on the couch in his quiet little apartment, beer in hand as he watched a rerun of King of The Hill and prepared to head off to bed, the thought of work in the morning looming heavy. He didn't notice his phone vibrating at first until the screen lit up with a reminder during a commercial break. His heart leapt with excitement and he knew it was her even before he saw her name on the screen. Or maybe he'd just been really hoping.

The text simply read: "What are you doing?"

He immediately typed out a response and sent it: "Hanging out at home. You?"

A minute passed, and then two. He finally gave up and darkened his phone's screen, embarrassed with himself for sitting and staring at it, waiting to see those little dots appear. And just as he set the phone down beside him on the couch, the screen lit up once again with a new text message.

At some stupid party with Brittany and Lauren. They won't stop playing dubstep. Kinda debating on burning the place down.

He smirked, moving to type out a response. But he paused and waited when he saw the dots appear. Then her next message arrived.

I miss you. Can I come over?

He briefly contemplated responding with, "Why?" Or even, "Gotta work in the morning." But it was way too late in the night, and his small apartment was way too cold and empty. And that strength that seemed to come to him in the light of day was nowhere to be found when he really needed it, like right now. And who was he to try and lie, to try and tell her that he didn't miss her, too? To try and act as though those exact words weren't what he'd been waiting to hear from her for the last two weeks?

What kind of fool would he be to say no?

Sure, she might be playing a game. But it was a game that he knew all too well, and a game that he simply couldn't turn away from. Whatever the rules were, he knew her. And she knew him. And they both knew that those rules could be bent and broken and manipulated to fit their current circumstances.

Besides, if she felt uncomfortable where she was, then how shitty of a person did he have to be to turn her away? Even if she only wanted a safe place to escape to for a few hours, he was more than happy to oblige. More than happy to sacrifice his sleep for the reassurance that she was okay.

Miss you too. Need me to come pick you up?

No, I just ordered an Uber. See you in 20.

"Oh my god, so this guy was like - he was such a generic dude, all cocky and not even cute. And he came over to me - keep in mind, he interrupted me an' Lauren's conversation - and he was jus' like, 'oh, here, I made you a drink.' So I looked at him an' I was just like, 'um, what is it?' Right? And like, I already had a drink in my hand, and it was almost gone, but still - kinda weird, right?! And he goes, 'it's a screwdriver.' So I just looked at the drink an' I looked at him, and I - oh my gosh, I was just like: 'um, no thanks. I'm a whiskey kinda gal.' And he got so mad! Oh my god, it was so mean, but me and Lauren were laughing so hard…"

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her glowing face, the pink in her cheeks, the bright blue in her eyes, the cheerful squeal of her voice as she threw her head back and laughed loudly. She was half-slurring her words, excitedly telling him story after story from her night and the disaster of a party she'd just left. He hadn't even turned her down when she helped herself to the beer in his fridge and offered him one.

He tried not to focus on the minor details, the parts that he knew didn't really mean anything yet still felt like they meant something. Like when she slipped her boots off and set them by the door, or when she plopped down on the couch and curled her legs up beneath her like she lived there. Like when she clinked the necks of their beer bottles together and grinned at him with sparkling-white teeth and raised eyebrows, a hint of mischief nestled deep within those cornflower blues. The slur in her voice and the excessive "like"s and "ohmygod"s told him that she was feeling good, but it didn't tell him anything else he wanted to know. Like where she was staying for the night or what her exact intentions with him were.

Was this what friends did? He'd never had many friends, let alone friends who were women, so he wasn't sure. Either way, he was fairly certain that whatever was going on between them right now would feel weird no matter what amount of experience he might have with platonic relationships.

She concluded another story about the party and her two friends she'd been with, and then she was standing up and walking over to the balcony door, sliding it open and asking him if he wanted to smoke a cigarette with her. He took a long swig of beer and tried not to think about having to go to work in the morning, then got up from the couch and joined her on the tiny balcony.

The night air wasn't as cold as he'd expected, and while they leaned against the guardrail and smoked cigarettes side-by-side, he felt her leaning into him, closer and closer with every moment. Once again, it was like just another night on the balcony. Except it wasn't.

"Don't you gotta work in the morning?" She asked, gazing over at him with half-focused eyes.

