margaret

The prison was rarely quiet—there was the constant groan of the fence line, the rhythmic thud of chores, and the sound of metal against concrete. But today, there was a soft, shimmering sound that didn’t belong. It was airy and sweet, weaving through the stagnant, humid air like a ribbon. It caught Daryl at the end of the corridor, making him tilt his head as it pulled him off his path. He expected a radio that caught the ghost of a signal, or maybe a music box someone had salvaged from a run. As he rounded the corner, the sight made him freeze. 

You sat on a crate, wiping the same spot on your holster repeatedly, your movements synced to the slow, three-beat rhythm of a waltz. “So this is love” drifted through the air from a battered CD player salvaged from a run. Daryl had seen you bloodied, exhausted, and lethal enough to kill a walker without blinking—but he hadn’t expected this. He hadn't expected the half-closed eyes, the faint smile tugging at your lips, or the way you tilted your head to the melody, as if you were miles away from the rot and the walkers. You hadn't looked this at ease since the CDC—that fleeting moment of hope before the world narrowed back down to survival.

Watching you, he caught a glimpse of who you might have been before the world fell. That softness made his chest ache with a sudden, violent need to shield you. The world had tried to grind everyone down to nothing but bone and instinct, yet here you were, clinging to something beautiful. It was a defiance many had lost and it was as fragile as the silver disc spinning in the player.

He lingered in the doorframe's shadow, simply watching. He didn't want to move; he was terrified that the mere scrape of his boots would break the spell, dragging you back into the harsh, gray light of the prison. He wanted the song to last because he wanted to burn the image of your happiness into his memory. 

When it finally neared the end, he finally stepped forward. Still distracted, you didn’t notice him until he cleared his throat. “Watcha listenin’ ta?” 

You reach over to the CD player, turning the volume down rather than off. “I found a Cinderella soundtrack. I thought it’d be nice for Judith, but… I guess it was better for me,” you said with a small, sheepish laugh bubbling up.

Daryl didn’t offer a grin, but the hardness in his eyes softened. He didn’t mock the choice, nor did he lecture you on the lack of room for fairytales in this world. “Betta than tha noise out there.” 

You finally looked down at the holster in your lap, realizing you’d spent the last five minutes polishing the same spot. “Is it ridiculous?” You began, looking up to catch his gaze. “Finding peace in a children’s movie?” 

He shifted his weight, taking a couple steps closer but still leaving a respectable distance. “If it keeps your head right, it ain’t a waste.” 

​You let out a soft laugh and set the holster aside. “I think you’d appreciate the story, Daryl. It’s about someone who’s treated like dirt but ends up being the most important person in the room.” You tilted your head, watching him. “Sound like anyone you know?”

​He scowled, though without heat, his eyes darting to the concrete. “Don’t start with that,” he grumbled, but he didn't turn to leave. He hated how easily you peeled back his layers.

​To everyone else, Daryl Dixon was just the tracker—the muscle, a man who survived on rainwater and spite. But you looked at him with the same quiet focus you gave the music, as if he were the miracle the song promised. It terrified him. He shifted his weight, thumbs hooking into his belt loops. “Who treated her like dirt? Her own folks?”

​“Her step-family,” you explained softly, leaning back against the cool stone wall. “They tried to make her believe she didn’t deserve anything more than the cinders she slept in, but she didn’t let that define her. She kept her heart kind, even when the world was anything but. In the end, she got her happy ending.”

​Daryl snorted—a sharp, cynical sound that echoed in the quiet hall—but the scoff died quickly as his gaze lingered on you. He looked back at the CD player, where the disc spun in a slow, silver blur, the next track playing quietly between you. You could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the way he weighed his own life against the story of a girl in the ashes.

​He wanted to argue. To tell you there were no miracles in this world, only luck. He wanted to say he wasn't the kind of man who earned a happy ending, but then he looked at your face. Seeing the tension drain from your shoulders, leaving you looking more alive than you had in months, the argument died in his throat.

He stood in the silence, filled only by the faint, dreamy music. This time, he didn't brush it off. He looked at you—really looked at you—and realized that if you still believed in kindness after everything you’d witnessed, he had no right to call it a fairy tale. He certainly had no right to crush the dreams keeping you going.

​The moment hung between you, fragile and heavy, until the thud of boots echoing from the corridor broke the spell. Rick appeared, the weight of leadership slumped across his shoulders. His gaze narrowed, landing first on the source of the music before shifting to you. 

​“We can’t be wastin’ batteries,” Rick said. His voice was level and firm, but there was a sharp edge of annoyance to it—the sound of a man who was counting every supply. 

The light in your eyes didn’t just flicker; it completely shattered under the crushing weight of reality. Your hand trembled as you reached for the player, your stomach twisting with a sudden, sharp guilt at wasting supplies on something so useless. “Sorry, I–” your voice shook as you began, your head dropping as you prepared to click the power off.

“Let ‘er listen.”

The growl was low, vibrating through the air before Rick could say another word. He blinked, clearly surprised. Daryl was the first to nod, the first to point out what was practical and what wasn’t, usually was the first one to scoff at anything that wasn’t a survival necessity.

Rick’s eyebrows shot up, his head tilting toward him. “Daryl, we’re low on—”

“I’ll find more,” Daryl interrupted, his voice sharp and final. He didn’t even look Rick in the eye. His gaze was entirely on you. “Ain’t doin’ no harm.”

Rick looked between the two of you, his jaw tight. He didn’t have the energy for an argument over a few batteries. With a weary sigh and a final, lingering look of disapproval, he turned and disappeared back into the depths of the prison.

