Yonju

You watched him for a moment, the silence between you humming with an electric current. Every time he shifted, the floor creaked, and the sound felt like a touch. You couldn't take the distance anymore, the polite, guarded space he insisted on maintaining even when his eyes told a completely different story.

You moved toward him, your footsteps silent on the wood. When you reached him, you didn't hesitate. You slid your hand over his shoulder, feeling the hard, knotted muscle beneath his vest, and let your fingers find their way to the back of his neck. His skin was hot, damp with sweat, and his hair was a tangle of dark, rough silk. You threaded your fingers deep into those strands, feeling the heat of his scalp before your fingers tightened to a grip.

You pulled his head back, forcing him to look up at you. It was a bold move, a challenge to the walls he kept so meticulously high. His eyes, that startling, translucent blue, flared with a sudden, dark intensity. The leather and needle dropped from his hands, forgotten. He'll have to worry about that later. And he will. For now, his attention is all on you.

"Talk to me, Daryl," you whispered, your voice a stark contrast to the heavy quiet. Your heart was drumming against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the fire in his gaze.

"Tell me something. What am I to you? What are we doing here?"

He leaned into the pressure of your hand, his throat working as he swallowed hard. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, weighing the cost of the fall. The candle flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the sharp angles of his face. He reached up, his large, calloused hand wrapping around your wrist, but he didn't remove your grip. He just held you there, tethered.

Bound to you. Just you. Always you.

"Don't," he rumbled, the sound so low it was almost a growl. It scratched against the inside of your ears, a delicious, rough friction that made your breath pause. "Don't start this."

"Why not?" you countered, leaning closer until your chest brushed his shoulder. The scent of him: salt, woodsmoke, and something uniquely, fiercely Daryl, overwhelmed your senses.

"Because you're afraid of what you'll say? Or because you're afraid of what it makes you? You know you don't have to be afraid of me. Never me, Dar."

He let out a jagged breath, his head dropping forward for a second before he looked back at you, his expression raw and unshielded. The "Merle filter," the internal voice that told him affection was a death sentence, seemed to buckle under the weight of your touch.

"Yer m'good girl," he mumbled, the words tumbling out in a broken, gravelly heap. It was barely audible, a secret whispered into the dark, but it hit you like a physical blow.

"Hm?" you teased, your fingers tightening in his hair, demanding more than a mumble.

"I didn't catch that, Daryl. Say it again."

He surged upward then, abandoning the edge of the bed to stand, his height looming over you, forcing you to tilt your head back even further. His hand moved from your wrist to your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt with a possessive, territorial force. He looked down at you, his jaw tight, his pupils blown wide until the blue of his eyes was just a thin, electric rim.

"Mine," he said, his voice no longer a mumble but a fierce, resonant command that vibrated through your entire body.

"My pretty girl. All perfect f'me."

Before you could respond, he crashed his lips against yours.

The kiss was a collision, a desperate release of everything you had both been suppressing for months. It wasn't gentle; it was a battle for breath and territory. It tasted of longing and the metallic tang of the world outside, but mostly it tasted of truth. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him, allowing him to claim you completely.

He backed you up until your shoulders hit the wall, the impact sending a jolt through your spine. He didn't stop. His hands were everywhere, one buried in your hair, mimicking the grip you’d had on him, while the other pinned your hip against the wood. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, trying to merge your form with his. The sexual tension that had been a slow-simmering ache for months had erupted into a flash flood, and you were both drowning in it.

He broke the kiss just long enough to bury his face in the crook of your neck. His breathing was ragged, a series of harsh gasps against your skin. You felt the rough stubble of his beard scraping your collarbone, a delicious burn that made you tilt your head to give him more access.

"Daryl," you choked out, your hands fisted in his shirt.

He didn't answer with words. He answered with his teeth. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your neck, a sharp, sudden pressure that made your toes curl. Then he began to suck, a slow, deliberate bruising that he intended to leave as a mark, a visual declaration to the rest of the world, and to himself, that you belonged to him.

You let out a soft, involuntary moan, the sound lost in the small room.

You wanted more. You wanted the clothes gone, you wanted the bed, you wanted to lose yourself in the heavy, solid reality of him.

But there was a barrier that neither of you was ready to cross yet. It wasn't about the act itself; it was about the permanence of it. For Daryl, taking that final step meant acknowledging that if he lost you, he wouldn't survive it. He was terrified of the attachment, even as he was currently branding you with his mouth.

So, you stayed in the liminal space of the "almost." You traded frantic kisses that left your lips swollen and numb. You moved against each other, the friction of your clothes a frustrating reminder of the distance that still remained. He moved his mouth from your neck to your jaw, his lips trailing fire wherever they touched.

"Yer gonna have a mark," he rasped against your skin, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over broken glass. He sounded almost proud of it, his possessiveness flaring up in the darkness.

"Good," you whispered, your fingers tracing the scars on his arms that you could feel through his sleeves.

"Let them see. I want them to know. I'm yours."

He pulled back then, his hands framing your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, his touch surprisingly tender given the violence of the moment. He looked at you with such profound, soul-deep yearning that it made your chest ache. He wasn't just a survivor anymore; he was a man who had found even more of a reason to keep breathing.

"I can't... I can't lose ya," he admitted, the mumbling returning as the weight of his fear settled back in.

"If I let this go too far... if I lose my head over ya... and somethin' happens..."

"Nothing is going to happen today, Daryl," you said, trying to ground him. "We're right here. It's just us."

He let out a shaky breath and pulled you back into his chest, holding you so tightly it was almost painful. You could feel the frantic thud of his heart against your own, a rapid, uneven beat that told you everything his words couldn't. You buried your face in his shirt, breathing him in, letting the low, rumbling sound of his breath soothe the jagged edges of your own nerves.

You stayed like that for a long time, tucked into the hollow of his shoulder, the candle finally guttering out and leaving you in the velvet dark. The tension hadn't vanished; it had simply settled into a heavy, glowing ember, waiting for the next spark.

"Talk to me, Dar," you murmured into the darkness.

He shifted, his hand sliding down to rest on the small of your back. He didn't say anything at first, the silence stretching out between you. Then, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Yer it for me," he whispered, the words so low you felt them more than you heard them. "The only thing that makes sense. Mine."

He kissed you again, slower this time, a lingering, heart-wrenching promise that didn't need a label or a formal declaration. It was written in the way he held you, in the marks he’d left on your skin, and in the steady, unwavering weight of his presence.

"Yours."

As the first hint of grey light began to bleed through the window, Daryl finally pulled back. He looked exhausted, but the frantic, hunted look in his eyes had softened into something resembling peace. He reached out and brushed a stray hair from your forehead, his fingers lingering on your skin.

"Get some sleep," he told you, his voice a warm, low rumble.

"You too," you said, catching his hand and kissing the palm.

He watched you climb into the bed, his gaze never wavering. He didn't join you. He picked up his leather and his needle, sitting back down on the edge of the mattress, a silent sentinel in the dim light. But as the tendrils of sleep tried to claim you, you could only remember how it felt when the steady, rhythmic weight of his hand rested on your ankle through the blanket.

You weren't official. You weren't a "couple" in the eyes of the community. You were something else entirely, something uniquely, fiercely yours. All he knew was he adored you, in ways he couldn't fathom were possible for him.

In the light of the sun, you were partners. But here? Within these 4 walls that protected you from the eyes of others, from their judgment, and their opinions, you were something else.

"Daryl," you called softly.

"Mm."

"I'm not going anywhere," you said, the words a promise you knew he needed to hear. "No matter how hard it gets. No matter what the world throws at us. I'm right here."

He turned, his face shadowed in the twilight. He looked at you, and for a moment, the mask of the seasoned survivor slipped, revealing the man underneath, the man who was terrified of hope, yet couldn't stop himself from reaching for it.

"I know," he mumbled, the low vibration of his voice filling the small room.

The corner of his lips lifts up to a small smile. You were dangerous.

"Yer a pain in my ass," he whispered, a hint of his dry, dark humor peeking through.

"Still yours," you countered.

"I'm heading out," Dante said, not even looking at you as he checked his equipment. He didn't offer a kiss. He didn't ask if you needed anything. He was simply moving on to his next task, treating your presence in the room as an inconvenience rather than a partnership.

"The borders are shifting," you reminded him, your voice sounding thin in the quiet room. "The patrol said there was activity near the northern gate. Maybe we should stay close."

Dante laughed, a short, dismissive sound that curdled in your stomach. "They can handle it. I’ve got things to do. Don't wait up."

He was gone before you could answer, leaving you in a space that felt colder for his absence. It wasn't the first time he had dismissed your concerns, and it certainly wasn't the first time he had left you to fend for yourself when the threats intensified. He was a man who acted as though he was always one foot out the door, never fully committed, never truly there. He was the opposite of Daryl, who seemed to materialize whenever you were truly in trouble, like a storm front you could set your watch by.

A week later, the illness hit like a tidal wave. Slow, at first. But gradually getting alarming.

It started as a dull throb behind your eyes, a persistent, rhythmic beating that suggested a fever was brewing. You tried to fight it, pushing yourself through the daily chores, the training, the patrol duty. But by the third day, the world felt like it was tilting on an axis you couldn't control. Your limbs turned to lead, and the simple act of standing upright made your vision swim with black spots.

You were lying on your cot, shivering violently despite the warmth of the blankets, when Dante finally deigned to stop by. He walked in, his eyes scanning the room with... impatience.

"You're still in bed?" he asked, his tone laced with irritation rather than concern.

"I think I’m sick," you whispered, your throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. "Dante, I can't... I can't breathe right. Can you get me some water? Or find Siddiq?"

He sighed, a loud, theatrical exhaling of breath that made your head pulse.

"You’re just exhausted. Everyone’s tired, Y/N. You’re overreacting. Just sleep it off. I’ve got to go report to the council."

He didn't touch you. He didn't check your temperature. He just turned and walked out, leaving you to the silence of the room and the suffocating heat of your own skin.

Hours bled into days. You drifted in and out of a haze of fever dreams, where the faces of your old crew morphed into the faces of walkers, where the sound of the rain outside sounded like the ticking of a countdown clock you couldn't stop. You were burning up, the illness stripping away your defenses until you felt like a child lost in a forest.

Then, the door creaked open.

You barely had the strength to turn your head. You expected it to be Dante, coming back to finally acknowledge that you were dying, but the silhouette that filled the doorway was broader, heavier, and carried the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth.

Daryl.

He didn't speak. He just moved into the room, his eyes scanning your prone form with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. He took in the state of the room: the untouched water, the mess, the way you looked, pale and sunken in the dim light.

"Dante said ya were fine," Daryl muttered, his voice rough. He crossed the room in two strides, his hand pressing against your forehead. His palm was calloused and warm, and the contact was so startlingly gentle that you let out a ragged sigh.

"I'm not," you managed to choke out.

"I can see that," he said, his brow furrowing in a mixture of anger and concern. He retreated, only to return a moment later with a basin of cool water and a rag. He sat on the edge of the cot, his weight dipping the mattress, and began to wipe your face.

He didn't ask what you needed. He didn't ask if you were sure. He just started working. He had already gone to see Siddiq, you realized, as he began to administer a mixture of electrolytes and bitter, herbal medicine. He was methodical, stripping away the layers of your confusion with the same precision he used when tracking a target.

"Where's Dante?" you asked, your voice barely audible.

Daryl’s jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek jumping. "Don't worry about him."

"Daryl..."

"Drink," he commanded, though the harshness of the word was undercut by the way he gently supported your neck, ensuring you didn't choke.

For the next two days, Daryl Dixon didn't leave your side. He brought food that you couldn't eat, but he sat there until you managed a few bites. He kept the room cool, he kept the water flowing, and he kept the silence, a companionable, heavy silence that made you feel safer than you had in years. He was the anchor you hadn't realized you were dragging behind you.

On the third night, the fever finally broke. You woke up drenched in sweat, your head feeling clearer than it had in a week. The candle on the nightstand had burned down to a nub, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. Daryl was still there, slumped in the chair beside your bed, his head resting against his chest, his breathing steady and deep.

The sight of him, exhausted and disheveled, doing this for you, for a woman who, technically, belonged to someone else, tightened your chest in a way that had nothing to do with the sickness.

