Daryl never believed in fate. Never believed in things like soulmates, in people being made for each other.

And if that kind of thing did exist—if the universe really did carve people from the same star, from the same bone—then Sybilla wasn't his.

It started in bruises—hers, his. Fingerprints on their skin from men who should've loved them.

She showed up at his window the first time with a busted lip. She didn't ask before climbing in. Didn't say a word. Just pulled a bottle from her jacket and took a long, slow sip.

He watched.

Then he drank, too.

Whiskey, pills, whatever they could get their hands on. A balcony they might fall from. A cigarette passed back and forth.

They didn't talk about their fathers. They didn't talk about anything that mattered. Just stupid things. Meaningless things. Like how Daryl swore he saw a UFO once, and how Sybilla thought ghosts were real. Like how they'd run away someday, somehow.

Daryl didn't know her favourite color. He didn't know if she had a middle name or if she had a pet, or if there was anyone in this world who truly knew her at all. He only knew the sharp, bitter burn of her breath against his skin after the alcohol ate her up. Knew the way she trembled when the drugs hit too hard.

But then, that night, her lips touched his, like she was trying to drown in him instead of everything else. And for a second, he thought maybe, maybe, maybe.

By morning, she was gone.

The bottle was still on the floor. The cigarette they'd shared had burned out in the ashtray. Her jacket, the one she always wore no matter how hot it got, was missing from the back of his chair.

Daryl told himself he didn't care. But he waited. Every night. Checked his window, checked the places they used to go, waited for her to climb back in like she always did.

But she never did.

And he hated her for it. Hated that no matter how much he drank, no matter how hard he tried to forget, she was still there.

He hated her because, for the first time, he thought maybe he was carved from the same star as someone else.

He hated her for leaving first. For proving that, in the end, she was better at running than he was.

[ TWO YEARS BEFORE ]

The wind was a knife, and the night had plenty to spare.

It sliced through Sybilla's cheeks, carved its way into the cracks of her lips, buried itself deep in the marrow of her bones. Every breath spilled out of her lungs like a puff of smoke, curling back into her face like the cold itself was mocking her. And still, she walked. She walked, she walked, she walked.

Her boots—scuffed red, barely holding together—struck the pavement like a war drum. Pebbles scattered. Twigs snapped. The whole world felt like it was frozen still, and she was the only thing moving inside of it.

The night felt endless, though time was stupid anyway. Seconds, minutes, hours — what did it matter? The clock could say 2:30AM or 2:30PM, and it wouldn't change the fact she was walking right here.

If she truly believed that, it would have made her life that much more easier.

Maybe then she could pretend she hadn't spent her life being tossed around like a game of hot potato. That she hadn't been discarded at four years old by the very people who were supposed to love her. That she hadn't spent years being shuffled from one foster home to the next, never staying anywhere long enough for it to feel like home.

But she had.

The system had chewed her up and spat her out more times than she could count, until she finally stopped trying to care. Until she learned not to want things. Not to need people. And now, in this new house, this new family, she was just waiting for them to get sick of her, too. Because they always did.

Her boots hit the pavement harder, like she could stomp the thoughts right out of her head.

To anyone watching, she probably looked like she knew exactly where she was going. But the truth was that she didn't. Not really, not at all. All she knew was that there was a small dock somewhere around here. She just needed to find the hideous brown house on the corner. That was the landmark.

She glanced up, but the sky was swallowed by fog. Nothing to see. She'd left the house at two, walked for what felt like forever, and still hadn't found the damn dock. But she had to be close now.

A month. That's all it had been. One single month in this house, and already, she was running.

This house was just another stop on her never-ending tour of shitty foster families. And she was glad it was.

The woman was kind, too kind, and that made Sybilla itch under her skin. Kindness never lasted. It was a performance. A mask. The day they came to get her, to rip her away from her new family again and again, the acts would finally crack. The cold looks would get swallowed up the warm smile that had been there mere moments before.

