AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!

111

Daryl's fingertips trailing lightly over her skin left a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Carol shivered, laughed quietly at her body's reaction to the gentle touch, and smiled at Daryl when she heard him laugh in response. He was smiling at her, too, when their eyes locked again. He smiled all the way to his eyes—it was so genuine that her pulse sped up in response and her brain offered her thoughts that were terrifyingly too soon.

"Cold…or…?" Daryl asked.

"Feels good," Carol said. "Tickles, but…feels good. Don't stop."

Carol read a lot of romance novels. The cheesier the better, that had always been her criteria for a good romance novel. She liked the ones with the half-naked men on the front. She had a few preferences for what kind of men she preferred, and cowboys were her favorites—the rugged half-naked men in jeans would have her snatching a paperback out of drugstore's wire-rack of offerings faster than anything else.

In those books, maybe, Carol found something she had never found in real life—something that, really, she'd started to believe didn't exist. She found men who were sensitive, kind—even if they were a little brooding. She found men who wanted to worship the women in their lives in exchange for the things they could offer them like enjoyment of their bodies and the simple domestic pleasures that the women never minded offering anyway.

Carol was domestic to her very core. She craved domesticity and a comfortable home life. She knew that made her a shame, sometimes, to women who preached against it, but she wanted a happy home life with a husband she adored—and who, she dreamed, adored her in return. She wanted a home crawling with happy children, and she wanted to share chores with a man she loved after they both got home, tired, from work that made them both happy. She wanted them to care for their family together.

Ed had never given her what she wanted. He had nearly broken her body. He had broken their home, and he'd broken her heart in every way imaginable.

In her books, though, that never happened. In her books, the writer's wrote beautiful moments that Carol longed to live. They used words that were ridiculous, and unrealistic, and Carol like the taste of them on her tongue.

Carol did not believe in "making love." It was something she couldn't believe was real. It was something she couldn't imagine experiencing outside of her daydreams.

Yet the words had circled dangerously around her brain more than once during the night before and the current morning.

Daryl had woken her up early to ask if she wanted him again. He'd nuzzled her neck, and he'd caressed her gently, petting her whole body with his palm like he was memorizing the landscape of her. He'd tasted parts of her that, honestly, Carol had never imagined a man might want to taste. Now, lying on one of his arms while he trailed his other fingertips over her skin, Carol felt sated.

That was the best word for it. She felt like she felt after a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner—when she was full, and happy, and a little sleepy from having had her fill of everything delicious and wonderful that she'd wanted to experience. She felt that way now, but it wasn't her stomach that was full, or had been filled at all, really—and it wasn't her stomach that still felt the after-effects of what she'd experienced with Daryl.

Even after having washed away most of the evidence with a rag in the bathroom, she could still feel an aching evidence of Daryl between her legs and, far from being unpleasant, she enjoyed the physical reminder that he'd been there—repeatedly. She was pretty sure, honestly, that the aching evidence of him would stay with her at least through the day.

She laughed at the thought.

"What?" He asked.

His eyes almost appeared heavy and sleepy. She recognized lust in them. He would, if she allowed, do with her body what he pleased as soon as his own body permitted such a thing. There was something else there, too, though Carol didn't dare to try to give it a name.

Carol smiled at him and pursed her lips, doing her best to give him a teasingly pouty expression, but feeling pretty sure that she failed.

"I'm definitely feeling the…after-effects of everything," Carol said.

He furrowed his brow.

"Bad?" He asked.

"Not bad," Carol said. "Just—sore. It's been a little while."

His cheeks ran red.

"You know the best thing for—muscles that get sore after somethin' they ain't done in a while?" He asked. Carol bit her lip. She liked his expression. She wanted the teasing that she knew was coming. She hummed in the negative and shook her head. He grinned at her. It was a deliciously evil grin, and it caught the attention of the aching anatomy they were discussing. "Two things, actually," Daryl said. "But—depends on what'cha like." He leaned his head and kissed her. It was soft, but hungry still.

"I like you," Carol breathed out. She hadn't planned to say it, and her cheeks grew warm. She recovered by continuing the teasing. "You better tell me, so—I can get some relief."

He hummed at her. He bit her lip and she opened her mouth to him for a deeper kiss. She closed her eyes and shifted her body—it pulled toward him like it was almost automatic or magnetic. She moaned into his mouth. When he pulled away, there was no mistaking the lust in his expression.

"Well—of course there's practice," Daryl said. "Keepin' doin' what's got you sore is the best way to get over it and all."