"Yer awake," he noted, his voice gravelly from disuse.

"You stayed," you said, stating the obvious.

"Someone had to," he replied, shifting in the chair. "Ya weren't gonna make it if I didn't."

The world shattered shortly after you recovered.

The news ripped through Alexandria like a wildfire. Siddiq, the man who had been the pillar of the infirmary, was dead. And Dante? Dante wasn't just a survivor. He was a Whisperer. He was the hand that had brought the plague into your walls.

You sat on the floor of your home, the walls feeling like they were closing in. The betrayal was a physical weight, a sickness that settled in your stomach that no amount of water could cure. You had let a monster into your bed, into your life, while the man who actually cared for you stood on the periphery, watching you destroy yourself.

The door creaked open. Daryl didn't knock. He didn't have to. He stood there, his shoulders hunched, his eyes dark and heavy. He didn't say a word about Dante. He didn't say "I told you so." He just walked over and sat on the floor across from you, his boots scraping against the wood.

"They're taking 'im to the holding cell," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "It’s done."

You hugged your knees to your chest, your hands trembling.

"I let him in, Daryl. I sat there, and I let him pretend to be something he wasn't. How could I be so stupid? I thought I knew what a predator looked like. I lived as one for years."

Daryl shifted, his hand moving tentatively toward you before settling on the floor between you.

"Ya didn't know. Nobody did. He was a snake, Y/N. Snakes don't show their teeth until they're ready to bite."

"I should have seen it," you whispered, the guilt clawing at your throat. "I have this knack for picking the wrong ones. It’s like I’m wired to find the people who are going to break me."

"Ya ain't wired for that," Daryl said, his voice rising in intensity. "Ya were lookin' for somethin' real in a world that’s mostly fake. That don't make ya broken."

You looked up at him, your eyes burning.

"Why are you here? After everything? After I chose him? I’m an idiot, Daryl. I’m a liability."

Daryl leaned forward, his face illuminated by the flickering light of a single candle.

"Ya ain' a liability. Yer the only person who sees me, and I see ya. Dante? He was playin' a part. He never saw ya. Not really."

"And you do?"

"I've always seen ya," he murmured. The admission was raw, stripped of all the defenses he usually kept raised.

"Every time ya walked through those gates, every time ya went out into the woods with those scythes a' yours. I watched ya. I worried about ya. I didn't say nothin' 'cause ya were with him, and I wasn't gonna be the one to cause trouble. But I watched."

The realization hit you; the quiet, consistent loyalty he had shown you during your illness wasn't just friendship. It was the only honest thing you had experienced in years. The shame of your past choices felt suddenly, violently distant, eclipsed by the sheer gravity of the man sitting in front of you.

"I don't know how to do this," you confessed, your voice cracking. "I don't know how to be with someone who isn't a disaster."

"Maybe ya stop lookin' for the disaster," Daryl murmured, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over cold stone. He didn't reach out immediately. His hand hovered in the space between you, fingers twitching as he fought the instinct to pull away. When he finally pressed his palm to your jaw, it was with a clumsy, heavy sort of reverence, as if he were terrified that his touch, or the simple act of claiming you, would be the very thing that broke you.

He didn't look at you with the smooth confidence of a man sure of his footing. His gaze was frantic, darting over your features as if he were trying to memorize them before they were stolen away. His eyes were wide, haunted by a lifetime of names and faces that had slipped through his fingers no matter how hard he’d gripped them.

You leaned into him, hungry for the solidity, but his body was rigid. He wasn't just holding you; he was bracing himself against an impact he was sure was coming.

"I’m done with the noise," you whispered, the truth of it anchoring you against the floorboards.

Daryl flinched, his jaw tightening until the muscle bulged.

"Noise… it don't stop, Y/N. You think it does, but it’s always waitin' right outside the wall. It’s in the trees. It’s in the air."

He looked down, his knuckles turning white where he gripped his own knee.

"You want somethin' real? Real is hurtin'. Real is watchin' people turn into nothin' before you can even get your hands on 'em. You want me? You’re askin' for a heavy kind of weight. I ain't the kind of man that keeps folks safe. I’m the kind of man that people lose."

"I don't need you to be a shield, Daryl," you said, reaching for him. "I just need you to be here."

The kiss was not an act of bravado. It was a surrender. He leaned in, his lips meeting yours with a hesitation that spoke of years of self-imposed isolation. He kissed like a man stepping into a minefield, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the explosion. It tasted of salt and the lingering, metallic tang of the apocalypse, of a man who had survived by keeping his heart buried so deep it barely beat.

His hand slid into your hair, gentle, holding you in place as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He was trembling. You felt the strength in him, the hard-won muscle and the grit, but underneath it all, he was shaking like a leaf. He was terrified of the connection, of the vulnerability that came with letting someone in. He was waiting for the moment when your eyes would turn cold, when he would fail you, when the luck he’d always counted on would finally run dry.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing shallow and ragged. He looked like a man who had just touched a live wire.

"I can't save ya," he breathed, the admission tasting like ash in the small, cramped room. "I try, but I... I lose everyone. I don't know how to do this without waitin' for the sky to fall. Every time I get close to someone, every time I let 'em get under my skin... they end up gone. I don't know if I can watch that happen to you. I don't know if I can survive it."

You looked at him, the man who had carried water for you when you were delirious, the man who had stood by you when you were foolish, the man who carried the world on his shoulders and felt every crack. You realized then that he wasn't rejecting you; he was trying to protect you from the shadow of his own history.

"I’m not them," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "And you’re not the one who decides when I go."

Daryl let out a shaky, jagged breath. He pulled you close again, his arms wrapping around you with a possessive, protective weight that bordered on desperate. He didn't treat you like a prize; he treated you like a fleeting gift he was terrified to break. In the quiet of your room, while the world outside continued to spin in its chaotic, violent orbit, he was trying to learn a language he’d never been taught: the language of staying.

"Rick's already givin' me looks every time we dip out early."

You laugh softly, leaning closer to nuzzle his jaw, inhaling that familiar mix of leather, pine, and him.

"Let him. We've earned it. Besides, who wants to sit through another hour of supply route debates when we could be..." Your fingers trail down his chest, toying with the zipper of his vest. "...doing this instead?"

He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as he pulls you fully into his lap, oatmeal forgotten. "Dangerous talkin' like that." His lips crash yours in a slow, heated kiss, tongue teasing deep, hands roaming under your shirt to splay warm across your back. Minutes blur; you're both breathless when you finally pull back, foreheads pressed together. "Meet me out back after the meetin' starts? Five minutes in, tops."

"Deal," you whisper, stealing one more kiss before hopping off, adjusting your shirt with a wink. "Don't be late, Dixon."

The Alexandria council meeting drags slow. Rick at the head of the long table, maps spread wide, Michonne sketching perimeter adjustments while Aaron drones on about solar panel outputs. You're seated next to Daryl, thighs pressed tight under the tablecloth, his pinky finger hooked secret around yours. The room's stuffy with Hilltop reps and a few Kingdom scouts, voices overlapping on ration splits and walker herd migrations. You've barely heard a word; your mind's replaying last night's stolen moment in the pantry, his hands pinning your wrists, mouth hot on your neck.

Daryl shifts beside you, breath warm against your ear as he leans in under pretense of checking the map.

"Now," he murmurs, voice gravel-rough and urgent. No one notices when you both slip excuses, yours a vague "need to check the greenhouse logs," his a grunted "perimeter scout", and duck out the side door into the crisp morning air.

Laughter bubbles up as you grab his hand, tugging him toward the narrow alley between the community house and the armory, a spot you've claimed as "yours" with its overgrown bushes and blind corners.

The second you're hidden, he's on you, back pressed to the rough brick wall, lips devouring yours in a kiss that's all pent-up hunger. "Missed this already," he rasps between kisses, hands sliding under your jacket to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. You arch into it, fingers tangling in his hair, nipping his lower lip playful.

"S'only been ten minutes," you tease breathlessly, but your legs wrap around his hips as he lifts you effortless, grinding slow just to hear you gasp. "Pathetic, aren't we?"

"Damn right," he chuckles low, the sound rare and rumbling, forehead bumping yours.

"Can't sit through that shit pretendin' I ain't burnin' for ya."

His mouth trails hot down your neck, sucking a mark he'll deny later, hands kneading your thighs. Time slips, five minutes turns to fifteen, until distant voices from the meeting snap you back. You disentangle laughing, straightening clothes, his bandana crooked, and your lips swollen.

"Back in before they send a search party," you say, pecking his mouth quick.

He adjusts your collar with a smirk. "Worth it."

Afternoon brings the casual hangout in the pantry annex, a "working lunch" Carol organized, really just an excuse for the core group to unwind over canned soup and fresh bread from the greenhouse ovens. Maggie's there with Jesus, Rosita sketching weapon mods, Eugene rambling about radio frequencies while Carol stirs the pot like a den mother. You and Daryl arrive together, fashionably late, as usual, sliding onto crates side-by-side, knees knocking constant.

Conversation flows easy: run recaps, kid updates, Hilltop drama. But under the table, his hand's on your knee, thumb circling lazy patterns that make it impossible to focus. You retaliate by leaning into him, whispering jokes about Eugene's mullet under your breath, his muffled snort draws Carol's knowing eyebrow raise. Barely twenty minutes in, the itch hits again, that magnetic pull, like magnets snapping together.

"Need air," Daryl announces casual, standing with a stretch that shows off his arms just for you. You wait a beat, then chime in: "Yeah, me too, grab some water from the well?" Suspicious timing, but no one calls it; group too deep in Maggie's story about a stubborn goat.

Outside, you barely make the garden shed before clothes are rustling, door barely latched as he backs you against the wooden wall, kisses turning frantic.

"You're addictive," you gasp, hands shoving his vest open, nails scraping his chest scars. He groans into your mouth, one thigh wedging between yours, rocking slow to match your rhythm.

"Blame yourself," he mutters, nipping your earlobe. "Walkin' around lookin' like that." It's messy, his fingers in your hair, your legs hooked around him, laughter mixing with moans when a shovel clatters over. "Stealthy," you giggle post-kiss, both flushed and disheveled.

"Practice makes perfect," he grins rare-full, straightening your ponytail.

It's not the first time. Last week's infirmary "check-up" was really twenty minutes of you straddling his lap on a cot; the prior council was shed-makeout #2. Carol notices patterns, your synced absences, the perpetual flush on your cheeks, Daryl's bandana always askew. She's amused, maternal-teasing in her glances, but curiosity wins. "They're like teenagers," she mutters to Michonne during a quiet moment, who chuckles "Let 'em be."

One evening, your group had a firepit hangout, with the stars out, a few s'mores, and scavenged chocolate. You're curled into Daryl's side on a log, his arm slung around your shoulders. Stories flow: Rick's Atlanta tales, Maggie's farm nostalgia. But his fingers trace secret patterns on your arm, your hand sneaking to his thigh. Electric.

"Walk with me?" you whisper when others' eyes avert, but you stare directly into his.

He nods subtly before your excuses start flying, "Check the horses," "Forgot my knife", and you're off into the shadows near the pond, hidden by reeds. Kissing turns into cuddling fast, your back to his chest on a blanket you stashed, his chin hooked over your shoulder, hands linked across your stomach.

"This better than that firepit," he murmurs, lips brushing your neck lazily.

"Always," you agree, turning for a slow kiss, romantic haze wrapping you tight.

Carol waits five minutes, then slips after, boots silent on grass. She rounds the reeds quiet, freezing at the sight: you two tangled intimate, his arms banded around you full, lips locked soft and deep, your fingers carding his hair. It's sweet, his usual brood melted to pure devotion, your laugh muffled and sweet against his mouth.

She clears her throat deliberate, arms crossed smirking. "Knew it. You two vanish more than ghosts."

You jolt apart laughing, faces beet-red. Daryl's arm stays firm around you, protective, but his ears pink. "Carol, shit," he grumbles, no real heat.

"Caught red-handed," you say breathless, wiping lip gloss smudged on his chin. "Aight, we're busted. You happy now?"

