Carol smiles, both at his touch that reassures her that he's not, in fact, going to scatter off into the underbrush and hide, and the memory of the first time she kissed him. Daryl in a cozy, lace-covered bed at Hershel's farm, fresh from falling down a creek bed while refusing to give up on Sophia. How she kissed his head and he hated it, gave her the most put-upon look, a cross between "what the fuck?" and "get the hell out".

He's changed. She's changed. And between them now, underneath the awkward shell, they -- the two of them, together -- have changed.

Carol examines the flower thoughtfully, then tosses it away. Whatever they'll eventually make of what just happened, hell if she's keeping around something that manipulates people like that, especially Daryl who seems so trusting right now with the not fleeing in terror and she's damn well going to reward it by stating, firmly, that she will not stand by and let him be controlled. No matter how much she really and truly did not mind.

She stretches up and kisses his forehead, her lips brushing rather than really kissing his skin because she's smiling still. Fair's fair. Whatever she's not sure of, she is certain that she cares about him, and no flower-forced kiss can hope to put a dent in that.