Daryl eats, his table manners what they always are, though he goes slow, makes sure Paul is actually eating the protein bits of it and not just the sugary apple bits-- though between the two of them there won't be anything left. Even before the apocalypse he'd had too many run-ins with starvation to ever leave a plate with leftovers on it, but it's even more of a sticking point now.

Thank you.

His gaze flicks up at him for a brief moment, eyes mostly hidden. Daryl doesn't need to ask for what; he gets it. He gets it enough that Paul doesn't need to say it, actually.

"I know."

For all his insecurities and unsteady movements forward and back, Daryl's good at sticking to a decision once he's made it. Like a fighting dog getting its teeth in. (That's all he is sometimes, just some old, abused dog whose only skills are violence and heeling behind the one feeding him.) He's in it for as long as Paul will have him, and whether it's foolish of him or not, he trusts the guy. And he doesn't think he's being taken for granted.

Daryl steals a viable slice of cooked apple from far into Paul's side of plate territory, eats it, and loudly licks the remains of sugar and grease off his fingers after. Maybe someday, in addition to sorting out boners: table manners? (Sex is probably more of a realistic goal.)