For now, though, she played the part well. She called Sybilla sweetheart and made her tea with too much sugar. She tucked her in at night like she actually cared. 

She was kind. The type of kind that made your chest ache if you let it, like a fire that burned warm but never quite reached your fingertips. But kindness didn't erase bruises.

The sneaky kind. The ones that ghosted over wrists, stomach, the back of the neck. Hidden places. Places no one looked unless they were truly looking. And anyone with a brain, with eyes that really saw, knew the difference between an accident and something meant to be kept quiet.

Sybilla was one of the people who knew the difference.

The husband had figured that out quite quickly, and that's why the rules were different for her. Sir, not dad. No going out late. No complaining. No loud noises. Straight A's, no excuses. No skirts, no ripped jeans, no anything that didn't fit the mold he wanted her to squeeze into. Her new house felt like a prison more than anything.

Maybe that was why she was here now, pushing through the biting cold of the night. She needed to get away—so far that she wouldn't even recognise the way back.

The wind clawed at her cheeks, sharp and biting, but she barely felt it. Her hands were shoved deep into her sleeves, her fingers stiff from the cold. She lifted her gaze, blinking against the sting of frozen tears, and then—there.

The ugly-ass brown house. That meant the lake was just around the corner, if she remembered it right.

And it was.

The soft breeze rippled the dark water, flowing softly as free as it was. Not even the stars had bothered to show up tonight. She couldn't see much beyond the outline of a few gnarled branches on the other side of the lake.

It should've scared her, maybe, but it didn't. It was nice, in a way. If no one could see her, then she didn't have to be anything at all.

But the second she stepped forward—she froze. Because she wasn't the only one wandering the dark streets at two in the morning.

There, perched with a hunched back on the wooden dock, was a man. Maybe a boy. She couldn't tell. He sat hunched over, his hands planted beside him, his head low. Dark hair. He looked still, unmoving, like the night itself had shaped him and left him here, waiting.

Her first instinct was to back away. Every girl knew the rules: don't be alone at night, especially not with some stranger. She had already broken one rule.

But when she moved back, a twig beneath her boot snapped loud enough to wake the dead.

The boy jerked, nearly pitching himself straight into the lake. His head whipped around, eyes locking onto hers.

For a second, just a heartbeat, they stared at each other, frozen in place.

"What?" he retorted after a breath. His voice sounded rough, like he hadn't used it in a while.

Just as quick, Sybilla snapped, "Nothin'." Regret hit her instantly. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve.

The boy let out a slow, unimpressed breath. He turned back toward the water like she wasn't even worth looking at.

But when she didn't move, when her boots stayed stubbornly planted on the dock, he flicked his gaze back over his shoulder. She stiffened.

"What?"

"Nothin'."

A pause.

Sybilla's feet might as well have been cemented to the wooden planks, the cold sinking into her boots like it was clawing up her legs. His stare pinned her in place. Like he was trying to figure something out about her. Like he even could.

"You gonna stand there all night?" he asked, a dry edge to his voice. A challenge.

Her mouth ran ahead of her brain—never a good sign. "And what if I am?" Stupid. Stupid. She should've just left. "You gonna sit there all night?"

A breath of amusement drifted through the fog, brushing past her ears. "An' what if I am?"

Touché.

He flicked something between his fingers. A cigarette. The smoke curled into the night, blending with the cold like it belonged there. With two fingers, he pulled it from his mouth, flicking away a bit of ash. "You want one?" He held up the pack. Barely anything left.

"Ain't a smoker." She wasn't too proud of the way her voice sounded like she was fighting to keep her cool.

He merely shrugged, unconcerned. "Suit yourself."

This was her cue to leave. Turn around, walk off this dock, pretend she never ran into him.

She didn't. Maybe because the thought of home made her stomach twist. Standing here, in the freezing night, felt like the better option.

The boy barely looked at her now, gaze lost somewhere in the black stretch of the lake. His clothes were loose, a little ragged. His sweater was too thin for the cold. And when he tilted his face, just slightly, the dock light caught on a fresh bruise beneath his eye.