Daryl began to follow, but he stopped after two steps. He shot a look over his shoulder, his eyes searching yours. He wanted to make sure Rick’s words hadn’t completely ruined it—that the reality of this place hadn’t choked out the small bit of light he’d just witnessed. You didn’t turn the music back up; you just started at the holster in your lap, the shame still burning in your chest. He hated seeing that look on you—the way you had folded back into yourself. 

“Don’t turn it off,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “He’s just cranky. Listen ‘til the damn things die.”

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, the tension finally draining out of your shoulders. A small, genuine smile broke out—not the dreamy one from before, but one of deep, quiet gratitude. Rick’s reprimand had stung, but Daryl’s words had much more of an impact. He was giving you permission to hold on to a piece of yourself, and that meant everything.

He lingered for a second longer than necessary, as if making sure you weren’t going to cry, before he finally vanished around the corner, the sound of his boots much heavier than the music.

The woods surrounding the prison were thick with the smell of damp earth and rot, a heavy reminder of the world beyond the fences. Daryl moved silently, his eyes scanning the floor not for tracks or movement, but for a flash of color that didn’t belong. He was supposed to be checking the snares and checking for signs of a fresh herd. Maybe even hunting a buck. But he wanted to give you something that Rick couldn’t take away. Something that didn’t need batteries or permission.

He pushed deeper into the woods, the orange light of the fading sun barely flickering through the dense trees. The shadows were warning him that he should be getting back inside the gates, but just as he was about to turn around, he saw it. A flash of deep, vivid crimson against the tangled green. Wild raspberries.

To him, finding these berries in a patch of thorns felt like a miracle. The dirt was sandy and crumbly, little patches of grass browned from struggling to grow. It was a miserable, dead place, yet it had produced something sweet.

He dropped his crossbow into the dirt beside him and sank to his knees, not caring that the reckless habit could get him killed if a walker stumbled out of the brush. His hands parted the thorny branches away, the sharp briars cutting through the rough calluses of his skin, drawing thin lines of blood. Lacking a basket or bowl, he pulled a relatively clean rag from his pocket and laid it across his palm. He treated the tiny berries with more care than he treated his own wounds, picking until his knuckles were slick with blood in a dozen places and ignoring the sting.

“So this is love...”

​He grunted, shaking the thought away, but he couldn't shake the image of you—that dreamy trance, the way you looked so damn beautiful without the world’s weight crushing your shoulders. The lyrics you’d explained kept rattling in his brain like a stone in his boot. He looked down at his bleeding hands, at the bright red juice staining his skin. If this wasn't love, why the hell was he on his knees in the dirt, bleeding for you?

He carefully folded the corners of the rag over the berries, cradling the small package in his palm. They were a little squished, the deep red juice already seeping into the cloth. It was a piece of the world that hadn’t rotted yet. 

By the time Daryl slipped back through the prison gates, the sun had completely dipped below the horizon. Night had fully settled over the cellblock. The moon was a sharp sliver in the sky, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The prison was quiet now, except for the low, distant groans of the fence line, but as Daryl walked down the corridor toward his own cell, he stopped.

It was faint, barely louder than a breath, but it instantly hooked into his chest. 

You were humming.

It was the same tune from earlier, rolling softly through the dark block. Daryl took a deep, quiet breath, his boots making almost no sound as he shifted his path and stepped toward your cell. He stopped by the entrance, leaning his shoulder against the metal bars as he lifted the blanket covering your doorway just slightly. In the dim moonlight, he could see you sitting on the edge of your cot, your knees pulled up to your chest as you looked out the small window. 

The dreamy look was back, but it was muted by the shadows, a little heavier now that the day was over. He didn’t announce himself as he stepped in. Based on your faraway look, you wouldn’t have noticed him anyway. 

“Still at it?” he muttered, though there was a strange, nervous energy in his voice.

You gasped softly at the sound of his voice, though you weren’t truly startled. “Guess I am. I can’t get it out of my head.” You said with a small, embarrassed smile that pulled at his heart.  It was a look he wouldn’t mind seeing again.

Daryl didn’t reply right away. He stepped fully into the little space, his eyes briefly sweeping over the few minor comforts you’d managed to find to make the concrete cell look more like a room. There were some postcards pinned to the walls and some pictures from magazines. 

“That song... it’s about... findin’ somethin’, right?” he asked, the words hesitant as they left his mouth.

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “It’s about finding love, Daryl.”

Daryl looked down at the stained, folded rag in his hand, then back up at you through the dark fringe of his hair. “Thought it just sounded like... hopin’ for somethin’.”

Before you could fully process the vulnerability in his voice, he slowly extended his hand, unfolding the fabric. His knuckles were raw and crisscrossed with thin, dark lines of blood, some cuts still weeping. “Found these for ya.” What he didn’t say was that he had spent two hours wandering dangerous woods in search of them.

You stood up, stepping closer to look at the bundle, but your eyes immediately bypassed the fruit and landed on the state of his skin. “Oh, Daryl… Your hands are all torn up.” 

“Ain’t nothin’.” he grumbled quickly, shifting his weight and tucking his other hand—the more mangled one—safely behind his back. “Just eat ‘em ‘fore they go bad.” 

You hesitated for a second, looking from his guarded expression down to the bright, crushed berries in his palm. Carefully, with two hands, you took the bundle from him, your breath hitching when you almost lost a berry. When the cloth is secure in your hand, you bring one up to your lips, his eyes tracking each of your movements. The moonlight caught in his gaze, making them shine.