Carol chuckles, waving off. "Just sayin', lock the door next time. Rick's askin' questions." She winks, backing away. "Carry on, lovebirds."

Back home, you collapse on the couch giggling, Daryl pulling you into his lap, burying his face in your neck.

"Told ya we'd get caught," he mutters, but he's laughing too, the rare rumble shaking you both.

"Worth every second," you reply, kissing him deep, hands roaming free now, no sneaking needed. Clothes begin to shed slowly, bodies tangling; his mouth everywhere and on yours, whispering "mine" against skin. Post-bliss, cuddling under quilts, his fingers tracing your spine, your head on his chest.

"Can't get enough," he says soft, vulnerability peeking. "Never will."

You were obsessed. There was no other word for it. It was the way his voice sounded like gravel being crushed under a heavy tire; rough, unpolished, but strangely grounding. It was the Southern drawl that rounded off his edges, the way he could turn a simple "nah" into a three-syllable melody of dismissal. The only delightful way anyone can ever be turned down for anything at all.

Today, you decided, was the day you were going to break the silence. Daryl was a man of few words, a man who spoke in shrugs and glares. You wanted to see if you could turn that trickle of conversation into a flood.

"Daryl?" you started, your voice a pitch higher than usual. Approaching carefully, fearing he might scurry away.

He didn't look up, but his shoulders shifted. "Hmm?"

That was it. That low, vibrating hum that seemed to resonate right in the center of your chest. You bit your lip to keep from grinning. Not that he can see.

"I was... thinking about the garden," you lied, stepping closer until the scent of woodsmoke and rainwater that clung to him filled your senses.

"Rick thinks we should rotate the crops, but Hershel says the soil in the north corner is too acidic. What do you think? I mean, really think? About the chemistry of it?"

Daryl paused, his knife hovering over a crow feather. He cut a sideways glance at you, his blue eyes narrowed under the greasy fringe of his hair. Usually, he’d just grunt and tell you to ask Rick. But today, something in your expression, perhaps the sheer, unadulterated focus you were giving his mouth, made him hesitate.

"Chemistry? Soil’s dirt," he began, his voice a delicious, rusty rasp. "Can’t fix what the rain already washed out. North corner’s got too much runoff from the old creek bed. If ya want it to grow, ya gotta haul in the peat from the woods, mix it deep. Hard work. Don't know if the payout’s worth the sweat."

You nearly melted. That was more than ten words. It was a paragraph. And the way he said sweat, the 't' at the end was barely a ghost of a sound, swallowed by that thick, honey-slow accent.

"Interesting," you said, moving even closer, invading his personal space in a way only you were allowed to do.

"And what about the woods? You think the peat is better near the pine stands or the hardwoods?"

Daryl set the arrow down completely now. He turned on his stool to face you, his knees brushing against your thighs. He looked suspicious, but not annoyed.

"Pine’s too sharp. Acidic, like Hershel says. Ya want where the oaks are. Leaves rot down, make it black and heavy. Good for turnip greens. Why ya askin' me 'bout dirt all of a sudden, Y/N?"

"I'm just curious about your expertise," you deflected, leaning down so your face was level with his.

"You know so much about the land. It’s… impressive."

He let out a short, huffed laugh, a sound that was half-breath, half-growl.

"Expertise. It's just livin', girl. Ain't nothin' fancy 'bout knowin' where things rot."

You spent the next three hours trailing him like a persistent shadow. You followed him to the armory, asking about the tension weight of his crossbow. You followed him to the mess hall, questioning his preference for venison over canned ham. Each time, you pushed a little harder, asking open-ended questions that required more than a nod.

And to your utter shock, Daryl didn't shut down. He didn't tell you to shut up or go away. Instead, he seemed to lean into it. He talked about the way the wind shifted before a storm, the different sounds a walker made versus a living man in the brush, and even a rambling, twenty-minute explanation of how his brother, Merle, used to hotwire cars back in the day.

His voice was a physical weight in the room. When he got animated, the pitch would climb just a fraction, becoming a bit more frantic and melodic. When he grew serious, it dropped into a basement-deep rumble that made the air feel thick.

By late afternoon, you were sitting on the edge of his cot in his cell while he organized his pack for a run the next morning. Your ears were ringing with the sheer volume of his words, and your heart was dizzy.

"Daryl?" you interrupted him mid-sentence as he explained the necessity of packing extra socks.

"Yeah?" he asked, looking up. He looked… energized. His eyes were bright, and his face was more animated than you had seen it in months.

"I have a confession," you said, your conscience finally catching up to your ears. "I've been bothering you on purpose. I just... I’m obsessed with your voice. I wanted to see how long I could make you keep talking just so I could listen to you. I’m so sorry. I'll leave you alone now."

You started to stand up, feeling a flush of embarrassment heat your cheeks. You had gone too far, surely. You had treated him like a specimen.

Before you could take a step, his hand shot out, wrapping firmly but gently around your wrist. The heat of his skin was a jolt.

"Sit down," he commanded. It wasn't a growl this time. It was soft, low, and terrifyingly intimate.

So you sat.

Daryl leaned in, his face inches from yours. He didn't look mad. If anything, there was a glimmer of something playful, something almost smug in his gaze.

"Ya think I didn't catch on 'round hour two?" he asked, his voice dropping to a vibrating whisper that sent a literal shiver down your spine.

"Talkin' 'bout crop rotation and car batteries? Please."

You gaped at him.

"You knew?"

"I ain't stupid," he drawled, the 's' lingering just a second too long. He shifted closer, his chest almost touching yours.

"But I figured... if ya wanted to hear me talk that bad, the least I could do was give ya an earful."

He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch light despite the roughness of his skin.

"So," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. "Ya like the way I talk, huh? Like the way it sounds when I say your name?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

"Y/N," he whispered. It wasn't just a name; it was a low, rumbling vibration that seemed to settle deep in your bones. "Ya gonna listen to me all night? 'Cause I got plenty more to say. Might even tell ya some things I ain't told nobody else. Justa' see that look on your face."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, a slow, rare smirk spreading across his face, the look of a hunter who had just realized he wasn't the one being hunted after all.

"Keep going," you managed to choke out, your voice breathless. "Don't stop."

From his spot leaning against the barracks porch railing, Daryl’s been watching the whole display unfold, arms crossed tight over his chest, crossbow propped casually against the post beside him. He’s spent most of the day out checking traps in the woods, his leather vest dusted with a light layer of snow, hair damp and tousled under the brim of his wool cap, a faint sheen of melt on his stubble. At first, his blue eyes narrow just a touch, tracking your movements with that habitual hunter’s focus, like he’s assessing if this is some kind of distraction that could pull threats closer, but then the corner of his mouth quirks up, barely there, in something that’s almost amusement.

What the hell’s she doin’? Floppin’ around like one of the kids after a long day, he thinks, that familiar gut-pull stirring low again, the one he’s been shoving down for weeks.

You two have been circling each other closer since arriving at Hilltop, him always showing up to grab the heavy end of your loads, pairing off on short runs without much said, but this lighthearted nonsense? It tugs at something buried, something he ain’t let surface in years.

You catch his stare about halfway through your second sweep of wings, head tilted back into the snow so you’re looking at him upside-down, cheeks already flushed pink from the cold and the effort.

“What’s that look for? Never seen a snow angel before?” you call out to him, your voice carrying clear and teasing over the muffled hush of the falling flakes, laughter bubbling up as you give an exaggerated flap for emphasis.

“Come on, Daryl! Don’t just stand there judging me from the porch like some grumpy overseer. Try it yourself. It actually lightens the load after hauling all that wood. Bet you’ve got the arm span for a pretty impressive one.”

He lets out a low huff, shifting his weight against the railing, arms uncrossing slowly as he rubs a gloved hand over the back of his neck, clearly weighing the absurdity of it all.

Part of him wants to mutter something dismissive and head inside to check his bolts, because who has time for kid games when walkers don’t take snow days? But your grin’s pulling at him, wide and genuine, cutting through the chill like sunlight, and before he can talk himself out of it, he pushes off the porch with a crunch of snow under his boots.

“You look completely ridiculous out there, d'ya know that?” he says, his voice coming out gravel-rough but laced with that dry humor he saves for moments like this, stepping closer through the drifts.

“Flappin’ around like one of the little ones after they’ve been cooped up too long. What if a herd hears all that noise and comes shamblin’ over?”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, snowflakes already melting into your hair like tiny diamonds, still grinning as you keep up the playful arm sweeps just to mess with him.

“Oh please, the walkers out there are probably too frozen stiff to even shuffle their way over, they’d slip and slide before they got halfway. Besides, when’s the last time you did anything just because it felt good in the moment? No strategy, no survival angle? Come on, drop down here with me. I’ll even help you fix it if your wings come out all crooked.”

He stops a couple feet away now, boots sinking deep into the powder, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as his jaw works side to side, hesitation plain in the way he glances from you back to the smooth snow, like he’s calculating if this is worth the risk of looking foolish.

Ain’t messed around like this since I was a kid, if that, feels stupid as hell, but she’s makin’ it hard to walk away. 

Your laugh rings out again, bright and unforced against the soft patter of snow, and it loosens something tight in his chest just enough to tip the scale.

“Alright, fine. You win,” he mutters, half to himself and half to you, shaking his head as he lets himself drop back into the drift beside you with an awkward thud that sends a puff of powder spraying up.

His arms and legs move stiff at first, testing the motion like it’s some unfamiliar tool, carving out uneven wings, one arm a little short, legs kicking a lopsided skirt that accidentally showers a bit of snow your way.

You burst out laughing, rolling halfway onto your side to face him fully, the sound echoing warm in the cold air as you brush the stray flakes from your jacket.

“Okay, okay, not bad for a first try, but yours looks like a grumpy old bird that just woke up from a nap. Kinda perfect for you, actually.”

You sit up a little more, tugging off one mitten with your teeth so you can scoop a delicate snowflake from the nearby drift, holding it out playful toward his gloved hand. “Hold still. I’ve got something for you. Old saying from my grandma: cold hands, warm heart. That’s us winter survivors, right?”

Daryl props up on one elbow, staring at the melting flake in your palm for a long second, his breath fogging the space between you in steady clouds, before his eyes lift to meet yours, blue depths catching the fading light, softening just a fraction with something raw and unguarded flickering there. But before he can respond, you can’t resist the mischief bubbling up, you pack a quick, loose snowball from the drift beside you and lob it gentle at his chest, the soft thump exploding in a harmless puff against his vest.

“Gotcha! Payback for that spray you just sent my way.”

He blinks in surprise, snow dusting his collar, then lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, the kind that starts deep in his chest and surprises even him, as he sits up fully, shaking off the flakes with a mock glare that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, you’re askin’ for it now,” he says, voice gravel-thick with amusement as he scoops a handful of powder himself, packing it loose but firm before tossing it back your direction, not hard, just enough to speckle your shoulder and hair with white.

“Thought you were all about angels, now it’s war?”

You squeal and dodge half-heartedly, laughing as you fire off another small one that glances off his arm, the exchange turning into a playful back-and-forth flurry of soft tosses and near-misses, snow flying light in the air between you. It’s silly, breathless fun, cheeks aching from grinning, the cold forgotten in the warmth of it, until you both run out of steam, collapsing back into your angels side by side, panting foggy laughs into the sky.

The world feels smaller now, just the two of you in this snowy patch, flakes settling gentle around your forms.

Daryl turns his head toward you first, still catching his breath, and reaches out slow, his gloved hand finding yours in the drift, tugging off his own mitten with his teeth so bare skin meets bare skin, calluses rough but hold warm as he laces your fingers together deliberate.

“Yours too,” he murmurs low, thumb brushing slow over your knuckles, eyes locking on yours with that unspoken weight he’s been carrying.

“Cold hands, warm heart. Stay close like this, warms better than any fire. Don’t let go just yet.”

You squeeze back, heart thumping steady under the shared chill, snowflakes melting on your joined hands as the laughter fades into comfortable quiet, the pull between you undeniable now, whimsical vulnerability turning something deeper, real. He tugs you up eventually, both of you snow-dusted and breathless, mittens swapped (his comically big on you, yours snug on him); walk back to the barracks side-by-side, shoulders brushing closer than before, fingers occasionally bumping like a promise.