"Unfortunately," he mumbled before taking a long drag off his cigarette and holding the smoke in his lungs. He willed the tension in his muscles to go away, but it was impossible when she was so close. "Ain't you got school or somethin'?"

She shrugged dismissively. "I don't work till five. I, uh - kinda dropped outta school."

He looked at her quizzically. "Huh? You serious?"

Her lips were pressed tightly together as she nodded, eyes flicking away in shame.

"When?"

She swallowed a gulp of beer and responded, "Few days ago. Hadn't been ta class in a couple weeks, though. Jus' - I don't have the energy for it anymore."

"Wha - how come? Ain't yer daddy mad?" His curiosity was instinctive. He had a genuine cause for concern now, and the 'no prying' rules definitely didn't apply here.

She scoffed, exhaling a large cloud of cigarette smoke and watching it fade away. "Yeah, he's pretty upset. Disappointed. But I'm an adult, an' he knows that. I'm gettin' a second job so I can afford my own place."

"Yer own place - where?"

"Here, in the city. Close ta both a my jobs, so I can save money. I'll just walk to work all the time. Then I can save up an' hopefully go back to school… later. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it, though."

His brow knitted together and he studied her, watching as she threw back a gulp of beer and inhaled a lungful of nicotine and tar. There was worry etched deeply into the lines of her face - worry and fear. But he was pretty sure that he was the only one who could see it. She was doing a better job of hiding it these days, of speaking like she knew exactly what she was doing and wasn't going to stop until she got what she wanted. And she was utilizing the reliable old cover of unhealthy vices like a pro, pouring her sorrows and weaknesses into empty bottles and burnt-out butts.

Guess ya learned from the best on that one, he thought bitterly.

She couldn't drown out his worry and fear, though. He didn't like the thought of her living alone in the city, walking to two jobs with no one to make sure she's safe. "Why don't ya move in with one a yer friends? Ain't they always needin' roommates?"

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Definitely not. Brittany already has more roommates than she wants since Aubrey moved her new boyfriend in. An' I won't live with Abby again, not after last time. Everybody else is movin' back with their parents or livin' on campus."

"You need money or somethin'? 'S that it?" He asked, and when her eyes met his, he quickly added before he had a chance to wimp out, "I could help ya if ya need. 'Least, I could try."

She responded flatly, "No. I don't need yer help - I don't need anythin' else that somebody can hold over my head."

He reflexively grew defensive. "I don't want nothin' ta hold over yer head, I just wanna help you."

She shook her head and downed another swig of beer before explaining, "No, you don't get it, Daryl. I wanna be self-sufficient for once. I wanna actually rely on myself - nobody else. Me an' my dad have been fightin' non-stop since I moved back and all he's done is guilt me fer 'wasting his money on expensive vet school' and 'letting myself lose sight of my priorities.' Like I don't already fuckin' hate myself enough, he has ta keep reminding me an' just… constantly holding it over my head. If I don't get outta there, I'm gonna go off the deep end."

He watched her take a leisurely drag from the cigarette pinched between her fingers, and as the smoke curled out from between her lips into the cold night air, the only thing he could think to say was, "Oh."

Her eyes flicked away and stared out at the darkened coffee shop across the street, and finally, he found the right words he'd wanted to use, though he spoke tentatively. "Well - he cares about ya. He's prob'ly worried. 'M sure he ain't intentionally holdin' it over yer head. You're all he's got now, 'course he's gonna want the best for ya."

He saw the pain flash across her features momentarily, as though she were physically wincing at his statement. For a second, he feared he'd said the wrong thing, and a flood of memories flashed through his head to remind him of one of the many places he'd always gone wrong, one of the many things he'd always fucked up. Was he lecturing her again? Acting like a know-it-all and patronizing her? Or could she tell that it was coming from a place of deep concern this time?

She ashed her cigarette a little harder than necessary and kept her eyes on the skyline in the distance, and her voice was laced with bitter resentment and unresolved conflict. But it wasn't directed at him. "That's the problem, though - I'm all he's got… He found out that Maggie had a baby last month an' now he's back ta calling her every single day and getting his heart broken when she never calls back... I can't be the daughter he wants when the daughter he wants won't even speak to him."