Fighters. Boys who threw fists just to feel something. Just to make the world match the storm inside them. She should leave.

"You ain't cold?" she asked, wrapping her arms around herself. She was shivering, hard.

The boy flicked the cigarette to the side, its ember glowing for a second before it fell into the wet ground, disappearing like a star swallowed by night. He turned his gaze back to the water, not entirely dismissing her, but not fully acknowledging her either.

"Don't need no coat," he muttered then.

She hadn't left. And that had him curious in a way he hated. He hated wondering about people. About why they did things. The less you knew, the less it could hurt you.

Still, he couldn't help it. He stared at her out of the corner of his eye, noticing the way her shoulders tensed, how she refused to meet his gaze fully.

"Ain't you cold?" he threw the question back, bite in his words. "Should be inside."

"Where would I go?" The words tumbled out before she could stop them.

His eyes flicked up at that, sharp, though he quickly masked whatever was in them. "Home," he said simply.

She forced herself to stand taller, her back straightening despite the cold that crept further into her bones, sinking into the very marrow of her being. "Not everybody got a place to go."

It wasn't the full truth. She didn't have a home. She had a house with two adults living in it. That was all it was. Four walls and a roof. It was just a place to stay, and she couldn't even say that much for sure.

It shut him up anyway.

Her eyes drifted down to the cigarette pack by his side, nearly empty, the crumpled paper soft from overuse. Ever so slightly, her eyes narrowed before sliding back to the boy.

"On second thought," she murmured, stepping closer. "May I?" She gestured toward the cigarettes.

The boy didn't respond right away, just held up the pack for her to take. His eyes, half-lidded, watched her closely as she stepped closer, her dark red boots tapping quietly against the wood. 

"Thought ya weren't a smoker."

"I kind of lied," she replied, pulling one of the last remaining cigarettes from the crumpled packet, rolling it between her fingers. "Stranger danger 'n all that."

Sybilla slid it between her fingers and perched herself on the edge of the dock, a cautious distance from the boy. The cold wood pressed against her thighs as she fished a lighter out of her jacket pocket, fingers fumbling, numbed by the biting air.

The wind clawed at the flame as she lit the cigarette, shielding it with her hand until it caught, casting an orange glow on her face. She took a drag, then exhaled, the smoke curling out into the fog like it was trying to merge with it.

For a while, they sat in silence, the lake rippling faintly as the wind danced over its surface.

Sybilla tilted her head, just enough to look at him properly. Up close, his face was sharper, dark circles under his eyes like bruises from lack of sleep and hair hung in uneven locks. It looked like he'd taken scissors to it himself. The bruise under his left eye was an angry purple and blue, bleeding across his cheekbone like a storm cloud.

She wondered why he hadn't left yet.

He wasn't looking at her. He was looking down at the lake, his shoulders curled inward. Like he was bracing for something.

"You look like ya got in a fight with a wall," she said, the words slipping out between her fragile lips.

His eyes flicked toward her, narrowing slightly. He didn't answer right away, his jaw tightening as if he seemed to decide whether or not to bother with a response.

Finally, he muttered, "Wall hit back."

"Guess that's one way to put it." Her lips curled faintly around the cigarette as she took another drag, the ember flaring like a tiny firefly in the dark. She leaned back slightly, her weight resting on her palms as she let the smoke billow from her lips, the fog swallowing it up almost instantly.

She felt his gaze shift, subtly at first, but then it lingered. Not at her eyes or her clothes—his focus had zeroed in on her cheek.

Her fingers twitched involuntarily, the cigarette shaking slightly in her grip before she tightened it. Sybilla didn't bother hiding it; there was no point. She'd long since learned that people would always stare, always wonder, and most of the time, they'd be too polite or too afraid to ask.

She didn't give him the chance to ask any bullshit questions. "What?" The word came out harsher than she intended, years of built-up defenses slamming down before she could stop them.