Daryl’s jaw tightens watching you, his own brooding storm in his leather vest and worn jeans, arms crossed tight over his chest. Protective instinct coils low; a couple of Hilltop guys linger too near the field edge, eyes drifting your way as you stretch down to tug a weed, shorts pulling taut. He glares daggers, sharp blue eyes narrowing to slits, posture shifting aggressive til' they mutter excuses and scatter. 

Ain’t nobody starin’ at my girl, he thinks, rain dripping off his bandana.

You're too focused, too damn stubborn to notice or care, but he does, he always does.

He grabs a battered umbrella from the supply tent nearby (one of the few survivors from a scavenged truck), snaps it open with a flick, and drops down into the mud without a word, boots squelching toward your row.

You straighten as his shadow falls over you, wiping mud-streaked hands on your shorts, flannel gaping wider off your shoulder, rain tracing lazy paths down your chest.

“Daryl? What’re you doing out here? It’s pouring. I thought you were on watch.” Voice light, teasing warm despite the chill, eyes crinkling as you brush wet hair back, oblivious to how the soaked shirt molds to your figure.

He holds the umbrella steady over your head, angling it to shield you fully, rain drumming the canvas loud, his broad frame blocking the wind.

“You’re soaked through. Stubborn ass crops can wait.” Gruff mutter, but his free hand reaches out, tugging the flannel collar back up your shoulder gently, fingers lingering on your damp skin a beat too long, his thumb brushing your collarbone.

“Ain’t lettin’ you catch somethin’ out here. C’mon.”

You laugh softly, not removing his hand, and instead step closer under the shared cover, body heat cutting the wet chill as your hip bumps his. Eyes still checking the field, before lowering yourself down close to the ground again.

“I’m fine, really. It’s just a little rain. Feels kinda nice actually, cools everything down. Besides, these roots need checking before the mud cakes too hard. You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”

You tilt your head up at him, water beading on your lashes, smile turning playful, “My knight with an umbrella? Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Daryl huffs a half-smirk, eyes flicking over your shoulder again, glaring at a distant Hilltop woman who’d paused to watch, making her hurry off, “Knight, my ass. Just don’t like seein’ you out here alone with folks eyein’ you. Shirt’s half-off, shorts ridin’ up, drawin’ stares.” Voice low, rough, protective edge sharpening as he shifts the umbrella one-handed, the other moving possessively at your back, hands warm.

Rain taps rhythmically; he smells leather and earth, grounding him with you. Your cheeks pink under the droplets, but then you straighten and lean on him.

“Stares, huh? Guess I should’ve worn something looser… or maybe I like knowing that you’re watching out for me.”

He grunts, gaze dropping to your lips, rain making them glisten, shine delectably, before flicking back to your eyes.

“Shirt’s still slippin’. Fix it or I will.” He threatens, looking away.

“Finish quick. We’re gettin’ inside, dry clothes, somethin’ warm. Before I drag you.” He says as his stare follows another fellow from Hilltop who mistakenly looked at you.

It wasn't a good day to have eyes. It never is when Daryl's around you.

You trudge back into the Hilltop mansion alongside Daryl, rain easing to a drizzle behind you, mud caking your boots and his in thick clumps while water drips from the hem of his leather vest. The umbrella collapsed in his hand, still shedding drops onto the worn wooden floor of the foyer as he kicked the door shut with a quiet thud.

“Alright, go get that shower runnin’,” he mutters low, voice gravel-rough from the rain. His blue eyes flick over you quickly, taking in the goosebumps on your bare legs and the way your hair’s plastered flat.

"I’ll be down here. Ain’t havin’ you catchin’ a cold out in that mess.” He nods toward the stairs, already turning like it’s settled, but there’s that protective edge in his tone, the one that always sneaks out when you push too hard in the fields.

You nod, teeth chattering a little as you flash him a grateful smile. “Yes, sir. I won’t take long. Thanks for being a scary tree out there.” You lean up on tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to his stubbled jaw before peeling off toward the stairs, peeling the wet flannel over your head as you go.

Once back downstairs, Maggie’s office door stands ajar when you pad back, cozy lamplight spilling out, the long couch against the wall piled with a spare blanket she must’ve left. Daryl's sprawled there waiting, legs stretched out, one arm draped casual along the backrest, the other nursing a steaming mug. He glances up as you step in, eyes softening just a fraction, that brooding intensity easing into something warmer.

“Took you long enough. C’mon, got this waitin’. Figured you’d need somethin’ hot after standin’ out there like an idiot.”

You laugh soft, crossing to sink onto the couch beside him, close enough that your thigh brushes his, the heat radiating off his body chasing the last shivers away. “Smells amazing… You made this? Didn’t know you had a hot chocolate phase.” You snag your mug careful, blowing on it before taking a sip, settling deeper into the cushions with a content sigh.

“Ain’t a phase. Found some powder in the pantry, figured it’d warm you up faster than coffee. You were shakin’ like a leaf out there. Stubborn. Damned crops can sit through a shower.” His tone’s gruff, but there’s no real bite; he shifts just enough to angle his body toward you, arm still laid out along the couch back, open invitation without crowding.

Yeah, real smooth, Dixon.

You lean into his side, shoulder nestling against his chest, soaking up the solid warmth as you cradle the mug.

“I know, I know… but those roots were looking rough, and the rain wasn’t that bad. Promise I’m fine now, shower did the trick. This helps too.”

You tilt your head to glance up at him, catching the way he’s looking off toward the window, jaw working subtly like he’s fighting not to pull you closer. His arm stays put, fingers twitching once on the cushion, careful not to wrap around you outright, but he doesn’t pull away either.

Daryl huffs a quiet breath, eyes staying fixed on the rain-streaked glass outside, voice dropping lower. “Yeah, well… don’t need you gettin’ sick. We ain’t got meds to waste on somethin’ dumb like a cold. Next time, come in sooner."

He looks down at you, eyes soft. “You feelin’ warmer now? Skin’s still lookin’ chilled.”

You hum content, scooting a fraction closer, your head resting light against his shoulder now, the steady thump of his heartbeat grounding you. “Much better… you’re like a human heater. Seriously, thanks for coming out there. Made the mud worth it.”

The blanket’s within reach; you tug it over your legs, sharing it, letting it drape across his lap too. He doesn’t protest, just lets out a low noise, half-grunt, half-agreement, his body solid and unmoving under your lean.

“Mm. Ain’t a big deal,” he mutters, finally glancing down at you sidelong, eyes lingering on your face a beat before flicking away again, arm shifting micro along the backrest, fingers brushing your shoulder featherlight without fully committing. “Just… stay close like that. Keep the chill off. Long as you need.”

You smile softly into his shirt, sipping more cocoa, the steam warming your cheeks as rain taps the window like a lullaby. His warmth seeps in slow, conversations fading to comfortable quiet, his brooding guard softening just for you, arms open without touch, safe in the cozy glow.

Jesus's record player letting out a soft tone in the background.

His hand flexes on your hip. And you automatically know what to do. You’re spread half on top of him, leg slung over his waist, his shirt bunched in your fist. You feel heavy and floaty at the same time, that weird stage, making everything about him look extra unfair, extra hot, extra Daryl.

“You’re extra today,” he mutters, looking down at you with that half‑confused, half‑fond expression that makes your chest hurt so much.

“Dunno,” you say, pressing a slow kiss to his collarbone. “Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s because my stupid body’s like, ‘hey, here’s the man you love, let’s make you totally insane about him for a week.’”

He huffs. A kind of low, amused laugh.

“You’re insane about me all the time,” he says.

You look up at him, chin on his chest. “Yeah,” you agree. “But today I wanna bite anyone who looks at you for too long.”

His mouth twitches.

“Anyone?” he asks.

“Anyone,” you say. “Rosita gets a pass. Carol too. Everyone else? Chomp.”

He exhales this time, a laugh more evident from the sounds he makes.

“Relax,” he says. “Ain’t nobody lookin’ at me.”

You stare, getting up and slightly away from him, scandalized, offended.

“Daryl,” you say. “You’re hot.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you insist, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then his jaw. “You. Are. Stupid. Hot.”

He mutters something about you bein’ ridiculous, but he doesn’t stop you.

You climb a little higher, kissing down his neck, sucking lightly at a spot that makes his breathing go slightly faster.

Okay, yeah, this day might be your favorite already.

He eventually gets you untangled enough to roll out of bed, but you make it difficult on purpose. Every time he sits up, you tug him back down by his vest.

“Stay,” you whine. “Be bitten.”

“Can’t,” he says, pulling on his pants. “Gotta go. Ammo run.”

Ammo. Right. The world. Other people. Rude.

“You don’t have to go,” you argue, following him on your knees on the mattress. “You could stay here and help me reorganize the pantry. That’s important. We need a strong bread section.”

“That ain’t a real job.” He points out.

“Keeping our canned peaches alive is absolutely a real job,” you say. “And I like you. And you being gone is less good than you being here.”

He pauses, fingers stilling on his buttons for half a second. As if he were considering your suggestion.

“Somebody’s gotta make sure the grounds are clear,” he says. “Can’t have you sittin’ on the porch with your feet up if there’s walkers wanderin’ into the crops.”

You narrow your eyes.

“You always say that like I can’t kill walkers,” you say.

“I know you can,” he answers, softly this time. “Just don’t like you havin’ to.”

You crawl up to him, slide your hands into his hair, and he leans into it like he can’t help it.

“Okay,” you sigh. “Go be a hero. But come back fast. I have abandonment issues when you’re gone more than… twenty minutes.” You try a pout while looking directly into his eyes.

He actually laughs, tiny and quiet, but real.

“That so?”

“Yes,” you say gravely. “I get sad and listless and start talking to the tomato plants. They don’t laugh at my jokes like you do.” A sigh escapes your lips dramatically.

“I don’t laugh at your jokes.”

“You do a little nose exhale,” you counter. “That’s your laugh.”

He shakes his head, but you can see he’s done for. You tug his collar down.

“One condition,” you say.

He squints. “What?”

“I’m sending you out marked.”

He freezes. Like he's trying to figure it out, and he has already figured it out at the same time, but he's unsure if he's on the same page as you.

“Marked,” he repeats. Like he's testing it on his tongue, unsure about what it truly means.

“Yes,” you say, smirking. “So if anyone gets any cute ideas, they realize you’ve already been claimed.”

He should say it’s unnecessary.

Instead, he just goes very still while you press your mouth to his neck and suck a bruise right where his collar doesn’t quite hide it. His hand flies to your hip, fingers digging in.

“Shit,” he breathes.

You pull back to admire your handiwork.

“Perfect,” you say. “Now everyone will know whose you are.”

“I ain’t a dog,” he mutters, looking weakly at you, as if he wants more than just that. Not enough.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you say cheerfully. “Growly. Loyal. Sleeps at my feet. Very protective.”

“Get dressed,” he grumbles, kissing the top of your head before he pulls away.

You grin into his shirt. He loves it.

He doesn’t even make it out the door without you glued to his side.

At breakfast, you sit pressed against him on the steps, your knee over his, fingers hooked in his belt loop.

Then Rosita spots the mark and actually snorts.

“Well, damn,” she says. “Someone was busy.”

Daryl groans softly. Aaron, who was casually passing by, grins like a menace.

You ignore them all and tuck yourself under Daryl’s arm, head on his shoulder. Your body is buzzing, too full of fondness and something wilder, like if you don’t touch him, you might actually crawl out of your skin.

He makes it worse by absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over your shoulder.

You could bite him again. You might if he looks at you again.

Good thing he doesn't. He's learned his lesson.

When it’s finally time for the run, you’re at the gate before he is.

You meet him halfway, fingers already finding the edge of his vest, pulling him closer.

“Last chance,” you say. “Stay home. Be adored. I’ll make heart eyes at you all day. Zero complaints.”

He smirks just a little.

“Pretty sure you’re gonna do that anyway when I get back.”

“Yeah,” you admit. “But my brain is a chemical menace right now. You’re extra pretty today.”

He frowns in that confused Daryl way.

“I look the same.”

“You don’t,” you insist. “You look like mine.”

He leans his forehead against yours.

“You good?” he asks quietly. “I can stay if you’re not.”

