junkpuppet225

Hospitality.

You move through The Bear like you’ve always belonged here.

He hates how pretty you are.

Hates that he knows you don’t wear panties when you wear skirts and how good your ass looks today.

He hates that the first time he tasted you—on his knees like a fucking simp, you spread open on one of the four-tops after close, smooth legs draped over his shoulders—pussy so good he came in his pants like a desperate fucking teenager. Groaning into your cunt while you tugged at his hair and came all over his face.

He hates how much he thinks about you.

Even when you’re not moaning his name against his ear while you ride him in the back seat of his shitty Honda.

He hates when these rich pricks slip you their number when you think he’s not looking—how you smile like you’ve got no fucking idea how crazy it makes him.

“What’s wrong, Jerimovich? Jealous?” You purr in passing and it makes his palms itch.

He hates that you’re always the last to leave and tonight’s no different, except tonight you don’t make it to his car. As soon as he’s done with his smoke Richie turns and kisses you, sliding his hand into the back of your hair to hold you right where he needs you. He kisses you until his lungs burn, digging two fingers into the front pocket of your skirt to toss that assholes number to the ground.

He hates liter, but he hates the way you laugh more. Soft and breathy, the sound travels straight to his dick and the next thing you know your skirt is around your waist—heels still on, digging into his lower back as he pins you against the alley wall and fucks you like his life depends on it.

He thrust up into you hard, burying himself in one deep stroke—hating the soft little sounds you make. They turn his blood into pure fire as he grips you harder, groaning at how soaked you are, how you clench around him like you’ve been waiting for this all night.

“Fuck…”

You run your fingers through his hair and tug, eyes heavy, searching his as he fucks into you deeper. Your mouth falls open with a quiet, broken gasp.

“You like that?” Richie groans, grinding up into you. “You like me losing my shit over you?”

All you can do is nod, nails scraping his scalp as he presses you harder against the brick wall, fucking you like he’s drowning and you’re the last breath he’ll ever take.

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart.” Richie murmurs, kissing your jaw, groaning your name against the hollow of your throat. You force his face back to yours and press your lips to his roughly.

He hates when you kiss him to shut him up.

Your tongue brushes against his, fingers curling in his hair as another soft moan rumbles between you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He mumbles against your mouth, hips rolling deeper as your body tightens around him, a broken little sound escaping your throat.

He hates when you ignore him, kissing him harder—like you can drown out his words with the press of your lips.

Richie jerks away from you, pinning you with his blue eyes.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

He hates the way his voice cracks as the words pour out of him, but he needs you to say it. He hates that he wants you to want him as much as he wants you.

You don’t answer him.

Instead your head falls back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut as you come hard—shaking, pulsing around his cock, a sharp cry tearing from your throat. The feeling rips through him like lightning as he thrusts into you one last time, burying himself deep as he comes with a low, broken groan, spilling inside you in long, warm pulses.

His fingers flex on your hips, holding you like he needs to feel every tremble of your body against his. He stays there, buried deep, forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath.

He hates the way your pussy feels like it was fucking made for him.

For a few long seconds the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city.

Then you push at his chest.

Hard.

Richie pulls out of you slowly, setting you down on shaky legs while you yank your skirt back into place, face flushed, eyes flashing with anger.

“I’m not yours, Richie,” You snap, voice low but sharp. “This—” You gestures between you, “—isn’t supposed to mean anything.”

Anger flares in the center of his chest.

“Well what if it does?” He fires back. “What if it means something to me?”

You laugh bitterly, unable to look at him.

“Maybe I’m tired of acting like you’re just a quick fuck in the alley when you’re all I fucking think about.”

Another laugh.

“Then maybe we should stop this,“ You snap. “Because that’s not what I signed up for.”

He watches you turn on your heels and disappear down the alley toward The L, the sharp clicks fading into the night like you can’t get away from him fast enough.

“Fuck.”

Everyone was falling back into the rhythm of the old world.

Everyone except the grumpy archer.

Daryl moved along the edges like a shadow that didn’t belong—sleeping on the porch like a stray dog, slipping out of the gates for long hours, coming back with scrapes and supplies he’d found alone the way.

He never stayed long enough to settle.

The large extravagant houses and white picket fences made his skin crawl. The polite smiles from strangers, the endless talk about shit that didn’t matter anymore—it felt like teeth waiting to bite. This place was too perfect. The people too naïve. Like a dream right before it turned into a nightmare.

The moment you stepped through the gates you threw yourself into helping—sorting supplies at the pantry, pulling weeds in the garden. Anything to prove you belonged here, to earn the safety you’d been handed, but your eyes still found his across the well kept lawns, shoulders tight, crossbow never far from reach.

The distance between you had grown again. Not cruel like before—not even intentionally—just the quiet kind of space that came from life pulling people in different directions. You still stopped to check on him when he huffed past, still brought him blankets when he curled up in the dark corner of the porch late at night.

You still cared about him.

You still…, loved him.

By the end of the first week you were lost in the mundane task of carrying a basket of laundry back toward the house, unable to wrap your head around literally fighting for your life just days ago.

You spotted Daryl barreling toward the front gates, back rigid—looking like he could barely outrun whatever was chasing him.

“Open ‘em up!” He barked to the guards, lifting his arm in the air to hurry them along. Metal groaned as he stormed past the walls, ducking into the thick brush without looking back. You set the basket down on the porch and followed him out, slipping past the guards with a soft smile.

Daryl hadn’t gone far.

Just beyond the tree line, in a small clearing where the late afternoon sun filtered through the leaves in soft gold. He sat with his back against a wide oak, knees drawn up, forearms resting on them as he stared out into the quiet nothing.

You approached him slowly, making sure he wasn’t going to chase you away then lowered yourself to the ground beside him, close enough that your shoulders touched.

Daryl glanced over, eyes falling to the dirt already clinging to your jeans. “You’re gonna get dirty out here.” He muttered, voice quiet but a little rough around the edges. You smiled sweetly, leaning your shoulder more firmly against his. “I’ve been dirty before.”

A small huff escaped him—almost a laugh, almost nothing. For a long moment neither of you spoke. Just the wind moving through the leaves overhead, soft and steady.

“You belong in there,” He finally murmured. His gaze staying on the trees ahead. “Houses. People. All the normal shit from before.”

You stayed quiet for a beat, savoring his warmth through his sleeve. Shoulder to shoulder. No pressure. Just presence.

“So do you, Daryl.” You answered. The words came easy, calm and honest—but it only made him laugh bitterly.

“Never had nothin’ normal before this. Never been a part of somethin’ good.”

You frowned at the thought.

“…you’re a part of us. A part of me.”

The words settled heavy between you.

Daryl went still.

Not completely—his chest still rose and fell, his thumb still scraped absently over the fletching of a bolt—but something in him quieted. You felt the subtle shift of his breathing, the way his shoulder stayed pressed against yours like he needed the anchor.

Nobody had ever said something like that to him before. He spent most of his life feeling useful when he was needed and easy to leave behind when he wasn’t.

But you said it so simply.

Like it was fact.

Like there wasn’t a world where you existed without him in it.

His jaw tightened, molars grinding as he fought through the emotion coiling in his chest.

“Jus’ makes me feel closed up,” He muttered eventually, voice barely above the breeze. “Like I can’t breathe right in there.”

He stayed silent after that, but the tension in his frame eased a fraction. You sat together for a while longer—shoulders touching, breaths syncing.

“There’s nothing wrong with that—but it doesn’t mean you don’t belong there.”

He didn’t need reassurance, just someone to sit with him in the quiet.

Eventually you stood, brushing grass from your hands. “I should go put that laundry away before Carol finds it. Nobody wants to get on Mrs. Roger’s bad side.”

Daryl watched you, blue eyes steady but unreadable, coughing to hide his laugh.

You gave him a small, gentle smile.

“Stay out here as long as you need Daryl,” You murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just make sure you come home, okay?”

He didn’t answer.

Just watched you walk back toward Alexandria until the trees swallowed you up.

He sat there long after you disappeared, letting the woods settle back into silence around him. A bird called somewhere deeper in the trees. Wind stirred the branches overhead. The same sounds he’d spent most of his life listening to.

Usually it helped calm his nerves.

Today it didn’t.

Daryl scrubbed a hand over his face and stared at the patch of woods where you’d vanished.

Just make sure you come home, okay?

Home.

The word sat wrong in his chest.

For a long time, home had been nothing.

A broken house with holes in the walls.

A father who drank.

A brother who left.

Then it was the road.

The prison.

The woods.

Whatever shelter managed to keep the rain off his back for one more night. None of those places had ever felt like home.

Alexandria didn’t feel like home, but you did.

~

Daryl slipped away from Aaron’s early. The food, the warmth, the walls pressing in—it all felt too tight inside his house. He wandered the quiet streets with his hands shoved in his pockets, vest clinging like armor, boots heavy on the too-clean pavement.

The familiar desire to run crawled under his skin.

Then he saw you.

Standing on the porch of your borrowed home, trying to force yourself to go to Deanna’s welcome party instead of search for the archer that had just been dropped into your lap like Christmas morning.

You turned your head at the sound of his steps, the soft smile that lit your face hitting him square in the chest. The sight of you standing there like something he didn’t deserve but couldn’t stay away from—it undid him.

He closed the space in long, purposeful strides, climbing the porch steps two at a time, not stopping until he was right in front of you. “Daryl—“ He didn’t give you words, wasn’t never good with ‘em—just slid his hands into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he pulled you into a deep, desperate kiss.

It wasn’t gentle. It was months of want, of almosts, of fear and need crashing together. His mouth claimed yours, tongue stroking deep, slow and hungry all at once. You gasped into it, fingers fisting in his shirt as he backed you against the porch rail, body pressing flush to yours.

When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours, voice low and ragged. “You’re my home,” He murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “Ain’t this place. Ain’t these people. It’s you.”

Then he was kissing you again, deeper—hotter, hands sliding down your sides, gripping your hips to bring you closer. You whimpered softly, arching into him, and that was all it took.

One second you were completely lost in his kiss on the quiet front porch, the next he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his hips as he carried you inside the house and up the stairs to the bedroom you’d claimed.

The door clicked shut behind him as he laid you down on the bed like you were something precious, even with his hands shaking with how badly he needed you.

“If…,” He tried to clear the emotion from his voice—blue eyes meeting yours as you looked up at him like he was all you’ve ever wanted. “…if ya don’t want this ya better tell me now, cause I ain’t—“

“Daryl,” You whispered, reaching for him. “I want this.”

Clothes came off in a heated rush—his vest hitting the floor, your dress pooling beside the pillows, his shirt yanked over his head. He hovered over you, eyes dark and burning as he took in every inch of bare skin.

“Been wantin’ this… wantin’ you,” He rasped, mouth trailing hot kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, then lower. “…for a long damn time.”

His calloused hands mapped your body—cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing the sensitive peaks until you moaned his name. He groaned at the sound, mouth following where his hands had been, sucking and biting until you were writhing beneath him.

You tugged at his belt desperately as he helped you shove his jeans down, kicking them away. Skin to skin at last, he settled between your thighs, his hard length pressing against your heat, kissing you again—slow and deep this time as he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch, the fullness, the raw emotion in his eyes as he held still inside you—it stole your breath.

You gasped his name, nails digging into his shoulders as he started moving, deep and desperate strokes that built fast and intense. Every thrust pulled broken moans from both of you, bodies moving together like you’d been made for each other. One rough hand gripped your thigh, hitching it higher around his waist so he could drive deeper—harder, grinding against that perfect spot inside you until your back arched off the bed.

“Oh god…”

Daryl’s whispered curses mixed with your name detonated something primal inside of you, burying your face against his neck as your pleasure coiled tighter until you shattered around him with a broken sob.