Daryl felt a burst of sympathy in his chest and inhaled the last decent drag off his cigarette before tossing it over the guardrail. The question burst from his mouth in disbelief before he could stop it, "Yer sister had a baby?"

He could see Beth rolling her eyes and puffing out cigarette smoke through gritted teeth. Then she mumbled, "Yeah - a boy. I only found out 'cause I saw it on Facebook."

Fucking Maggie, he thought.

He still couldn't understand how someone could abandon their family like that, cut them off completely and act like they didn't even exist. Even after all the shit Merle had pulled, Daryl never once thought of cutting him off or walking away. They were blood. Although Merle had left a time or two when he really should've stuck around... but he'd never been the most reliable person on the planet to begin with, so Daryl couldn't really fault him for it.

Or maybe Daryl was still making excuses for his pathetic big brother. That was one of those things that Beth had always seemed to have figured out way before him - she'd stopped making excuses for Maggie a long time ago. She'd made the choice to continue on with her life despite her bitch of an older sister, she'd decided to keep trying to be the best daughter she could be for her daddy.

But she was in way over her head. Always had been. There were rifts in her family that simply couldn't be fixed, no matter how badly she wanted to fix them herself, no matter how hard she pushed for them to move on with their lives and find a new state of normalcy. And now she was finally accepting that fact.

He watched her push away from the guardrail and turn toward him, and his eyes flicked down to her tight jeans, as though he could see the scars through the denim. He wanted to ask if that was why she'd started hurting herself, if her sister and her sister's fucked up perception of family was the cause for her current pain and frustration and misdirection. If the heavy load weighing on her shoulders was pushing her down a path of slow self-destruction.

But she must've seen the question forming on his lips, because she quickly put on a stiff smile and he saw the mixture of fear and pain and uncertainty being pushed down, hastily shoved away and hidden beneath the brightness of her blue eyes. She was putting on her plastic mask, her Resilient Beth look, despite how flimsy it had become, despite how utterly pointless it was - especially with him.

And then she was reaching out and wrapping her dainty fingers around his wrist ever-so-gently, sending a tingle of longing rushing up his arm and straight through his chest, and she locked onto his gaze with her raised eyebrows and almost-genuine smile. She lightly tugged at his wrist as she stepped back toward the open balcony door. Her voice came out lighter, tinged with forced optimism.

"But hey, fuck that bitch. I'm tryin' ta keep this buzz goin'. C'mon, babe - let's do a shot!"

And how could he turn her down when she was calling him babe again?

There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on his counter that she helped herself to, pouring out two shots and eagerly clinking the tiny glasses together with him while she happily declared, "EFF. DEE. BEE. Fuck. Dat. Bitch! Fuck all the bitches in our lives." And then they'd downed the shots simultaneously.

It burned going down his throat but he was unaffected. So was she, apparently. He missed the way her nose used to scrunch up at the taste of straight liquor. Now it was like she'd grown accustomed to the taste and the sensation. Just like he had over the years, way before ever meeting her.

She didn't want to wallow in misery tonight, that much was clear. She wasn't even willing to let herself slip back down that slope of self-loathing like last time. He was almost disappointed. A part of him wanted, badly, to confront her about the cuts on her thigh while they were both relatively sober and completely clothed. Another part of him wanted to bring up the conversation they'd had in bed, even if it meant arguing about the overdramatic text she'd sent after disappearing while he was asleep. He was ready to argue, to have a heated disagreement about the state of their relationship and what kind of twisted road it was that she was currently leading him down. He was ready to peel back old skin and clean their wounds once and for all.

But she knew him too well, and she could practically read him like a book, and he sensed that she was picking up on the nagging thoughts in his head and doing her best to steer their conversations in every other direction except that direction. He might've been ready to be back to that level of comfort with her, but she wasn't ready to be there with him. At least not tonight.

She was back to telling funny stories about her drunk friends and their stupid parties, and though he tried not to, Daryl listened closely for any mentions of other guys. But he could no longer tell whether she was omitting them or not, and the only thing he was sure of was that she was completely skipping over any and every story involving Jimmy or Jimmy's friends. The pain was still flickering noticeably in her eyes, and she was continuously pushing it down farther and farther. He tried to crack small jokes here and there, urging a smile to form on her chapped lips, and it worked. They laughed together, occasionally reminiscing on old memories from before, but never lingering in the past for long.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey and swigged it down in less than ten minutes, then quickly poured another one. She giggled and squealed when he playfully pressed a cold beer to the back of her neck while her back was turned and he felt the fluttering come to life in his stomach like another painful reminder.