"And what's the other choice?" Carol teased, trying to hold back her smile. Daryl's lips curled very quickly into a smile, but he clearly bit it back as well. He tried to look serious, but he failed.

"Well—the other choice is massage," he said. "Deep—deep massage."

His fingers trailed down Carol's body. They rubbed at her clit, and she closed her eyes. She was sensitive, and throbbing, and she opened her legs on instinct. When she opened her eyes, a hint of a smile was on Daryl's lips.

"I like that idea," she said. "I like the sound of that."

Daryl hummed.

"Thought you might," he said. He slipped a finger into her and stroked her. She arched her back and opened herself up more to him. He kissed her as he slipped another finger into her. "Only thing is—sometimes that deep kinda massage, you know, makes you sore before it starts to…to make things better."

Carol smiled at him. She rolled into him, reaching around him toward the nightstand. She snagged the box by a corner and pulled it over to simply hold it out so that he could dip those same fingers, freed from her body for a moment, into it to make his selection.

"I'm willing to take the chance," Carol said, swallowing back the amused laughter that caught in her throat.

"OK," Daryl said. "But—we gotta be quick. I expect knockin' at that door any minute—wantin' breakfast."

"We better hurry, then," Carol said. "And then? I make some really, really good pancakes."

111

Daryl ate Carol's pancakes with the same gusto and enthusiasm that he used to eat other things that she'd offered him.

Surprisingly enough, her body's reaction over how much he audibly and visually enjoyed her food was, in some ways, similar to its reaction over how much he'd enjoyed time spent between her legs, doing his best to make her squirm.

Poppy's reaction to Carol's pancakes and the bites of banana that she'd cut up for her on her plate were far more innocent, but really quite fulfilling in its own way.

"Did you like it?" Poppy asked, her mouth still full of food.

"I do like it," Carol said. "Do you like it?"

"Mmmhmmm," Poppy hummed. She did a little side-to-side dance in her chair as added evidence of her enjoyment. Carol had made her chocolate chip pancakes, and she had bits of melted chocolate staining her lips and face. Carol had made sure that everything on Poppy's plate came to her already in bite sized pieces, but Poppy still wielded her fork like a spear. "It's—that's good, too. It's good too," Poppy said, gesturing toward the banana she squished between her fingers before shoving it into her mouth. "You eat it?" She picked up a piece and offered it to Carol, just in case Carol needed a particularly smashed piece of banana to make her meal fulfilled.

"I have some fruit," Carol said. "You eat yours."

"You eat it, Daddy? Daddy—you eat it?" Poppy asked. She offered him Carol's rejected piece of banana.

"I got banana, Poppy," Daryl said. "You gettin' full? That why you tryin' to give your food away? You gettin' full up? Because—it's OK if you are. You don't gotta eat all of it."

Poppy made a face. Carol chewed a piece of her pancake and covered her mouth with her hand as discreetly as possible so that the toddler wouldn't see her amusement. She looked like she might be feeling full. She might even be feeling a little on the border of miserable.

She sighed deeply, licked her lips, and scraped the smashed banana on the side of the plate.

"I'ma—eat that," Poppy said, pointing to a piece of her pancake. "I'ma eat that, Daddy, OK? I'ma just—I'ma eat that."

"That's fine," Daryl said. "That's good. You eat that." Poppy was still doing her best to wipe smashed banana off her fingers and onto the edge of her plate. She hadn't mastered yet, neither the idea nor the use of a napkin. Since they were eating at home, and since he could have whatever he wanted, Daryl had already brought a damp washcloth to the table, declaring that it worked better as a Poppy-proof napkin than anything else. Without missing a beat, he took the washcloth and wiped off Poppy's hand for her—wiping away the smashed banana. She looked relieved.

"Thanks, Daddy," she said.

"You welcome, Poppy," Daryl said. "Now go on—eat whatever you gonna eat."

Poppy washed down her pancakes with milk from a sippy cup. There was a black and white cow on the sippy cup, and it had a red lid that matched a bow that hung around the cow's neck. Poppy had informed Carol, while she'd been looking through the dishwasher at the washed sippy cups and considering that she might treat Daryl to a clean kitchen with all his dishes put away before she left, that the cup was her favorite. Now, Poppy offered it out in Carol's direction.

"I don't have no milk," she said.

"Penelope Ann Dixon," Daryl said. His tone was sharp and direct enough that Poppy's head immediately turned in his direction and, for half a second, her face screwed up like she might cry. Daryl's expression was stern, but not really angry. "What do you say? You know better'n to just say you don't have no milk and hold your cup out like that."