“So this is love, huh? Bringing me half-squashed raspberries?” You said with a teasing smile. 

“Don’t go startin’ with that fairytale bullshit,” he mumbled, his voice rougher than usual as he tried to swallow down the sudden flutter in his chest. He was deeply grateful that the shadows hid the flush on his cheeks. 

You popped another berry into your mouth, the sweetness sharp and fresh compared to the stale crackers and bread you were used to eating. “They’re perfect. Thank you, Daryl.” You looked down at the bundle, then back up at him. “Did you have any?”

Daryl shook his head. “Nah. Picked ‘em for you.”

“You went through all that work and you didn’t even have one?” You said with a bewildered laugh.

Then you pinched a plump, dark red raspberry between your fingers. Instead of putting it in your own mouth, you stepped closer into his space and brought it up to his lips.

Daryl froze. His eyes tracked your fingers, his gaze catching the faint moonlight until his blue eyes practically shone in the dark. He didn’t move, barely even breathed, entirely paralyzed by the sheer gentleness of the gesture. For a second, you thought he might pull away, but then his jaw softened. He leaned forward just a fraction and parted his lips, taking the berry from your fingers.

The brush of your fingertips against his chapped skin made him have to repress a shudder. He chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. The rich, sweet flavour bursted against his tongue, reminding him how long he’d had something that didn’t come out of a can. 

“Good?” you murmured, your voice dropping a register in the quiet of the night.

“Yeah,” he managed, the word rough and gravelly in the back of his throat. 

The silence settled over the cell again, thicker this time, heavy with a tension that didn’t feel dangerous—just entirely unfamiliar to him. You turned to set the bundle down on your cot, still humming the melody under your breath without even realizing it.

When you turned back around, the sight made your breath hitch. 

Daryl was standing in the center of the room with his head ducked low, his greasy shaggy hair falling forward to form a dark curtain that hid his eyes from you, the moon highlighting the texture. His shoulders were hunched and his jaw was set tight. He was more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. His hand was extended to you, with his palm facing up and his fingers curled in. The moonlight caught all the crimson lines in his skin. He didn’t look up at you. He couldn’t.

“Don’t… Don’t know the steps,” he muttered to the floor, his voice so low and gravelly it was barely a whisper. “But I can stand still if you need somethin’ to lean on.” 

For a long moment, you couldn’t move. You stared at his open palm, your heart hammering against your ribs. The sight made your gaze blurred slightly, a sudden prickle stinging your eyes. Of all the things you expected from the hardened tracker, this was the furthest from it. It was the bravest, softest thing he had ever done. To anyone else, he was nothing more than muscle, sharp edges, and defensive growls. But here the raw honesty of his posture struck you right in the chest. He looked so incredibly beautiful in his awkwardness, taking more courage to offer you his bloodied hand that it would be to face a herd. 

Not letting him wait a second more, you closed the small distance between you. Your hand settled his palm, his skin was warm, rough as sandpaper, and mapped with fresh scabs. He didn’t close his grip right away, but the way his fingers curled around yours was so cautious, so gentle, it made your throat ache. With your free hand, you reached up, your fingers lightly brushing the side of his face. The coarse hair of his beard scratched against your palm as you gently coaxed him to look at you. 

“You don’t have to know.” You whispered, your voice a soothing balm in the quiet. “Just sway with me.”

Slowly he tilted his head up, his eyes locking onto yours through the mess of his hair. He looked completely out of his depth here, but his gaze told you that he trusted you. His eyes were so pretty, you thought. Strands of dark, messy hair parted just enough to reveal them. Caught in the stark, silver beam of the moon, they were guarded yet intensely focused, a deep, liquid blue that reflected the moonlight and everything he couldn’t bring himself to say.

You closed the rest of the distance between you and took his other hand, the one he had tried to hide behind his back, and gently guided it to your waist. “Hold your hand here, like this.” 

When his palm brushed the curve of your waist, he instinctively brought it a few inches higher, resting on your ribs rather than your hip. The touch felt too intimate, a heavy weight he wasn’t sure he had the right to claim. He didn’t want to press his luck, and more than anything, he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. He wanted to hold you, but more than that, he wanted you to feel safe.

“Like that?” he breathed, looking for any hint of discomfort in your eyes. 

“Perfect.” You said, resting your hand on his chest. The leather of his vest beneath your hand was still cool from the night air. 

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, grounding him in the quiet space between you. Then, ever so softly, you began to hum with a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You shifted your weight in a slow, easy sway. Daryl, as promised, stayed rigidly still, watching you enter that dreamy world once more. The dust motes in the surrounding air, caught in the silver beam of the moon, made your dirty work clothes look like they’re shimmering with magic dust. The way the moon caught the edge of your relaxed shoulders, the way you swayed with your eyes half closed, made him feel as if he were holding something incredibly precious.

Slowly, the rigid tension in his posture began to bleed out. He didn’t try to step or follow, but as you swayed, he let his body follow yours. The initial awkwardness that left him rigid faded into the quiet shadows of the cell. His hand on your ribs softened, his fingers spreading out slightly to feel the rise and fall of your breath.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you rested your head against his chest. Against his broad frame, a profound sense of safety washed over you. The world outside the walls was loud, chaotic, and violent, but pressed against him, the noise of the apocalypse faded into nothing. Beneath your ear you could hear the frantic beat of his heart slowly into the rhythm of your hum. 