Were those walls back up tonight, or had he successfully torn them down? He still couldn't tell. Or maybe he was just an idiot. He certainly felt like one, especially around her. He'd always been a complete moron when it came to gauging her emotions. He never could seem to figure out how to read her mind like she read his.

They laughed some more, shared brief touches of hands and arms and hips. They took another shot together after a half-slurred story about Brittany's shitty boyfriend getting into a fist fight with one of Lauren's weekend flings. Daryl's tongue loosened on its own, plenty lubricated by the mixture of whiskey and beer and Beth's intoxicating presence, and then he was telling his own stupid story about Dwight nearly getting into a fight with some asshole at the bar a few weekends back.

It wasn't often that he had a story worth telling her, but a lot had happened while they'd been apart, and the enraptured look on her face as she grinned and listened to his dumb tale - laughing and frowning and scoffing accordingly in reaction to what he was telling her - made him eager to share anything and everything. Her focus on him was like a whole new high that he could never quite get enough of. It always had been. She was the only woman left that made him feel like he needed to impress her. The only person left that could make him feel like needed to impress them - or rather, wanted to.

She was still the only person he wanted to talk to at the end of the day, the only person he wanted to confide in or lean on for support. Spending several months without speaking to her at all had taken a toll on him. Whenever something good happened, she was always the first person he thought of, the first person he wanted to share it with. And the same went for bad days, or unexpected events. But he'd had to hold it all inside, choosing to confide only what he was comfortable with to the very few friends he had left, and only when it didn't feel like he was burdening them with his bullshit.

Being without her had been like missing an entire piece of himself, in more ways than one. He'd lost his best friend, his confidante, his most trusted and loyal partner in life. He'd been so absolutely misdirected without her reliable guiding light to show him the way. Without her scalding tone to point out where he was wrong and urge him to be better. Because she was the only one who'd ever really believed that he could be better.

And as they sat together on the couch, clinking together their beer bottle and whiskey glass in cheers before taking long swigs, her words rolled around in his head and all the images she'd described lingered in his mind and he longed for this exact comfort and security. This place of safety, where they could both be themselves and talk shit on all the assholes in their lives and be completely unafraid of judgement or conflict, pouring out their deepest disappointments right alongside their highest points of confidence.

This place where she was sitting close beside him on the couch with her legs curled up beneath her and their thighs touching. Where her voice and her half-drunken laughter was filling his ears and lifting the heaviness in his chest. Where the muted TV was casting a dim glow across them both and the night dragged on later and time seemed to disappear altogether, ceasing to matter. Where her breath smelled like alcohol and cigarettes and something fruity and she was running her fingers through her long, golden tendrils and pushing them out of her face and locking her glazed, bloodshot eyes onto his. And he was fighting back the strong urge to wrap his arm around her and pull her in, to press his mouth to hers and taste her again.

He was too busy soaking in the moment and letting her familiar scent fill his nostrils to realize that she was squinting at the top of his head and leaning in closer, until her hand was reaching out and she was gently grabbing the side of his head to tilt it down and pull him toward her, leaning in to investigate.

"Oh my gosh, is that gray hair?" She asked, giggling lightly as she ran her fingers through a few particular strands of hair at the top of his head.

He jerked his head away and frowned at her but didn't pull back. "Don't look at it - you know I'm old, ain't gotta point it out."

She laughed and he couldn't help but smirk at the sound. "Yer not old - but you do need a haircut. An' maybe a root touch-up…?"

He playfully nudged her arm and grumbled, "Shut up." Then he ruffled the back of his shaggy hair and scoffed. It was true, he was in need of a haircut. But he'd been trying really hard to ignore those grays appearing from the top of his scalp.

Beth continued smiling, chuckling softly before taking a sip of beer. Then she shrugged. "It don't look bad on you, though."

He rolled his eyes and glanced down at her pale hands wrapped around her beer bottle. Then he smirked as a distant memory popped into his head, and naturally, he wanted to share it with her. "'Least it don't look as bad as that time I shaved it all off."

