Chapter 20: Café et Proximité

"Light reflects from your shadow

It is more than I thought could exist

You move through the room

Like breathing was easy

If someone believed me

They would be

As in love with you as I am

And everyday

I'm learning about you

The things that no one else sees

And the end comes too soon

Like dreaming of angels

And leaving without them

And with words unspoken

A silent devotion

I know you know what I mean

And the end is unknown

But I think I'm ready

As long as you're with me"

Angels - The XX

The morning light filtered softly through the worn curtains, painting the walls with streaks of gold. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint shuffle of someone in the living room, quietly adding slats of wood into the fireplace. Isabelle blinked slowly, her body still heavy with sleep and soreness. The ache in her side had dulled over the past few days, no longer the sharp, searing pain that had made every breath a challenge.

Carol's words played on a loop in her head. "Five, maybe six days, and they should reach Ohio." Isabelle had clung to that estimate, counting each day as though it might somehow bring her closer to Laurent. By her count, they should've made it there yesterday, assuming—and praying—that everything went smoothly.

If everything went smoothly.

The thought unsettled her, a fresh wave of worry twisting in her chest. She had no way of knowing where Laurent and Ash were now. She had no way of knowing if they'd made it to the Commonwealth safely. The weight of that uncertainty was suffocating, like a lead weight pressing down on her ribs. She closed her eyes briefly, taking a shaky breath as she tried to quell the rising tide of panic.

She hadn't left the apartment since they'd returned. Her body hadn't allowed it, and the heaviness in her chest only anchored her further. The past few days had been a blur of quiet conversation, careful movement, and stolen moments of reflection. It wasn't just the pain in her side keeping her in bed. It was the ache of missing Laurent, the emptiness his absence left in the air. She reminded herself over and over that it was for the best, but the ache remained.

She shifted carefully, rolling onto her side with deliberate slowness to avoid pulling at her stitches. The movement sent a dull throb through her body, a reminder of just how close everything had come to falling apart. Her gaze fell on Daryl, who was still asleep beside her, his face softened in the quiet vulnerability of slumber.

He lay on his back, one arm tucked loosely near his head. His features, so often hardened by worry and tension, were relaxed now. His lips were slightly parted, his breaths deep and even. The line of his jaw was still strong, his stubble rough against his skin, but the frown that usually creased his brow was absent. The scar that cut over his eyebrow and down his cheek caught the light, making him look even more rugged, even in rest. Isabelle found herself staring at it, wondering not for the first time about the story behind it.

Her eyes lingered, moving from the scar to the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the faint twitch of his fingers as he dreamed. She felt a pang of gratitude, sharp and unexpected. Gratitude for his strength, for his steadfastness, for the way he had been her anchor through everything. In his presence, she didn't feel the full weight of her despair. He bore it with her, silently and without question. His strength had been her strength, even when she felt like she had nothing left to give.

Her fingers brushed against the blanket covering her, and she resisted the urge to reach out and touch him– to brush the hair from his face, to feel the roughness of his skin against her fingertips. But she didn't. She didn't want to wake him, not yet. These moments of stillness—of reprieve from the storm outside—were rare, and she didn't want to steal them from him. She watched the faint play of light across his face, the way it softened the harshness of his features, the way it made him look almost at peace.

Her thoughts drifted to Laurent again. She could picture him sitting in the plane, his wide blue eyes scanning the clouds as he peppered Ash with questions about America. She could imagine his nervous excitement, his quiet determination to be brave, even if he was scared. The image brought a bittersweet ache to her chest. She had promised him that she would be right behind him, and she had broken that promise.

But he's safe, she reminded herself, clinging to the thought like a prayer. She had to believe he was safer now than he ever would've been with her. She tried to let the reassurance settle in her chest, but it felt hollow.

Daryl stirred beside her, his brow furrowing faintly as he shifted onto his side. His head turned slightly toward her, the soft shadows of sleep still clinging to his face. Isabelle held her breath, watching him closely. His presence was grounding, a steady rock in the midst of a turbulent sea. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel a small flicker of comfort.

Slowly, carefully, she shifted closer to him, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight as she moved.

Her body protested the motion with a dull ache in her side, but she ignored it.

Isabelle slid under his arm, pressing herself gently against his chest. He was wearing a tank top, the fabric soft but worn, and she could feel the heat of his skin radiating through it. His warmth enveloped her like a shield, driving back the chill of her lingering fears.