He followed moments later, hips stuttering as he came hard, groaning quiet against your temple, forehead pressing into your hair as pleasure shook through him. He stayed buried deep, collapsing half on top of you, breathing hard against your throat. Your fingers slid into his sweat-soaked hair, threading through the damp strands while you kissed him again—slow, trembling, like you were terrified he’d slip away the second the haze cleared.

Daryl pulled back just enough to see the tears shining in your eyes, panic flashing across his face.

“Did I hurt ya?” His voice was rough, worried, thumb already brushing at the corner of your eye.

You shook your head, pulling him back down into another kiss, softer this time but no less desperate. He pulled back again, whispering your name as you brought your foreheads together, bodies still joined, his weight a solid, grounding presence. “I’m just… scared you’ll disappear on me again.” You whispered with a shaky breath.

Daryl stayed quiet for a long moment, breathing warm against your lips. His hand came up to cup the side of your face, calloused thumb stroking against your cheek.

“Ain’t runnin’ no more,” He promised, voice low and steady. “Not from you. Not from this.”

You forced a smile, nodding as he kissed you once more, then settled beside you, pulling you tight against his chest. His fingers traced lazy circles along your spine as your breathing evened out together in the quiet room.

You laid your head against his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. For the first time in a long time, you both let the silence feel like peace instead of dread.

Daryl tightened his arm around you and pressed a kiss into your hair.

Then he closed his eyes.

Because beside you he was home—and he’d finally found somewhere soft to land.

The woods were quiet except for the occasional crunch of boots and the low murmur of men talking behind you. They were looking for someone who killed one of their friends, fair enough, but you didn’t get the feeling they were going to let bygones be bygones once Daryl found them.

You knelt beside him as he crouched down near a patch of disturbed earth, leaning in close so your words were his and his alone.

“They’re going to kill whoever this is once we find them.”

Daryl grunted, giving a short nod. “Yeah,” That much was obvious. It also wasn’t his problem. “Whenever we find ‘em, and the shit hits the fan—that’s when we make our break. You don’t stop for nothin’. I’ll cover ya.”

You stayed crouched there beside him, shoulder brushing his as you searched his face. He was so close you could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tight set of his mouth, the way his sharp blue eyes searched yours. For a long beat the rest of the woods seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you and the heat of his body cutting through the morning chill.

“I mean it,” He rasped, voice barely above a breath. His gaze held yours, intense and unwavering. “Anything comes at me… ya keep going. Head south.”

He pointed behind you, up the ridge as a slow grin pulled at your mouth.

“That’s east.”

Daryl grinned, letting his gaze fall back to the mud at your feet.

“Good girl.”

His words were barely there but they lit something up inside of you, forcing you to swallow hard, pulse kicking. The air between you stayed charged even with the distant voices of the Claimers carrying through the trees.

Daryl’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but he gave a short, sharp nod instead, jaw flexing as he pushed back to his feet. The moment broke, but the weight of it lingered around you.

You stood slowly, brushing dirt from your knees.

“I’m going fill the canteens at the stream,” You murmured, nodding toward the faint sound of water just a few feet through the trees. “Won’t be long.”

He grunted in acknowledgment, eyes scanning the woods instead of meeting yours again, but you caught the way his fingers tightened on his crossbow strap like he was fighting the urge to follow you.

You slipped away, heart still hammering. Knowing he wouldn’t be far behind.

Daryl glanced back to the tracks, three sets of prints. Maybe whoever Joe was tracking would have a fighting chance—he wasn’t sticking around to find out. He needed to find his own people, and get you the hell away from this group of assholes.

Joe wandered over then, lighting another cigarette, that lazy smirk already in place.

“You a cat person, Daryl?” He asked, voice low and conversational. Daryl didn’t bother answering him, studying the track marks carefully. “I am,” Joe continued. “Loved ’em since I was three years old. Vicious creatures.” He took a long drag, eyes flicking toward the trees where you’d disappeared. “Anyway, I’ll tell ya—and this is true—ain’t nothin’ sadder than an outdoor cat that thinks he’s an indoor cat.”

The words landed hard, just like Joe intended.

Daryl didn’t look at him, didn’t need to. Instead, his eyes found you as you stepped back into the small clearing, watched the way you moved with that quiet grace, the same soft patience you’d shown him since the beginning. You believed he was something more than he was.

Something settled.

Something good.

Something more than he’d ever be.

Just an outdoor cat pretending he belonged in a warm house with someone who deserved soft hands and steady promises. He’d only end up tearing everything apart when the wild finally called him back.

Daryl said nothing. Just gave a short nod and kept his jaw locked tight but inside, the doubt sank its teeth in deep. Every tender moment from the last two nights suddenly felt like a mistake. Like wishful thinking in a world like this.

You stepped closer, fingers brushing his wrist to hand him back his canteen—light, deliberate, hidden from the others—Daryl didn’t pull away. His pulse jumped under your touch like it was answering you—eyes lifting to search yours.

Joe chuckled softly behind you, already turning back to the tracks. “C’mon, Daryl. Daylight’s wasting’ and we got a rabbit to skin.”

Daryl’s eyes never left yours—intense and burning with everything he was feeling but couldn’t say out loud.

When it goes bad, you run.

You gave him the smallest nod, barely there, then that beautiful smile that steadied something deep in his chest. “Come on.” You murmured, falling back into step—two paces behind, slightly to his left—just where he needed you.

~

Night rolled in fast but quiet, the kind of quiet that made everything feel eerily calm. You’d been moving for hours, tension thick enough to choke on, when Daryl’s steps slowed. His shoulders went rigid as the faint glow of a small fire flickered through the trees ahead.

Three familiar figures sat around the pit, oblivious to the danger he’d brought right to their doorstep.

Rick. Carl. Michonne.

Daryl’s stomach dropped like a stone.

“Well, well. Looks like we found our man.” Joe’s grin widened beside him, slow and satisfied. Before Daryl could think, Joe and his boys were moving, weapons up, surrounding the clearing.

Rick’s head snapped toward the noise, eyes locking on Daryl for a split second—surprise flashing across his face, then something that looked a lot like understanding.

“Oh, dearie me,” Joe drawled, stepping forward with that theatrical swagger. “You screwed up, asshole. You hear me? You screwed up. Today is a day of reckoning, sir. Restitution. A balancing of the whole damn universe.”

He placed his pistol against the side of Rick’s head, causing Michonne’s eyes to go wide beside him as another Claimer stepped up to hold her in place.

“Shit, and I was thinking of turning in for the night on New Year’s Eve.” Joe laughed low, glancing around the clearing at his men. “Now who’s gonna count down the ball dropper with me, huh? Nine Mississippi. Eight Mississippi.”

Daryl’s heart slammed against his ribs. You were right behind him, breath catching as the scene unfolded.

“Joe! Hold up.” He growled, stepping forward quickly.

“You’re stopping me on eight, Daryl.”

“Just hold up.”

One of the nameless assholes you’d been traveling with narrowed his beady eyes.

“This is the guy that killed Lou, so we got nothing to talk about.”

Joe glared at him. “The thing about nowadays is we got nothing but time.” He gestured to Daryl with his gun. “Say your piece, Daryl.”

Daryl’s voice stayed low, steady, but you could hear the edge in it. The desperation to save the people he cared about. It made your blood turn to ice in your veins because you knew, without him having to say it, what came next.

“These people… you’re gonna let ‘em go. These are good people.” Daryl assured, looking between the three of them as Joe’s laugh turned ugly.

“Now, I think Lou would disagree with you on that. I’ll of course have to speak for him and all ‘cause your friend here strangled him in a bathroom.”

Daryl took another step closer.

“You want blood, I get it.” He dropped his bow to the ground, shoulders squared and palms up, ready to accept his fate. “Take it from me, man. Come on.”

His words hit you like a bullet to the chest.

“No!” Not after the last two days, not after he’d finally looked at you like you were the only soft thing left in this world. Your pleas ripped from your chest, raw and begging as they fell on deaf ears. Joe’s grin widened, turning his attention back to Rick.

“This man killed our friend. You say he’s good people? See, now that right there is a lie.“

Daryl didn’t back down. He offered himself up like it was nothing. Like his life was something he could throw away without a second thought. Like leaving you behind was as easy as breathing, just like it always had been.

You could only watch with tears in your eyes as Joe’s group circled closer.

“Come on.” Daryl growled.

“Teach him, fellas! Teach him all the way!”

You lunged forward to help him but one of the Claimers yanked you back with a bruising grip to your arm. Panic clawed up your throat as fists started flying—the man behind you forcing you to watch Daryl take hit after hit, his body curling under the beating but never backing down.

Then chaos exploded.

Rick headbutted Joe hard, knocking him back a step as the gun fired and fell to the dirt. You watched as he turn on Joe and sank his teeth into the man’s throat like it was nothing, ripping it out in a spray of blood.

Michonne moved like lightning, sword flashing as she sliced into another man’s chest, giving you the opening to wrench free of your own captor and grab Joe’s fallen gun, firing two quick rounds to drop the men fighting Daryl, then a third to the man behind you’s head.

Rick’s face twisted into something unrecognizable as he stalked toward the Claimer still holding Carl—pure, feral rage exploded inside of him like a man possessed, pulling his knife and sinking it into the man’s chest, over and over, brutal and unrelenting, until all that was left was a bloody heap on the ground in front of him.

Michonne pulled Carl tight against her, shielding the boy’s eyes as the rest of you watched in horrified silence.

The smoke cleared.

The bodies stilled.

Joe gurgled his last breath.

Dawn was already bleeding pale light through the trees by the time the adrenaline finally crashed and you slumped against a tree at the edge of the clearing, knees drawn up, staring at nothing.

Daryl pushed himself from the ground slowly, spitting blood, one eye already starting to swell shut. He crouched in front of you, careful—moving like every rib ached.

“You okay?”

For a second, you could only stare at him. The blood drying on his face. The dirt smeared across his skin.

He was alive.

Alive.

The relief should have come first.

Instead something inside you cracked.

Your chest tightened so hard it hurt. Fresh tears blurred your vision, causing his drown to deepen as he whispered your name.

He’d offered himself up without hesitation.

You want blood, I get it.

Take it from me.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head.

Then you shot up on your feet, heartache bleeding into rage.

If you weren’t blinded by fury you would have seen the relief in his eyes, the love that he felt for you pouring out of him—silent but there, the only way he knew how.

All you could see was the person that meant the world to you offering himself up like a martyr.

All you could feel was the utter heartache that no matter how close you got to him—Daryl Dixon was never going to love you back.

Your tears burned hot down your cheeks, chest heaving with everything you’d been holding back. The anger. The love. The absolute terror of watching him give his life away like the last two days meant nothing to him.

You shoved at his chest to leave, not wanting to fight with him in front of Rick and the others. Carl had seen enough fighting for one day, but Daryl didn’t budge—eyes narrowing like he had no idea what your problem was.

“How could you do that to me, Daryl? Do you have any idea what that would do to me? I—”

I love you.

The words caught in your throat.

Unable to finish.

Daryl stared up at you, stunned—eyes going wide. Then that familiar spark of anger that came out when he was threatened ignited.

“What the hell was I supposed to do? Jus’ let ‘em die? I tracked those assholes right to ‘em for fucks sake.”

You were so angry you were shaking above him, fear and love and exhaustion radiating through every cell as you glared at him through your tears. It took everything you had not to slap him and call him a self righteous asshole.

“Of course not! But you don’t get to throw yourself away like that! Like your life is meaningless! Not when people care about you! Not when I—“

You wiped at your tears, frustrated with yourself as much as you were with Daryl. You refused to tell him you loved him—not now, maybe not ever—he’d probably just laugh in your face anyway.