He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he felt the complete surrender in your posture. He brought his chin down slightly, his rough cheek brushing against the crown of your hair before finally resting his head against yours. He closed his eyes, finally letting out a long, shaky breath he felt like he’d been holding since he saw Rick dim your world. 

Daryl wasn’t just hearing the song anymore. He was feeling it.

With each hum, the low, sweet melody vibrated directly against his chest. Every soft, rhythmic breath you took penetrated his skin, sinking deep past his ribs to where his heart was beating. The melody seeped into him, smoothing out the rough edges of his thoughts until the rhythm of your humming became the only thing holding him together.

He never knew what heaven was supposed to be like–during his life he was shown different versions of hell, but now, heaven was right here, wrapped in the safe, breathing warmth of your body against his chest. The key to all heaven is mine, the song had promised, and for tonight it belonged to him, held tight in his bloodied, calloused palm. But he was a man who was used to things being ripped out of his grasp every time they started to feel good, or real. He wasn’t sure if tomorrow you would still look at him like this. His grip tightened on you, his hand moving down from your ribs to the small of your back, anchoring you closer to him, and his nose buried itself in your hair. He was terrified that if he let go, the key would turn, the lock would click, and he’d be locked out of heaven forever.

You felt the sudden, desperate tension lock up his muscles, and heard the sharp catch of his breath above your head. It was a familiar grip you knew all too well. Your humming softened and your saying paused for just a moment. As your hand slid from his shoulder, it traced the leather of his vest before wrapping securely around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling into his messy hair. You felt a shudder run through his broad shoulders as he processed the weight of your response. A sigh left his lips against your hair, and his grip loosened just a fraction. As that long, shaky sigh leaves his lips, his entire chest deflates against yours. His broad shoulders dropped, the heavy, defensive hunch finally straightening out as he leaned into you.

Slowly, without a single word, you began to sway again. You picked up the melody right where you left off, your voice a low, soothing vibration. The rhythm of his breathing changed. It shifted from shallow, ragged pants to deep, rhythmic rises that matched yours. His fingers relaxed against the small of your back, no longer gripping you out of terror, but cradling you out of a profound, quiet devotion. 

The tightness in his chest unraveled until the suffocating pressure that had lived behind his ribs for years simply evaporated into the cool night air. For the first time in his life, his heart had wings and it could fly, just like the song said, carried entirely by the steady rhythm of your voice. You weren’t going anywhere. You were right here, holding onto him just as tightly as he was holding onto you. Knowing you were choosing to stay in his arms, matching him, unburdened his soul in a way he didn’t think was possible. 

As the melody wrapped around the two of you in the darkness again, he felt a quiet, staggering realization in his chest. So this is the miracle that I’m dreamin’ of. The song’s line echoed in the quiet depths of his mind, no longer a silly lyric. He had been waiting all damn day to see you like this again, to see that small smile return, and to prove to himself that the cruelty of this world hadn’t won. He’d been carrying the image of you around since the afternoon, a quiet obsession he hadn’t known how to quiet down that had driven him to dig his bare fingers into a briar patch. Now, with the weight of your head resting against his chest, it was you, choosing to hold on to him in the dark, that was his damn miracle he had been hoping for. 

Until tonight, love was a word part of a phrase I’ve often heard. A line that hit too close to home. To Daryl, it had always been a useless, heavy word, a concept that belonged to other people, to better families, to a life he’d never live. For the first time in his life, the word didn’t feel like a weapon used to disappoint him or a lie told to keep people happy. It felt like this. It was the way your fingers tangled unbothered in his dirty hair. It was the way he had offered to be completely vulnerable in your presence, and instead of breaking him down, you had met him there. It was the way you didn’t flinch at the rough sandpaper texture of his skin or the dark, dried blood on his knuckles, but instead treated his hands like they were something worth holding.

He didn’t just want to protect this side of you anymore. He was entirely, helplessly consumed by it. This was it. This was the thing people died for. This was what it felt like to want to keep someone alive, not just so you wouldn’t be alone, but because the world was simply better with their light in it.

The final notes of your humming tapered off into a breathless whisper, yet neither of you moved. The silence that returned to the cell block didn’t bring the cold, heavy weight of reality back with it. Instead, it felt like a warm blanket wrapped tightly around the space you shared. You didn’t pull away, and Daryl didn’t let go. If anything, his grip remained steady, holding you against the solid planes of his chest. With your eyes still closed, you simply let your head remain heavy against his shirt, your cheek pressing into the worn material. His heartbeat was slow now, a heavy, reassuring sequence that echoed right through his ribs. It was the steadiest thing in this broken world. 

His chin nudged into the crook of your shoulder, the movement feeling natural, as if his body had been waiting for months for this. His arms, usually reserved for the weight of his crossbow, held you carefully, almost reverently. He kept you pressed close enough that there wasn’t a gap of air between you. He held you as if he were memorizing the way your weight shifted naturally against his, the way your warmth soaked through layers of fabric and dirt. He didn’t trust his own voice to break the stillness, so he let his actions do the talking.Slowly and reluctantly, he pulled away, but kept your hand in his as he gave you a small, awkward twirl, making you laugh. It was such a genuinely beautiful sound, a reward in itself.

You stumbled slightly, the sudden movement catching you off guard, but making your heart swell. “You’re not that bad a dancer.” You said warmly as he pulled you back in. 

“Tha’ wasn’t really dancin’...” he mumbled while keeping his head down again, his hair acting as a curtain to keep you out.

