AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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"Strawberry, grape, or both?" Daryl asked.

"What?" Carol asked, walking into the kitchen. Daryl had sent her to take a shower or a bath, he'd told her it was her choice. The house was still, but Carol was starting to suspect that Michonne and her little ones had been up early and were out the door.

"Would you like strawberry or grape on your biscuits?" Daryl asked. "Jam? Or you want both? Or—if you don't want none…"

He was already paused, jar in hand, with a large glop of strawberry jam hanging on the end of a spoon. Carol smiled to herself and nodded her head.

"Strawberry," she confirmed. He looked pleased with his knowledge of her, glopped the jam onto the open-faced biscuits, and nodded his head toward the table.

"Sit down," he said.

"Let me help," Carol offered. He shook his head.

"There ain't nothin' to help with. Coffee's on the table. Milk's on the table. I'm just about to take your eggs off an' bring the plates over. Sit down," Daryl said.

"At least let me get your plate," Carol said, gesturing toward the plate that was prepared.

Daryl's brows knitted together quickly.

"Sit down!" He said, frustration coming out in all sincerity in his tone. He checked himself, when Carol pulled back her hand. "Sorry," he said softly. "Just—lemme do this? Sit down?"

Carol could tell by the tone in Daryl's voice and the expression on his face that she was making an active decision—and it wasn't about herself. She could either choose to ruin Daryl's whole breakfast, and possibly set his day off on truly the wrong foot, or she could let him go back to the cheerful demeanor he'd been wearing when she came into the kitchen.

She nodded and walked over to the table. She sat.

Almost immediately, Daryl joined her. He put his plate down at the seat next to her—the head of the table, with just a corner separating them—and he put her plate in front of her. Without asking, he poured a little of the milk into her coffee, slid the coffee cup closer to her, and then poured more of the milk into a glass that he moved close to her plate. He put the sugar bowl between them and poured milk into his own coffee before he sat, clearly satisfied that they could begin breakfast.

"You did all this?" Carol asked.

"'Chonne helped," Daryl said. "I mean—I didn't know where everything was."

"Where is everyone?" Carol asked.

"Out the door already," Daryl said. "They'll be back. Had a couple quick things to take care of this mornin'. Kids went with their Ma." Carol smiled to herself at the shiver that ran up her back. "Cold?" Daryl asked. Carol laughed to herself. She hadn't even realized she'd actually shivered. She shook her head.

"Not at all," she said. "I just felt so—warm, really."

"Like a fever?" Daryl asked, his face contorting slightly.

Carol reached her hand out and patted his. Like her, he hadn't started eating yet, but he was at least holding his fork.

"Like—happiness," Carol said. "And—she's moving. I can feel her. I think she's happy, too."

Daryl relaxed.

"Yeah? What's she feel like?" Daryl asked.

Carol shrugged her shoulders.

"Like—popcorn. Like a little muffled pop. Every now and again. Or—like a bubble rising up to the surface," Carol said. Daryl seemed immensely pleased with the explanation, and he smiled to himself as he bit into one of his own dripping biscuit halves, his fork now abandoned. He gestured, with the biscuit, toward Carol's plate.

"Feed her," he said. "Ain't right for her to go hungry."

Carol tasted her own biscuit first, and hummed her approval, before she returned it to her plate and picked up her fork.

"Good?" Daryl asked.

"Amazing," Carol said.

"Then why ain't you finishin' it?" Daryl asked.

"I'm saving it," Carol said. "For—dessert."

"We got more, Carol," Daryl said. "You can eat as much as you want. I made 'em."

Carol smiled at him.

"I promise," she assured him. "I'll eat all that I want. I am a little mad, though."

"Mad?" Daryl asked.

"You let me do the cooking most of the time, and you could make a breakfast like this?"

Daryl smiled to himself.

"I let you do the cookin' because I like your cookin'," Daryl said. "Tastes good. Different. But I don't mind it, really. Sometimes. I only know how to make simple things, though."

Carol smiled to herself.

"Simple is perfect for me," she offered, determined to make a big show of eating as much of the breakfast as she possibly could, just for the simple happiness that it would bring Daryl.

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Daryl had sent out a rider and their rig at the same time. Their rig would be returned to the Kingdom, and the rig—belonging to Alexandria—that trailed behind it would return with the requests that Daryl had made. Daryl hoped, as well, that they would return with Henry. In Daryl's hastily scribbled note to Henry, he'd made it clear that his mother loved him very much, and she missed him always. Her health, he'd written, no matter what, would always be better when Henry was nearby. He had not failed to include, either, the fact that Enid would be coming to stay at Alexandria to help care for Carol during her pregnancy.

Henry, he'd learned through snatches of conversation here or there, had some interest in Enid. It seemed only natural, of course. They were around the same age, and they'd spent some time together. The communities were all doing their best to promote life and some sense of normalcy. They were hoping for a future. People would build lives—and part of building lives was the fostering of new relationships.

Daryl kind of liked the idea of helping Enid and Henry—if it were possible to help them with such a thing—grow closer to one another. Now that he knew the way that it felt to wake next to Carol, and to go to sleep with her in his arms, and now that he knew what it felt like to imagine that as the simple, sweet, wonderful way that his every day could happen—Daryl was sad for all the days that hadn't happened that way.

No matter how many stretched out ahead of them, he wished for more. He wished for every single one they'd missed.

He envied the fact that Henry and Enid had a chance at something like that while they were still so young—while so much time could be laid out before them—and it gave him something of a drive to help them find that.