“Do I mean so little to you that you’d throw your life on the line like it’s nothing?”

Daryl finally stood to his feet beside you, anger flaring hot in his bloodstream.

Of course he would throw his fucking life on the line for you.

“What the fuck do you think?” He growled as he closed the distance between you in one predatory step, backing you into the nearest tree—blue eyes wild with equal parts anger and terror.

He didn’t understand why you were mad at him for trying to protect you.

You didn’t understand how he could be so fucking clueless!

“How the hell would I know, Daryl! You’re so… so…”

“So what?” He snapped, face inches from yours now. His hands fisted at his sides, unsure if he wanted to grab your throat to bring your mouth to his or snap your neck.

Behind him Michonne covered Carl’s eyes, all three of them silent as the grave as they watched the best show on television for the first time all over again.

“So fucking stubborn! God, I’m never going to mean anything to you—“

His eyes narrowed into slits.

“What the hell are ya talkin’ about? You mean everything to me!”

The entire forrest froze in place. Even the birds stopped chirping as your eyes blew wide, before narrowing again.

“You sure have a fucked up way of showing it.”

Then you turned sharply and stormed into the trees, arms wrapping tight around yourself as you pushed through the thick branches to get the hell away from him.

Daryl stood frozen in the moment, thoughts moving faster than he could process them. He turned toward Rick and Michonne, who were both trying to hide their grins as his signature scowl fell into place.

“What the fuck just happened?!”

He yelled like it was their fault no one had ever loved him the right way until now. Then he stalked off in the opposite direction you’d went, not waiting for their answers—muttering curses under his breath.

Rick finished wiping the blood from his face, watching Daryl stomp through the brush like a bull. He glanced sideways to Michonne, giving her a tired, knowing half-smile despite everything.

“I can’t believe they didn’t invite us to the wedding.” He muttered, spitting in the dirt again as Michonne let out a soft huff of amusement, pulling Carl closer to her chest.

~

You met up with the others eventually. Maggie, Glenn—a new group of survivors who claimed they had the cure for whatever the hell this was.

Daryl didn’t buy it for a second. You would have laughed with him about it—if you both weren’t still so damn prickly with each other.

You didn’t avoid him.

He didn’t run.

Neither of you could do that anymore. Not after those stolen nights curled against his chest, or what he’d said to you in that bloody clearing.

But that didn’t mean you made it easy for him.

As long as he viewed himself as disposable he’d never understand what he meant to you.

The road stretched on, hot and empty. Your resources were dwindling by the day—stealing your energy with every step, but the tension between you and Daryl still simmered in the Georgia heat. Every time your hands brushed while passing supplies, every night he took watch wherever you slept.

When everyone finally settled inside the old barn you broke away to check a nearby stream for water, needing space from the weight of his eyes on your back.

You didn’t get far.

A rough hand caught your wrist—firm enough to stop you in your tracks as you slipped around the corner.

Daryl pulled you toward the crumbling wall, crowding you against it, one hand braced beside your head, the other still holding your wrist. The heat of his body rolled off him in waves, close enough you could smell smoke and leather and that wild scent that was purely him.

Safe enough away so he wouldn’t kiss you.

For once, he didn’t look angry. He looked exhausted, but the intensity in those blue eyes hadn’t dimmed at all.

“You gonna keep punishing’ me?” He asked, eyes dropping to your mouth before dragging back up to lock with yours.

You lifted your chin, heart hammering.

“You gonna keep acting like your life doesn’t matter to anyone?”

Daryl leaned in closer, forearm brushing the wall near your shoulder, caging you in without touching you. The air between you crackled like it always did when you were this close—you could feel the frustration vibrating off him.

“I ain’t never gonna be what you deserve. I’m just gonna end up ruinin’ you.” He growled, the words scraping out like they hurt. You slapped both palms to his chest and shoved—hard enough to move him back an inch, but he locked a strong arm around your back and narrowed his eyes.

Your hands fisted in his vest, holding him there.

“You don’t get to decide what I deserve.” You snapped, voice shaking with emotion. “I know exactly who you are Daryl Dixon, and I still…” You closed your mouth, dropping your eyes to the dirt between you.

Daryl’s breath came faster, hot against your lips.

“You still what?” He asked, silently begging you to just say the words you’d been hiding behind for days. He wasn’t a goddamn mind reader—

“I still want you.” You finally muttered, rolling your eyes like it didn’t even matter. Like you knew exactly what he would do with that information.

Take it and run.

Except he wasn’t running anymore.

His eyes lifted back to yours and for one terrifying second, every excuse he’d ever hidden behind disappeared.

A twig snapped behind him but Daryl didn’t move, eyes searching yours—waiting for you to close the gap and finish this once and for all. The hell with whoever was out there—probably the fake scientist coming to take a piss with his big red bodyguard to shake it for him.

Someone cleared their throat, shifting nervously on their feet as your eyes finally slid from Daryl’s to look. “Daryl—“ You gasped, and he finally turned—eyes narrowing to slits.

“Who the fuck are you?”

A well-dressed man stood a respectful distance away, hands raised in polite surrender, a cautious but friendly smile on his face.

“Hello. My name is Aaron and I'd like to speak with your leader. His name is Rick, right?”

~

“Easy now. We got a code, friend. Simple. You claim it, it’s yours. Nobody touches what’s claimed. Not food. Not supplies. Not…” His gaze slid past him to you, slow and appraising. “…not pretty little things wandering the woods.”

Daryl’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. The implication made his blood boil, but underneath the rage was something colder—realization. The Governor and his men could still be out there hunting survivors. The prison was gone. There was nowhere else to go. No safe way out of this mess.

At lease for tonight.

He lowered the crossbow a fraction, just enough to look like he was listening but his voice stayed dangerously low. “She’s mine.” The words came out possessive, final—tasting like truth and lie at the same time. “She’s claimed. You or any of your boys so much as look at her wrong and I’ll make good on that promise.”

Joe’s chuckle turned into a full laugh, like he’d just heard the best joke in months. “Well shit. That’s what I like to see—a man of integrity. That’s a rare find these days. You got name, hero?”

Daryl finally lowered the bow but kept you behind him, eyes narrowing despite Joe’s friendly demeanor.

“Daryl.”

“That fits. How about your friend there?”

You gripped Daryl’s vest tighter, taking a breath to answer as he cleared his throat and answered for you.

“Nah,” He muttered, nodding toward the road. “She don’t.”

“Fair enough.” Joe said with a deep laugh. “Well, Daryl. We’re reasonable men. Long as you pull your weight and respect the claim, you’re welcome to walk with us. Safety in numbers and all that.”

Daryl didn’t move. His mind raced—every instinct screaming for him to put a bolt through Joe’s head and run but he knew that was a death sentence for the both of you. He felt your fingers brush his spine, sending a jolt of electricity straight through him as he took a step forward.

“Alright,” Daryl grunted. “…but she stays with me. Always.”

Joe spread his hands out like it was the easiest deal in the world.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, brother.”

~

Night fell fast and heavy.

The air turned cold, the kind of cold that sank into your bones and stayed there. Daryl hadn’t said much since they started walking, just kept you glued to his side, one hand hovering near his knife like he expected someone to test him at any second.

He hated the feeling crawling up the back of his neck, telling him these assholes were trouble, but the sun had already dropped behind the tree line and your eyes burned with exhaustion.

“Looks like here’s a good a spot as any to call it a night.” Joe muttered from the front of the group, nodding to the abandoned garage up ahead as the others pushed forward and began claiming space.

Daryl’s jaw tightened.

A few of the men glanced your way.

Not subtle.

Not friendly.

The kind of looks that made his fingers curl.

Joe noticed.

He seemed to notice everything.

The older man smirked around his cigarette. “Ain’t gotta worry. Long as everybody knows what’s yours.”

Daryl went still beside you and for a second, nobody said anything. Then his hand found the small of your back. Natural enough that anyone watching would believe he’d done it a thousand times as he steered you toward the far corner, back against the wall where he could see every approach. He dropped his crossbow within easy reach, then lowered himself to the unforgiving ground.

The hard planes of his body shifted as he made room, arms opening in silent invitation while you stood above him, equally intimidated and intrigued.

“C’mon.” He muttered, blue eyes lifting up to yours slowly. There was no meanness in it—just quiet necessity wrapped up in that familiar grumpy rumble. You hesitated for half a second longer, the weight of everything between you pressing down harder than the exhaustion in your limbs—but the cold was already biting through your clothes, and the low murmurs of the Claimers reminded you there were worse things than lying next to Daryl Dixon.

You sank down in front of him, letting him pull you in. His arm wrapped around you immediately, strong and sure, drawing your back flush against his chest as he curled around you like a shield—a solid wall of heat at your back, body molding to yours. The firm ridges of muscle along his torso, the solid weight of his arms caging you in, the steady rise and fall of his breathing that pressed him even closer with every inhale—it stole away the cold in an instant, leaving you hotter than you could almost bear.

Daryl leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “Get some rest. I’ll keep watch.”

You shivered—and not from the cold. His warmth seeped into you fully, big hand splaying across your stomach to pull you tighter against his chest. You pressed back instinctively, seeking more of that heat, but the closeness made you restless—hips shifting against his.

A quiet, strained sound rumbled in his chest.

“Stop squirmin’,” Daryl whispered into your hair, fingers flexing as he pinned you tighter against him. “I ain’t lettin’ anything happen to ya. I promise.”

You finally nodded, forcing your body to relax into him. Bit by bit, the steady thud of his heart against your back, the protective cage of his arms, and the warmth radiating from him lulled you under. Sleep claimed you before you could overthink it—safe, for the moment, in the one place you never thought you’d ever be.

~

The next night was worse.

Exhaustion weighed heavy after another brutal day on the road. No sign of your people—no proof any of them made it out of the prison alive.

Joe’s group was less than friendly, always trying to start some shit but at the end of the day there was still safety in numbers. One thing Joe got right was people needed people in times like this.

By nightfall they camped out in the shell of an old farmhouse—Daryl claiming the shadowed corner in a back bedroom—far enough from the main group but still in sight. You curled into him without hesitation this time, too drained for formalities tonight.

About an hour after you fell asleep you turned toward him, face to face now—bodies pressed impossibly close in the narrow space. Your breasts brushed his chest with every inhale, one of your thighs slipping between his as you pulled him closer.

Daryl was wide awake.

He couldn’t remember a time when he closed his eyes and didn’t see you—and now you were right here with the moonlight slipping through a cracked window, tracing silver over your pretty face. He drank you in, the soft fan of your lashes across your flushed cheeks, the gentle parting of your lips, the way exhaustion had finally softened every worried line. His chest ached with how badly he wanted you—even while hating himself for it.

Daryl lifted his hand slowly, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone, tracing the curve with aching gentleness. You stirred, eyes fluttering open, hazy and heavy-lidded but you didn’t pull away.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered, searching his face in the dark. The only sounds came from the rough men spread throughout the house, slow breathing and uncomfortable grunts.

The darkness hiding everything but the heat between you.

Your hand moved on its own, trailing slowly up the firm, hard plane of his chest—feeling every ridge of muscle twitch under your palm, the rapid, heavy thud of his heart slamming against your touch. His skin burned beneath the thin fabric.

“Nothin’,” Daryl finally murmured, voice barely a sound between you. His thumb didn’t stop moving—making slow strokes along the line of your jaw, then down to the soft skin just beneath your ear. “Just… lookin’ at you.”

Your breath caught as his calloused fingers traced lower, mapping the delicate column of your throat, feeling your pulse flutter wildly under his touch again. He shifted closer, forehead nearly resting against yours, bodies aligned so perfectly that every subtle movement sent sparks straight through you. His chest pressed warm and solid to your palm, your thigh notching higher between his, heat radiating through your clothes.

