The little smile he's wearing, that's as good as a full grin from Daryl. He relaxes halfway, letting himself lean more, propped up on one elbow, his legs still hanging off the edge of the mattress. God help them if this ever actually goes anywhere; dirty talk will be off the table, they'd never manage without laughing.

The silence that lapses is a comfortable one, though. He'll work himself back into a knot of worry sooner or later, but this is good, this is hopeful. Daryl's particular aggressive kind of optimism- more a belief that things can work out if he just wills it hard enough- doesn't work if he can't first make himself believe it'll be okay.