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[ When Gabe abruptly sits up, Daryl wonders if he's finally done something wrong. He feels the physical lack immediately, even though it isn't cold in the gardens. He watches him gather his clothes without moving to help, looking more than a little like a dog that's just been shooed out of the house, but eventually, he sits up and pulls his own jeans on properly. Fights with his belt and reaches for his shirt.

He hesitates, human indecision fighting with animal surety. ]

Thanks. [ It sounds stupid when he says it so he grasps for more. ] For stayin'. Or for not tellin' me to fuck off.

[ His fangs already feel a little smaller, duller, and the return of his self-consciousness is distinctly human. He's not sure what would have happened if Gabe hadn't stayed with him and certainly doesn't want to think about it. ]