“Daryl,” You watched a shiver roll through him as his name left your lips, fingers threading into the back of his hair as his eyes closed for the first time in days. “Thank you, for keeping me safe.”

“Ain’t gotta thank me for that,” He answered quick, before you could speak again—his thumb slipping lower to trace your collarbone. “Makes me feel…” He trailed off, eyes opening to lock on yours in the moonlight—intense and unguarded in a way you rarely saw.

“What?” You breathed, heart hammering so hard he had to be able to feel it.

“Feels like I could be the kind of man who deserves to have you lookin’ at me the way you do.” His voice dropped even lower, warm breath fanning across your lips. Your fingers curled into the back of his hair, tugging him closer. “You do deserve it, Daryl. You’re a good man.”

His thumb stroked along your lower lip now, slow and deliberate, parting it just slightly as his gaze dropped to your mouth. The tension thickened, heavy and sweet, wrapping around you both in the quiet room. Your bodies moved on instinct—hips shifting, thighs pressing tighter, breaths mingling hot and shallow.

“If I kiss ya right now,” He rasped, voice strained with restraint, “I ain’t gonna be able to stop.”

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you looked away.

“I can’t get lost in you tonight,” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Need t’keep my head straight.”

You could feel the tension in him. The effort it was taking not to close that last inch. Not because he didn’t want it—because he wanted it too much.

“Okay,” You whispered, pressing a grateful kiss to his cheek before turning so your back was against his chest again. He curled around you even more protectively—the hard line of his arousal still evident where your bodies pressed together, but he made no move to chase it—just stroked soothing circles under the hem of your shirt. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll wake you up if there’s trouble.”

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh, voice already sounding rough around the edges.

“Alright. Jus’ gonna rest my eyes for a minute.”

You smiled to yourself.

The farmhouse settled around you with soft groans and creaks. Somewhere downstairs somebody muttered in their sleep as the wind rattled through the broken windows.

Daryl stayed alert through all of it.

Every time the house made a sound, his muscles tightened. When a floorboard creaked, his breathing shifted.

Always listening.

Always ready.

But little by little the tension started to leave him. It happened slowly enough that you almost missed it. The arm around your waist grew heavier. The hand beneath your shirt stopped its absent circles and settled against your stomach.

His breathing deepened.

Even the constant tightness in his body began to loosen just enough to allow him to rest.

You stayed perfectly still.

The man hadn’t slept in days.

Maybe weeks.

You could keep watch for the rest of the night—be his protector just this once.

Your arm rested over his as you sank further into his chest, watching the shadows dance along the walls in the pale moonlight.

~

Daryl jerked awake, heart slamming so hard it stole his breath. His hand was already on the knife at his belt before his eyes fully focused—ready to strike, but there was no threat—just the quiet settling of the old farmhouse and a warm weight pressed against him.

You.

Fast asleep in his arms, facing him—tucked into the crook of his neck. Your breath was soft and even against his skin, sunlight slanting through broken glass, painting gold across your face as it caught in your lashes. For a moment, the whole rotten world outside faded away and it was just you, warm against him.

A sleepy little sound slipped from your throat as you began to stir, causing him to swallow hard. He let his hand drift higher under your shirt, calloused palm sliding slow over your ribs, thumb brushing just below the underside of your breast.

“Aye.”

Your eyes fluttered open, sleepy and soft in the morning light. For a heartbeat you just looked at him—close enough he could count the flecks in your irises—then your lips curved into a small, trusting smile that wrecked him all over again.

“Morning.” You whispered, voice husky with sleep.

Daryl didn’t answer with words—he couldn’t. His hand kept moving, mapping your skin like he was memorizing every inch. Your fingers found the back of his neck, threading into his hair, and the quiet hitch in your breath when his thumb grazed a little higher made his hips roll forward without permission.

“Fuck,” He rasped against your mouth, not quite kissing you, just breathing you in. “You keep feelin’ this good and I ain’t gonna make it through the day.”

You arched into his touch, thigh pressing higher between his legs—the friction pulling a low, broken growl from his chest. His free hand cupped the back of your head, tilting you just enough that his mouth could drag along your jaw, teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point.

Heat crackled between you—thick and desperate, unspoken want finally clawing to the surface. Your hips shifted restlessly against him, tilting your head up to finally kiss him as your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Well shit,” Joe’s voice drawled from the doorway, low and amused—sending Daryl flying away from you. “Sorry to interrupt such a tender moment.”

Daryl went rigid, shoving you behind him in one smooth motion as he sat up, crossbow already halfway raised. His face burned, jaw locked so tight it ached. Joe leaned against the doorframe, cigarette dangling from his lips, that same sly grin splitting his face.

He didn’t look sorry at all.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya,” He continued, eyes flicking past Daryl to where you were hurriedly adjusting your clothes back in place. “Called down the hall twice. Y’all must have been preoccupied.”

You could have sworn you heard Daryl growling, but it didn’t seem to phase Joe.

“Found some fresh prints this mornin’, might be the guy we’re lookin’ for. Could use a good tracker helping us run ‘em down proper.”

Daryl’s grip tightened on his cross bow.

“Yeah—alright. Just, gimme a minute.” He grunted, running a hand over his face as Joe smirked and nodded toward the road.

“I’ll give you five, brother. Make ‘em count.” He disappeared down the hall, his grating laugh echoing through the house as silence settled between you in the narrow room. Daryl checked the string on his bow, then his bolts—then the string again—anything to keep from having to look at you.

“Daryl—“

“Jus’, stay close t’me today.” He snapped, voice rough—automatic. Like he needed to get them out before you said anything else.

“Okay.”

His shoulders were already drawn up tight again, every bit of softness from before was lost behind his familiar hostility.

You followed him in silence.

The distance between the two of you couldn’t have been more than a few inches, but it felt a hell of a lot farther than that as Daryl stalked toward the others without looking back once, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a molar.

Whatever had almost happened between you upstairs was gone now.

Buried beneath survival, that looked a lot like fear.

Daryl stepped back into the prison favoring his swollen hand—knuckles split from Merle making his point. It had only been eleven days, but it felt like a lifetime had passed since he’d seen you.

Every mile he’d put between himself and that kiss ached worse than any bruise. Every time he closed his eyes your mouth was on him, your fingers tugging at his hair—

But now that he was back with his loud mouth brother, you didn’t even lift your head to welcome him home. You stayed knelt beside Carl in the commons room sorting through supplies like your world hadn’t cracked open eleven days ago.

You laughed at something the kid said—soft and bright, and suddenly Daryl couldn’t breathe. His steps faltered. For one stupid second he let himself imagine your eyes lighting up with that old warmth, that you’d run to him despite having a million reasons not too—but you just kept counting cans, marking the food inventory like it was the most fascinating thing in the world while he stood a few feet away from you cracked wide open and waiting.

When Merle’s sharp tone filled the quiet prison, impossible to ignore, you finally looked up.

And smiled.

The same smile you gave everyone. Warm. Kind. Real. You met Daryl’s guarded eyes and it was like he’d just come back from a quick supply run instead of bolting when things with you finally started making sense.

“Daryl,” You said, voice light as a feather while you stood from the crate of food and took a step toward him. “Welcome back.”

There was no edge to your words. No hurt. No where the hell have you been? Or why the hell did you leave?

Just warmth, steady as ever, while something in his chest twisted sharp enough to steal his breath.

Daryl swallowed hard, jaw tight as his gaze fell to the ground between you. He shifted his crossbow to the other shoulder and nodded, letting the silence stretch with everything he didn’t have the vocabulary for.

I kissed you, then I ran.

M’sorry.

I fuckin’ need you.

Been dreamin’ about your hands on me every damn night and it’s drivin’ me insane.

Your gaze flicked over the fresh bruises blooming along his jaw, but you didn’t reach for him like you used to. Just stood there, patient and kind, looking like he was any other survivor dragging ass back to camp.

“I didn’t mean to leave like that,” Daryl finally muttered, stepping closer. His voice dropped lower, barely even a sound between you. “Girl with the sword showed up talkin’ about a mouthy bastard with one hand in Woodbury and I had to go.”

Your eyes met his for a beat—soft, understanding, but painfully distant now, glancing toward the others moving supplies from the tombs, that polite smile still fixed in place. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Daryl. Really. We all do what we have to out here.”

He could only watch as you reached out and gave his forearm a quick, reassuring squeeze—the kind he’d seen you give Rick or Glenn, before letting go like he’d burned you.

“I’m just glad you’re back with the group.”

The group.

Not with you.

Not anymore.

There wasn’t an ounce of anger in your voice.

No accusation.

No bitterness.

Just a sad finality that you finally understood where you stood with him.

Daryl’s stomach dropped. You were sweeter than ever but the light that used to hit him full-force, that said he was worth the trouble, was gone now.

Locked away behind the wall he’d built all by himself, brick by brick.

He opened his mouth to say, anything—

Look at me.

Yell at me.

Somethin’.

Just don’t treat me like I’m nothin’.

—but a voice called your name from across the yard.

You turned away, already stepping back.

“Duty calls. Take care of those cuts, okay?”

Another flash of that sunshine smile, then you were gone, jogging lightly toward the others without a second glance.

Daryl stood there like a damn fool, fists clenched at his sides, watching the sway of your hips disappear into the darkness. His chest felt hollow. The sunshine girl who used to chase him down with plates of food, soft touches and eyes that saw straight through his bullshit no longer cared.

Like him leaving was something you expected.

Like it hadn’t ripped you open the same way it had him.

A heavy hand slapped his shoulder hard enough to jolt him forward. “Damn, baby brother,” Merle drawled, voice thick with that familiar mix of grating amusement and venom. “Look’s like somebody pissed in your whiskey.”

Daryl jerked away from him with a grunt, dragging a hand roughly over his mouth. The ache in his chest twisted tighter—he’d spent eleven days trying to outrun you, and now that he was back?

You were the one running away.

~

Except you didn’t run.

You stayed right there in that shared space, with that smile and those eyes—acting like he’d made up the whole kiss in his head. Except he knew that wasn’t the case, because his subconscious was feeing for another one.

The gifts started showing up two days later.

Your favorite knife—sharpened until it gleamed and wrapped in new leather and twine on the crate beside your bunk. A loose board fixed the guard tower that always caught your boot. A bucket of fresh picked strawberries left near your usual spot in the commons area.

Daryl watched Carl pop another one into his mouth, chewing obscenely as you rocked Judith to sleep beside him. The knot in his chest tightened until he could barely breathe around it, day after day—trying to fix what he’d broken between you, every thoughtful thing he’d bring in from the woods—every smile you’d give him.

None of it closed the distance between you.

The snap came on the fifth night after his return.

You were alone in the small storage room across from the Warden’s office, lantern light painting everything in soft gold and deep shadows. Crates of supplies surrounded you like silent witnesses as you sorted through ammo and bandages with that steady, careful grace.

Daryl hovered in the doorway, eyes locked on the way you moved—hips shifting as you reached over a box, the way your shirt lifted just enough to expose the small of your back, the faint sheen of sweat gathering at the nape of your neck. Every second he watched reminded him of how you’d opened up for him—bodies close, fingers gripping like you’d never let go.

He finally stepped inside, clearing the nerves from his throat as you glanced up, surprised but not startled, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Hey. Looking for something specific?” You knew this supply room like the back of your hand. Daryl shifted on his feet again, trying not to back out of the room like a caged animal—watching you look at him like you’d give him the world and never ask for anything in return.

Daryl’s jaw clenched so hard it ached, fingers flexing at his sides, knuckles still bruised from Woodbury.

“You’ve been avoidin’ me.”