“I’m good,” you lie, then correct yourself. “I’ll be good. Just… if you take too long, I might lose my mind and come find you.”

“Wouldn’t hate that,” he says, almost under his breath.

You kiss his jaw, then his mouth.

“Go,” you murmur. “But hurry. I have so many feelings and only one man to unleash them on.”

When the bike finally growls back through the gate, you’re halfway down the ladder before your brain can tell you to chill. He barely has time to kill the engine before you’re there, fingers grabbing his vest, eyes scanning him head to toe.

“Are you okay?” you demand.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Fine. Nothin’ out there.”

“Good,” you say, and then you kiss him like the world’s ending again, hand tangled in his hair, eyes closed, focused on the feeling of him on your lips.

Someone whistles. Someone else says “get a room.”

You don’t care. But he flips people behind you before diverting his eyes back to yours.

He kisses you back, hand cradling the back of your head, the other settling low on your back like it always does when he lets himself feel everything. When you finally pull back, you’re breathless and smug.

“You’re not leaving my side for the rest of the day," you put a hand on your hip, “Come on. I need to bite you again.”

And as you drag him back toward your shared house, half hanging off his arm, you feel it, that warm, steady thing under all the chaos: He lets you be feral and clingy and ridiculous because somewhere under the flannel and the frown.

Y/N, walking with Maggie and Rosita, laughing about something, the sun catching on the worn black cotton stretched across her shoulders. His worn black cotton. Maggie notices first. Of course she does.

“That new?” Maggie asks, eyes flicking between Y/N and Daryl.

Y/N looks down at herself, feigning confusion. “What, this old thing?” she says, patting the polo. It hangs a little big on her, sleeves rolled up, hem hitting mid-thigh over her shorts. “Found it lying around. Fits nice.” She has styled it, too. A belt around her waist with a few dangling metal pieces to accentuate the plainness of the shirt. But the size and look of it still gave it away.

Rosita bites back a grin. “Real nice,” she says. “Almost like it was made for someone who glowers a lot.”

Maggie’s gaze slides past Y/N’s shoulder, to where Daryl has frozen mid-step.

“Y’know,” she says conversationally, “that looks awfully familiar.”

Y/N turns, follows her line of sight, and spots him. His ears go hot. He can feel it. He drags his eyes away, aims them somewhere over their heads, anywhere but the way the shirt sits on her collarbones. If he tunnel-visions on it, he knows he's done for.

“Daryl,” Maggie calls, all sugar. “Where’d your black polo go?”

“Ain’t mine,” he says too quickly.

Rosita snorts. “Sure it’s not.”

“Just a shirt,” he mutters.

Y/N’s grin is slow and wicked. “Oh?” she says. “So you don’t mind if I keep it, then?”

He makes the mistake of looking at her. The collar’s a little stretched, she’s tugged at it, he realizes, to get it over her head. There’s a tiny hole near the hem he recognizes; he tore that snagging it on a fence months ago. Anywhere but those damning collarbones.

“Do what you want,” he mumbles, and escapes toward the gate, ears burning.

Behind him, he hears Rosita murmur, “He blushes cute,” and Y/N’s laugh following like a hook in his spine.

Carol catches him by the arm as he passes her on the sidewalk.

“Nice shirt,” she says dryly. “On her.”

“Don’t start,” he grumbles.

“I didn’t say anything,” she replies, all innocence, and lets him go.

The glove is harder to ignore.

They’re out on a run with Rick and Michonne, the sky gray and low. The air smells like rain that hasn’t happened yet. They’re moving through the shell of an old strip mall, scavenging what’s left.

“Stay close,” Rick says, quiet but firm, eyeing the shadows.

“I always do,” Y/N says, sliding up beside Daryl.

He doesn’t answer, but he shifts just enough that his shoulder brushes hers. He pulls his glove on without thinking, fingers sliding into the cracked leather. Left hand, snug and familiar. He reaches for the right one, patting his belt, then the pocket he’s sure he stuck it in.

Empty.

“Lose somethin’?” Y/N asks innocently.

He glances over.

She’s got his glove.

She’s wearing it, in fact, on her right hand, fingers flexing in the leather as she grips her knife. The sight is so ridiculous, he almost laughs. It goes up past her wrist, a little big, but she’s tightened the strap so it stays. His hand feels bare and stupid without the mate.

“That’s mine,” he says.

“You sure?” she teases. “Found it lying around.”

“You already pulled that line with the shirt,” he mutters.

She flashes teeth. “You gonna take it back from me, Dixon?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Rick’s looking. Michonne too, eyes narrowed in that assessing way she has.

“Problem?” Michonne asks.

“Nothin’,” Daryl says quickly.

Rick’s gaze drops to his hands. One gloved, one bare. Then to Y/N’s. One bare, one gloved in unmistakable Dixon leather.

“You both got somethin’ you wanna share?” Rick asks mildly.

Daryl chokes on nothing, coughs once. “Nah.”

Y/N hums, pleased, and saunters ahead. “Relax, sheriff,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m just borrowing. Man’s got two, he can spare one.”

“Right,” Michonne says slowly, lips twitching. “Borrowing.”

Rick doesn’t push. He just exchanges a look with Michonne, a whole conversation in a glance, and lets it go.

Later, when they’re back at the cars, Daryl catches Y/N by the open door of the SUV.

“Give it back,” he mutters, nodding at her hand.

She lifts it, flexing her fingers. “Don’t wanna.”

“Y/N.”

She steps closer, close enough that only the door shields them from Rick and Michonne’s line of sight.

“You can have it back,” she says softly, eyes bright, “you just have to take it off of me.”

He reaches for her wrist. His fingers close around the leather. It’s his, worn in by his own hands, warmed now by hers.

He could just tug it off.

Instead, he sees the way her eyes flick to his mouth, just for a second, and his grip loosens.

“Keep it,” he mutters, ears going hot again. “Got another pair.”

She beams. “Didn’t know you were such a giver, Dixon,” she says, and taps his bare knuckles with the gloved ones before sliding into the car.

Rick walks up as Daryl’s still staring at his empty hand.

“Glove looks better on her,” Rick says under his breath. “Just sayin’.”

“Shut up,” Daryl replies, but there’s no bite in it.

The vest is what gets them caught.

It’s laundry day, full sun, and lines strung between houses, clothes fluttering like flags. The original crew gravitates toward one another as they always do, by the steps near one of the porches, talking about supply lists and watch rotations and the hundred little things that keep a community going.

“Has anyone seen Daryl?” Glenn asks, scanning the yard. “We need to talk about the east road run.”

“Should be around,” Maggie says. “Can’t miss the-”

She stops.

They all turn at the same time.

Y/N is crossing the yard, a basket of folded clothes on her hip.

And on her back, over a plain white sweatshirt and denim shorts, is Daryl’s vest. The leather hangs a little big on her, armholes gaping whenever she shifts. It looks… right, somehow. Wrong, too. Impossible to ignore.

Glenn’s brows shoot up. Maggie’s hand flies to her mouth, a grin she tries and fails to smother pressing at the edges. Sasha actually snorts. Even Carl stares. Rick’s the first to find his voice.

“Y/N,” he calls, and there’s a smile lurking in it.

She looks over, blinks innocently. “Yeah?”

“Nice vest,” he says.

“Thanks,” she replies. “Found it lying around.”

Abraham, passing with a crate, barks a laugh. “Pretty sure that lying around on Dixon’s back yesterday.”

“Was it?” she says, tilting her head. “Huh.”

Michonne steps closer, arms folded, amusement dancing at the corners of her mouth. “You know what that is, right?”

“Leather,” Y/N says. “Keeps the wind off.”

“It’s Daryl,” Michonne says. “Keeps the rest of us on.”

Y/N’s grin wobbles, then steadies. “Gosh darn it,” she says under her breath. “We’re caught.”

“‘We,’ huh?” Glenn says.

Right on cue, Daryl comes around the corner of the nearest house, a bundle of arrows in one hand, oblivious. He spots the cluster of them, slows. Then he sees Y/N.

Sees the vest.

Stops dead.

For a heartbeat, no one moves. His vest. The one he almost never lets out of his sight. The one that’s practically a second skin. On her. In front of everyone. Rick’s trying very hard not to laugh. Carol’s not even pretending; she has one hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.

“Hun,” Y/N says loudly, turning to him with a sunny, reckless smile, “you mind doin’ all the yappin’ and explainin’?”

Daryl can feel every eye in the yard on him. The old Daryl would’ve bolted, grunted, grabbed the vest, and disappeared. But there’s a beat where he remembers the fever-hot infirmary, his hand in hers. The black polo on her shoulders. The glove on her hand. All the times he chose to stay. His brain short-circuits.

Long hair, messier but tamer than you remember. Black button‑up, sleeves rolled, clinging to shoulders and arms that absolutely weren’t that defined back at the quarry. Crossbow on his back like an extra limb.

Daryl Dixon.

For a second, you think the heat’s messing with you.

He looks up, scanning the yard, the wall, Rick-

Then you.

He stops like he’s hit an invisible tripwire.

“Y/N?” Rick’s voice cuts in, incredulous. “You know…?”

You don’t answer him.

You’re still staring at Daryl.

Last time you saw him, he was all wild eyes and short temper, swinging at everyone, yelling about Merle. He’d been dangerous in a way that made your hackles rise.

But now?

Now he’s dangerous in a way that makes your stomach drop in an entirely different direction.

Carl mutters, “Uhh,” under his breath.

Carol’s hand curls tighter around Judith’s shoulder, eyes flicking between you and Daryl with a kind of quiet, surprised delight.

You push off the wall, knife forgotten at your side.

“Daryl?” you say.

He swallows.

“Yeah,” he says, like he’s not sure his own name fits anymore.

You stop a few feet away. Old dirt, new scars, and a shirt that really has no right to fit him that well. It comes out before you can stop it.

“When,” you demand, eyes raking unapologetically from his hair to his boots, “did you get hot?”

The yard goes very, very quiet.

Then Carl chokes so hard he actually doubles over, coughing into his hand.

“Carl,” Rick snaps automatically, but there’s a stunned laugh lurking in his voice. Trying so hard to stop the smile from spreading across his face.

Carol’s lips twitch. She drops her gaze, her shoulders shaking once before she steadies her face. Judith, utterly oblivious, looks between the adults like she’s missed the punchline.

Daryl’s ears go red.

“Shut up,” he says, a beat too fast, the words falling out rough.

You raise your eyebrows.

“I’m serious,” you say. “Last time I saw you, you were all raggedy hair and attitude. Now you walk in here like…” You gesture vaguely at his whole existence. “That.”

Rick clears his throat.

“Good to see you too, Y/N,” he says dryly.

You flick him a quick glance, then back to Daryl.

“Hi, Rick,” you say. “Your friend got an upgrade.”

Carl fails to smother a laugh this time.

“Damn,” he mutters, unable to help himself. “She’s right, though.”

Daryl shoots him a murderous look.

“Shut it,” he growls.

Carl holds up his hands. “Hey. I’m just saying what she said.”

Rick’s mouth does a thing halfway between a scold and a smile. He claps Daryl’s shoulder once, like he can’t decide if he’s offering comfort or congratulating him.

“Glad you’re both alive,” Rick says. “We can catch up inside. Carol, get Judith-”

Carol’s watching you and Daryl like she’s mentally pinning the scene to a wall to revisit later.

“Come on, little ass‑kicker,” she murmurs to Judith, ushering her toward the house, but she shoots you a smirk on the way by. It’s small and knowing: You gonna do something with that, or what?

You ignore the heat creeping up your own neck.

Daryl shifts his weight.

“You done?” he mutters.

“Not. Even. Close.”

It starts small.

You don’t pounce. You’re not suicidal.

You just… gravitate.

In meetings, you stand a little closer to his side of the table. On runs, you slot yourself into his orbit like it’s the most natural thing in the world, blades and crossbow, front and rear, moving like you’ve done this for years.

He notices. Of course, he notices. He just doesn’t know what to do with it.

First test: the arm graze.

You’re heading out on a supply run, double-checking gear by the gate. He’s leaning against the fence post, adjusting the strap of his crossbow.

You walk past and let your fingers brush his forearm.

