Hi guys! I'm back and feeling well rested. while I was gone, I learned something. I write better when I don't have a deadline. So, from here on out, I'm just going to post when the chapter is done Vs. trying to meet Wednesday and Saturday. Plus, each chapter is getting longer and longer... I will definitely post once a week if now twice. all is well.

'Cause I wanna touch you, baby
And I wanna feel you too
I wanna see the sun rise on your sins
Just me and you

Light it up, on the run
Let's make love tonight
Make it up, fall in love, try
(Baby, I'm right here)

But you'll never be alone
I'll be with you from dusk till dawn

Dusk till dawn by Zayn & Sia (Slow)

Chapter 20 - Birthday

"You know, when I said picnic, I meant the park like normal people," you mutter, feeling a twinge of annoyance as Daryl leads you deeper into the woods. You hold onto his hand tightly, trying to keep up with his confident strides. In your other hand, you clutch the basket of goods you had prepared for the occasion.

"The park is too damn crowded." He says simply and you roll your eyes.

When you pulled your car to your local park, Daryl had been waiting for you at your usual meeting spot, his hand in his pocket and cigarette on his lips, leaning against a tree nonchalantly. He simply shoes you into the passenger seat of your car and takes the wheel.

"Can you at least tell me where we're going?" you question, pouting your lips, demanding to know, but he only smirks and shakes his head.

It's the end of July, and the heat is sweltering. He had driven your car to a new area you have never been before. Your original plan was to enjoy a leisurely picnic in the shade of the trees at the local park. But the further away he took you from civilization, your curiosity turned to skepticism.

"Nope! You said you ain't gonna tell me what's in that basket, so I ain't telling you shit."

Despite your best efforts, Daryl won't reveal his birthday no matter how much you beg and mope. He told you it was in July a while back, so you picked today to surprise him with what you assume would be his belated birthday. When you asked him to go picnic with you, he had looked at you weirdly, especially since you often go to the cliff side with some food...

Initially, you assumed that he simply didn't want to make a fuss, but over time, you began to suspect that Daryl may not know or remember the exact date of his birthday. This led to your conversation about birthdays. Your heart sank when Daryl casually admitted that he doesn't celebrate birthdays, not even as a child. You suppose no one cared enough to celebrate his birthday, and based on what you know, it was apparent that no one was around to even notice.

That night, you found yourself tossing and turning, unable to shake the thought of how disheartened little Daryl must have felt growing up. No matter what he might say now, that couldn't have been how he felt as a kid. He must have wondered why he was the only kid who never got to celebrate his birthday.

The following morning, you cracked open your piggy bank with a sense of purpose, determined to make up for lost time. As you sifted through the coins and bills, you couldn't help but grimace when you realized how much of your allowance money you had been squandering on CDs and junk food with Daryl. So, plan B, use your hand and make something, and make your dollar stretch with what you buy.

As you walk through the woods, the only sounds you can hear are the rustling of leaves under your feet, and the chirping of birds overhead. The trees are tall and almost blocking out the sun, casting a dapple light over the forest floor. Daryl's grip on your hand is firm and reassuring.

"What if there's a snake here?" you grumble, holding onto his hand tighter, your eyes searching the ground. Despite your misgivings, you can't deny the sense of excitement that's building within you. You are glad that you have dressed appropriately for the occasion, the thin full-sleeved white t-shirt and washed-out blue jeans doing wonders for the slightly cooler temperature of the woods.

"You'll be aight, we're almost there," says Daryl reassuringly, as you've been walking for what it feels like an eternity.

Excitedly, you ask, "Where is 'there'?" and push forward to look around at the trees and underbrush.

"If you stop askin' all these damn questions," Daryl finally stops and leads you forward, "then I'll show you." He walks confidently, as if he had been here hundreds of times.

Finally, you emerge from the trees into a clearing, and your breath catches in your throat. Before you lie a vast expanse of meadow, painted in a breathtaking array of colors. It is like nothing you had ever seen before, and only in movies had you seen anything that came close to it.

The gentle breeze carries the sweet fragrance of the flowers, which mingles with the earthy scent of the forest. The vivid colors of the blossoms paint the meadow in shades of pink, purple, yellow, and white. Tall stalks of lavender sway in the breeze alongside delicate daisies, and golden sunflowers turn their faces toward the sun.

"I was huntin' an elk with Merle a few years back, and it led us here," he says. You barely register his words as your senses are overwhelmed by the beauty of the natural world around you. The soft grass beneath your feet feels like a lush carpet, and the sun warms your skin with a gentle touch.