The words scraped out rougher than he intended—he didn’t want to fight, god knew he didn’t—but he couldn’t take another second of your indifference. You set down the box of ammo with deliberate calm and turned to face him fully, that patient, honey-sweet mask still locked in place.

“I’m right here, Daryl. Same as always.”

You weren’t the one who left.

“Bullshit.” He pushed closer, boots heavy on the concrete, the small room shrinking around you both until the air felt thick enough to choke on. “You look at me like I’m some stranger passin’ through. Like…, kissin’ me didn’t mean shit to you.”

Your breath hitched with a soft humorless laugh, chest rising sharper, but you didn’t back down. You lifted your chin, holding your ground as he crowded in, boots nearly stepping on yours as your back bumped into the shelf behind you.

Daryl’s eyes fell to the rapid flutter of your pulse at the hollow of your throat, hand lifting slow, calloused fingers hovering inches from your throat like he might tilt your head back and take what he’d been starving for.

The air crackled around you both, chests brushing with every ragged breath as his hand finally rested on the base of your throat, thumb dragging slow over your jugular—sending a flood of heat through every cell in your body.

Daryl’s voice dropped to low, angry and aching all at once. “Why you tormentin’ me?” His thumb pressed firmer, not enough to hurt but enough to feel you swallow, to feel the way your body still reacted to his touch. “Smilin’ at me like what we did didn’t leave you ripped open—the same as me.”

Your voice came out so soft it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“I thought—“ You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I was wrong.”

You moved to push past him but he shifted, pressing closer, his dominant hand still gripping your throat just enough. He whispered your name, barely even a breath before leaning forward—only to have you pull back.

“You gonna kiss me again, Dixon?” You whispered, gaze dropping to his mouth before dragging slowly back to his desperate eyes. “Just to leave me tomorrow?”

Daryl froze, heart slamming against his ribs.

“‘Cause I don’t think my heart can survive it twice.”

The confession hung between you, raw and devastating. His hand twitched against your throat, nearly closing the gap to crush his mouth to yours and fuck the consequences—but your words dripped with the hurt he’d caused. This close to you he could see the shine of tears you refused to shed, the way your body tensed—ready to bolt as he let his hand drop back to his side.

You held his stare, watching him drown in it a second longer, then you shoved at his chest—letting the door snap shut behind you.

Daryl stayed rooted there in the cramped closet, chest heaving while silently wallowing in the mess he’d made.

~

The days after the storage room blurred into a haze of tension and silence. Daryl threw himself into runs, into fixing fences, into anything that kept his hands busy and his mind from replaying the feel of your pulse under his thumb—hot, racing, alive with the same want that was eating him up inside.

He was stubborn as hell, always had been.

But you?

You were his match.

Unyielding in the most beautifully frustrating way.

You never sought him out. Even when you spent a full day with your head hanging over the toilet because you were too stubborn to just ask him if the berries you picked were ripe enough to eat. You ignored his teasing smirk and the batch he brought you a few days later that looked a lot juicier than the ones you’d picked.

You kept moving through the prison like a steady flame, helping with Judith, trading smiles with the others, laughing soft and bright for everyone except him.

The walls you’d built didn’t crack, not even when Merle finally got what was coming to him and Daryl came back from that warehouse with blood on his hands and a hollow look in his eyes.

It took everything you had but you managed not to pry. You didn’t go to him that night, didn’t slip into his cell with quiet words of condolence like he’d half-hoped, and half-feared you would. You stayed away, tending to the others, making sure the kids were fed. Your eyes only met his across the prison once—but they said everything you wouldn’t and it gutted him deeper than any knife.

When the Governor’s army finally showed up at the prison’s gates—bullets flying, walkers pouring in, walls crumbling like they always seemed to do—he didn’t have time to chase the ache, chaos swallowed everything up.

You didn’t seek him out in the firefight—didn’t run to his side when the explosions rocked the yard. You stayed behind, searched for Judith until you were forced to convince yourself someone got her to safety—but when you finally broke for the woods, fleeing the ruins of what had been home—it was Daryl who you ran straight into.

He lifted his bow on instinct, pointing it at your head as you burst through the clearing—gasping for air that wouldn’t come. You lifted your bloodied hands just as he lowered the bow and closed the space between you, helping you to your feet before dragging you deeper into the trees.

“Gotta keep goin’.” Daryl grunted, trying to put as much distance between you and what was left of The Governor’s men as possible. By the time you stopped your legs felt like jello—lungs burning for needed air. Your hands were wrecked, cut up and bleeding from searching through hot metal and fallen barbed wire for Judith.

“I couldn’t—“ A rough sob escaped your throat as you watched Daryl rinse your hands beside a small stream, focusing on how careful he was with you despite everything. “—couldn’t find her, Daryl. What if—“ The words died between you, unable to imagine Judith’s fate if no one got her out of there in time.

“Hey,” The word came out quiet, but sharp—bringing your eyes up to his quickly. “She got out.” Daryl assured, matter-of-fact—like canon but the truth was he didn’t know shit.

Not if Rick was still breathing, or if Maggie and Glenn or anyone else made it through that bloodbath. All he knew for sure was you made it—and he knew you’d rip yourself apart until there was nothing left if someone didn’t pull you back.

“Somebody got her out.” He repeated, voice softening even further against his will.

Your chin trembled.

Daryl hated it—hated the way your shoulders curled in like the weight of the whole damn world was crushing you. Hated that he’d played a part in making you think you had to carry everything alone again.

“She ain’t gone.”

The lie was better than watching guilt devour you.

“She ain’t.”

Your shoulders sagged, some of the panic draining from your eyes.

Daryl let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The woods were growing darker when you finally stood, wiping at your tears with the back of your arm and avoiding his eyes again.

“Thank you.”

Daryl frowned.

“For what?”

“For helping me.” Your words were careful. Polite. The same distant kindness you’d been giving him since he came back from Woodbury—like he was a stranger instead of the man who remembered the taste of your mouth.

“I’ll head East.”

His head snapped up.

“What?”

“Maybe I’ll run into others from the prison. I’ll be okay.”

The knot in his gut turned vicious.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You gave a humorless laugh.

“Last time I checked you weren’t in charge of me.”

“No shit,” Daryl stepped closer anyway, boots crowding yours on the muddy bank, the heat of his body cutting through the cooling evening air. “Still ain’t headin’ East. I’ve been East—ain’t nothin’ but walkers and open land that way.”

The argument ignited like dry kindling.

“Fine. I’ll go North.”

“Yer already goin’ North.”

The forest hummed around you—bugs, distant walker groans, the too-loud thud of his own pulse hammering in his head. You looked wrecked. Completely and utterly exhausted—and the only way you were going out on your own was over his dead fuckin’ body.

“I don’t need anything from you, Daryl.” You said, voice sharp and final. There it was. The thing that had been festering between the two of you for weeks, spelled out plain as day.

I don’t need you.

The words landed like a gut punch. Something raw and wounded flickering across his face. For the first time since the storage room, your determination faltered and you almost took the words back.

Almost assured him that you needed him more than air.

Thankfully, Daryl looked away first.

“I know that…” He grunted, honest for the first time in months. “…but I can’t stand the thought of ya out here alone.” His eyes finally met yours, watching as your mouth opened, then closed again—unable to find the words.

You wanted to yell at him. To tell him the last thing you needed right now was any more of his back and forth bullshit but you couldn’t bring yourself to hurt him again. The way he’d looked at you in that storage room still burned in your memory.

“You don’t need me…” Daryl muttered with another hard swallow. “…but I… I need you.”

The air crackled between you—his body inches from yours, the memory of his thumb pressed to your throat, your hips positioned against his. For one suspended second neither of you moved. It felt like the walls you both hid behind might finally fall—then a twig snapped somewhere in the distance, sharp as a gunshot.

Both your heads whipped toward the sound.

Daryl’s hand flew to his crossbow, already raised and ready. The woods fell deathly silent. Too silent, like their company was holding their breath. You stepped closer without thinking, pressing tight against his side, your body molding to his as you scanned the brush. His warmth bled into you, solid but tense, the familiar scent of leather, sweat, and pine wrapping around you like armor.

One figure emerged from the shadows.

Then another.

Then more.

Six men. Dirty, armed to the teeth, moving with the lazy confidence of wolves who’d already marked their territory. A chill slid down your spine as you pressed closer, suddenly unable to tell where Daryl ended and you began.

The man in front—tall, gray-bearded, with a cold, calculating smile—tilted his head.

“Well now,” He drawled, voice lazy and dripping with menace. “What do we have here?”

Daryl moved like lightning, stepping fully in front of you, crossbow bolt aimed dead-center at the leader’s throat before the man could utter his next word. There was no hesitation. No tremor. Daryl’s finger rested on the trigger, right where it had always belonged.

The stranger’s eyes flicked past him anyway, lingering on you for a moment too long—hungry, assessing—then his smile widened. Pure lethal fury flashed behind Daryl’s blue eyes as someone whistled low and crude. The rest of the group chuckled, but it died quickly as their leader lifted his hand to silence them.

“Come on, fella. Suicide’s stupid,” The leader said, hands still half-raised in surrender. Sly grin still spreading. “Name’s Joe.”

Daryl only offered him one thing in return.

A warning.

“Any one of you touch her—I’ll skin ya alive.” Daryl didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to—the promise sat heavy in the air between them. He knew he was out numbered but he’d die with an empty bow and their blood on his hands before he’d let any one of them hurt you—and judging by the way the men shifted uneasily under his gaze, they knew it too.

Joe studied him for a long beat, that cold smile turning thoughtful. Appreciative, almost. Like he’d just found a prize in the woods.

“Damn,” Joe chuckled low, glancing over his shoulder at his group. “You hear that, boys? Sounds like this one’s already been claimed.”

The way you smile through the heartache, the quiet games you’d make up for Carl to keep his mind off the cold. The quiet conversations with Rick—assuring him he did what he had to do when it came to Shane. The soft comfort you offered Beth and Maggie.

Daryl told himself it was just the way you were—kind, soft—the kind of person this world chewed up first—but every time he saw you slip half your rations to Lori or Carl something twisted in his chest.

That night, camped in the skeletal remains of a forgotten subdivision, he sat on the crumbling steps of a half-burned down house, picking at a tin of beans he’d scavenged. His eyes tracked you across the weak fire as you knelt beside Lori, murmuring something that made the pregnant woman’s shoulders ease just a fraction.

You came back to your spot near him—close enough for warmth, far enough that he didn’t feel cornered. Wordlessly, you started to settle in—wrapping the thin jacket you’d wrestled off a walker around you tighter.

Daryl’s jaw worked, forcing himself not to look at you. Before he could talk himself out of it, he shoved the tin of beans toward you, half of it still untouched.

“Eat,” He grunted, eyes on the ground. Your own widened, that familiar soft surprise flickering across your face. When you hesitated he looked up, eyes dragging over you—watching the firelight paint your throat gold. “You been givin’ everything away again. Ain’t lettin’ you starve for her.”

Daryl rattled the can impatiently.

You took it, your ice cold fingers lingering on his.

“Thank you.” That soft smile hit him straight in the gut, stirring heat low and heavy. It was so pretty, despite all the ugly around them.

Daryl looked away, jaw tight, but his knee pressed harder into yours under the pretense of shifting closer to the fire. The silence stretched thick, charged now with that unspoken thing that always loomed over the two of you when you were this close. You licked a bit of sauce from your bottom lip, bringing his gaze to your mouth.

The silence stretched, broken only by the distant crackle of the fire and the wind rattling through dead leaves.

After a while, your attention drifted back to Lori’s silhouette like it always seemed to. “She’s really scared. Rick will barely look at her. Everything’s falling apart, and she’s carrying all of it alone now.”