​“You still won’t look at me?” you asked softly, brushing his hair back, trying to coax him into meeting your gaze.

His stiffened beneath your touch, his jaw tensing so hard beneath your fingers you could feel the muscles jumping. He kept his gaze entirely on your feet, his jaw working as if he were trying to chew through his own restraint. He knew what would happen if he looked up and saw that soft, unwavering gaze of his. He’d break past the barricades that always held him back. 

“Daryl?” you whispered, the plea in your voice stripping away the last of his defenses. He didn’t want to look. Looking meant acknowledging that this was real, but he couldn’t ignore that tone. 

Daryl finally stopped fighting, his shoulders slumping as if the very air had been knocked out of him. When his gaze finally fell on yours, he didn’t feel the judgment or pity that he had come to expect from the world. He only saw you; steady, open, and dangerously soft. He wasn’t just looking, but searching. Searching for some desperate sign that this wasn’t a dream he was about to wake up from. 

He wasn’t just looking for an answer; ​he was looking for permission. You could see the internal war raging behind his eyes, the way his pupils dilated as he drank you in. He didn’t need to say anything; his gaze dropped to your lips for a fleeting, tortured second before snapping back to your eyes, a silent confession that screamed, you don’t know what you’re doing to me. You leaned in just an inch, your fingers sliding from his hair down to the rough, bristled line of his jaw, tracing the edge of his bottom lip—giving him all the permission he needed.

The contact of your skin against his broke down the last of his walls. He didn’t hesitate. He moved with clumsy, desperate speed, his hand at the small of your back splaying out as he pulled you into him and the other cupping your cheek. Then his lips met yours, with a rough urgency, a frantic need to prove you were real. He was so overwhelmed he almost stumbled, his heavy boots scuffing against the concrete before he caught his footing. 

The kiss wasn’t polished or practised–it was rough and starved. His teeth hit yours a couple times, a testament to his lack of experience and his overwhelming need. He groaned into the kiss, his body pressing you back until your shoulders hit the cold stone of the cell wall, leaving you stumbling to match his pace. The sweetness left by the raspberries on your tongue was addictive, leaving him chasing it. 

You were caught in a strong current you couldn’t fight but more importantly didn’t want you. His hands were frantic, not sure where to be. One moment they were gripping your waist, pinning you to the wall. The next they were gently tracing the soft skin of your jaw, then getting tangled in your hair. As his mouth moved over yours, you felt his entire world pouring into the kiss. He was a man who spent his life surviving by closing himself off and was now wide open. 

You felt him everywhere: his palms wandering, the scratch of his stubble, and the grounding weight of his body against yours. You pulled him closer, your fingers digging into the worn leather of his vest, desperate to pull him out of the cold, harsh reality of the prison and into this burning moment. Daryl’s hand shifted from your cheek, his fingers weaving firmly into your hair to tilt your head back, granting him better access. A dizzy sensation took over you, not just from the moment but the raw intensity of him. 

Beneath your hand you could feel his heart beating, syncing with the fast pace of your own. Finally, your hand tugged on his hair so you could catch your breath. He seemed to realize how hard he was pressing you against the stone, and he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours and his nose brushing yours. His breathing was heavy, fanning against your face in long huffs. “That’s why…” he started before swallowing heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That’s why I wouldn’t look at ya. Knew that would happen.” 

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw before coming to rest, cupping his cheek. “I’m glad you did.” You whispered. 

​He stared into your eyes for a long, searching moment, his vulnerability laid bare in the moonlight. “Was it… was it okay?” he asked, his voice suddenly small and sheepish.

“You’re lucky teeth don’t bruise.” You couldn’t help but let out a loud, bright, genuine laugh. 

His cheeks turned a shade of red that the dim light couldn’t hide. “Didn’t mean to…” he started, his voice trailing off as his gaze dropped to your lips again. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours with a moment of hesitation before gently pressing into them. This kiss was the complete opposite of the first. It was stripped of the frantic, starved desperation, much slower and more deliberate. He moved with caution, wanting this to be enjoyable for you. His hands, which gripped you with white-knuckled intensity, slid with careful tenderness until they cradled your cheek. He took his time, learning the shape of your mouth and learning how much pressure to apply. This time he didn’t push you against the wall but pulled you close to his chest. 

With a soft breath he pulled back slightly, his lips still brushing against yours as he whispered, “How was tha’?” 

“Better.” You answered softly, keeping your eyes closed as you closed the distance once more for one final peck. Then they lazily open as he takes a step back. 

His gaze swept over to the door for a lingering second, but before he could get a word out, you hooked a finger around the collar of his shirt. “Uh-uh. You’re not going anywhere, mister.” 

You dragged him across the cell, and his feet moved with you before his brain could register. You looked up at him as you sat on your bed, then suddenly dragged him down with you. Daryl didn’t put up a fight, though his body remained stiff, unsure and unused to the proximity. He hovered over you awkwardly. 

“Lay down, Daryl,” you said softly, but firm enough that he complied without a second thought. His arms came across your waist and his head rested right on your chest, just under your head. 

“This good?” He asked, searching your eyes once more in the moonlight. “Not hurtin’ ya or anythin’?” 

“Mhm,” you answered, brushing his hair back. Then you reached for a berry from the bundle beside your bed and brought it up to his lips. This time he didn’t fight. He leaned in, letting you feed him, and his eyes fluttered shut as he chewed and savored the flavor—the sweetness reminding him of your lips.