The boy's brows furrowed slightly, his jaw ticking. He didn't flinch at her tone, didn't look away like most people did when caught staring. Instead, he leaned back slightly, tilting his head, his lips pressing into a thin line.

 "That's one hell of a burn." He said it with an odd kind of matter-of-factness, like he was simply stating the weather. He didn't ask. Didn't probe. Just observed. A fact tossed into the cold air.

A scoff pulled from her throat before she could stop it. "Well noticed."

After a slight narrow of the eye, his gaze dragged back to the lake, the water lapping gently beneath the wooden dock they sat on.

She almost felt guilty for snapping at him. Almost. But that reaction was as natural as breathing now. The burn wasn't even that old—just a few days. A lovely little gift from her foster father.

Then, as if the words were dragged from him against his will, the boy asked, "What happened?"

The fog curled around them, ghostly fingers sweeping her skin. Making her feel smaller. Exposed. She thought about brushing him off, about lying, about telling him it was none of his business.

Her lips parted, and for a moment, she almost gave him the easy answer. "Accident," she could say. "Kitchen mishap." Something. But what came out instead surprised her.

"Wasn't hungry. Didn't wanna eat," she said, quieter this time, a little less barbed. She flicked ash off the cigarette and watched it float down to the water. "So he made me. That's all."

The boy didn't react right away. His face didn't morph into pity or disgust, didn't twist with disbelief or any of the emotions she'd come to expect.

Instead, he just nodded slowly, like he understood. Like he knew exactly what she meant. 

"Bastard." Was all he said, but Sybilla didn't miss the hint of anger in his voice.

She nodded. "Bastard."

Neither of them said anything else. Her cigarette burned down to its last inch, and Sybilla flicked it into the water, watching the faint red glow extinguish with a tiny hiss. The ripples swallowed it, vanishing like it had never existed.

"What 'bout your eye?"

The boy didn't answer right away. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he stared hard at the water. His hands, which had been loosely resting on his knees before, balled into fists, his knuckles turning pale.

He stayed like that for a moment, and Sybilla thought he wouldn't answer at all.

"Fell." The word sounded stiff, forced, like he was trying to shove it into a space it didn't quite fit. "Hit a doorknob."

It was such a terrible excuse that, for half a second, she wanted to laugh. But there was nothing funny about it. "Big doorknob."

"Big 'nough," he muttered eventually, deflective, but his posture betrayed him. Shoulders drawn up, frame turned inward, like he was trying to make himself smaller. "You always this nosy?"

"You always this bad at lyin'?"

A tiny scoff. More breath than sound. "I ain't lyin'."

"Mm-hmm."

She let it go, just like that. But he wasn't stupid. He could tell she didn't believe him. But he also couldn't find it in himself to care.

Ever still, he glanced at her before he could stop himself. The fog had worked its way into her hair, turning loose strands into messy little curls that stuck to her wind-burnt cheeks. Her lips were chapped, her hands shoved under her arms for warmth, but she wasn't shivering. She didn't look uncomfortable. 

That was strange to him. People didn't stick around him, not unless they had to. They avoided him, sidestepped him like he was some pothole in the road. Something to be tolerated, not looked at.

But she was still here. With him. Maybe she didn't know. Maybe she had no idea who he was. What he was.

Or maybe her home wasn't much better than his. She hadn't said much, but he could read between the lines. The way she moved, the way she was out here in the dead of night like it was better than anywhere else. He recognised it.

Her dad was an asshole. That's why she was here. With him.

She turned her head, caught him looking. He looked away.

"What's your name?" she asked.

A pause. A hesitation. Barely a second, but enough.  "Daryl."

When he glanced back at her, she was smiling.

And for the first time all night, he forgot how cold it was outside.

✎ NOVA'S NOTES

we are so back we are so back!!!!

it's been incredibly long since i have written a love interest daryl fanfic and boy have i MISSED it !!!

i hope you'll all enjoy reading this as much as i will enjoy writing it :P