Her bright blue eyes flashed with recognition and her smile grew wider. "Oh my god, that was such a bad look on you!" She laughed, shaking her head. "But ta be fair, that was the same summer where I thought it'd be a good idea to bleach my hair. So we were both lookin' like a hot mess."

He chuckled and took a sip of whiskey, wisps of moments from a summer that felt like so long ago drifting through his head. It made his stomach turn and flip and he took another long sip to calm it. He could see on her face that she was thinking about the same thing, but he also knew from experience that she probably had an entirely different slew of memories that popped up when she was reminded of that summer. Sometimes, he didn't quite understand how or why she remembered the things she did, or why she let herself get stuck on them. Then again, he probably did the same thing without even realizing it. They were both guilty of stacking the weights on their own shoulders a little higher and heavier than necessary.

Then his glass was empty and he was about to stand up and go to the kitchen to pour another one, but her voice stopped him and drew his attention once more. "That was the summer when you left me at that bar - 'member? You forgot about me an' I had ta call you after I waited outside fer like, thirty minutes."

She laughed lightly through the whole thing like it was a funny story, but he could see the pain that was still prevalent in her eyes and her crooked half-smile. And he didn't force himself to smirk back, nor did he try to hide the frown that formed on his mouth.

"I didn't forget about you - jus' said that so you wouldn't think I was…"

What had he been afraid of her thinking back then that he could still justify being afraid of now? Nothing. There was no point in keeping up stupid little white lies after everything that happened.

"I left 'cause I was scared," he finished.

It might make him sound like more of an asshole - somehow he'd thought, for years, that lying and saying he was so drunk that he'd 'forgotten' she was at the bar with him, that he'd thought she'd already left without him, was better than just being honest and admitting that he was terrified of how serious things had been getting with her. Of all the weird emotions he'd begun feeling for her and all the expectations that came along with them. Expectations that he knew he could never meet.

It didn't matter now. She already knew he was a lying, unreliable, sad sack of shit. Might as well own up to all of it. Even if didn't do a damned thing to fix all the scarring memories she'd been left with.

Her smile faltered and disappeared and she looked back at him with slight confusion, brow slowly knitting together. "Scared? ...Of what?"

He shrugged, glancing away almost shamefully. "I'ono - everything, I guess. You. Bein' around you was - somethin' else. Still is. But I didn't know how ta act. I was terrified I'd scare ya off fer good. Or I'd fuck it up somehow an' you'd realize what an asshole I am."

She laughed humorlessly and he looked up to meet her gaze just in time to see her shaking her head. "Yer so stupid sometimes. 'M pretty sure there was nothin' that you could've done that coulda scared me off. I was infatuated with you. It broke my heart when I thought you'd forgotten I was there, like you thought I'd actually leave without sayin' goodbye first. I sat out front with the door guy for half an hour an' talked about how I was fallin' in love with you. Then I saw yer truck driving off - without me. I felt like a… fuckin' idiot." She ended with another dry and humorless laugh before tipping the beer bottle back and draining it down her throat.

He frowned deeper and avoided her gaze, looking down at the floor instead, empty glass clutched tightly in his hand. "I know. I made a goddamn fool outta you. But ya got me back for it eventually."

Should've kept that last part to myself, he scolded himself. She didn't come over to argue, why can't I keep my pride put away for a few hours? This ain't the game I wanna be playin'.

"I didn't want to," she said softly. Her voice cracked like there was a knot forming in her throat. When had she become so vulnerable in place of becoming defensive? Was that the alcohol, or the new version of Beth talking?

He quickly shrugged and stood up from the couch, turning and walking to the kitchen, trying not to grip the empty glass in his hand so tightly. Just like all the other habits, it was way too easy to fall into that familiar game of 'you hurt me, I'll hurt you' with her. But he was determined to be better, to show her that he was better. To prove that he wasn't going to linger on old resentments anymore, and that he was really, truly prepared to put it all behind them.

Was it even believable, though? Or was he trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince her?