And to protect that future they all hoped for—for himself and for Carol, for Henry and for Enid, and for every child that deserved to look forward to a long life without the thought of how it might be simply cut short because of the cruelty and injustice of the world around them.

Daryl hoped the promise of Enid's presence in Alexandria would be enough to bring Henry to stay if his drive to be close to his mother wasn't.

Daryl's note, scribbled to Enid, had come with an addition from Siddiq. The training she could receive would be particularly good in Alexandria. At Hilltop, Michael could give her hands-on training for all the things they all encountered daily, through everything they did, but Siddiq could give her the same. In addition, though, Alexandria was the only community with a woman who was currently expecting a child. Alexandria was the only place where Enid could practice becoming the doctor she wanted to be while also getting constant, hands-on practice at midwifing.

Enid was definitely coming, probably as fast as whatever pony they gave her could move, to stay for a few months at Alexandria.

And, given the relative distances between the communities and the preparation time required for each of their expected visitors to get there, Enid would arrive before Henry and, possibly, even before nightfall.

"We don't even know that anyone's coming," Carol said. Still, she didn't fight Daryl as he led her into one of the numerous houses in Alexandria that wasn't occupied—and which hadn't even been opened up since they'd gotten there.

"Smells musty as shit," Daryl said, walking over and immediately starting to open windows. "Get that one over there?"

Carol sighed, but she did start walking through the house, opening windows as she went.

"You know they're coming," Daryl said. "Enid ain't gonna pass this up."

"I think you like the idea of me spending the next four months as a science experiment," Carol teased.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Constant, daily, vigilance and reassurance," Daryl said. "That's the way I'm choosin' to look at it. And I do kinda like that idea. I think it'll be good for you. Keeps the focus on everything goin' good and progressin' how the hell it ought to." He followed her into the next room to open windows there. "Let's don't forget the upstairs."

"You think that—Enid's going to want to stay in a house by herself?" Carol asked.

"I think she's gonna like havin' her space," Daryl said.

"That's a lot of time alone," Carol offered.

Carol pretended to like her solitude, but Daryl knew that had always been something of a defense mechanism for her. In all honesty, Carol loved people. She loved being with people. She did not truly enjoy solitude. He could relate, too, though. He'd taught himself to like solitude—not really because he liked being alone so much but, rather, because he had learned that his own company was far preferable to the bad company that he normally found with most people. There was no need for him to pretend, especially with himself, that he hadn't been hiding from everything he couldn't—or wouldn't—deal with while he'd been in the woods.

Coming out of the woods, and out of his self-imposed isolation, to spend all his time in the company of Carol was a bit of an adjustment, but it wasn't nearly what he might have pretended it was or what others might have believed it would be.

Like Carol, a part of his soul had always craved connection with others, it had just taken a while to find someone who wasn't going to use that to break his heart.

"If things go well with her and Henry," Daryl offered, "then she might not be alone so much. You think?"

Carol stopped opening windows. She turned around. She smirked at Daryl.

Her hair was pulled up, but one soft and curling tendril escaped and fell down just over her face—the same one that always seemed determined not to be restrained by any pin, clip, or band that she tried to use to force it back. The sunlight, streaming in through the window that she'd just pushed open, flooded across her face.

"Are you trying to—push Henry and Enid together, Daryl?" Carol asked.

Daryl smiled to himself.

"I'm tryin' to help 'em together," Daryl said. He crossed the room toward her. Her smile didn't fall. She was beautiful. Right there, in that moment, and looking at him that way, Daryl wished for a camera more than he had in years. He'd have to make do with telling his mind to capture the image.

"You're playing matchmaker for teenagers?" She asked.

"Not like I'm promotin' it between fourteen-year-olds or—between some thirty-year-old and a fifteen-year-old," Daryl said. "They both damn near eighteen, if they ain't already eighteen. Hell—we don't even know how old either one of 'em is. What's wrong with them—you know—findin' out they like each other?" He shrugged his shoulders. He closed the full distance between them. He tucked the stray tendril of hair behind Carol's ear before he dropped his hand and brushed it across the small swell of Carol's belly. Then, he slid it around to her side to hold her close to him.

Her smile didn't fade, but something around her eyes softened for a second before she raised her eyebrow at him.

"What do you think Maggie would say?" Carol asked.

"I don't know," Daryl said. "But—I think she'd say that the most time you can have with someone you care about is best." Carol frowned, and Daryl's chest ached for a second—throbbed, really—because he knew, like him, she'd thought of Glenn and everything he'd missed. He ducked his head, quickly, and kissed her lips gently to erase the frown. She wrapped her arms around him, her hand brushing his back affectionately, as she deepened the kiss.

He held her even after the kiss broke and, for a moment, she seemed to be trying to memorize his face as hard as he was working to memorize hers.

Then she smiled, again, and raised her eyebrow at him—all the earlier mischief flooding back to her features.

"I have to talk to Henry," Carol said. "Or someone does. We don't want our daughter and—our grandchild—to be the same age."

Daryl laughed to himself.

"We'll make sure they both get talked to," Daryl said. "Enough to make their own decisions. But there's worse damn things these days, I suppose, than more families gettin' their start." He hummed. "Right now, though, ours is the only one getting started good. Come on. Let's get the windows open. Get this place aired out."

"It's a nice house," Carol offered, breaking away from him to start walking with him, again, from room to room and opening windows.

"There's plenty of houses here, Carol," Daryl offered. "I swear. I mean it. All you gotta do is say the word and—I'll paint Dixon on the post outside of one—any one you want."

Carol turned, smiled at him over her shoulder—a soft smile, this time, and then quietly slipped into the next room.