The air is filled with the symphony of nature - the buzzing of bees and the chirping of crickets. Here and there, butterflies flit from flower to flower, adding their own colorful contribution to the scene. It's a moment of pure serenity, and you feel like you could stay there forever.

"There is a lake not too far from here," Daryl says softly, standing right behind you. In the distance, a stream meanders through the meadow, its gentle babbling adding to the tranquil ambiance. "I used to come 'ere with a few kids from my neighborhood," he continues, his voice full of nostalgia. "We'd tie us up a swing tire and turn that ol' lake into our own summer swimmin' pool."

Beyond the flowers, the forest continues, providing a verdant backdrop to the idyllic scene. "It's beautiful," you whisper, smiling at Daryl. "Thank you for bringing me."

"It's just some flowers," he said bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck. But you know it's not just flowers. He is sharing a part of himself, a place he considered special to him. You could tell he's hoping you would like it as much as he did.

As you turned back to the flowers, you could feel his eyes on you. The sun was barely beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden light across the landscape. "Come, let's pick a spot," you say excitedly, pulling him toward the grassy area in the middle of the meadow.

It doesn't take you long to spread out a blanket, and Daryl immediately lies down on it, folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes with a deep sigh. His body fully relax, as the gentle breeze caresses his hair.

You look at him with a smile and shake your head, before turning to your basket and carefully retrieving the items, placing them softly, one by one. "Hey," you nudge his arm playfully. "Come on, I have something for you," you tell him, and he opens one eye, causing you to giggle.

Your smile widens as you gently pull him up to a seated position. Before him lies a small, round chocolate cake with a single candle sticking in the middle, a lunch packed in a clear glass container, and a gift wrapped in colorful paper. A few bottles of ice water and some paper plates and forks lay on the side. He looks at you with wide eyes and looks back down at the display like he can't fathom.

"Oh, I also got this," you say, pulling out a blue birthday hat that says 'Birthday Boy' out of the basket.

"I don't really know how to cook," you continue, your hand pulling the rubber band to slide the paper hat on his head. "But I made that for you. It's a chicken carbonara, a family recipe." He doesn't say anything, just sits there watching the spread with the crooked paper hat on his head. "Happy 18th Birthday, Daryl," you whisper.

"I…" he seems lost, unable to find the words, or perhaps unable to force them from his throat. "I… thank you."

"You're most welcome." You can't contain the happiness you feel, and the warmth that settles in your heart. "I don't know if you had lunch already, but you can eat first, or we can cut the cake."

"I can always eat," he says, pulling the plastic container closer. It is your great grandmother's recipe, something your grandfather brought with him when he migrated from Italy. You watch eagerly as he opens the container with a fork in hand. The pasta glistens with creamy tomato sauce, and a slightly over-burned grilled chicken sits on top. You watch eagerly for the moment he takes his first bite… he pauses, and he slowly chews.

"You made this for me?" He confirms, and you nod happily, looking at his face, but his expression reveals nothing. "It's good," he says, clearing his throat as if something choked him. Immediately you know something is up. You look at his bowl with your eyebrows pinched, reaching for one of the spare forks you brought for the cake. He yanks the container away from you before you can touch his lunch.

"What is it?" you fight him for it, your fork forcing its way into the bowl. "Come on, let me try it."

and you do.

The moment the pasta touches your tongue, you linger, and slowly spit it back out. Despite your hard work getting everything right, you can't help but feel disappointed. All you can taste is the stupendous amount of black pepper tickling the back of your throat, and you forgot the salt.

You had tried to follow your grandfather's recipe book, but it was unnecessarily complicated, with every single measurement written out. Not that you couldn't follow directions, but you had to cook in a hurry and clean everything before your mother returns home from visiting one of her friends. You had never shown any interest in the kitchen, so if she caught you, there would be many, many questions you would need to answer.

"You don't have to eat it," you tell him, trying to pull the bowl away. "It's disgusting."

"Don't know what you're talkin' about, this shit is delicious," he says, taking another bite. "You said you made this for me, right?" He asks, pulling the bowl back to him. "Then, Imma finish it."

"Daryl..." you whine. "It's okay. You're not hurting my feelings. Really, you don't have to eat it."

"No one ever cooks shit, just for me," he tells you. "Imma finish this." His voice is firm, and you know he means it. This means something to him. So, you just sit there watching him, and part of you wants to cry, not because you're sad, but because you're overwhelmed with emotions, affection for him. You just watch him feeling like your heart is going to explode... from his messy hair to his dark brows, his blue eyes, the bridge of his nose, and the lips you've memorized so well. You can't help but let out a small laugh, as awareness settles over you. You love him, don't you?