Daryl stirred slightly at the contact, his brow twitching in a faint flicker of awareness. Isabelle froze, worried she had disturbed him, but his arm moved instinctively, wrapping around her as though it belonged there. His hand rested lightly on her back, his fingers splayed out just enough to anchor her in place. The motion was natural, unthinking, and yet it felt deliberate, like he knew she needed this—like he did, too.

Isabelle exhaled softly, a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She allowed herself to relax into his embrace, letting the tension she carried seep away as she nestled closer. Her head found its place against his chest, the faint thud of his heartbeat steady and reassuring beneath her ear.

She tilted her face upward slightly, her nose brushing against the warm skin of his neck. His scent was earthy and familiar, a mix of smoke and leather and something that was just inherently him. Her lips curved faintly in a small, fleeting smile as she nuzzled closer, her breath warm against his skin.

Daryl's arm tightened around her fractionally, his body shifting to accommodate her weight. Isabelle's heart ached at the quiet intimacy of it, the way he held her without question, without hesitation.

For a moment, she let herself simply exist in the space between them. The ache in her side faded to a dull whisper as the steady rise and fall of Daryl's chest against her became her focus. She closed her eyes, her lashes brushing against his skin as her breathing synced with his.

She could feel the faint pulse in his neck where her nose rested. It wasn't just his strength she leaned on; it was his quiet presence, the sense of steadiness he carried even when the world around them had fallen apart.

Daryl's hand shifted against her back, his fingers moving in slow, lazy circles. The gentle pressure sent a warmth radiating through Isabelle's body, soothing the ache in her muscles and the tension in her chest. Her breath hitched slightly, and she stilled, her ear pressed against his chest as she listened to his heartbeat.

The motion of his hand was too purposeful, too steady to be unconscious. Her heart skipped as realization dawned—he was awake.

She tilted her head slightly, her cheek brushing against the worn fabric of his tank top. Daryl's breathing had changed, no longer the deep, even rhythm of sleep. Her eyes flicked upward, meeting his half-lidded gaze. He only had one eye halfway open, the other still closed in hopes of being able to go back to sleep.

Daryl's hand continued its slow movement, his rough fingers tracing comforting patterns along her back. His touch was steady, deliberate, and it chased away the last remnants of cold fear clinging to her. Isabelle's breath caught in her throat as she met his half-lidded gaze.

"You're awake," Isabelle murmured softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn't move, afraid to break the fragile peace of the moment.

He let out a low, gruff sound that was halfway between a sigh and a wordless acknowledgment. His fingers paused briefly on her back before resuming their gentle rhythm. "Didn't mean to wake ya." he murmured, his tone rough with sleep.

"You didn't," she replied quickly, her voice soft. "I've been awake."

Daryl's gaze lingered on her, the lines of his face still relaxed but his brow furrowing slightly. "You okay?" he asked, his voice rasping in the stillness. His hand stilled for a moment, his concern palpable even in the simplicity of his question.

Isabelle didn't answer, her voice caught somewhere in her throat. Instead, she nodded softly against his chest, her hair brushing against his skin with the movement. The small gesture spoke volumes, her vulnerability laid bare in the quiet morning light.

Daryl didn't push for more. He let the silence settle around them, his arm shifting to tighten his hold. Slowly, Isabelle felt Daryl's other arm come around her, encasing her completely. The strength in his embrace was undeniable, his muscles taut and unyielding as he held her close. Her body instinctively responded, her own arms slipping around his waist, her fingers brushing lightly over his back.

The fabric of his tank top was warm and thin beneath her palms, but it wasn't enough. She wanted to feel him—to feel the strength she leaned on so heavily.

With a quiet inhale, she slipped her hands beneath the hem of his shirt. Her fingers grazed the bare skin of his back, tracing the taut lines and muscles she found there. His skin was warm, smooth in some places and textured in others where old scars lingered. Her touch was slow, exploratory, and unhurried, as if she were memorizing every inch of him.

Daryl's breath hitched at the contact, a subtle shiver running down his spine as her fingers continued their gentle path. Isabelle felt it beneath her fingertips, the way his body reacted involuntarily to her touch. The faintest of goosebumps rose under her hands, and she smiled softly against his chest.

Her fingers lingered along the base of his neck before sliding down the slope of his shoulder blades. Another shiver ran through him, this one more pronounced, and Isabelle felt the tension in his body give way just a little. It was as if her touch, soft and reassuring, was unraveling something tightly coiled within him.

