cherie

The first time he noticed you, it wasn’t because you were loud about anything, or trying to prove yourself the way some people did when they were scared of being overlooked, but because you weren’t—because in a place that still felt too clean, too structured, too close to something he didn’t trust, you moved through it like you’d already accepted what the world was and simply chose, anyway, to be gentle inside it. 

Daryl didn’t trust Alexandria, not its walls, not its quiet, not the way people here still said “good morning” like the dead weren’t clawing at the edges of everything, but he trusted patterns, and he started noticing yours without meaning to. 

You were always at the infirmary before most people were awake, sleeves pushed up, hands steady even when supplies were thin, voice soft in a way that didn’t feel fragile but deliberate, like you knew exactly how much weight your tone carried when someone was hurt and needed to believe they were going to be alright. 

He never meant to linger, not the first time, not the second, not any of the times after that, but somehow his feet slowed when he passed by, his eyes catching on the way you organized what little you had, stretching it, making it last, never complaining when you ran out of something, just… adjusting. 

That’s what stuck with him. 

You didn’t ask. 

Didn’t ask for more, didn’t ask for help, didn’t ask anyone to go out of their way, and for some reason that sat wrong in his chest, like a splinter he couldn’t work out, because he’d seen enough to know you needed more than what you had. 

So the first time he left something, it wasn’t a big thing, wasn’t even something he thought twice about until later. 

A roll of cleaner bandages, not the rough, reused kind, but something better he’d picked up on a run and hadn’t said anything about, just set it down outside the infirmary door early, before anyone else was around, before you could catch him doing it. 

He told himself it didn’t matter if you knew where it came from. 

Told himself it was just practical. 

You needed it. 

That was it. 

But the next time he went by, later that day, he slowed again despite himself, eyes flicking toward the doorway just enough to see that the bandages were gone, and for a second, something in him settled, quiet and low. 

After that, it became a habit he didn’t name. 

A better knife, balanced right, light in the hand but sturdy enough to hold an edge—left against the doorframe one morning before the sun had fully come up. 

Extra gauze he’d bartered off someone who didn’t know its worth. 

A small bottle of antiseptic he’d tucked away and then decided, without thinking too hard about it, that you’d make better use of. 

He never stayed. 

Never knocked. 

Never gave you the chance to say anything about it, because that would make it… something else, something he didn’t have the words for and didn’t particularly want to try finding. 

And still, somehow, he knew you knew. 

It was in the way things disappeared quicker now, like you were expecting them, like you checked the door first before going about your morning, and he caught himself once, from a distance, watching you pick up the knife he’d left, turning it in your hands with this small, quiet smile that didn’t reach anyone else because no one else was there to see it. 

He looked away before you could turn. 

After that, he started coming earlier. 

Didn’t want to risk it. 

Didn’t want— 

Didn’t want what, exactly, he didn’t let himself finish. 

It should’ve stayed like that, quiet and unspoken, something easy to keep at a distance, something that didn’t require him to stand there and take whatever came with it, but things didn’tstay simple for long, not in this world, not even behind walls. 

The morning you caught him, it was because he’d gotten careless. 

Or maybe just… used to it. 

Used to the routine of it, the way the place was still half-asleep when he moved through it, crossbow slung over his shoulder, boots quiet against the pavement as he came up to the infirmary with a small bundle tucked under his arm. 

He didn’t knock, didn’t hesitate, just crouched slightly to set it down by the door the way he always did— 

“Y’know,” your voice came from just behind him, soft but not surprised, “most people just knock.” 

He froze. 

Not fully, not in a way anyone else might notice, but enough that it ran through him like a wire pulled tight, his shoulders going rigid before he slowly straightened, turning just enough to look at you over his shoulder. 

You were standing there with your arms loosely crossed, not blocking his way, not cornering him, just… there, like you’d always been meant to be part of this moment. 

His jaw shifted. 

“Was just droppin’ it off,” he muttered, already half-turning away like that settled it, like it didn’t matter that he’d been caught, like he hadn’t been doing this for days now. 

Maybe longer. 

Your gaze flicked down to the bundle, then back up to him, and there was something in your expression—something warm, something knowing—that made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t like. 

“I figured it was you.” 

That made him pause. 

Not turn back fully, not yet, but enough that his head tilted slightly, brow furrowing like he didn’t quite believe you’d say it out loud. 

“Yeah?” he said, rough around the edges, defensive without meaning to be, because that was easier than anything else. 

You nodded, pushing yourself off the wall to step a little closer, but not too close, leaving space between you like you understood he needed it. 

“You always leave the good stuff,” you said lightly, like it was obvious, like there wasn’t anything strange about any of this, “and it always shows up before anyone else is awake.” 

He huffed under his breath, glancing away, fingers flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them now that he wasn’t holding something, wasn’t moving. 

“Ain’t nothin’,” he said, quieter this time. 

It wasn’t convincing. 

You didn’t call him on it. 

Instead, you bent down, picking up the bundle he’d left, carefully unwrapping it just enough to see what was inside, and when you did, that same small smile from before returned, softer now that he was actually there to see it. 

“These are… really good,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, though he heard it anyway. 

Something in his chest shifted again. 

Uncomfortable. 

Unfamiliar. 

“Thanks, Daryl.” 

That was what did it. 

Not the words themselves, not even your tone, but the way you said his name like it belonged in your mouth, like it wasn’t something sharp or shouted or used when things were going wrong, but something… gentle. 

He didn’t have a response for that. 

Didn’t have a place to put it. 

His shoulders tightened, gaze dropping briefly to the ground before flicking back up, like he was trying to find something to latch onto, some way to turn this into something simpler. 