Daryl snorted softly, poking at the dirt with his knife. “Brought it on herself, runnin’ off with Shane like that. Playin’ house while the world burned.” The words came out harsher than he meant, but he didn’t bother taking them back. “Ain’t no point worryin’ yourself sick over it. She made her choices.”

You turned to look at him, eyes steady even in the low light.

“She made a mistake, but she’s still one of us.”

You sat there steady as the sunrise, making Daryl feel seen in ways that terrified him. He looked away first, muttering something about keeping watch, but the warmth of your shoulder brushing his lingered long after you’d fallen quiet beside him.

~

The prison gave walls, fences—space to breathe for the first time in months but it couldn’t keep death out. Lori’s screams still echoed through the tombs long after she was gone, leaving Carl hollowed out and shattered, and a tiny baby girl crying in someone else’s arms.

Daryl found you outside once the adrenaline wore off, tucked against the cold concrete wall behind the prison—far enough from the others to be alone with your thoughts. Your knees were drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them, and you were sobbing—deep, wrenching sounds that tore at something deep in his chest.

The kind of crying that came from carrying too much for too long.

He stood there a moment, boots scuffing gravel, fists clenched at his sides. Comfort wasn’t his strong suit, he’d never had an ounce of it his whole life—but watching you break like this after giving until there was nothing left—made his feet move anyway.

“Aye,” He said roughly, lowering himself to sit beside you. Closer than he usually allowed. “C’mere.”

You turned into him without hesitation, burying your face against the curve of his neck. His arm came around you awkwardly at first, then firmer, pulling you into the solid wall of his chest. One hand rubbed slow, careful circles along your back while the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

“I got you,” He muttered against your crown, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Ya did good by her. All this time. She’s at peace now, knows she’s got people that’ll take care of little ass kicker.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, clinging to him like he was the only steady thing left in the world—and for once, Daryl let you despite his heart hammering against his ribs. When your sobs finally eased into shaky little breaths, he tilted your chin up with two fingers.

Daryl searched your eyes, red-rimmed, lashes wet, but you looked at him like you had since day one. Like he was someone worth knowing—worth having around.

Someone you cared about.

“Daryl…” You whispered, voice wrecked and just as soft as his. He meant to say something gruff, stop gawkin’ at him—stop caring about him. He meant to put some distance between you again, but instead, when you leaned in, he met you halfway.

The kiss was desperate, loaded with pain and longing. His mouth moved against yours—hungry—one hand cupping your jaw while the other gripped your waist, pulling you closer. You tasted like salt and grief and that same sweet warmth that had haunted him since the quarry. He groaned low in his throat when your fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make heat flood through him.

The second your mouth opened for him, instinct took over. He kissed you like a man starved, slow and consuming one moment, then harder—more urgent the next, pouring every unsaid word and denied touch into it. His fingers sank further into your hair, pulling at the nape of your neck to move you exactly how he wanted, tongue stroking deep in a heated rhythm that left you both breathless.

Every brush of your body against his fed the fire he’d been trying to smother since the quarry. He wanted to lose himself in you completely—bury himself inside you so deep you’d feel it for days.

“Fuck…” Daryl rasped against your lips, barely pulling back before diving in again, tongue sliding deep as his hand fisted in your hair to keep you right there with him. He could hear the footsteps echoing from just inside the prison—someone calling your name—needing you for the baby.

You broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both panting hard and clinging to each other like neither of you wanted to let go.

No words came. Just the ragged sound of your breathing and the heavy promise hanging thick in the charged air. Slowly you pulled away from him, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, fingers lingering as you stood and slipped away on shaky legs. Daryl watched you go, jaw clenched tight, fists balled at his sides to keep from reaching for you again.

~

The next morning, Daryl was gone.

His spot on the upper tier sat empty. Crossbow, bed roll, the few supplies that he’d claimed were packed up and taken with him.

No note.

No explanation.

Just an empty stretch of concrete where he’d once been.

He told himself he was going after Merle. Told himself that’s what this was—what it had always been.

Finding his brother.

His teeth locked so hard they ached as he shoved all thoughts of you away before he talked himself into saying. He was already moving before sunrise—not bothering to look back at the prison gates.

Not after that kiss.

Not with the way you treated him like he could be more than the broken redneck he knew he was.

The road opened up before him, his grip tightening on the handlebars as a walker stumbled out of the tree line.

The bike roared past without slowing.

He’d faced hands that harmed instead of healed, starved through more winters than he could remember, walked straight into gunfire—but nothing he’d ever faced had ever rattled him like this.

You’d left his heart hammering with something he couldn’t name.

Something terrifying.

The road stretched out empty ahead of him but he could still feel the ghost of your lips on his. Still hear your voice, soft and sweet whispering his name like it really meant something to you.

For one stupid second, he almost turned the bike around.

Almost.

Then he twisted the throttle harder and disappeared down the road toward a town called Woodbury.

He stood half leaning against the frame, one hand braced against the wall—words quiet and a little slurred.

“Didn’t mean it.” He mumbled, “You staying away from me—didn’t mean none of it.”

When you refused to answer, he slammed his fist against the thin wood and stormed off, letting his bedroom door bang shut behind him.

The next morning he didn’t even look at you, but you wouldn’t know that because you weren’t looking at him either.

You didn’t think about the grumpy archer or how sincere he sounded after another half bottle of wine. Didn’t search for him while the CDC started to burn and or when you were sprinting for your life beside Lori, lungs aching and heart hammering. Not even when a walker popped up out of nowhere, rotten teeth snapping inches from your shoulder before a crossbow bolt buried itself clean through its skull from 20 yards away.

You didn’t speak to him until the day after you got to Hershel’s farm, and only because no one else was willing to cross him after another failed attempt at finding Sophia. The breakfast sandwich was still warm through the dish towel wrapped around it as you made your way toward the edge of camp.

Toward him.

Daryl stood at his makeshift workbench, knuckles white where they gripped the rough wood. His head hung low, the usual rigid line of his shoulders curved under days of failure.

Exhaustion pulled at every line of his body.

For a moment, looking at him like that, you softened—even though you knew you’d regret it—remembering the CDC hallway. The way he’d looked right at you and said he didn’t give a damn.

Daryl heard your footsteps before he saw you. His shoulders stiffened immediately, and for one stupid, traitorous second, hope flared in his chest.

He turned and there you were.

Standing in front of him for the first time in days.

Looking as beautiful as ever.

You smiled despite yourself, soft and uncertain. It irritated him the way everything else about you seemed to but you kept it anyway.

“What?” The word came out rough, but there was no bite behind it this time. Just exhaustion. Frustration. Days spent searching woods that refused to give a little girl back.

You held his gaze and lifted the wrapped sandwich a little higher like you couldn’t help taking care of people even when they didn’t deserve it.

Daryl stared at it for a second before snatching it from your hand like some half-starved stray. He tore into it immediately, taking a bite so big it was almost offensive.

His eyes never left yours as you stood there in his space like you had something to say.

“What?” He asked again around a mouthful of bread.

You swallowed.

“I just wanted to thank you.”

His brow furrowed.

“For what?”

“For not giving up on Sophia.”

The chewing stopped.

You shifted your weight nervously.

“You’re the one going out there every day from sunup to sundown.” Your fingers twisted together, eyes pleading for him not to yell at you again. “I just thought somebody should say thank you.”

For a second, Daryl just stared at you.

Nobody ever thanked him—not even the girls own mother. They didn’t notice when he was tired. Nobody cared how hard he worked—and nobody sure as fuck had ever looked at him the way you were looking at him right now.

Daryl’s jaw worked as your words landed somewhere soft and unfamiliar.

“Why the hell you thankin’ me?” He asked, before taking another aggressive bite. “She ain’t your blood.”

You smiled again, softer this time, eyes never leaving his.

“You don’t have to be blood to be family.”

The words hung there, heavy with everything you weren’t quite saying—that he was starting to feel like family to you, whether he liked it or not.

Before he could respond, before that familiar scowl could twist his mouth or his walls could slam back up, you gave him one last small smile and turned back toward camp, leaving him standing there with half a sandwich and a storm of emotions he had no idea how to feel.

Daryl watched you go, your words following long after you’d disappeared back toward camp. The sandwich was still warm in his hand. You’d brought it all the way out here for him.

After the CDC.

After the awful things he’d said.

His thumb rubbed absently against the dish towel wrapped around the bread. Nobody did shit like this for him—not without wanting something.

Not without expecting something in return.

You’d handed him breakfast, thanked him for doing a job nobody else wanted, smiled at him like he hadn’t spent weeks acting like an asshole, and walked away before he could figure out what to do with any of it.

All he could think about was the empty space where you’d been standing a minute ago. For one brief, stupid second, he almost called your name.

The urge hit so hard it damn near knocked the breath out of him but he swallowed it down.

Forced another bite of food into his mouth.

Kept his eyes fixed on the path you’d disappeared down.

Because wanting you to come back was one thing.

Having no idea what he’d say if you did was another.

~

The next few days blurred together in a smear of blood and loss.

Sophia stumbling out of that barn—gun fire still ringing in everyone’s ears. Dale gutted, begging for mercy under the pale Georgia moon. The group was fracturing, everyone raw and hollowed out but the farm still demanded work.

Graves needed digging.

Animals needed feeding.

You and Beth threw yourselves into it until your bodies ached, mucking stalls, filling troughs—shoveling dirt until your hands bled. When Rick and Hershel insisted you take a break, the two of you slipped away to a grassy field near the furthest barn.

The sun felt good against your skin, warming the emptiness losing Sophia and Dale had left inside of you.

Beth lay at your left with her eyes closed, humming a quiet hymn as you rolled your thin tank top up just beneath your breasts, exposing the soft, smooth skin of your stomach to the warm light. Sweat glistened along the curve of your waist and the gentle dip of your navel, catching the golden afternoon glow. The heat soaked deep into your muscles, making your skin flush pink and dewy.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence was heavy, but peaceful.

“Aye!”

You lifted your head just as Daryl called your name, racing across the field from the tree line like a man possessed—crossbow bouncing against his back, face tight with something dangerously close to fear.

They swept over you in frantic passes, checking for blood—a bite. Injuries he couldn’t see from where he stood. His eyes washed over your face, arms, stomach, legs—anywhere something could be wrong.

You sat up slowly, confusion knitting your brows together as his gaze kept moving, searching for a wound that wasn’t there. For one awful second, he looked like a man bracing himself for the worst.

“Daryl… we’re okay.”

The relief that hit him was immediate.

Almost violent.

His shoulders sagged.

Air rushed from his lungs.

And only after he’d convinced himself you really were alive, unharmed, and staring back at him with those wide eyes—did he seem to realize what he was actually looking at.

The flush in your cheeks.

The sunlight warming your skin.

Something flickered across his face before disappearing just as fast. Relief gave way to irritation. Or maybe embarrassment.

You watched his eyes narrow at the thought.

“The hell y’all doin’ out here?” He snarled, voice angry now.

Beth is the one who answered.

“Just taking a break—“

He laughed without humor, running a hand over his face to try and will his panic away. Then he looked at you, eyes still searching despite himself—lingering on the sweat sliding slow down your sternum, the flushed, sun-kissed skin he dreams about putting his mouth on.

It made him furious.

To think something happened to you only to realize you’re lying around like you don’t have a care in the world.

“A break? From what? Gettin’ your nails done, princess?”

Beth’s eyes narrowed, ready to snap back.

“Layin’ around out here like there ain’t work to be done? You got any idea what the hell I thought?“

Something broke in his words as he finally looked away from you, like he was so thankful you were okay but too pissed to say it.

“Thought a walker got you. Ran my ass off thinkin’ I was gonna find you dyin’ out here like Dale—” He gestured sharply at your body, still laid out in the grass. “And instead you’re just… what? Sunbathin’? Spread out like you ain’t got shit to do but look pretty while the rest of us are bustin’ our asses keepin’ you alive?”