He heard the familiar sound of fingernails tapping on a phone screen while he poured himself another whiskey and opened another cold beer. Within seconds, he was returning to the couch, holding out the beer for her to take before he took a sip of his fresh drink. He couldn't help but catch a glimpse of her phone screen right before she darkened it and tucked it away - was that the Tinder app she had open, or…? She took the beer and thanked him, leaving her empty bottle on the coffee table and taking a swig from the full one.

He brushed off the bristling ends of jealousy and paranoia, taking his seat beside her and sinking back down into the cushions, letting their thighs press together as her warmth rushed up his side. He was resisting the urge to revisit that sour memory they'd been discussing because he knew it would end up sounding like a pathetic string of useless apologies and more bitter resentment. He didn't trust his pride to stay small and hidden, as it had a tendency to swell and defend his selfish actions, no matter how wrong they might've been.

Then she was speaking, her tone lighter and full of genuine reminiscence rather than thinly-veiled remorse, chuckling softly and leaning into him a little closer. "'Member that guy with the hot tub an' the coke - and we were so sure he was like, some kinda sex deviant or somethin'?"

A dozen scattered images washed over Daryl's mind and he smirked, grunting in amusement and nodding. "Yeah, I remember. What was 'is name - Alex?"

She nodded, "Yeah, Alex! That's it."

He grunted again and continued, "Only reason I went is 'cause the dude wore a suit an' drove a Mercedes. We outnumbered him, wasn't no way he was gonna try anythin' weird anyway."

She laughed. "He wasn't even weird, he gave me his business card an' everything! You only went 'cause you wanted ta make sure I wasn't gonna be kidnapped or something - just admit it."

He chuckled and his smile widened. "I knew nothin' was gonna happen to ya - had those other three girls an' that dude Lauren was datin' with ya. 'Sides, I think Alex was more scared a you than he was of me."

She rolled her eyes and giggled, taking another sip of beer. "Yeah, alright. So you only went for the free coke an' the hot tub, right?"

He carefully swirled the whiskey around in his glass and scoffed, unable to force back the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Nah - I went 'cause you was goin'. An' I wasn't about ta let you outta my sight when I know how good ya look in a bikini. Glad I went, too, 'cause ya did look fuckin' good in that hot tub. Ol' Alex was eyeballin' you all night."

She laughed and shook her head and he saw the pink creeping up her neck and filling her cheeks as she lifted the beer bottle to her lips again. Then she ran a hand through her long blonde hair, pushing it back out of her face, blue eyes flickering and flashing as he wondered what was going through her mind. How many other times did they share together that lingered in her mind to this day? How many of her memories were plagued by his presence? Did they bring her joy or discomfort when she thought about them?

Right now, he was pretty sure she felt joy. The alcohol kept a half-smile plastered on her face and she was gazing back at him thoughtfully. Then she asked, "You remember that night you got us kicked outta the bar 'cause you got into it with that one dude?"

His chest deflated a bit and his smirk faded. He nodded and took a small sip of whiskey before responding, "Yeah - barely. I was plastered that night."

She laughed and raised her eyebrows, nodding and emphasizing her agreement, "Yeah, you were. I think you knocked out one of his teeth, but he slammed yer head into the brick wall an' it wouldn't stop bleeding. I was so scared, I was about ta call a fuckin' ambulance. But you wouldn't let me."

His mouth was a thin line now and the shame was flooding his chest. He took a long sip of whiskey, then grumbled, "Yeah. I was a stupid asshole..."

Her amused smile faded and she shrugged, as if she were shrugging off and excusing all of his inexcusable actions, leaving them in the past where they belonged. But not before one last visit, not before one last reminiscence and reflection on times gone by and mistakes long made. "Yeah, you kinda were. But it was my fault, too - 'cause I was talkin' to the guy an' you saw him puttin' his arm around me. I was tryin' ta make you jealous. 'Cause you wouldn't admit that you liked me the same way I liked you… I was an asshole, too."

He shook his head. "Nah, you weren't. Ya shouldn't've had ta put up with that - I was a dick. Too damn stubborn an' bull-headed to admit a girl could get under my skin. 'Specially a girl like you."

Her smile slowly reappeared. She giggled softly and it eased some of the tension in his tightened-up back. Then she added, "I thought you were gonna be done with me after that night. You were so mad, an' you wouldn't let me help you."

