Either way this is probably bound to become That Thing We Do Not Speak of, if only because Daryl's not one for talking about anything if it can feasibly be avoided. If she doesn't try to make him talk, she could get away with damn near anything.

He's grateful that she moves when she does, and soon his other hand is a solid, certain weight on her waist, and he's pressed as close against her as he can comfortably manage, in this position, 'cause he doesn't want to back her against the wall. It's... something. Slow, still, though her response makes him more confident, less self-conscious, even if their noses bump awkwardly when he moves a bit, lips parted.

It's not the wild, electric thrill some of the morning's kisses had been, which has to leave him just a little doubtful; but neither does it have that edge of falseness. He's still trying to pay more attention to her than to what he wants; in part because that's easier, because he still doesn't entirely understand, and in part because he's going to stop dead if he even thinks she wants him to. And that's fine, honestly. He'd rather she reject him and never let him touch her again than put up with anything she doesn't want; he doesn't want to be the kind of man she's known.