You ate a berry of your own, keeping your eyes on him the whole time. The look was tender and filled with warmth, something he wasn’t used to, but damn, he was starting to get used to it quickly. He stayed quiet, his cheek pressed against the steady rise and fall of your chest, finding peace he thought was gone in this life. 

You reached for another, your fingers brushing his bottom lip before you pressed the fruit into his mouth. He caught your wrist before you could pull your hand back, pressing a warm kiss to the center of your palm. He kept your hand there, pressing your palm against his stubbled cheek. “Been thinkin’ bout you all damn day.” He admitted faintly, without a second thought. 

You felt the vibration of the confession right against your chest. You threaded your fingers into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “Really? All day?” 

He nodded while leaning into your hand. “Wanted ta see ya like that again.” 

You felt the warmth of his breath against your palm as he spoke, and your heart gave a happy squeeze. “Like I was this morning?” 

“Yeah,” he murmured while looking at you through half hooded eyes. “Like the world wasn’t gettin’ to ya. Like you were still... you.” 

You traced a slow, soothing line across his cheekbone. “Well, it worked.” 

Daryl hummed a low, gravelly sound of contentment, his hands tracing small patterns on your sides. “Good.” He said as his eyes fluttered shut. 

His eyes stayed shut, but his mouth opened each time he felt your fingers brush against his lips for a berry, waiting for you to offer him another piece of fruit after you’d eaten your own. The bundle of raspberries eventually came down to just a few berries. “Last one.” You whispered. 

You pressed the final berry between his lips and he took it gently, his tongue grazing your fingertips. He licked his lips as he settled, then shifted, pulling your body closer until you were molded perfectly against him. “Falling asleep now?” You asked, your lips pressed against his hair. 

“Mhm,” was the only answer he gave, his breath already deepening into the heavy rhythm of slumber.

“Then goodnight, Daryl.” Your voice drifted, soft and drowsy as your own eyes began to grow heavy. You tucked your face into his neck, inhaling the scent of night still lingering on his skin. 

The rain had been falling for hours.

Distant thunder rumbles as water continues to pelt against your windows, turning them into mirrors that reflect the warm glow of the living room back at you. Every now and then, headlights from passing cars streaked across the glass, brief flashes of white and red before disappearing into the wet darkness outside.

It was the perfect weather for lazing about inside.

You were curled up on one end of the couch, wrapped tightly in your favorite blanket until only your head remained visible. The blanket had long since trapped your body heat, turning the little nest you’d created into a cocoon of warmth that made the thought of standing up feel genuinely offensive.

A half-finished bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table within easy reach. Beside it rested a large cup of soda, beads of condensation slowly sliding down the plastic. The open bag of Reese’s Pieces was tucked against your hip, forgotten for the moment as your attention remained fixed on the television.

The familiar opening theme of The Walking Dead echoed softly through the apartment.

Again.

At this point, you couldn’t even pretend this rewatch hadn’t been planned.

You had intended to watch a single episode, maybe two at the most.

Instead, several hours had vanished without your notice.

The second season had always been one of your favorites. It wasn’t the most action-packed season, and it certainly wasn’t the fastest, but there was something about Hershel’s farm that kept drawing you back. Maybe it was the temporary illusion of safety, or maybe it was the way the characters still had enough hope left to believe things might eventually get better.

Or maybe you were just nostalgic.

Either way, you had found yourself back here yet again.

You watched as the survivors argued on-screen, already knowing exactly how every conversation would end. Every reveal, every betrayal, every death had been permanently etched into your memory years ago.

That didn’t stop you from watching with rapt attention.

When a character made a terrible decision, you rolled your eyes.

When someone said something hypocritical, you immediately called them out despite being completely alone.

When one of your favorite scenes appeared, you found yourself smiling before it had even properly begun.

There was something deeply comforting about knowing what would happen next.

Life rarely offered that luxury.

Stories did.

The episode continued to play while rain tapped gently against the windows and the occasional crackles of lighting lit the room up in bright spurts. Time slipped by unnoticed. One handful of popcorn became another. Then another. Somewhere along the way, the candy bag grew lighter.

By the time the credits rolled, you were surprised to discover the popcorn bowl was nearly empty.

You leaned forward and grabbed the remote from the coffee table, intending to turn the television off.

Instead, your thumb hovered over the button.

The next episode was already loading.

You stared at the countdown.

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

“I should go to bed…”

The empty apartment failed to offer an opinion.

Two.

One.

The episode started.

You sighed dramatically and settled deeper into the couch.

“One more.”

A promise neither you nor the universe believed as the opening scenes began to play. The farm was gone and the group was on the road.

Lost.

Exhausted.

Surrounded by an endless world of death.

You watched the familiar images unfold while absentmindedly reaching for your bag of candy. Your fingers dipped into the bag and camp up empty.

Frowning, you peered inside.

Nothing.

You blinked.

Hadn’t there been half a bag left?

The realization made a laugh bubble up in your throat.

Apparently not.

Setting the empty bag aside, you stretched beneath the blanket. Your shoulders popped pleasantly. The warmth around you seemed to double the moment you relaxed.

You glanced toward the kitchen, the microwave clock catching your attention.

11:47 PM.

Later than expected but not surprising.

The rain continued pouring outside while the TV cast flickering light across the room.

Everything felt peaceful.

Safe.

For a moment, you simply sat there and enjoyed it. A yawn escaped before you could stop it, causing your eyes to water. The characters on-screen continued their journey down an abandoned road while you fought off a second yawn.

You were losing.

Badly.