One side of his mouth tugged upward at a faint smirk as he locked onto her gaze and admitted, "I was mad 'cause I didn't know how ta deal with it. I didn't want you gettin' yer hopes up in me jus' ta be let down when ya realized how useless I actually am… But then I woke up an' you was still there."

She shrugged almost sheepishly and mumbled, "I was worried. I had ta make sure you weren't gonna bleed ta death or go into a coma while you were sleepin' or somethin'."

"Yeah - an' that's when I realized you cared about me. Really cared about me. Like I cared about you," he said, his heart skipping.

This wasn't the first time they'd discussed and dissected that particular memory, that pivotal night in the timeline of their relationship, but it was the first time he'd finally told her what it had actually meant to him. Too little, too late, he knew. It didn't matter anymore. If anything, he was sure that night had only showed her a brief glimpse of what else was to come: a lot of one-sided worry, a lot of her trying to care for him while he kept pushing back and declining her concern, denying the clear evidence of her love. A lot of him being stupid and making shitty decisions out of anger, letting his temper get the best of him and lashing out, trying his best to drink away all the nagging feelings that he didn't understand and didn't want to deal with. If she'd been smarter, maybe older and more experienced, she would've seen that he was showing her exactly what she was signing up for, and she would've turned tail and run as fast as she could in the other direction. Instead, she'd latched on tighter and tighter until he had no choice but to open up that cracked metal shell that surrounded him and let her in, little by little.

He'd known, all along, that she'd been trying to make him jealous that night. He could still see her sitting at that bar with that scrawny, brown-haired kid, watching his weasly little arm wrap around her middle and pull her closer to his barstool. Some shithead college kid, no doubt. Some kid that she started talking to when she realized Daryl was ignoring her and allowing another woman to get up into his personal space, buy him drinks, and play pool with him. It was years ago now, but it still incited a flame of pure rage in the deepest part of his belly at the recollection. The rage used to be directed at Beth, but now it was at himself. He'd been stupid, so fucking stupid. Immature and undeserving of a girl like Beth. He couldn't even remember what the bitch looked like that he'd been hanging out with that night, but he knew that he was wrong for making Beth jealous of someone who could never match up to her. He was despicable for making her feel like she needed to compete with anyone.

So many stupid fucking mistakes. Like a breadcrumb trail of bad choices and shitty behavior. He didn't like visiting this path, walking down it with her. Not like this. Not when he knew that she was no longer his and might never be again. It made the memories all that much more painful.

She must've been able to read it on his face. Either that or the alcohol had made her attention span a little shorter than usual. They sipped their drinks and then she smiled like she'd just remembered something exciting.

"Oh - what're you gonna do fer yer birthday?" She asked, bright eyes focusing on him while she smiled expectantly.

A pang of dread shot through his gut and he shrugged, taking another swig from the glass in his hand. He'd been trying not to think about his impending birthday, another marker of one more year passing by with no movement forward and nothing to show for it except more gray hair, wrinkles, and aching bones. Another reminder that he was well past his prime and growing closer to death with every second, closer to disappearing and being forgotten forever, having done nothing but wasted some of the Earth's resources and taken up valuable space in a crowded world.

"I'ono. Dwight said somethin' about goin' to the bar… Ain't gonna be nothin' special. Jus' gonna get drunk so I can forget about how old an' decrepit I am."

She giggled and leaned forward, playfully slapping his arm. "Oh, c'mon, it's yer birthday! We should do somethin' for it. I'm down ta go to the bar with you an' Dwight - I haven't seen him in a while."

Daryl furrowed his brow and gave her a skeptical look. "What - you wanna spend m'birthday with me?"

She nodded. "Well, yeah."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's yer birthday? And we're friends…? D'you not want me to?"

Friends. Friends. Just friends…?

He swallowed hard and glanced away from her eyes, down at his glass. "'Course I want ya to. Jus' - didn't expect you ta want to."

She scoffed and took a swig of beer. "Well, I do. So lemme know what the plan is an' I'll be there. Deal?"

He nodded and tentatively lifted his gaze to meet hers again. "Alrigh'. I will."

Why was it so fucking impossible for him to say no to her?

to be continued...

A/N: The night is not over for them. Next chapter picks up where this leaves off and dives quickly into another smut scene :)
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