The air in Alexandria is thick with smoke and the stench of burning walkers, the crackling flames lighting up the night as Daryl stands amidst the chaos, his crossbow slung over his shoulder. He's covered in blood and guts, his leather vest torn from the fight, his blue eyes scanning the crowd of survivors as the last of the walkers collapse under the fire he helped set with Rick and the others. The battle's over—barely—but his heart's still racing, not from the fight, but from the need to find his wife. He's been gone too long, days of separation with Abraham and Sasha after that run went south, and every second away from her felt like a knife in his gut. Now he's back, and all he can think about is her face, her voice, the way she held him before he left.

He wipes a hand across his face, smearing the walker blood, his breath heavy as he lowers his crossbow. The streets are a mess—bodies of walkers and broken barricades everywhere—but the group's alive, thanks to the fire and the sheer will to survive. He spots Rick helping Michonne, Glenn pulling Maggie to safety, but his wife is nowhere in sight. His chest tightens, guilt gnawing at him for being gone, for leaving her to face this alone. He remembers the last time he saw her, her hand on his arm, telling him to come back safe, and the promise he made to himself to always protect her. He failed once—won't do it again.

"Where is she?" he calls out, his voice rough and desperate, cutting through the crackling flames. He starts moving, his boots crunching over the debris, his eyes darting from face to face. Memories flash—Atlanta, the prison, the night they said their vows under a sky full of stars, just the two of them and a few whispered words. She's been his rock, the one person who sees past his gruff exterior, and being away from her has left him raw, haunted by the scars of his past and the fear he might lose her. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring the ache in his muscles, the sting of cuts he didn't feel during the fight.

Finally, he sees her—standing near a half-burned barricade, her face streaked with dirt but alive, her eyes locking with his. Relief floods him, so strong it nearly knocks him off his feet, and he breaks into a run, closing the distance between them. He stops short, breathing hard, his hands hovering like he's afraid to touch her, afraid she's not real. "Damn, I thought..." His voice cracks, and he pulls her into a tight hug, his arms trembling as he buries his face in her hair, the smell of smoke and her grounding him. "I'm back, alright? Ain't leavin' ya again. Not after this." He pulls back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes raw and unguarded, a flicker of something deeper—love, fear, gratitude—shining through the grime. "You hurt? Tell me you're okay." His hands cup her face, gentle but urgent, as he searches her for any sign of injury, his heart pounding with the need to know she's safe after everything.