He goes marble‑still.

“Relax,” you say. “Just checkin’ you’re real.”

“I’m real,” he grunts.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you shoot back.

His eyes flick to your hand, then away.

He doesn’t step back.

Second test: the compliment.

You’re both kneeling in the dirt outside the armory, cleaning weapons. He’s got the crossbow break‑down routine on autopilot. You’re working on your scythe blade.

“Gotta say,” you muse, wiping along the metal, “if I’d known the angry guy at the quarry was gonna turn into this, I might’ve been nicer.”

“This?” he echoes.

You wave vaguely at him. “The hair, not sure how long it takes for you to make it look all natural. The shirt, that's practically begging you to get a bigger one, by the way. The arms, not so subtle about that. The whole… situation.” You sigh at the sight of him, out of relief that he's here with you, and the frustration that he just doesn't get how difficult this is for you.

He stares. Then looks down at himself like someone swapped bodies on him without warning.

“Ain’t nothin’ different,” he mutters.

You snort.

“Okay, lie to yourself if you want,” you say. “Doesn’t change the view from here.” You look at him and smile adoringly.

His hand slips, cloth catching on the crossbow limb.

“Watch what you’re sayin’,” he grumbles.

“Why?” you ask, entirely too innocent, eyes fluttering. “You gonna tell me to stop?”

He clams up.

You can practically see the internal error messages firing: She’s messin’ with me. She’s not. She is. She can’t mean it. She might.

He finishes cleaning faster than usual and gets up abruptly, looking away.

“Gotta check the fence,” he says.

“There’s no fence shift for another hour,” you point out in a sing-song voice.

“Then I’m early,” he snaps, and stalks off.

You grin to yourself.

Third test: proximity.

You find him later, up on one of the watch platforms. He’s scanning the tree line, crossbow in hand, eyes restless.

You climb the ladder without announcing yourself.

He hears you anyway.

“Should be sleepin’,” he says, not turning.

“So should you,” you counter.

You step up beside him, close enough your shoulders almost touch.

He flicks a glance at the distance between you, then back at the trees.

You close it. Just a little. Your arm brushes his. He tenses. You pretend not to notice.

“See anything?” you ask.

“Not yet,” he says.

“Good,” you murmur. “Means I get more time up here with my favorite set of shoulders.”

He almost drops the crossbow.

“Stop that,” he mutters, voice tight.

“Stop what?” you ask. “Telling the truth?”

He finally turns his head, looking at you full on.

“What’re you doin’?” he asks quietly.

You hold his gaze.

“Making up for being wrong about you at the quarry,” you say. “And entertaining myself.”

He searches your face for mockery.

He doesn’t find any. That seems to rattle him more than anything.

He looks away fast.

“You’re gonna get yourself hurt talkin’ like that,” he says.

“How?” you ask. “You gonna shoot me?”

A corner of his mouth twitches, like he hates that you made him almost smile.

“Just… don’t know what you want,” he mutters.

You step half a breath closer.

“You,” you say simply. “That’s kind of the point.”

Silence.

Wind.

Distant insect hum.

His fingers flex on the crossbow grip.

You wait.

Then, because he is Daryl Dixon and emotional overload equals tactical retreat, he jerks his head toward the ladder.

“Gotta make another round,” he says hoarsely, and brushes past you, boots heavy on the wood as he descends.

You let him go.

For now.

Down in the street, Rick clocks the way Daryl bee‑lines away from the platform and the way you appear at the railing a moment later, watching him with a mix of amusement and something softer.

He exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half a sigh.

“He's doomed,” he says under his breath.

Carl, taller now, leans against the porch post beside him.

“Yeah,” Carl says. “In the best way.”

“Behave,” Rick warns.

“I am,” Carl says. “I’m not teasing him. I like living.”

Carol comes up on Rick’s other side, carrying a basket of laundry. She follows their gazes automatically, sees Daryl pacing the yard like a caged animal, and you leaning on the rail above, chin on your hand, pretty, amused, and loving smile on your face.

Her face softens.

“Took her long enough,” she murmurs.

Rick huffs.

“Took him long enough,” he says. “She always saw more than she let on. Just… didn’t like who he was back then.”

“Who he was back then needed time,” Carol says quietly. “He’s different now. Better. Just don’t tell him I said that.”

Carl shakes his head.

“I’m just impressed she said it out loud,” he says. “ ’When did you get hot?’ at the gate? Iconic.”

Rick shoots him a look.

“New word?” he asks.

“Rosita taught me,” Carl shrugs.

Carol smiles into the laundry basket.

“He has changed,” she says. “And so has she. If anyone’s going to know how to handle him now… it’s her.”

Rick’s gaze lingers on Daryl, who glances up at the platform again despite himself.

You’re still there.

You lift two fingers in a small salute.

He looks away fast, ears pink, but he doesn’t move further from the tower.

It’s hot in here, you think. Too many bodies.

You blink, shake your head once, trying to clear it.

The room tilts a little anyway.

“Y/N?”

You look up at the sound of your name, but it’s like your brain is lagging behind your eyes. Everyone’s faces swim together for a second before sliding back into place.

Rick’s watching you with that cop’s stare he never quite lost.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you lie automatically. “Just… a long day.”

Daryl uncrosses his arms.

“You’re pale,” he grunts.

You roll your eyes. “You tell me that every time I don’t have dirt on my face.”

He doesn’t smile and pushes off the wall and steps closer to the table, closer to you. You can feel him at your side now, a solid, familiar presence.

“We can take two cars,” Spencer is saying, oblivious. “If we split the streets, we cover more ground. I can go with Y/N, we—”

He breaks off as your knees wobble.

The room does that tilt again, harder this time, and for a second the only thing you can hear is the roar of your own pulse in your ears.

You grab for the edge of the table.

You miss.

You sway.

Daryl catches you.

His hand clamps around your upper arm, firm, stopping the fall before it starts. His other hand lands at your waist, steadying you. It’s not gentle so much as sure.

“Whoa,” he mutters. “Gotcha.”

“Y/N?” Rick’s voice sharpens. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine,” you say, which would probably be more convincing if you weren’t seeing double.

You blink hard.

The fevers after the guts runs always feel like this—like your body gets halfway to sick and then remembers it doesn’t have time. You’d hoped it would skip you this round.

Apparently not.

Daryl shifts his grip, easing you into the nearest chair.

“You don’t look fine,” Spencer says from across the table. His brow furrows in what you’re sure he thinks is an attractive show of concern.

Daryl crouches in front of you, one knee popping as it hits the hardwood. Up close, his eyes are more intense than the fever.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do.

The room steadies a little around his face.

“You feelin’ sick?” he asks.

“Just… hot,” you mumble. “And floaty. It’s fine. I can still go.”

He makes an unimpressed noise.

“Yeah, nah,” he says. He reaches up, back of his hand brushing your forehead, then your cheek. His calluses drag over your skin, rough and careful at the same time.

You’re hot. He can feel the heat radiating off you.

“Daryl-” you start.

He clicks his tongue, annoyed, and does the thing that always makes you go quiet.

He leans in and presses his forehead to yours.

It’s not a kiss. Not exactly. It’s more like a touchstone: his brow resting against yours, noses bumping lightly, his hand cupping the back of your head. You pick up the faint smell of smoke and leather and whatever soap the Alexandrians use these days.

You go still. Your breath catches.

“Christ,” he mutters after a second, voice a low rumble that vibrates against your skin. “You’re burnin’ up.”

You swallow, throat dry.

“You’re… just cold,” you say weakly.

He pulls back enough to look at you, eyes narrowed.

“Uh‑huh,” he says. “Rick.”

Rick’s already a step closer, arms crossed.

“Yeah?” he says.

“I’m stayin’,” Daryl says. “Ain’t takin’ her out there like this.”

Rick studies you for a beat.

You want to argue. You really do. You’re not useless. You can still shoot. But your arms feel like lead and your head feels like someone stuffed it with cotton.

Rick sees it.

“We can manage without you this run,” he says. “Take care of her.”

Daryl nods once.

Spencer shifts, looking between you and Daryl.

“I could stay,” he offers. “You could go with them, Dixon. I’ll make sure she’s-”

“Nah,” Daryl cuts in, rising to his full height in one smooth motion. He keeps one hand on the back of your chair. “Ain’t happenin’.”

Spencer bristles.

“I’m just saying-”

“I heard what you’re sayin’,” Daryl says. His eyes are flat. “Ain’t interested.”

Spencer scoffs, masking something like irritation.

“Right,” he says. “Of course. Because she can’t be around anyone but you.”

It’s not the words; it’s the tone. The implication. Something hot and unpleasant flickers in your chest.

“Spencer,” you say, warning in your voice.

He holds up his hands, backing off a step. “Fine. Whatever. Just thought she might want better company.”

Rick steps in before it can escalate.

“That’s enough,” he says. “We got a run to plan.”

Spencer shoots you one last look, half regretful, half lingering, and turns away.

You’re too tired to roll your eyes.

Daryl squeezes the back of your chair once, then leans down, his mouth near your ear.

“Up,” he murmurs. “C’mon. Let’s get you back home.”

You let him haul you to your feet.

The room tilts again, but his arm slides around your waist, taking most of your weight.

You don’t even pretend not to lean into him this time.

The walk back to your shared house is a blur of sunlight and spinning fences.

Daryl’s grip is steady, his steps matched to your unsteady ones. He doesn’t talk much, never does, but you can hear his breathing, feel the tension in his body.

“Sorry,” you mumble at one point, head leaning against his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“Stop apologizin’,” he says. “You got sick. Ain’t your fault.”

“You got… plans,” you protest. “Run. Rick needs you.”

“Rick told me to stay,” he points out. “Ain’t gonna argue with him when he’s right.”

You huff a laugh that turns into a cough.

He rubs your arm once, absent, soothing.

Inside the house, he steers you straight to the couch.

“Down,” he says.

“You gonna start trainin’ me like Dog next?” you mumble.

“If you don’t lay down when I tell you, yeah,” he says, but there’s a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

You collapse onto the cushions.

He disappears for a moment, boots heavy on the floorboards, then reappears with a cup of water and a worn washcloth.

“Drink,” he says, handing you the cup.

You do, because your throat feels like sandpaper. Every time you swallow, it hurts.

He waits until you’ve had a decent amount before taking it back and setting it on the crate you use as a side table. Then he kneels by the couch, dips the cloth into a bowl of cool water he must’ve grabbed from the kitchen, wrings it out, and presses it gently to your forehead.

You sigh, muscles melting a little.

“Feels good,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” he says. “Good.”

You reach out blindly. Your fingers catch the fabric of his sleeve and don’t let go. He huffs, not really annoyed, and adjusts so he can stay kneeling without toppling over.

“You can go sit,” you mumble, eyes half‑closed. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sittin’ right here,” he says. “Ain’t movin’.”

You smile vaguely.

“Clingy Dixon,” you tease.

“Says the one hangin’ on me like a tick,” he mutters.

You squeeze his sleeve.

“S’cause you’re comfy,” you say. “And solid. And mine.”

The last word slips out without you really thinking about it. Saying it as a matter of fact.

He goes very still for a heartbeat.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yours.”

You drift in and out for a while. Every time you surface, he’s there: sometimes sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, sometimes on the edge of it, your legs across his lap. The cloth on your forehead is always cool again, which means he keeps getting up to rewet it.

At one point, you come to with your fingers tangled in his hair. You have no idea when that happened.

“Daryl,” you mumble, thumb brushing over the softer strands near his neck. “Your hair’s gettin’ long.”

He snorts, not looking away from the doorway he’s pretending not to guard.

“Yeah, well,” he says. “Ain’t exactly a barber shop round the corner.”

“Suits you,” you say.

He grunts, but his ears go a little pink. You tug gently, guiding him to look at you. His eyes meet yours, wary.

“You okay?” you ask.

He frowns. “You’re the one with the fever.”

“I’m serious,” you say. “You look… tense.”

He hesitates. “Just don’t like seein’ you like this,” he says finally. “All… wobbly.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say. “You keep fussin’ over me like this, I might even enjoy it.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters.

You smile, eyes drooping.

“Too late,” you whisper.

It’s mid‑afternoon when there’s a knock at the door.