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rougher than before, almost uncertain, “well… you need it.” 

It sounded stupid the second it left his mouth. 

Obvious. 

You didn’t laugh. 

Didn’t tease him. 

You just nodded, holding the supplies a little closer, like they mattered more because of where they came from, even if you weren’t saying that part out loud. 

“I do,” you agreed softly, “so… thank you.” 

He shifted his weight, clearly wanting to leave now, like staying any longer might make this worse somehow, might force him to sit with whatever this feeling was that had settled low in his chest and refused to move. 

“Mm,” he grunted, already stepping back, already turning away. 

But he didn’t miss the way your voice followed him, gentle and easy. 

“You can knock, you know.” 

He huffed again, shaking his head slightly, not looking back this time. 

“Don’t count on it.” 

And still, as he walked away, he could feel it—your presence lingering behind him, not heavy, not demanding, just… there. 

Like something steady. 

Like something warm. 

Daryl never meant for you to notice. Not really.

Hell, he didn’t even know why he was doing it at first.

It started small. He was out hunting more often than not. Mostly for Sophia until she was found. In that barn. Then he went out just to escape, but when he came back with a rabbit one evening, he decided to leave it by your tent before dawn. He figured you might need it more than the others. You’d been helping Maggie and Beth, wearing yourself thin, and he’d caught you skipping meals more than once.

He didn’t care. He didn’t. He just didn’t want to hear everyone bitching when you ran yourself into the ground.

It was just a damn rabbit. He was just being useful. It was no big deal.

Until he heard you squeal.

It was early, the sun barely up. The sound carried across the pasture, sharp and startled. Daryl had been half-hidden near the fence line, checking a few snares he had set here and there. He froze—crossbow half-raised—before realizing it wasn’t danger. It was you. Standing outside your tent, hands hovering like you didn’t know what to do with them. You were staring down at the uncleaned rabbit he’d dropped off a few minutes earlier.

You looked confused. Disgusted. Then guilty for being disgusted.

He felt like an idiot.

That night, he didn’t bring anything. Didn’t even look your way at dinner. Why would he? He didn’t care. You hadn’t wanted the food.

But you needed it.

The next kill, he cleaned it. He skinned it right there under a hickory tree and cooked it over a small fire beside his tent. Far away from everyone. Made sure it didn’t burn. He was no chef, but it smelled good enough. When the meat cooled, he wrapped it in cloth and left it where your tent flap met the grass.

He didn’t wait around.

He just walked away, keeping to the edge of the trees, pretending to check snares while he watched you find it.

You looked around like you expected someone to jump out and explain. Then your mouth softened, and you smiled. Smiled. Small and real. You took the food inside your tent and didn’t say a word to anyone.

That smile stuck with him all damn day.

Fuck. He did care, didn’t he?

After that, things were different. Whenever you were out with Maggie or helping Hershel, Daryl would drift a little closer, acting as a silent shield between you and any threat. He wasn’t obvious. Daryl Dixon never was. But he was there, watching from the treeline. Bringing you rabbits and squirrels—cleaned and cooked, of course. Fixing your tent when it sagged. Sharpening your knife when you left it out.

He didn’t know what to say to you. Words were never his thing, and feelings sure as hell weren’t. But he could do things. Quiet things. Things that kept you safe, kept you fed, kept you smiling.

Because that smile. That smile was everything.

One night, by the fire, you caught his eye across the flames. Everyone else was talking, but you just—looked at him. Long enough that he felt it deep in his chest.

You mouthed a silent thank you. And then that smile.

Daryl just nodded, pretending not to know what you meant. He absolutely did not blush.

But later, when he returned to his tent, there was a little bundle waiting by his bedroll—a piece of cornbread wrapped in cloth, still warm.

He didn’t need a note.

He just smiled into the dark. Just another quiet thing. Maybe he understood a little more about feelings than he thought.

he’s like this big old stray cat. darts away the second you reach for him, but you’ll see him lurking around the corner when you step outside. brings you all the little things he finds just because it makes sense to him. he’s gotta keep his person safe, right?

he wants more than anything to let you come a little closer, let you take him into your home and treat him gently, give him the love he never had before. but he’s a stray. the rough life is all he knows.

obviously, the moment you figure out it’s him leaving you all these things at your front door, you’re just in love with him (if you weren’t already). you eventually manage to coax him close enough to show him you don’t mean any harm, that your touch is soft and that you won’t hurt him. and by some miracle, he lets you.

blah blah blah now he curls up next to you in bed and leans into your hand without a second thought. he’s still worn and scarred from all he’s lived through, but he’s learning that life can be gentle. he learns through you.

Daryl Dixon who was shocked when you were the one to ask him out.

Daryl Dixon who came home exhausted from a long run to see that you'd made dinner and didn't know how to react.

Daryl Dixon who spent the first six months of your relationship perpetually blushing whenever he caught you staring.

Daryl Dixon who was afraid to breathe the first time you slept on his chest because he didn't want to wake you.

Daryl Dixon who initially flinched whenever you hugged him without reason.

Daryl Dixon who was surprised you still wanted him after he left the prison with Merle.

Daryl Dixon whose breath hitched the first time you gently traced his scars.

Daryl Dixon who had to learn how to communicate his feelings without lashing out or shutting down.

Daryl Dixon who made you cry during an argument and spent the rest of the night terrified you were going to leave.

Daryl Dixon who still has the urge to pinch himself each morning, just to make sure this isn't all a dream.

Daryl Dixon who got flustered the first time you remembered something important to him.

Daryl Dixon who is forever grateful for the way you've shown him love without pain.

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