It's as though a deep slumber had finally been lifted, and with it came a sudden realization that left you feeling shy and biting your lip as you admit to yourself. Of course, that your feelings for Daryl burned fervently as it always had. There has never been a moment where he doesn't possess a gravitational pull over you, a pull that was impossible to resist, like the moon exerting its force over the sea.

As he finishes his bowl and take a sip of water, you can't help but blush and smile at him. Your hands fidget with the cake that sat between you both, a double-layered chocolate cake with 'Happy Birthday Daryl' written in the center, courtesy of the local bakery you had visited before meeting him at the pick-up spot.

"Let me get your lighter," you ask after a moment of silence as he put away the empty container. He hands it to you and watch as you lite the candle. "Do you want me to sing 'Happy Birthday'?" you ask, unable to contain your laughter at the look on his face.

"Please don't," he mocks, his eyes lighting up with a mischievous glint. "My ears are still recoverin' from the last time you tried to sing to me."

Feigning offense, you place a hand dramatically over your heart. "The disrespect! You know what, just because you said that, I think I'm gonna sing." You declare, clearing your throat before belting out the song. He covers his face with his hand in embarrassment, but you can see the laughter shaking his chest. Only when you thoroughly finish the song and clap for yourself does he blow out his candle. You cheer happily as he cuts his cake, placing two hefty slices of cake onto paper plates.

"Now for the most exciting part," you exclaim giddily, handing him your wrapped gift. He licks the chocolate that smeared on his fingers before wiping his hand on his shirt. As he glances from your joyful expression to the present in front of him, you can't help but wonder if this is the very first birthday present, he had ever received. You imagine that maybe his brother might have given him something in the past, but the thought quickly fades away as he takes it from you and carefully unwrap the present.

Inside is a new portable CD player. "I made you a mixtape," you tell him excitedly, retrieving the CD from the bottom of the gift box. "I thought we could start collecting CDs together. I have plenty, so maybe we can swap," you add in a sing-song voice.

He fidgets with the CD player box, looking up at you shyly through his lashes. "Thank you," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. You wave him off with a laugh, though inside you were tingling with joy. The mood between you both is light as you enjoy the cake, chatting animatedly about albums and artists you've been collecting. You make recommendations and even offer for him to come over and take a few CDs as a starter.

As you lay on the blanket next to Daryl, the warm glow of the setting sun envelops you both in a comforting embrace. His shoulder serves as a soft pillow for your head, and his gentle hand caresses your hair as you listen to the soft melody of Mazzy Star's "Fade into You" playing through the shared earbud in your ear.

With your hand resting softly on his chest, you can feel his heartbeat, steady and reassuring. Your fingers idly fiddle with his button as you both watch the clouds meander across the sky, painting a beautiful canvas of pinks, oranges, and purples.

Suddenly, the peaceful silence is broken by Daryl's soft confession. "I ain't never had a birthday, you know, not that I remember." You sit up on your elbows, studying his contemplative expression. "When I was little, I told myself birthdays and Christmas ain't for somebody like me. That's why Santa never visits my house."

Your heart aches at his words, and you wish you could go back in time to change his past. "Every child deserves to feel special on their birthday, and a visit from Santa, even if all you get is just socks," you say softly, hoping to offer him some solace. "You didn't have birthdays when your mom was around?"

Daryl's gaze wanders, lost in a sea of memories. Memories of his mother, and perhaps, the pain of her loss. "Merle used to say mom was fine before I was born, stuck around even when my father put his hand on her," he reveals, his voice heavy with emotion. You instinctively reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, trying to comfort him.

"After she had me, she ain't never been the same," he continues, his eyes distant. "I used to think I did that to her and wished she ain't never had me. I ruined her somehow, you know." His words trail off, and he lets out a deep sigh. "She became depressed and started drinkin more, smokin more...she had a hard time leaving the bed."

You can feel his pain, and you gently turn his head, so he looks at you. You hold his chin with your fingers, hoping to convey the sincerity of your words. "Daryl, please don't think that," you say softly but firmly. "It's just something that happens to some women after giving birth. It's called postpartum depression. Sometimes it takes years to adjust. It had nothing to do with you, and your mother just needed some help."

Daryl's eyes meet yours, and you can see the pain and hurt in them. "Well, she didn't get any," he murmurs bitterly. "Mah old man wasn't kind to her. I don't think that sumbitch even knows the meanin' of the damn word." You can hear the anger in his voice. "He belittled her, put his hand on her. She's better off dead."