Daryl let out another quiet exhale, a low rumble that was almost a hum. His arms tightened around her reflexively, drawing her even closer. His chin rested more firmly against the top of her head, and for a moment, he let himself simply feel—her warmth, her presence, the way her fingers seemed to ease away the weight he carried without words.

A small, almost mischievous smile played on her lips as she tilted her face upward slightly, just enough to let her nose nudge lightly against the underside of his jaw before placing a soft kiss there. Her touch was feather-light, fleeting, but deliberate enough to be felt.

"We should probably get up." Isabelle said, her voice low and warm against Daryl's throat. He gave a faint grunt, a sound that could have meant agreement, reluctance, or both. His arms didn't loosen their hold, and he didn't make any move to untangle from her.

Instead his arms tightened slightly around her at her words, his body responding before his mind seemed to catch up. He didn't move otherwise, holding her close as if challenging her suggestion without needing to say a word.

Isabelle's lips curved into a soft, teasing smile as she caught the unspoken protest. She didn't pull away, letting her fingers trail lightly across his back again, her touch deliberate and slow.

Her fingertips brushed over the defined muscles and old scars, her movements unhurried and intimate.

The faintest hitch in his breathing made her smile widen. "You're not making it easy to convince you," she murmured, her voice carrying a playful lilt as her fingers grazed lower, just skimming the curve of his waist. The motion was subtle, but the deep rumble that followed in his chest was unmistakable—a sound that was equal parts a sigh and a low, amused growl.

His hands moved on their own, one brushing up her back in a slow, deliberate motion, the other resting firmly against the small of her back, keeping her anchored against him.

She could feel the way his muscles shifted beneath her touch, the way he responded despite the restraint in his movements. It was as though every part of him was at war with itself—caught between yielding to her and maintaining some semblance of control.

The fact that she was able to elicit that kind of response from him, against his will, awakened something in her. It was a quiet, thrilling realization—a newfound awareness of the effect she had on him. This recent discovery emboldened her in a way she hadn't expected.

It had started by accident, something she hadn't anticipated. The first time her fingers had brushed against his bare skin, it had been unintentional—born of a moment of comfort or instinct. She hadn't thought anything of it at first, assuming Daryl would pull away or stiffen, that the kind of man he was wouldn't tolerate touch, especially one so intimate.

But he hadn't. Instead, his body had responded in subtle ways she couldn't ignore. The way his breathing hitched, the way his muscles shifted under her hand, the faint goosebumps that rose against her fingertips—it was all new, uncharted territory.

She never would've imagined that someone like Daryl, shaped by years of survival and isolation, would find comfort in simply being touched.

It tugged at her heart, thinking that this desire—to touch and be touched—had likely been there all along, buried deep within him. A yearning unspoken, perhaps even unknown to him, never realized or given into. How many times had he denied himself this simple, human connection, believing he didn't deserve it or that it wasn't meant for someone like him? The thought weighed heavily on her, filling her with equal parts sorrow and determination.

Her hands moved with purpose now, as if trying to rewrite the narrative of denial he had lived by. She'd made it a point, ever since she stumbled upon this quiet revelation, to offer what had been absent for so long. With every brush of her fingertips, she hoped to remind him that he didn't have to hold himself apart—that he deserved this as much as anyone else.

After becoming a nun, she had shut that part of herself away, untouched and dormant for over twelve years. But now, here with him, she found herself rediscovering it. The simple act of touching Daryl felt like reawakening a part of herself she thought she'd sworn away forever. Her hands moved with a newfound tenderness, each stroke of her fingers reminding her of what it meant to connect on such an intimate level.

What made it all the more profound was knowing that he was likely experiencing this for the first time. The thought sent a quiet ache through her chest—not one of sadness, but of reverence for the trust he allowed her. She savored the sensation of his warmth beneath her hands, the quiet shivers she drew from him, and the way he didn't pull away but let her in. It was an unspoken exchange, a mutual rediscovery of something long denied but never entirely forgotten.

"I'll go get us some coffee." She murmured against the warm skin of his throat, placing another soft kiss there before pulling away.

Daryl didn't say anything, but his arm tightened briefly around her, a silent acknowledgment, a wordless protest against her leaving the cocoon of their blankets. His head tilted slightly, his jaw brushing against her hair in a fleeting, instinctive motion that sent a soft warmth through her.