Daryl’s up in an instant, easing your hand off his shirt and tucking your arm back under the blanket.

“Yeah?” he calls, moving to the door.

Rick’s voice answers.

“How is she?”

Daryl opens the door a crack, enough to stick his head out.

“She’s outta it,” he says. “Fever’s high, but she ain’t worse. Gave her water. Got her layin’ down.”

Rick nods, glancing past him at your sleeping form.

“She’s in good hands,” he says.

Daryl shifts, uncomfortable with the compliment.

“Run go okay?” he asks.

“We got what we needed,” Rick says. “No trouble.”

Daryl grunts.

Rick studies him.

“You did the right thing, stayin’,” he says. “She’d have pushed herself ’til she dropped.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “That’s the problem.”

Rick’s mouth quirks.

“I also told Spencer to back off,” he adds. “In case you were wonderin’.”

“That before or after he tried to sign himself up as her nurse?” he asks.

“Bit of both,” Rick says. “He’s… Spencer. He’ll test lines. You make yours clear.”

“They’re clear,” Daryl says flatly. Rick nods once.

“Good,” he says. “’Cause she’s too sick right now to see it’s pissing you off.”

Daryl scowls. “Ain’t about me.”

“A little bit is,” Rick says. “You’re allowed that.”

Daryl huffs as Rick claps his shoulder.

“Get some rest if you can,” he says. “We’ll need you on the next one.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says. “Later.”

He closes the door, leans against it for a second, then heads back to the couch. You’re awake again, blinking blearily up at him.

“Who was that?” you ask.

“Rick,” he says. “Said run went fine.”

You nod, relieved.

“Good,” you mumble. “Don’t wanna feel guilty on top of feelin’ like death.”

He sits on the edge of the couch, careful not to jostle you.

You reach for him automatically, fingers catching his wrist this time.

“Stay,” you say.

“I am,” he replies.

You tug a little.

“Closer,” you clarify.

He hesitates, glancing at the curtained window like someone might be watching.

Everyone knows about the two of you. Alexandria rumors travel faster than walkers. Still, the old instinct to keep what’s his private runs deep.

Your grip tightens.

“Please,” you add, quieter.

That does it.

He exhales, tension easing out of his shoulders, and stretches out beside you on the couch, boots still on, body curved to fit yours. You turn into him, pressing your face into his chest.

He smells like outside and sweat and something that’s just him.

His arm comes around your back, hand resting between your shoulder blades. Not too tight. Just enough to say, I’ve got you.

“Daryl?” you murmur against his shirt.

“Mm?”

“Love you,” you say, voice slurred with fever and exhaustion but absolutely sure.

His throat works.

He ducks his head, lips brushing your hairline in a quick, soft kiss.

“Love you too,” he says, the words quiet and steady. “Now go the hell to sleep.”

You smile, eyes already sliding shut.

“Bossy,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, chin resting lightly on top of your head. “Somebody’s gotta be.”

Outside, Alexandria hums along, oblivious.

Inside, Daryl Dixon lies on a too‑small couch with his feverish, clingy, utterly loved woman plastered to his side, one arm around her, eyes on the door, ready to fight the whole damn world if it tries to come through while she’s like this.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t look away.

He's been doing this ever since you went out together on runs to scavenge for food or anything that can help the rest of the group to survive. He sticks behind you, not too close, and always goes first before giving you a signal that everything is clear. And you start falling for his antics, giving you that sense of protection and security despite the environment you now live in.

You start joking around to test if he'll somewhat feel the same way, "You know you love me going out with you on runs like these, Dixon."

"Everyone else's just busy." He turns away and walks ahead of you.

Or that one time where he hands you a can of peaches and keeps the can of beans to himself.

"Aww, you remembered my favorite!" You smile at him, teasing, nudging his shoulder with your own.

"Ain't no favorites in a time like this." He turns his back on you as he begins to consume the contents of the can he held.

You almost gave up after this when he visits you at the guard tower the day after. He comes up the stairs unannounced and hands you a bottle of water and a sweet snack you mentioned you liked.

"You gotta eat if ya wanna keep your shift and stay awake. Wouldn't want them things to get in 'ere and eat us in our sleep." He mumbles, his face turned towards a different direction to avoid eye contact with you.

You raise your eyebrow at this and say, "You bribing me now, Dixon?"

"Shut up." He walks away after setting the items down right next to you.

"Don’t worry. Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable by thinking you might actually care.” You call out to him, and he stops before resuming walking to wherever he's headed.

In the morning, Carol approaches you with a bowl of food and suddenly gestures for you to follow her. She guides you outside of the prison, where you head over to the stairs by the entrance of Cell Block C. She signals for you to sit down, hands you the food, and suddenly starts talking.

"He likes you, you know?" She smiles at you giddily, and you almost choke on your food.

"What?" You didn't expect this kind of confrontation, thinking you were smooth and unobvious with your feelings.

"Daryl, he likes you. In case you didn't notice."

You didn't say anything, letting her continue, "I saw you looking so glum and down lately, keeping your distance from the rest of us, and I just knew something was wrong. Did he say anything stupid or offensive?"

You swallowed hard and tried to gather your thoughts.

"He just tells me I shouldn't flatter myself, or that I read into things that aren't there. I thought he'd take it as a joke, but that shit hurt, Carol." You tried to laugh it off, but Carol just looked you directly in the eye, not laughing, with one brow raised.

"Yeah, well, he's stupid like that. He does like you. I spent some time of my life trying to make Daryl Dixon understand basic human emotions. Yours or his, take a pick." Carol smiles smugly.

"Although you need to stop letting him pretend he doesn’t know because you’re scared you’ll spook him. Daryl Dixon and soft just don't blend well together, you know?" She jokes.

"It's not like-" you stop and change your mind. "Yeah, it's a little… like that."

Carol softens. “He’s not going anywhere,” she says. “Not from you. But you can’t live in this almost-thing forever. You’ll break your own heart, waiting for him to say what you both already know.”

You try your best to sleep that night, but after losing that hopeless battle, you decide to take a walk around. To your surprise, Daryl and Carol also lost the same battle and are now outside talking about something serious. Carol was standing over Daryl, who kept his head down during the entire interaction. You step closer to try to listen in.

You didn't want to, but God knows this may be the only time you'll hear anything other than "Shut up," or a few other words from Daryl Dixon.

“You care about her,” Carol scolds. “More than you want to. And it scares you.”

“Don’t wanna get her hurt,” he mutters, almost inaudible.

“She’s already hurt,” her voice hardens. “Because you keep pretending she means less to you than she does. That doesn’t protect her, Daryl. It just makes her feel crazy.”

She sighs before leaving him, but not before turning back to say, "You just have to stop running every time your heart shows.”

On your next run with Daryl, he was surprised to see you fully packed with everything you needed. He noticed how wary you are this time, fully aware of your environment, as if you were alone. He didn't say anything but still made sure to look out for you.

Your focus and strengths ebb on your way back to the prison. You trip over something on the road and almost fall, but Daryl was there just in time to hold your arm and steady you back on your feet.

You shook his hand away and muttered a small, "Thanks."

To which he simply shrugs and says, "Always. Ain’t lettin’ nothin’ happen to you.”

He walks past you, leaving you trying to hide the blushing crimson slowly blooming on your face.

Everything blurs during the Governor's final attack on the prison. You wanted to give up after seeing what happened to Hershel, but after seeing everyone else fight back, it gave you a newfound courage to do the same thing. You tried to find Daryl throughout the dust and debris, and when you did, you found him with Beth, thinking at least he's not alone. You fight your way to him, but you know it's no use. But you know he's alive, and that was enough for now.

You were able to make it out on your own, and you did your best to survive, not knowing if Daryl and you would ever cross paths again.

"I need to start worrying about my own safety before him." You start to think to yourself amidst the tiredness and hunger.

You fell asleep in an abandoned barn, but not before ensuring everything was locked and secured. When morning came, you were surprised to see a note and a few items in front of the door.

"From a friend."

You were skeptical at first, but when he finally decided to approach you, you knew you just had to try.

And after arriving at Alexandria, you proved your worth by going on expeditions, looking for survivors with Aaron.

On the day you saw Rick and the others, you did your best to convince Aaron, although he didn't need much, that they were good people. You were worried when you didn't see Daryl with them, and that made your heart clench.

You tried to rush back home to let Aaron and Eric handle things out on their own. You couldn't manage your emotions at this time, and you were worried you would explode in front of the sweetest people ever. You hesitated at first, but ended up admitting how much you envy them and their relationship. How open they are to being together, how they didn't have to hide anything or make things even more complicated.

“So,” Aaron says one night, leaning back in his chair. “Tell me more about your prison people. You make them sound like superheroes.”

You stab a piece of carrot with your fork, smiling faintly.

“Hardly superheroes,” you say. “Just… stubborn. Lucky, sometimes. Unlucky, too.”

“Names?” Eric prompts, curious. “You always say ‘we’ and ‘they.’ I want faces.”

You rattle them off like a litany:

“Rick. Lori. Carl. Hershel. Maggie. Glenn. Carol.” Your voice softens slightly. “Daryl.”

Aaron tips his head. “That’s the one you always slow down on.”

You look up sharply.

“I do not.”

Eric smiles into his cup.

“You do,” Aaron says mildly. “Every time. Like you’re afraid if you say it too fast, it’ll disappear.”

You try to make it a joke.

“Maybe I just like the sound of it,” you say. “Daryl Dixon. Has a ring to it.”

“Mhmm,” Aaron hums. “And who was Daryl Dixon to you?”

You hate how your throat tightens.

“He was…” You pick at your food. “He looked out for me. For all of us. Best tracker I’ve ever seen. Crossbow. Leather vest. Bad haircut.”

They chuckle, but you don’t.

“He sounds important,” Eric says gently.

You shrug, trying to keep it casual.

“We were good together on runs,” you say. “He watched my back. I watched his. That’s all.”

Aaron studies you.

“Is that all?”

You feel the edges fray.

You could lie. You have been, by omission, for months.

Instead, you say, very quietly, “I don’t know.”

It was still raining when you made it back. You didn't want to think of anything else, so you made sure to lock yourself in the comfort of your Alexandrian home. Aaron knew better than to disturb you, seeing as how you left in such a hurry, looking like you were about to puke despite encouraging him how great these people were. He caught a few names, Rick, Maggie, Glenn, but the one that stood out to him the most was "Daryl". He saw how you smiled when you were reminiscing about your time with them before finding Alexandria. And he instantly knew that this individual was different. He knows he makes the same face when he's talking about Eric, and he connected the pieces together.

You sat down on the couch, muttering, “Stupid,” photo in hand, listening.

“You better be alive,” you whisper to the picture. “After everything.” The only one you had been given to you by Glenn before you got separated from the rest of the group. You slide the photo back into the drawer and close it gently. You pull a blanket around your shoulders and curl up on the couch, facing the door. You tell yourself it’s because you like to be near the exit. You don’t admit that it’s because some stubborn part of you still believes one day there’ll be a knock, and it won’t be Aaron, or Eric, or anyone else.

"If he’s alive, if the world is kind for once, let him find me here."

Aaron is walking with the rest of the group; they're already at the gates of Alexandria, and he can't help but feel excited (despite what Rick did) to introduce them to the rest of the townspeople.

“There’s someone you know here,” Aaron casually says. “She helped us bring people in. Said she was with a prison group once. Y/N.”

Rick’s head snaps up. “Y/N? She’s here?” Daryl goes still behind Rick. Brain stopping to process the message it just received.

“She's in that brown house,” Aaron says. “She came back shaken today, so she went home to rest. You can see her tomorrow, after-”

“Now,” Daryl cuts in, voice rough.

Aaron blinks. “It’s late. She might be asleep.”

“You said she’s here.” Daryl’s eyes are sharp. “Take me to her.” And with that, Aaron understands the dynamic between the two of you.

Rain swallows the world outside your door.

At first, you think the low thud you hear is just another gust rattling the frame, but then it comes again, three solid knocks, spaced like whoever’s out there is trying not to wake the whole street.

You blink awake on the couch, blanket sliding off your shoulders. Your neck protests; you must have fallen asleep sitting up, waiting for nothing and no one.