You move closer to him, your hair falling over his face like a curtain. Daryl tucks it behind your ear, and his eyes reflect the warm glow of the sky. "No matter what happened in the past with your mom or anyone else, I cannot express how overjoyed I am that you were born," you whisper, gazing into his eyes. "Look how you defied the odds despite the world turning against you, the kind of man you turned out to be."

Daryl turns his head away, and you know the negative thoughts run too deep. You reach out and gently turn his head back to you, hand softly caressing his cheek. "You don't see it, do you?" you ask softly. "I'm gonna be honest with you, and I want you to hear me." You move down and press a soft kiss on his forehead and you hope the depth of your sincerity reach him. "You are so kind, intelligent," you whisper, your lips trailing down to his brow. "So courageous, selfless and unbelievably strong."

You continue placing delicate kisses on his eyelids, "when I look at you, I see you," you tell him tenderly, "I see the true essence of who you are." Your lips trace down to the bridge of his nose, "And every single day, I am amazed by you, inspired by you, in awe of you."

Daryl's eyes remain closed, but you can feel the tension leaving his body. When he softly opens his eyes, you can see the dilated pupils. The way he looks at you is unlike anything you've ever experienced before; no one has ever looked at you with such intensity. You can't help but feel breathless as you gaze into his eyes, feeling a deep connection between the two of you.

"I…you are…" You pause, the words stuck in your throat, because you know you no longer belong to yourself. You fall to him, gravity no longer pinning you to the ground, to this world... to this universe really. I'm in love with you, words you are not ready to express yet, so you let your actions speak for you.

You convey those exact words to him with a kiss, and he meets you halfway, his soft lips opening to receive you, welcome you. His finger finds a home in your hair, and there is something different here, something raw and real. The gentleness of how his tongue meets yours, wet, soft, and tasting like the chocolate cake he had earlier, makes you push your lips and tongue deeper.

He returns the push, and you fall back to the blanket. His body crawls over yours, pressing against yours, seeping warmth through your clothes, and enveloping you in his scent. Your legs slide between his, and the hardness of his knees press firmly between your legs, finally touching the part of your body that's been aching for him for months.

You feel like you are on fire, shaking underneath him, to the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his touch, and the way he responds to your every move. His fingers slowly creep up your side, and you feel his hand gently graze the side of your breast. You never thought you were a noisy lover, but you can't keep the moan that escapes your lips. Your fingers grip his hair, the soft strands feeling like water between your digits.

His body responds to the noise that leaves your throat, his cock twitching against your thigh and quickly hardening by the second. You are sinking in the depth of him, craving his scent, a scent you are starting to dream about, and the feel of him so close to you that you are unsure where you end and he begins. Something takes over you, and it feels like you are melting. You can't help, but shamelessly press against the knee niched between your legs. You rub yourself to him, and unlike when you are by yourself, this feels way different. You're so wet, so drenched, you wonder if he can feel the moisture, just as firmly, as you can feel his erection.

Your desire intensifies, and your hand travels to his back, fingers digging into his shirt. His body is strong yet lean, and you thrust faster against him, his knee just the right pressure to rub your clit, and your desperate moans are swallowed by his lips. His fingers finally brave and brush against the swell of your breasts, and you gasp as his thumb runs over your hard nipples over your shirt. But it's not enough, you want more of him, to make him yours. Your body calls to him feverishly, yearning for more.

Your fingers slide under his shirt, the warmth of his skin setting a new blaze of fire. You angle your thigh to rub him too, and the groan that leaves the back of his throat travels right to your womanhood. You've never heard of anything sexier that the noise he barely lets out. It sets new fever in you, and following your direction, Daryl pushes on to you, thrusting his hardness to your thighs, the friction doing wonders.

Your kiss becomes more fanatic and frenzied, and he breaks it, moving his lips to your neck, his tongue latching and licking. You throw your head back, your nails digging harder, crawling up the soft skin of his back. Then, your fingertips graze over something large and bumpy.

Like being dumped into cold water, he jumps back, his eyes wide with fear and pain. You can see the redness in his face, the way his chest heaves up and down as he struggles to catch his breath, his lips swollen and red. He holds his shirt down, covering himself, and immediately, you know why.

It's his scars.

You knew his scars are more than just physical. They are a reminder of the pain he has endured, the psychological battles he has fought, and the demons he has faced. As he looks at you, you see the vulnerability in his eyes, the fear and the hope all mixed together. And in that moment, you know that you will have to be patient, taking things at his pace.

With a smile, you fall back onto the blanket, trying to calm yourself, ready to show him the patience and understanding he needs.