The absence of his warmth felt immediate, almost jarring, as she slipped out of his embrace. For a fleeting moment, she hesitated, her gaze lingering on him as if drawn back by some unseen force. But with a quiet inhale, she pushed herself up, sitting on the edge of the bed as her feet touched the cool floor beneath her.

Daryl made a low sound, more a rumble than a word, and burrowed deeper under the covers. He pulled the blankets up over his head, shielding himself from the world in a way that was almost boyish. Isabelle couldn't help the soft smile that tugged at her lips as she watched him for a beat longer before standing and heading toward the door.

Isabelle stepped into the kitchen, the soft shuffle of her footsteps blending with the low crackle of the fire in the hearth. The apartment was quiet, the kind of stillness that settled after several days of tension and exhaustion. Carol glanced up from her seat at the small table, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. She offered Isabelle a warm, gentle smile, her eyes soft in the morning light.

"Morning," Carol said, her voice quiet but inviting.

"Morning," Isabelle replied, her lips curving faintly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She let her gaze sweep the kitchen before moving to lean against the counter.

Codron was perched on the couch near the fire, his head tilted to the side as his fingers pressed into his neck, attempting to massage away the stiffness. He caught sight of Isabelle and inclined his head slightly.

"Bonjour," he said, his voice still rough from sleep.

"Bonjour," Isabelle returned, her tone light as she gave a small nod. "Ça va?" she asked, her eyes watching his movements.

Codron paused his efforts, giving her a faint smirk. "Oui, le canapé est juste un peu impitoyable," ("Yes, the couch is just a little unforgiving.") he said, his voice dry.

Isabelle's lips curved into a small smile. "Je vois ça," ("I see that.") she replied softly.

Her eyes were drawn to the table where the source of the comforting aroma caught her attention—a coffee press sat there, gleaming dully in the morning light. She inhaled deeply, the rich scent of coffee filling her lungs. It was the kind of smell that felt like a lifeline, a thread of normalcy in a world that had turned upside down.

Carol followed her gaze and smiled softly, lifting her cup in a small toast. "Found some coffee in one of the cupboards. Figured it'd be a crime to let it go to waste."

"It smells wonderful," Isabelle said, stepping closer to the counter and eyeing the French press. She ran her fingers lightly over the handle, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Carol smirked, gesturing toward the press. "Though now I'm wondering… is it still appropriate to call it a French press? Or is it just a press now? I mean, we're in France—doesn't that make it redundant?"

From his spot on the couch, Codron's deadpan stare lifted. He blinked at Carol, his expression a blank slate of unimpressed silence. He didn't say a word, just looked at her with the kind of patience reserved for someone enduring an awkward conversation.

Carol arched her brows at him, her lips quirking as she leaned back in her chair. "Tough crowd," she muttered under her breath, sipping her coffee with exaggerated nonchalance.

Isabelle bit back a laugh, shaking her head as she poured herself a cup. She lifted the mug, savoring the first sip, letting the rich bitterness spread warmth through her chest.

Carol tilted her head, studying Isabelle over the rim of her cup. "You slept in," she said gently. "Feeling any better?"

Isabelle nodded slowly. "Better. Still sore," she admitted, glancing down at the mug in her hands. "But I think I'm finally starting to feel human again."

"Good," Carol said simply, setting her cup down. "You need to let yourself heal. No use running yourself ragged."

Isabelle hummed in agreement, though her mind was already drifting back to the bedroom. She could still picture Daryl tangled in the blankets. A faint smile touched her lips as she thought of him still half-asleep, probably muttering incoherently if she tried to get him up.

Codron stood from the couch and made his way over to the table to make him a cup of coffee. He no longer wore his bandage, though his left eye was still swollen nearly shut. "Fallou a laissé du pain, des viandes séchées, et des fruits cette nuit." (Fallou left bread, dried meats, and fruit last night.) He took a sip, before continuing, "De quoi tenir au moins quelques jours." ("Enough to last at least a few days.")

Isabelle gave a small nod, appreciating the effort. "Merci, Codron," she said warmly, before glancing toward the hallway. "I'm in the process of trying to convince him to wake up."

Carol snorted, her lips twitching in amusement. "Good luck with that. He's been sleeping in more than usual lately."

Isabelle returned her faint smile, hiding the slight tint of her cheeks by taking another sip. "I think this might help," she said, lifting the mug in her hands.

Without another word, Isabelle turned and began walking back toward the bedroom. The soft sounds of the apartment—Codron's chair creaking as he settled back, the faint rustle of Carol's cup against the table—faded behind her as she moved down the hall.