Poppy frowned. She licked her lips again, clearly trying to get some of the chocolate off and, maybe, distinctly feeling the effects of her thirst. She looked back at Carol with nothing short of doe eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, though her words were garbled and slightly whined out. "Please—I don't have no milk."

Carol swallowed. She didn't expect something so simple to choke her, but there were things that made her think about Sophia. There were things that, sometimes, choked her—in the best way possible, though.

She gave Poppy the best smile she could around the ache she felt. She stood up and took the little cow cup that was offered to her. She reached for the rag and, snagging it from the table, she wiped Poppy's mouth and face clean before she headed toward the kitchen.

"Absolutely, Sweetheart," she managed to choke out, only after she'd headed for the refrigerator.

"You don't got to wait on her," Daryl said. "On me, neither."

Carol smiled to herself as she poured the little cup of milk and screwed the top back on securely. She brought it back, offered it to Poppy, and accepted her "thanks" before she started sucking on it like she'd been thirsting to death. Carol leaned down and kissed the top of the little girl's head before she sat down at the table and went back to the pancakes that she was only eating out of habit, at this point.

"It's OK," she assured a slightly concerned looking Daryl across the table. "I want to. I like it. There are—there are days that I wish I could…still make a sippy cup of milk."

Daryl frowned, but nodded knowingly and acceptingly.

"What are you—gonna do today?" Daryl asked.

"You sleepin' with us?" Poppy interjected.

Carol smiled at Poppy.

"I have to work tomorrow," Carol said.

"And I gotta work," Daryl said. "And you got school. Gotta go see Miss Jo. Remember?"

Carol bit her lip. For a moment, it looked like Poppy—with her furrowed brow—was going to be willing to trade all of that for Carol's promise to sleep there. She didn't argue, though. Instead, she switched gears at an amazing speed, Carol thought, for a little child.

"You gonna watch my movie with me," Poppy said.

"You know—maybe Miss Carol's got things she wants to do, Poppy," Daryl said. "Maybe she don't want us monopolizin' all her time."

Poppy looked at him like she didn't understand. Carol wasn't sure if she didn't understand the idea that Carol might want to do other things, or if she didn't understand what monopolizing was. Probably, Carol decided, it was a bit of both.

"OK," Poppy said. "OK—but…"

"No—there ain't no but," Daryl said.

"Daddy," Poppy protested. "But there is too a but, ya huh…"

"No—there ain't," Daryl said. "She ain't gotta do nothin' she don't wanna do, and you ain't big enough to argue about it."

Poppy frowned at the finality of Daryl's statement and filled her mouth with a handful of pancake bites that she clearly didn't want. As soon as she'd packed it all into her mouth, regret showed on her features, and she coughed. She might have gagged, but she didn't open her mouth enough to make the sound clear.

Daryl sighed and, immediately, reached over and stuck his finger in her mouth. He raked the pancake out without comment and offered her the cup of milk as she sat, red-faced, with her tongue sticking out to make it easier for him to free her from the suffering she'd caused herself. She mumbled something like a thanks before she sucked on the milk.

"We get a little tired after breakfast," Daryl offered, wiping his hand with Poppy's washcloth and moving her plate away so she wouldn't try to eat any more of the food. "Miss Jo—at her school…nursery—she's been tryin' to break Poppy of the after-breakfast n-a-p because she won't get one when she goes to kindergarten, but we ain't been too successful so far. It's either give her the cup an' let her get the n-a-p or she's just grumpy the whole damn day."

"She's still a…b-a-b-y," Carol said, deciding to spell the word so as to not accidentally offend Poppy. "She has plenty of time."

She reached her hand over and stroked Poppy's head. The little girl's eyelids looked heavy, and Carol wondered if she was really actively drinking the milk, or if she was simply sucking on the sippy cup with the same kind of nursing tactics that Carol remembered Sophia employing when she'd still been using Carol for soothing. She'd still been nursing a little when Carol lost her, and there had been times when Carol had regretted being unconscious in Sophia's final hours—somehow feeling that offering her that soothing nursing would have, somehow, brought her back, even though she knew that the little girl had never been awake to have accepted that maternal affection.

Carol's chest ached almost unbearably for a moment.

"I think," she said, when she could, "that—I'd love to watch a movie, Daryl. At least—a little of it?"

Across the table, Daryl nodded his head.

"You don't gotta," he said.

Carol smiled at him. Everything inside of her ached—it hurt in the best ways possible.

"Yeah," she said. "I think—I'm realizing that. I don't have to do anything here. For once, maybe, nobody's making me do anything. But—I want to."

Daryl's cheeks colored slightly.

"Then—you can do whatever the hell you want."