The sounds of the episode gradually blended together with the rain. The groans of distant walkers mixed with the hum of the refrigerator. The steady rhythm of dialogue became harder to follow as your attention drifted.

Your eyelids felt heavier with every passing minute.

You blinked once.

Twice.

The television seemed strangely bright when you opened your eyes again.

The image on-screen had shifted to a massive herd of walkers moving together through the countryside.

Something felt… off.

You blinked a few times, trying to clear the lingering haze from your mind.

The herd was still crossing the screen. Hundreds of walkers shuffled together beneath an endless blue sky, moving with the same relentless pace that had made them so unsettling all those years ago. It should have looked familiar. You had seen the episode countless times.

Instead, you found yourself frowning.

The image looked unusually sharp, noticeably lacking the visible grain that was present in the early season.

The sunlight looked brighter.

The details seemed clearer somehow.

You shifted beneath your blanket, intending to sit up a little straighter, only to pause when something hot brushed against your face.

Hot?

That wasn’t right.

Your apartment was comfortably warm, but not hot. Certainly not hot enough for sunlight to feel like it was resting directly on your skin.

Slowly, you became aware of other sensations as well. A breeze stirred against your arms. Somewhere nearby, grass rustled softly. The sounds were faint, but distinct enough that they immediately felt out of place.

Confusion began to replace the last remnants of drowsiness.

You blinked again.

The television remained bright.

Too bright.

A knot of unease formed in your stomach.

When you looked upward, expecting to see the familiar ceiling of your apartment, your mind simply stopped.

For one impossible moment, your thoughts went completely blank.

There was no ceiling.

No light fixture.

No apartment.

Above you stretched a vast blue sky unmarred by anything except a few drifting clouds.

You stared at it.

Then stared some more.

Your brain stubbornly refused to make sense of what your eyes were telling it.

That wasn’t possible.

You had been sitting on your couch.

You remembered the weight of the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You remembered the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and the candy tucked beside you on the cushions. You remembered the rain tapping against the windows.

You remembered it all with perfect clarity.

So why were you looking at the sky?

A sharp jolt of fear shot through your chest.

You pushed yourself upright so quickly that dizziness washed over you. Instead of sinking into couch cushions, your hands met rough grass and uneven dirt. The texture scraped against your palms, startlingly real beneath your touch.

The sight of it sent your pulse racing.

You scrambled to your feet.

The world spun around you.

A wide field stretched around you, interrupted only by patches of trees and distant hills. There were no buildings. No roads. No signs of civilization. Nothing remotely familiar.

For several seconds, you simply turned in place, searching desperately for something that made sense.

There had to be an explanation.

A prank.

A dream.

A medical emergency.

Anything.

Your breathing quickened as you gaze swept across the landscape again and again. The harder you looked, the worse the panic became. Every direction revealed more of the same empty countryside.

“No…”

The word slipped out before you could stop it.

Your voice sounded wrong in the open air.

Too small.

Too fragile.

You swallowed hard and tried to steady yourself, but your hands had already begun to shake. Reaching into your pocket was almost instinctive. You searched for your phone, hoping for something familiar to anchor yourself to.

Your pocket was empty.

A fresh surge of panic crashed through you.

You checked again, turning it inside out.

Then your other pocket.

Then both a third time, despite knowing how ridiculous it was.

Nothing.

No phone.

No wallet.

No keys.

The realization struck with alarming force. Whatever had happened, you hadn’t simply wandered outside while half asleep. Everything from your life was gone.

You felt your chest tighten.

The beginnings of a panic attack clawed their way upward.

“Help!”

The shout burst from your throat before you consciously decided to call out.

Your voice carried across the field.

No answer came.

You shouted again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

The silence that followed was somehow worse than if no sound had existed at all. It left you along with your racing heartbeat and spiraling thoughts.

Then the wind shifted.

The smell hit you almost instantly.

Rot.

Your stomach lurched.

It was a foul, sickening odor that seemed to coat the back of your throat. Instinctively, you raised a hand to cover your nose, but it did little to help.

The smell only grew stronger.

A chill crawled up your spine.

Something about it felt familiar.

Not because you had ever encountered anything quite like it before, but because your brain had already begun drawing connections that you desperately did not want to acknowledge.

Slowly, you turned toward the source.

The figure emerging from the tall grass looked human at first glance.

At second glance, it looked anything but.

Its movements were wrong. Its skin hung in gray, decaying strips. Part of its face appeared to have collapsed inward, exposing darkened teeth beneath ruined flesh.

A scream caught in your throat.

Every instinct screamed at you to run, yet you remained frozen where you stood.

Because you recognized it.

Not the person.

The creature.

You knew exactly what it was.

A walker.

Years spent watching episodes on your couch. Endless discussion posts online. Character deaths that had left you staring at your television is disbelief.

As though determined to confirm your worst fears, another figure staggered into view behind the first. Then another.

A herd.

A cold wave of dread washed through your entire body.

The possibility that had been lurking at the edge of your thoughts suddenly stepped into the light, impossible to ignore any longer.

The realization shattered whatever composure you had managed to cling to.

Tears stung your eyes. Your breathing became shallow and uneven. Every horrifying memory associated with the series seemed to crash into your mind at once. You remembered the deaths. The starvation. The violence. The countless ways people suffered long before they died.

Most terrifying of all, you knew that unlike the characters, you weren’t written for this world.

You weren’t a survivor.

You were a fan who had been watching from the safety of a couch less than five minutes ago.

And now that safety was gone.