The candle on the table is a stub now, wax cooled in uneven waves. The house is dim, lit more by flashes of lightning than anything else.

Another knock. “Aaron?” you call, voice rough.

“No,” comes the muffled answer. Deeper. Rougher. Familiar in a way that slams into your chest.

You’re already moving.

Your hands fumble at the lock for a second, slick with sudden sweat, not rain, then the door swings open.

He fills the frame. Daryl stands on your porch, soaked to the bone. Hair plastered to his forehead, jacket heavy and dripping, boots leaving small dark puddles on the mat. Crossbow slung over one shoulder, fingers clenched tight around the strap like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Aaron hovers a step behind him under the overhang, eyes flicking between you two, reading the moment in an instant.

“I’ll, uh… give you guys some space,” Aaron says softly, looking at you directly this time. “I’ll be at my place if you need anything.”

His gaze sweeps over you, fast, almost frantic, face, neck, shoulders, checking for injuries you don’t have.

Then it lands back on your eyes and doesn’t move.

“You’re…” His voice comes out hoarse. He swallows. “You’re here.”

It’s such a simple thing to say. It shouldn’t knock the breath out of you.

But it does. You laugh, a wet, shaky sound that breaks halfway through.

“You’re here,” you echo, and suddenly your vision blurs.

The tears spill over before you can stop them. All the nights in the guard tower, all the runs where you watched his back, all the days after the prison where you wondered if he was dead in a ditch or tearing himself apart somewhere. He’s standing on your porch.

Alive.

He drops the crossbow as it burns him. It clatters against the wooden boards, forgotten, as he closes the distance in two strides.

You reach for him, hands finding his face, palms framing his cheeks, thumbs brushing the stubble and the rain and the years away.

“You’re here,” you say again, smiling through the tears now. “You’re actually here.”

His façade cracks.

His hands come up, one catching the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, the other wrapping around your waist and hauling you against him so hard you gasp. He tucks his face into your shoulder, into your neck, into the space that’s always felt like it was waiting for him. You clutch at his jacket, feeling the cold fabric, the solid heat underneath. For a moment, the world is just the drum of rain on the roof and the sound of your breathing.

“’m sorry,” he mutters into your hair, the words muffled and raw. “’m sorry. ’m sorry.”

He says it like a prayer. Like a confession. Like if he stacks enough apologies between you, they might make up for all the time lost.

“Why are you even apologizing?” you manage, voice thick, pulling back just enough to see his face. “You’re here. We’re both here.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, eyes locked on yours now. “I’m so sorry for bein’ scared. Sorry for bein’ such a coward.” And now you can’t tell where the rain ends, and the tears begin.

“I never wanted to lose you,” he says, words tumbling out faster now, like a dam finally broken. “At the prison. After. I fought my damn hardest to see you again. Every damn day, I-"

“Daryl,” you start, but he shakes his head, jaw tight.

“Lemme say it,” he rasps. “Please. Just… let me.”

“I love you,” he blurts. “I love you so much it hurts,” he says, the words rough and clumsy and perfect. “Hurts when you were right beside me, and I couldn’t hold your hand. Hurts when I saw you laugh with other people and couldn’t say nothin’ ’cause I was too chickenshit.”

You wanted to let him pour his heart out, and you did. “It hurt like hell,” he continues, voice breaking, “when that prison went up and I didn’t know where you were. If you were buried under concrete or out there alone. I kept hearin’ your voice in my head and didn’t know if I was talkin’ to a ghost.”

His fingers tighten at the back of your head.

“And then I get here,” he says, “and some guy tells me you’re alive. That you’ve been helpin’ people. That you’re in some house with walls and a roof and you didn’t have to go through…” He trails off, jaw clenched.

“I love you,” he says again, steadier now. “I love you, and I’m sorry it took me this long to say it. I’m sorry you had to hear it like this and not… when we had somethin’ solid under our feet.”

He was waiting for you to push him away. He was waiting for the rejection.

Instead, you laugh. A wet, shaky sound, full of too many things to name.

“You idiot,” you say, voice wobbling. “You absolute idiot.”

And with that, he frowns, "Do you have any idea,” you ask softly, “how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that?”

“I thought I’d imagined it,” you go on. “All of it. The hovering. The peaches. The way you always knew where I was on a run. I thought I was crazy for reading into every little thing when you kept telling me not to.”

“Carol told me,” you add, a small, watery smile tugging at your lips. “Back at the prison. She said you liked me. That you were scared. I heard her yelling at you one night, telling you to stop running every time your heart shows.”

Color rises in his cheeks even now.

“Should’ve known you’d be listenin’,” he mutters.

“Of course I was listening,” you say. “It was the only way I was ever gonna hear you say anything real.”

He huffs out a sound that’s almost a laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess that tracks.”

“And I love you too,” you say. “I’ve loved you since the prison,” you admit. “Since before that, probably. Since you started hovering, I realized I felt safer with you behind me than any wall in this world. Since I saw you risk your life for people who didn’t always deserve it.”

“It hurt,” you confess. “When you brushed me off. When you pretended I was just another body in the group. But it hurt worse to think I’d never get to tell you any of this. To think you’d die not knowing.”

"You're such a dumbass, Dixon." You laugh but still hold his face with utmost affection. You kissed his face over and over again before kissing the side of his lips. He holds your face, hand on your cheek, letting you nuzzle your face into his palm. Looking at you with a smile so soft, delicate, and reverent. Worshipping you for loving someone like him. Worshipping you for looking so beautiful despite the apocalypse, despite crying your heart out.

“Okay,” he says, smiling. “Okay. I get it."

"I love you." He says, before you're finally pulling him inside your home.

Daryl ponders for a few seconds, thinking about you, who's currently in the shower. He pictures you in a place like this, with actual rooms, a bed that doesn’t smell like mold, and maybe, just maybe, small, energetic kids yelling down the hall.

He looks down quickly while trying to put the image in the back of his mind. And to be honest, he likes this image way too much, and before he can even think about shaking it off, he reminds himself by replying, "You think shit's settled?"

He doesn’t wait for Abraham’s answer. He walks off, jaw tight, like he’s already mad at himself for even entertaining the idea.

You're in the shower mumbling to yourself after being sent off by a guy in a suit. But you can't help but think how nice it was to be in a place like this.

Clean hot water that doesn't sputter or spit out brown water, family photos and paintings lining the halls of the estate, and clean towels and mirrors that show your reflection and not a stranger's.

This made you compare Alexandria to your life in the past, how you used to live, and get by in the modern world. But then, your mind drifts towards Daryl, how he hates being indoors too long, and how he always picks a spot near a door or window, like he’s never fully inside anywhere.

As you step outside and look at a picture framed in gold, you begin to doubt things, “Feels like the world’s playing house.”

“Bet they thought they were settled, too.”

All without knowing that Abraham just put the same word and thought in Daryl's head.

Later in the evening, you're sitting in your Alexandrian home, trying your best not to let your mind drift towards the impending threat that is Negan.

Daryl approaches, awkward in that specific “wants to talk, hates talking” way. And you feared that it's going to be about preparing for the worst, and making promises if, and when things go to shit.

Darly plops down beside you and immediately asks, “You ever… think about it?”

You glance at him before replying,  “About what? Fences? Chickens?”

Daryl gives a small smile, but you notice it immediately goes away, and he suddenly sits upright, tense.

“Settin’ down here. Stayin’ longer than a season.”

You study him now. He never starts conversations like this. Your gaze sharpens, and your eyes squint as if observing him, as if doing so can help you in understanding what's running through his mind right at this moment.

You give out a light huff, “Why’re you asking?”

“Just… answerin’ a question with a question.” He hints at Abraham's question earlier today.

“Daryl.” You try to prod at him to get more context. A reason as to why this is being brought up right now.

He shifts, looks irritated, but not at you, but more like himself for even thinking about it. You didn't want to make him uneasy so you respond.

“Sometimes. Yeah. I think about not sleeping with one eye open. About not counting knives before bed. About you not waking up every time a pipe groans. Doesn’t have to be forever. Just… long enough to breathe.”

"And you think this place will make that possible?"

He asks in a tone that doesn't sound friendly anymore, as if he's mocking you for having such a ridiculous idea, something that doesn't align with his.

“I think places like this prove it’s still possible.”

And with that, he stands, “Right. Possible till some asshole like the ones on the road shows up again.”

You look up at him in disbelief.

“That’s why we fight them.”

“Yeah. And every time, more folks end up dead ‘cause somebody thought they were safe.”

“So what, we just never stop? We just keep moving, never let ourselves want anything?” Your voice starts to rise in volume, countering his scoffing at the thought of nurturing Alexandria to what Deanna wanted, what she envisioned it to be.

“Wantin’ shit’s how you get sloppy.”

“You already want things.” And that made him stiffen.

“You want Rick and the kids safe. You want Carol to catch a break. You want me in one piece. That’s not sloppy. That’s human.”

He growls, “Don’t twist my words.” His fists shape into a circle by his sides.

“Then stop pretending you don’t care about any of this.” You try to look at him, directly at his eyes, but he's already looking away, ready to walk away from the scene he created.

"Daryl. Your caring doesn’t create the threat. It just means it’ll hurt if—when—we lose anything.”

He flinches at “when.”

“You asked if I think about settling down. I do. Not because I believe it’s guaranteed. Because I need something to hold onto that isn’t just blood and gravel. I’m not asking you to promise we make it to old age. I’m asking if, in that stubborn, guarded head of yours, you ever put me next to you in a future. Any future.”

A long silence stretches between the two of you, and you already know that Daryl is trying to look for the right words to say, wary about making you mad.

“You’re with me now.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I got. You want kids runnin’ around in this? You wanna bring ‘em into this?” He finally decides to look at you.

You stopped and thought about the entire relationship you have had before letting out a long sigh, “Okay.”

“Thanks for the honesty.” You say as you stood up, trying to carry the heavy weight of your feet to get to your bedroom upstairs. A place you know you'll be alone in for the next couple of hours.

“Don’t do that. Make it sound like I said somethin’ wrong.”

You try to assure him, but you know your thoughts are unclear, “You didn’t. You just… answered a different question.”

You're already at the foot of the staircase, but you wanted him to rethink things.

“You don’t have to give me a promise. I know better than that by now. But if Abraham looks at you and sees a man who might want more than just fighting and sleeping and going out again… and you look at me and can’t even say you think about it…”

He froze, his back to you, his neck turning a dusty shade of red. "Found 'em. Thought you could use 'em," he grunted, his voice a low, defensive rasp.

"Come here," you said, stepping out into the dim light of the corridor. "Do better than that. Talk to me."

Daryl turned, but his gaze was fixed firmly on a crack in the floorboards. He shifted his weight, his thumbs hooked into the strap of his crossbow, looking everywhere but at your face. It was a thing he’d been doing since the two of you had finally admitted there was something more than "usefulness" between you. Which wasn't even too long ago.

"It’s not like I’m gonna bite you," you said, smiling softly as you closed the distance.

'Unless you want me to, that is.' A few words that could stun the man, hence you decided against it.

"Look at me."

When you reached up, he didn't back down despite his obstinate huff. You just used your palms as a tether, cupping the rough, unshaven line of his jaw instead of pushing him. As you waited for him to make the decision on his own, you let him move his head independently.

He lowered his head slowly, almost painfully.

His piercing blue eyes were still sharp but swimming with a sensitivity that was typically hidden beneath layers of his hair until they finally met yours. He seemed to flinch as if the light were too strong when you gazed up at him and met that intensity with a supportive grin.

"You have such pretty eyes, Dar," you mumbled softly, your thumbs tracing the cheekbones he usually hid behind a curtain of hair.

The effect was instantaneous. Daryl’s breath hitched, and a fierce, hot blush began to crawl up his neck, flooding his ears and staining his cheeks a deep, embarrassed crimson. He let out a choked, flustered sound and quickly brought his hand up, covering the lower half of his face to try and stop the shy, lopsided curve of his mouth that he couldn't quite suppress.

"Shut up," he whispered into his palm, though there was no bite in it. "Ain't… ain't nothin' special."

"They're the most special thing in this whole damn place," you countered, looking at them with an intensity that can rival the Sun.