Free time isn’t something they’re used to having. Daryl has been consistently terrible at filling it, particularly with anything approaching actual relaxation. At home there’s always something more to do, something they’re behind on. It’s a hard mindset to shake, particularly when the kinds of things he would have done a lifetime ago aren’t an option, or aren’t appealing anymore, or both.

Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing, if they could turn something up. A quiet, normal evening together, companionable and uncomplicated. Potentially. He’s not discounting the idea of complicating things, after all-- just at maybe a less frantic pace. Since he first saw her out there, flower in her hair, Daryl’s only been worried about Carol’s comfort level; he’s at least as anxious about scaring her off as she is of pushing too far with him, though he’s totally oblivious to the fact that she thinks he might bolt. If they never go any farther than this, he’ll be fine. But that doesn’t mean (he thinks) that he doesn’t want to. That he wouldn’t want to if she did. There’s more to living than survival. There’s room, here, there’s time.

He looks up at her, considering the question, so carefully vague. It’s always easier, not talking about things. They so rarely need to. His expression is soft, thinking (as he assumes she is) of Sophia.

“Don’t see why not,” he affirms. “Can’t hurt, askin’.”