Isabelle pushed the bedroom door open gently, the warmth of the coffee mug still radiating into her hands. The soft light from the window spilled across the room, illuminating Daryl just as she'd left him. He'd burrowed further under the covers, his face half-hidden by the blankets, his breathing slow and deep. He'd already dozed back off.

She paused for a moment, smiling softly at the sight before stepping closer, her movements quiet. Leaning over him, she reached out and ran her fingers gently through his hair. The strands were soft and unruly under her touch, and she let her fingertips linger there, brushing against his scalp.

"Daryl," she murmured softly, her voice coaxing but warm.

He stirred slightly, his brow furrowing as he shifted beneath the blankets. Isabelle's fingers continued their slow, rhythmic movement through his hair, and after a moment, his eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep. He blinked at her, his gaze hazy and unfocused for a beat before recognition set in.

"Mornin'," he mumbled, his voice gravelly and thick from sleep.

"Good morning," Isabelle replied, her smile widening. "I brought you coffee."

He made a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, and before she could react, his arm snaked out from beneath the covers, grabbing her wrist gently but firmly. In one swift motion, he pulled her down onto the bed beside him.

"Daryl! Coffee!" she yelped, half-laughing as she tried to keep her balance. The coffee mug, miraculously, didn't spill as she managed to hold it steady.

Her exasperation mingled with amusement as she wiggled against his grip. His only response was to bury his face into the crook of her neck, his arm wrapping tightly around her to keep her in place. She could feel the rumble of his low, satisfied hum against her skin.

Somehow, the mug survived the ordeal as Isabelle managed to wiggle her arm free enough to raise it over his shoulder, keeping it out of harm's way. His hold on her loosened slightly but not by much, and he pressed a sleepy kiss to her shoulder in what felt like both an apology and a refusal to let her go.

Isabelle felt a soft warmth radiating from the point of contact, spreading through her chest. It was such a simple gesture—brief, almost casual—but it held a quiet intimacy that tugged at something deep inside her. Moments like these, when the barriers he kept so firmly in place seemed to lower, were rare. They always caught her off guard, leaving her both elated and aching.

She thought about how much easier it seemed for him when he was like this—half-asleep, his defenses softened by the haze of lingering dreams. His usual hesitance, the restraint that kept him at arm's length from the world, seemed to dissolve in these quiet moments. It was as if his subconscious allowed him to act on the emotions he otherwise held back.

It was in these moments that his affection felt effortless, like the kiss he'd pressed to her shoulder. She knew it wasn't that he didn't feel deeply the rest of the time—Daryl was a man of actions, not words, and his loyalty, his care, and his willingness to shoulder the burdens of those around him spoke volumes. But in the daylight hours, when the walls he'd built around himself stood tall and unyielding, it was different. It was moments like this that were a glimpse of the man underneath the armor. And it was moments like this that made her heart ache, not because they were fleeting, but because she understood how hard it must be for him to allow himself to be this vulnerable, even with her.

She sighed, half-annoyed and half-enamored. "You're impossible." she muttered.

His response was another low grunt, but there was a faint smirk on his lips as he shifted just enough to look up at her. He reached for the mug she was holding precariously, his fingers brushing against hers as he took it.

"Fine," he said, his voice rough but teasing as he leaned back slightly, cradling the mug in his hand. "Coffee."

Isabelle rolled her eyes, a smile still tugging at her lips as she settled back against the pillows, and watched him take a sip. There was something endearing about the way he savored it, the slight furrow in his brow as though concentrating on the taste. She doubted he realized how unguarded he became in the quiet moments before and after sleep, when the weight of the world hadn't yet settled back on his shoulders.

She wanted to tell him it was okay, that he didn't have to guard himself so fiercely. That she wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't take advantage of his rare openness. But she knew words wouldn't work; Daryl didn't respond to reassurances or platitudes. So instead, she leaned into him, her hand finding its way to his arm, her fingers curling around the warmth of his skin.

He glanced down at her, the edges of his lips twitching in what could almost be a smile. His expression, softened by the lingering haze of sleep, held a quiet contentment. She held his gaze for a moment longer, letting the silence between them speak for itself.

If these were the moments where his guard fell, then she would cherish them—every quiet touch, every fleeting kiss, every unspoken word of comfort. And she would be patient, because for him, learning to let someone in wasn't easy. But he was trying, and that was more than enough.