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𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➢ Daryl liked you—you knew that—but all you’re getting is mixed signals, and its’ driving you crazy.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ➢ none! Daryl is bad at expressing his feelings, awkward kissing, touch starved Daryl, hurt/comfort

The camp had settled into that quiet kind of night—the one where everything felt too still, like even the wind was holding its breath.

A small fire crackled low, barely alive, more embers than flame. most people had already turned in. a few murmured voices drifted from the far end, but out here, it was just you… and him.

Daryl Dixon sat on an overturned crate, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers. the glow lit up his face every few seconds—just enough for you to catch it.

And every time you did, he wasn’t looking at you.

You noticed that.

You always noticed that.

It had been like this all day. small things. subtle enough that no one else would clock it—but you weren’t stupid.

Short answers. one-word replies. walking off mid-conversation. like the second you got too close, he needed space.

But last night?

Last night he’d been different.

Closer. softer, in that quiet, awkward way he had. like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling, but didn’t want to let it go either.

And now—this?

It made your jaw tighten.

You pushed off the wooden post you’d been leaning on, boots crunching softly against gravel as you crossed the space between you.

He noticed. of course he did.

His shoulders tensed slightly, just for a second—but he still didn’t look up.

That was it.

“That’s getting real old, y’know.”

Your voice cut through the quiet, sharper than you meant it to be.

Daryl took a drag from his cigarette, slow, like he was buying time. smoke curled from his lips as he finally glanced your way—quick, fleeting—before looking off again.

“Ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

You let out a short, humorless breath.

“Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”

No response.

Of course.

You stepped closer, close enough now that the heat from the dying fire brushed your side, close enough that he couldn’t pretend you weren’t there anymore.

“Whole day, Daryl. You’ve been—what? Avoiding me?”

“Nah.”

“Then what is it?”

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. like you didn’t matter.

Something in your chest twisted at that.

“Don’t do that,” you snapped, quieter now—but worse. “Don’t act like nothin’s changed.”

That got him.

His jaw tightened, fingers flexing slightly around the cigarette before he flicked ash into the dirt.

“Nothin’ changed.”

You stared at him for a second, searching his face, waiting for something—anything real.

But he wouldn’t give it.

And that? that pissed you off more than anything.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

His head turned then, finally meeting your eyes—and it hit harder than it should’ve.

Because there it was.

That look.

The same one from last night. the one that lingered too long. the one that said things he wouldn’t.

Then, just as fast, it shut down again.

“Go get some sleep,” he muttered, looking away like that solved anything. “Ain’t worth gettin’ worked up over.”

Your laugh was quiet, disbelieving.

“Not worth—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “You don’t get to do that.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Just sat there, like if he stayed still enough, this would all pass.

It didn’t.

You stepped even closer now, right into his space.

“I’m not crazy,” you said, voice lower. controlled—but barely. “Last night wasn’t nothin’. So don’t sit here and pretend like it was.”

Silence stretched between you.

Heavy. thick.

Daryl’s grip tightened slightly on his knee, knuckles going pale for a second.

For a moment, you thought he was just going to shut you out again.

But then—

“…ain’t sayin’ it was nothin’.”

It was quiet. rough. almost reluctant.

Your breath caught a little at that, even if you didn’t want it to.

“Then what is it?” you pressed.

He didn’t answer right away.

His eyes flicked up to yours again, lingering this time—longer than before. there was something there. frustration. confusion. something softer buried underneath it all.

Like he didn’t know how to say it.

Like he didn’t even know what it was.

His gaze dropped again, shoulders tensing.

“Don’t—” he started, then stopped, jaw clenching. “Don’t make it into somethin’ it ain’t.”

You frowned slightly.

“And what is it, then?”

That did it.

He stood up abruptly, the sudden movement closing the space between you in a different way now—closer, more charged. the cigarette dropped, forgotten, crushed under his boot.

“Don’t,” he said again, firmer this time—but not angry. not really.

More like… overwhelmed.

You didn’t back up.

Neither did he.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Just stood there, too close, tension thick enough to choke on.

And it hit you then—

He wasn’t pulling away because he didn’t feel anything.

He was pulling away because he did.

Your voice softened, just a little.

“…you’re real bad at this, y’know.”

A faint huff of breath left him—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

Silence again.

But different this time.

Less sharp. Still tense—but warmer, underneath it.

Unresolved.

Not over.

Not even close

For a second, neither of you move.

The air between you feels different now—still tight, still complicated, but no longer snapping at the edges. Just… heavy. Waiting.

