To say she doesn't mind his restless touching would be understating it; each brush of his hands is a tangible reminder of why she can't let herself languish in isolation. Nothing in her life is perfect or quite comfortable but this, his casual touch and the pleasantly heady bubble they're in, comes close enough to make up for some of the rest.

Carol hums her affirmation and goes to take their mischievous fishy friend into the kitchen. usually she guts and fillets them before storage but she's in a bit of a rush, so she wraps the guy in paper towels and foil so he won't alarm anyone with his bug-eyed stare.

Then she washes her hands again, uses some sweet-smelling lotion because it suits her mood, and joins Daryl near the foot of the stairs. Judging by the look she's wearing, dealing with the fish was hardly enough to spoil the mood. He can blame that husky voice of his.

(Don't be so quick to say one more, she's got her tall black boots on. Though they have zippers this time let's say.)