His chest was heaving, eyes still dragging over you against his will—the sweat on your skin, the rise and fall of your chest, the way the sunlight kissed every exposed inch of you.

It only made him angrier.

Reminding him with every pass that he couldn’t have you.

“We’ve been working all damn day, you assho—” Beth snapped, shooting up to her feet quickly.

“It’s okay, Beth.” Your voice was calm, steady even if his words stung. You stood slowly, pulling your tank top back down over your sun-warmed stomach, brushing grass from your shorts. You didn’t argue, just looked at him with those patient eyes. “Let’s just go.”

Daryl scoffed, low and bitter, and turned away first—stalking back toward the tree line like he hadn’t just barged in on the two of you. Like he had any right to judge. His shoulders were still tight, fists clenched at his sides as if the fear and frustration were still clawing at him.

Beth watched him go with narrowed eyes, arms crossed tight over her chest.

“What an asshole.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head.

That was an understatement.

“Why do you let him talk to you like that?” Beth asked, genuine confusion and frustration bleeding into her voice as she fell into step beside you.

The question caught you off guard. You glanced toward the woods where Daryl had already disappeared into the shadows. For a long moment, you didn’t answer, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you. Then you shrugged, voice quiet but honest.

“Because arguing with him doesn’t help anything. It just pisses him off more… and I’m afraid one of these days he’s going to have a coronary. Not even Hershel is medically equipped for something like that.”

Beth frowned, clearly unsatisfied. “That doesn’t mean it’s okay for him to talk to you like that.”

“I know.”

“You could at least tell him to go to hell.”

A tired smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“I think life already beat me to it.”

You looked down at your hands, turning them slowly. The dirt caked under your nails. The raw, blistered skin across your palms from weeks of gripping that worn shovel—the same one you’d used to bury too many friends. The same hands that had pulled triggers, patched wounds, and tried to hold this broken world together.

You understood Daryl. Maybe more than you wanted to. The way fear and anger tangled up inside him until he lashed out because caring too much felt like a death sentence.

You just wished a part of him understood you too.

“Sometimes people decide who they are a long time before you meet them.” You murmured. Beth’s expression softened, the frustration easing into something gentler. She glanced toward the tree line where Daryl had vanished.

“He thinks he’s a bad person.”

You nodded, swallowing the ache in your throat.

“And nothing I say is gonna change his mind.”

~

Daryl stayed gone until dusk fell over the farm, stalking back toward the house with two fat rabbits hanging from his belt, crossbow slung over his shoulder. His blood was still simmering from the sight of you laid out in that damn field like you were on some kind of vacation after everything—Sophia, Dale, the kid in the barn.

He didn’t expect Hershel to be waiting for him on the front porch steps, holding a small tin and a roll of clean bandages.

“You got it wrong today.” The old man said, voice low and steady like he already knew the storm brewing under Daryl’s skin. He stopped short, jaw tight. Hershel’s eyes flicked toward the back of the house, where the late afternoon light stretched long across the grass. “Those girls had been at it since sunup. Mucking stalls, hauling feed, digging graves that needed finished.”

Daryl felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

“She tell you about that?”

Hershel shook his head. “Beth. She said you did a number on them. Especially her.”

He pressed the tin into Daryl’s reluctant palm, trading it for the rabbits at his side.

“Salve. Made it myself. Good for blisters. She’s out back. Life’s too short to leave things like this, son. Ya hear?”

Daryl stared at the tin like it might bite him. Guilt hit him low in the gut, heavy and sour. He hadn’t even asked. Just assumed. Called you out like you hadn’t been bleeding for this group same as the rest of them.

“Yeah.” He muttered, rubbing a hand over his mouth. Hershel didn’t say anything else. Just gave him that quiet, knowing look and went back inside.

Daryl found you exactly where Hershel said—sitting on the bottom step out back, shoulders slumped like the weight of the day had finally caught up. Your hands rested in your lap, palms up, raw and blistered to all to hell. Even from a distance he could see the angry red skin, the broken places where you’d gripped a shovel for too long.

His chest tightened.

You didn’t look up when his boots crunched on the dry grass. Just kept staring out at the ground, jaw set against the pain radiating through your hands.

Daryl stopped a few feet away, shifting his weight.

“Was wrong earlier,” He grunted. The words felt like gravel in his throat. “Heard what you been doin’ all day. Shoulda asked ‘stead of runnin’ my mouth.”

You glanced up then, surprise flickering across your face. The small, tired smile you gave him made something twist behind his ribs.

“It’s fine, Daryl.”

“It ain’t.” He stepped closer, crouching down in front of you so he wasn’t looming. His knees protested but he ignored it, forcing himself to look up at you—to be sincere for once. “Ain’t right—takin’ my shit out on you of all people. You ain’t been nothin’ but good to me.”

You looked away from him, feeling the rush of heat fill your cheeks as he studied your hands carefully. Up close they looked worse, blisters split open, dirt ground into the raw skin. He set the tin and bandages on the grass beside him and pulled his canteen from his belt.

“Lemme see.”

You hesitated, then slowly let him take one of your hands in his. It trembled just a little. Whether from the pain or the surprise of him being so gentle, you didn’t know.

Daryl’s touch was careful—more careful than he’d ever been with anything in his damn life. His rough fingers cradled yours like he was holding something precious as he poured the cool water from his canteen over your palm, washing away the dirt before dipping two fingers into the salve.

The herbal smell was sharp and clean as he started spreading it over the worst of the blisters. Slow circles. Light pressure. Every time you winced he muttered a quiet “sorry” under his breath, barely audible.

“You didn’t have to come out here.” You said softly, watching his bent head, the way his hair curled slightly against the nape of his neck.

“Yeah, I did.” He kept his gaze on your hands, jaw working. “Been an asshole to you since the quarry. Pushin’ you away every time you got too close.”

His touch was feather-light as he smoothed the salve over the worst of the raw skin. The air felt thicker, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your wrists. You watched the way his broad shoulders hunched protectively, the corded muscles in his forearms flexing with each careful movement. Heat pooled low in your belly despite the pain—his nearness, the rare gentleness in those same hands that could kill a man in seconds.

“Daryl…” Your voice came out softer than you meant. “I just want you to see me. Not the girl you think can’t make it out here—but the one who cares about you.”

He stilled. Those sharp blue eyes lifted to yours, raw and unguarded in the fading light. For once, his walls were down. His thumbs continued their slow strokes along the uninjured edges of your palm, sending little sparks up your arm.

“I see you,” He muttered, words so low they vibrated through your chest. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a heartbeat, then back to your hand. “Been seein’ you. The good in you. That’s the whole damn problem.”

The confession hung heavy between you as Daryl kept working, wrapping the clean bandages around your hand with care. You could only watch him work, not sure what to say—afraid of saying the wrong thing that would send him running off again.

“Daryl, I care about you.”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispered. “Ain’t never gonna deserve it—and you’re gonna get yourself killed, thinkin’ that way.” When he finished with the second hand, he didn’t let go, just sat there on his knees in front of you, breathing you in—sun-warmed skin, that trace of sweetness that drove him crazy mixed with the sharp salve covering your hands. You leaned in a little closer, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Maybe, but I’d rather die believing in you than live believing in nothing.”

Daryl swallowed hard. It felt like the world held its breath as he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His calloused fingers lingered against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re too damn soft for this world.” He whispered.

“Maybe that’s what you need, Daryl Dixon. Somewhere soft to land.”

His forehead dropped, breath fanning across your lips. A shiver rolled through you, maybe from the cool evening air or his closeness—but for one wild heartbeat you thought he might kiss you. Then he pulled back, clearing his throat, ears flushed dark even in the fading light. He stood up slowly but didn’t storm off for once. Instead he shrugged out of his vest and draped it over your shoulders, heavy and warm and smelling like him.

“Stay out here a bit longer if you want,” He muttered, looking anywhere but at you as he took a seat beside you on the porch. “I’ll keep watch.”

You smiled into the collar of his vest and leaned into his side.

This time he let his arm rest along the back of the step behind you.

He kept his head down, jaw locked tight. Maybe if he just ignored you you’d go back to where you belong—far the fuck away from him.

“Daryl!”

Your voice was closer now, dropping lower, a little breathless from jogging after his stubborn ass. He stopped and spun around with a mean scowl already twisting his mouth, eyes narrowing.

“What?”

You were still coming down the slope toward him, balancing a paper plate in both hands like a peace offering. The setting sun caught on the curve of your neck, the swell of your chest rising with each breath. That damn smile lit up your whole face—tired eyes turning warm, lips soft and inviting.

He hated that smile.

Hated how it made heat pool low in his gut every single time he saw it. Most people looked at him like he wasn’t worth the trouble—you looked at him like he was everything you’d ever wanted in this fucked up world.

“You missed dinner again.”

“Ain’t hungry.”

The lie was barely out before his stomach growled, loud and traitorous. The smell of fried fish hit him first, but quickly faded into your sun-warmed skin, faint soap, and something so damn sweet underneath it made his mouth water.

Your smile widened knowingly—and a little teasing. You loved catching the cute archer off guard, watching the flush of embarrassment light up the tips of his ears bright pink.

“Shut up.”

A laugh escaped you, the kind that made his eyes fall to the ground between you before coming back to focus on the sweat glistening at the hollow of your throat.

“I didn’t say anything.”

You held the plate out, stepping close enough he could see your pulse fluttering under the delicate skin just below your ear.

“Here.” Your voice dropped lower as Daryl glanced at the fish and beans on the plate. Probably one of the last decent meals anyone would have for a while.

“Give it to one of the kids.” He grumbled, taking a step away from you.

“They’ve already ate.”

His blue eyes narrowed as they lifted to yours while you nudged the plate closer like you were trying to convince some stray dog not to bite.

“Give it to somebody else then,” He growled. “I ain’t your damn charity case.”

“Daryl—“

He snatched the plate out of your hands hard enough that the beans slid to the dirt, causing you to startle as you stepped back from him quickly. Then that stupid smile was back.

Like he hadn’t just been rude as hell.

Somehow that made him even madder because he didn’t have any business being an asshole toward you. You were the only person in this fucked up camp that didn’t look at him and his brother like they were trash.

He didn’t want to snap at you every time you braved the tree line to show him an ounce of kindness—but he had no idea how to talk to you like a decent human being.

Not when you made his blood run hot every time you looked at him.

So he did what he did best.

“Tastes like shit.” He growled around a bite of over cooked fish, eyes still glaring despite your smile only spreading across your pretty face.

“I didn’t cook it.” You assured him, searching his eyes as he took another bite.

Daryl chewed harder than he needed to, jaw working fast. The fish was actually decent—better than the crap him and Merle usually scavenged—but admitting that felt too much like letting you in. Instead his gaze dragged down your body against his will, memorizing the way your thin tank top clung to your waist from the humidity as you stood there like you had all the patience in the world for his bullshit.

He shoved another bite in his mouth, eyes still locked with yours as he forced the plate back into your hands. You watched him lick at his fingertips, letting your eyes fall to his lips as they smacked against the digits aggressively—waiting for him to say something.

Thank you.

Fuck off.

“Go back to camp,” He finally muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans as he turned away like you weren’t even worth the breath it took to say the words. “Ain’t nothin’ out here for you.”

