When Daryl finally managed to pull the arrow loose from the plank, he glanced up at her and seemed to only just then realise the look in her eyes. He watched her for a moment as he straightened and replaced the bolt back into its quiver, tearing his eyes away from her only after he decided on his next words.
“Brother once had me balance a bottle of beer on my head so he could shoot it off,” he said, his voice softening just a little at the memory. “Dumbass almost took my damn ear off instead.”
He approached her then, having pushed his crossbow to hang loosely behind him as he did. Daryl stopped just a couple feet away from her and slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket, retrieving his packet of cigarettes and popping the top open. He fished out one, and then held the pack out toward her, glancing down at them.
“Sorry,” he said, and he did mean it. Sometimes, his definition of fun was far too Dixon for the rest of the world.