Daryl shifts first.

Not away—just enough to break the stare, his hand dragging briefly over the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake something loose. His boot grinds what’s left of the cigarette deeper into the dirt.

“…shit,” he mutters under his breath.

You almost smile at that. Almost.

“Yeah,” you murmur, quieter now.

Silence settles again—but it’s not as sharp as before. Not cutting. Just stretched thin.

Daryl pats his vest, then his pocket, frowning slightly.

“Got another?” you ask, nodding toward where his last cigarette used to be.

He huffs, already pulling a crumpled pack free.

“Yeah.”

He taps one out, bringing it up to his lips—but when he reaches for his lighter, his movements stall.

A beat.

Another.

You raise a brow.

“…don’t tell me.”

Daryl clicks it once.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

He exhales through his nose, irritation flickering across his face as he shakes it slightly.

“Great.”

That does earn a small smile from you.

“Here.”

You step in—closer again, like you hadn’t just argued, like the space between you had always been this small.

Your hand brushes his as you pull your lighter out, the contact brief but enough to make something flicker in his expression.

He stills.

Just for a second.

You flick the flame to life, holding it up between you.

“C’mon.”

Daryl hesitates.

Not because of the cigarette.

Because of you.

Because now he actually has to look at you—and this close, there’s no pretending he doesn’t feel it.

But he leans in anyway.

Slow.

Careful.

The tip of the cigarette catches, ember glowing as he inhales—but neither of you pull away right after.

The flame is still there, held between you.

Too close.

Way too close.

You can feel his breath—warm, uneven, ghosting against your fingers. His eyes flick up, meeting yours through the dim light, and it’s—

It’s the same look.

That same one.

Only worse now.

Stronger.

Like he’s thinking about it.

Your grip on the lighter tightens just slightly.

“…gonna burn yourself,” he mutters, voice lower than before.

But he doesn’t move back.

Neither do you.

“Then move,” you reply, just as quiet.

He doesn’t.

The flame flickers between you, small and unsteady—like it’s caught in the same tension.

Then you snap it shut.

Darkness rushes back in, leaving just the faint glow of his cigarette—and the two of you, still too close.

Daryl exhales slowly, smoke curling between you, but his eyes don’t leave your face this time.

Your heart kicks a little harder than you’d like.

“You keep doin’ that,” you say softly.

His brow furrows. “Doin’ what?”

“This,” you gesture vaguely between you. “Actin’ like you don’t want this—and then lookin’ at me like that.”

That hits.

You can see it.

His jaw tightens, shoulders going rigid again—but he doesn’t step away.

“Don’t know what you want me t’say.”

“Try the truth.”

A beat.

Another.

The fire crackles faintly behind you, but it feels miles away now.

Daryl looks at you—really looks this time. Like he’s weighing something. Fighting it.

Then, quieter—

“…ain’t good at this.”

You huff softly. “Yeah, I got that part.”

Something almost like a smile ghosts across his face—but it fades just as quickly.

“Don’t—” he starts, then stops, eyes dropping briefly before lifting again. “Don’t wanna screw it up.”

Your expression softens, just a little.

“You already are.”

That earns you a small, breathy exhale from him—closer to a real laugh this time.

“Yeah,” he admits.

And there it is again.

That shift.

That moment where neither of you are fighting it as hard.

You don’t even realize you’ve leaned in until you’re already there—until the space between you is barely anything at all.

Daryl notices.

Of course he does.

His breath hitches—subtle, but there.

He doesn’t move away.

“…you sure?” he asks, rough, like the words are dragged out of him.

You nod, just slightly.

“Are you?”

That’s all it takes.

He hesitates—just for a second longer, like he’s giving himself one last chance to back out.

Then he doesn’t.

His hand comes up, slow and unsure at first, brushing against your arm before settling more firmly—like he’s grounding himself.

And then—

He leans in.

The kiss is… not smooth.

Not practiced.

A little off at first, like he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing—but it’s real. Careful, almost hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean into it, closing that last bit of space, and something in him shifts.

The hesitation cracks.

Just a little.

His grip tightens, the kiss deepening—not rushed, not overwhelming, but more certain now. Like he’s finally letting himself feel it instead of holding back.

It’s quiet.

Slow.

A little messy.

But it’s him.

And when he finally pulls back, it’s not far.

Foreheads almost brushing, breath uneven, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure out what just happened—and what it means.

“…shit,” he murmurs again.

This time, you do smile.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

And neither of you step away