Daryl didn’t wait for your reply, boots digging into the dirt as he stalked through the trees, shoulders rigid, crossbow strap cutting into the tense muscle along his back. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal—fear licking its way up his spine. He was terrified you’d actually believe him this time—that the light in those beautiful eyes would finally dim and you’d stop looking at him like he was worth the trouble.

~~~

His brother went missing two days later.

Except Merle wasn’t really missing—this new guy—Rick, knew exactly where the fuck he’d left him.

Handcuffed to a roof in the blazing Atlanta heat, surrounded by walkers. Merle’d cut off his own hand to escape certain death and now Daryl didn’t know if the only family he had left was dead or dying—or out there roaming the city as one of these dead fucks.

He couldn’t leave him like that.

A pop of a thin branch under heavy boots lifted his eyes slowly, back pressed hard against a thick oak a little ways from camp, knees drawn up, crossbow resting beside him like a sleeping dog. His arms rested on his knees, hands dangling between them, fingers stained with dirt and someone else’s blood.

He watched you step into the quiet clearing without a word, unable to deliver his usual scowl as you took a seat beside him—careful not to get too close. The group was scattered, licking their wounds and pretending they weren’t waiting for the next horror.

Shane was strutting around with I told you so on his lips while they buried Ed and Amy. The silence stretched, heavy and oddly comfortable. You watched the last light bleed out of the sky while he picked at the dirt under his nails, jaw tight.

“I’m sorry about Merle.” You murmured, mostly to yourself—knowing he wouldn’t welcome the concern but unable to sit there and pretend your heart wasn’t hurting for him anyway. Merle was… an acquired taste to say the least… but that didn’t mean you thought what Rick and the others did was right.

You watched Daryl spit into the dirt between his feet before his voice came, low and gravel-rough.

“Tough bastard cut his own damn hand off just to get free.” He muttered to the dirt with the shake of his head. “That’s my brother thought, too stubborn to die easy—too mean to live quiet.” His shoulders slumped a fraction, the fight draining out of him for once. “I ain’t got nobody else left. Just me. It’s always just me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything he’d never said to anyone. You didn’t push. You just sat there beside him, close enough that your knee brushed his, letting him feel seen without demanding anything back.

After another loaded moment Daryl pushed himself up with a grunt, watching you rise with him—slower, like you were afraid any sudden move might spook him.

The last of the sun had bled away, leaving everything in cool shadows and the distant crackle of the camp’s fire. Tomorrow the group was headed back to the city—to the CDC in hopes they could find some help for Jim, who’d been bit during the struggle last night—but tonight… you stepped closer.

Your hand lifted slowly, giving him time to pull away. Surprising you when he didn’t. Your palm settled against his chest first—right over the worn fabric of his shirt, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm. The touch was gentle but the way your fingers spread, pressing just enough to feel the solid wall of him, sent a spark straight through his chest. Your other hand rose to his jaw, thumb brushing the scruff there, tracing the tense line like you wanted to memorize every sharp edge.

You looked at him like you could see straight through his facade to the man underneath all that hurt.

“Daryl…” You breathed, eyes locked on his. Your body leaned in, chest nearly brushing his as your fingers slid up into the damp hair at the nape of his neck. The scent of you—warm and sweet—wrapped around him as your thumb stroked along his jaw again, slower this time, while your palm stayed pressed to his racing heart like you were trying to calm the wild thing inside him.

It was too much.

Too good.

Heat flooded through every cell in his body, stealing his breath as his hands fisted at his sides to keep from touching you. He had no right to touch you. For one second, he let himself lean into it, eyes dropping to your mouth.

Then the switch flipped.

The vulnerability cracked open something ugly and terrified inside him. His hand shot up, grabbing your wrist hard enough to make you gasp then he shoved you away from him roughly, forcing your back into the biting bark of the tree behind you. In the same motion he jabbed his finger right in front of your face, eyes narrowing as something ugly and familiar bubbled in his throat.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” He snarled, blue eyes blazing with self-loathing. “You hear me? I don’t need your pity. Don’t need your soft little touches or your fuckin’ smiles. You think you can fix me? Save the poor redneck? Fuck that. You’re just another dumb bitch who’s gonna get herself killed sticking her nose where it don’t belong.”

You flinched hard, eyes wide with hurt as you watched his chest heave with it. The warmth drained from your face so fast it made his stomach twist, but the meanness poured out anyway, sharp and deliberate, because it was easier than admitting how badly he wanted you.

Daryl turned on his heels before you could respond, boots pounding into the dirt as he stormed off into the trees. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles ached—heart slamming in his chest where you’d touched him. Rage—at himself, at Merle, at this whole fucked up life—burned through him like wildfire.

He’d made sure you’d finally seen him for what he was—mean, broken—unloveable—and the worst part? He already hated himself for it.

~~~

That night, sleep wouldn’t come.

Daryl lay on his back in the cramped tent Carol had given him when they first showed up, one heavy arm slung over his eyes, the other fisted tight at his side. The Georgia heat clung to everything, turning the air inside the small space into something thick and suffocating.

Or maybe it was just the memory of you pressed against him earlier—your palm on his chest, fingers in his hair—that soft voice saying his name like a prayer. His cock was rock hard, throbbing against the rough denim of his jeans despite trying to ignore it—jaw locked, reminding himself he was just a piece of shit asshole who didn’t deserve you.

He lifted his arm as the tent flap opened, watching you slip inside without a word—the zipper’s quiet rasp cutting through the heavy silence. Your body filled the tight space carefully, knees brushing his thighs as you crawled in. The air turned thick with shared heat, warm skin, and that sweet scent that always drove him crazy.

Daryl sat up fast. “Thought I told you to stay the hell away from me, girl.” He growled, voice gravel-rough but it cracked on the last word, betraying the hunger clawing at him. His eyes dropped straight to your mouth, watching your lips part softly as you breathed him in while moving closer—swinging one leg over his until you were straddling his lap completely. The position forced your bodies flush together in the tiny tent—your thighs squeezing his hips, the heat of your core pressing right down against the thick, aching bulge in his jeans.

Your hands came up exactly like they had earlier—one palm settling firmly over his chest, fingers spreading wide to feel the frantic hammer of his heart beneath the worn fabric. The other carded into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, threading through the strands and tugging lightly.

You didn’t kiss him—just pressed so damn close that your forehead touched his, noses brushing, hot breath mingling in the sliver of space between your mouths. He could taste the sweetness of it—hands hovering at your sides, trembling with the need to grab you.

He didn’t know how to touch something this good without ruining it.

“Do you really want me to stay away, Daryl?” You finally whispered, voice breathy against his lips as your weight settled against him, hips rolling slow—grinding down as his breath caught with a groan. “You’re so hard—feels like you want me to stay right here.”

Daryl’s hands finally settled on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to feel the give of your skin through your shirt. He wanted to pull you harder against him, to slide his palms up your bare back, taste the sweat at the hollow of your throat—but he held back, breathing you in like he was drowning. Your forehead stayed pressed to his, eyes half-lidded as you looked at him through your lashes.

“You don’t have to keep pushing me away,” You breathed, lips ghosting over his again, so close he could feel their softness. “I see the good in you, Daryl Dixon. Let me take care of you.”

His grip tightened on your waist, hips jerking up once to meet your slow grind as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in the cramped, heated space—

Daryl jolted awake with a sharp gasp, bolting upright in the empty tent. His chest heaved, skin drenched in sweat, heart pounding like he’d just run through a horde. He raked both hands roughly over his face, dragging them through his damp hair as he tried to catch his breath. The dream still clung to him—the weight of you in his lap, the brush of your lips, those breathy murmurs that had him aching for everything you offered.

“Fuck.” He muttered hoarsely, eyes squeezed shut. He could still smell you. Still feel the ghost of your hands on his chest and in his hair. Morning light was already starting to creep under the tent flap, and the group would be heading out for the CDC soon.

Daryl dropped his head back against the canvas with a frustrated groan, willing the ache in his chest to fade.

~~~

The CDC felt like another world.

Hot water. Clean clothes. Full stomachs. For the first time since the dead started walking everyone’s shoulders eased just an inch.

Lingering laughter spilled down the sterile halls.

Jenner kept refilling glasses, and somehow everyone kept drinking.

Even Daryl.

You watched him from across the table, unable to look away. His cheeks were flushed, those sharp blue eyes hazy with wine. He slouched in his chair, one heavy boot hooked on the rung, actually laughing—deep, rough, unguarded—at something Glenn said. The sound rolled through you like thunder, low and warm, settling heavy between your thighs.

For once he looked… peaceful. Almost relaxed. Worn flannel shirt stretched across his broad chest, sleeves ripped off to show his corded forearms. You wanted to climb into his lap right there and feel that rare laugh vibrate against your mouth.

His gaze lifted slowly, eyes locking on yours.

The smirk on his face died instantly—something darker flickering in its place. God, he was beautiful—even when he was prickly or yelling in your face—there was good inside of him.

You looked away before Daryl could ruin the image you painted of him in your mind.

Again.

Once the wine went dry you decided to call it a night, moving through the narrow hallway to the room you’d chosen earlier. You turned another corner and walked straight into a solid wall of muscle and heat.

“Shit—” Daryl’s voice was gravel-rough, thick with wine and something else as your hands landed on his chest to steady yourself. God, he was warm. You could feel his heartbeat slamming under your palms, fast and panicked.

He didn’t step back.

Neither did you.

“Sorry,” You whispered, but it came out quick—startled. The last time you spoke to him he told you to stay the fuck away from him and here you were with your hands still on his chest. “I think I’m lost.”

Daryl’s eyes dropped to yours, then lower—tracing the way your lips parted with a soft exhale. The half-empty wine bottle hung forgotten at his side.

“Yeah,” He muttered. “Me too.”

The air between you thickened. Hot and electric. Just the distant hum of the building and the sound of your breathing.

“You’re drunk.” You whispered, pressing closer to steal away some of his warmth.

“Not hardly.” His voice had gone dangerously low, free hand coming up slow, bracing on the wall beside your head, caging you in without touching. The heat rolling off his body made you visibly shiver. You tilted your face up, close enough to smell wine and smoke and that wild, masculine scent that was pure Daryl. Close enough that your breasts brushed his chest.

“Daryl…” His name left your lips like a plea, watching his jaw clench so tight the muscle jumped. Eyes dark, pupils blown. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard.

Then he moved.

His hand slid to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise as he walked you backward until your back hit the cool wall. A gasp slipped out of you as his hips followed, pressing in until you felt the thick, heavy line of him grinding slow and deliberate against your lower belly.

“Fuck,” He growled under his breath, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel that?”

You whimpered softly, nodding, hips rolling up to meet the slow grind of his. The friction made heat pool slick and aching between your legs, hands fisting against the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer. One of his thighs pushed between yours, pressing right against your core—the pressure dragging a broken moan from your throat.

His mouth hovered over yours—barely an inch away. You could almost taste him. His grip on your waist tightened, fingers digging into soft flesh as he rocked against you again, harder this time, letting you feel every inch of how badly his body wanted you.

Your hand slid up, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. His other hand finally touched you—rough palm dragging up your side, thumb brushing against your waist. For one dizzy, perfect second, his lips parted like he was finally going to kiss you.

Claim you.

Ruin you right there against the CDC wall.

Then his whole body went rigid.

Reality slammed back in.

He shoved away from you violently, chest heaving—hands clenched into fists at his sides like he didn’t trust them anymore.

“You still don’t fuckin’ get it,” He snapped, voice raw and cracking. His eyes were narrowed—furious at himself more than you. “I don’t give a fuck about you—don’t need you out here fuckin’ up my head! Gettin’ me killed!”

The words sliced deep.

You stared at him, chest still rising fast, lips tingling from how close he’d been. He wouldn’t look at you now—eyes fixed on the floor.

You swallowed the burn in your throat and nodded once.

“Okay.”

This time your smile was small.

Sad.

You turned and walked away without looking back. Daryl stayed frozen in the hallway long after your footsteps faded, back pressed to the opposite wall, chest hollow.