With barely any time to think, you turned on your heels and ran.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

New story, woohoo! Hope y’all liked it!

daryl stared down at his dirt-stained boots, his calloused thumbs mindlessly rubbing against the thick fabric of his pocket. inside, a small, heavy weight had been resting for months—a constant, physical reminder of the day he’d finally understood you.

it had happened nearly half a year ago, back at the old safehouse before you’d moved here. you had been cleaning out a cluttered drawer and pulled out a rusted, tarnished metal band. you’d held it with a kind of quiet reverence, your voice soft as you murmured something about how strange it was that people used to promise themselves to one another forever.

daryl, exhausted from a three-day scout and hardened by a decade of ash and blood, hadn’t even looked up from cleaning his crossbow. “ain't strange. just pointless,” he’d muttered, his tone clipped and dismissive. “a piece of metal and a scrap of paper don't stop a walker from tearing your throat out. don't keep the winter from freezing ya. it's just old-world nonsense that didn't save nobody.”

he’d known the exact second the words left his mouth that he’d butchered it. he hadn't meant to be cruel—he was just stating what he thought was an obvious, survivalist fact. but when he finally looked up, your face had completely fallen. you hadn't argued. you hadn't yelled. you’d just quietly set the rusted band down, swallowed hard, and said, “right. of course.”

it had festered in daryl’s chest. for weeks, he couldn't shake the memory of how quickly you’d shrunk back into yourself. he realized, in the slow, agonizing way he processed things, that you weren't naive. you didn't think a piece of metal had magical protective powers. you just refused to let the world strip away every single piece of beauty, tradition, and human sanctity it had stolen.

it was two months after that argument. daryl had been scavenging an abandoned, collapsed property three towns over. he’d cleared the walkers in the kitchen, swept the perimeter, and ended up in an upstairs bedroom that smelled of damp wood and forgotten time. he pulled open a dust-covered dresser drawer, looking for ammunition or thick socks.

instead, sitting right beside a stack of faded, handmade quilts, was a small velvet box.

he opened it, and the vintage, art deco engagement ring inside seemed to stare back at him. the platinum was tarnished, but the geometric diamond still caught the dim light filtering through the cracked window—stubborn, sharp, and bright.

standing in that quiet, dead room, daryl had stared at it for a long time. his jaw tightened as your face flashed in his mind. “it’s just old-world nonsense,” he’d told you. but looking at this ring, preserved in a house where the inhabitants had long since turned to dust, he finally got it.

he thought about every single goddamn marriage he’d ever witnessed growing up in the suffocating georgia dirt, and how every single one of them had been complete and utter shit. to him, marriage wasn't a holy vow; it was a prison sentence. it was a piece of paper that trapped miserable, broken people in a cycle of hatred, making them think they had to stay together just because of a couple of cheap bands on their fingers. he’d grown up believing a ring was just a shackle you couldn't unlock.

but looking at this ring, he finally saw the other side of it. the people who lived in this farmhouse hadn't built a prison. they had built a life. they had chosen to give this little piece of metal a weight that outlived the end of the world.

you didn't want a ring because you thought it would save you, and you certainly didn't want the toxic, broken version of love he’d been raised on. you wanted it because you believed some things were still worth holding onto.

without really understanding the full weight of what he was doing, daryl had reached out, picked up the ring, and shoved it deep into his vest pocket. it hadn't left his side since.

"hey," daryl muttered, his voice rougher than usual, cutting through the twilight and bringing him back to the present.

you looked up from your hands, tilting your head. "yeah?"

he didn't look at you. instead, he reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the tarnished platinum before he pulled it out, holding it out between his thumb and forefinger. it sat there, a tiny piece of the old world resting in your scarred, dirty palm.

"found it. a while back," he said, the words jerking out of him. "in that house by the creek. the one with the quilts ya liked."

you breathed in sharply, your eyes fixating on the geometric lines of the diamond. you didn't reach for it, but your chest hitched, the memory of his harsh words from months ago hanging invisibly in the air between you.

daryl shifted his boots, his ears burning hot in the dimming light. he looked out toward the tree line, his grip tightening on the metal band.

"if ya changed your mind... i can throw this thing as far as i can chuck it," he said, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a vulnerability that clearly terrified him. "i just... i want to do right by ya. that's all."

it was a confession. he swallowed hard, the collar of his vest suddenly feeling suffocatingly tight.

"i know what i said before. about it bein' pointless," he started, his voice halting, awkward, scraping the bottom of his throat. "i was wrong. i grew up watchin' people use it like a weapon, ya know? it was always just ugly. made me think the whole thing was a lie."

he finally turned his head to look at you, and the raw, quiet vulnerability in your eyes almost made him choke on his next breath.

"but i still think a piece of paper don't mean thin' out here. if the walls fall tomorrow, or a herd comes through... a ring ain't gonna stop it. don't change what we are. don't make me love ya any more than i already do. but i was thinkin'... maybe that ain't the point. the world's gone to hell. it takes everything. it takes people, it takes houses, it takes the way things used to be. but you... you don't let it take everything."

he gestured vaguely toward the marigolds by the steps.

"you plant stuff. you fix things up. you keep lookin' forward, even when it's stupid to. you give things meaning just 'cause you choose to. and..." he cleared his throat, his eyes burning. "i think maybe that's what i love most about ya. that you don't give up on the good stuff. i shouldn't have tried to take that from ya just 'cause my own life was messy."

he’d meant for this to be a conversation. he’d planned to just lay it out there, to see your reaction, to see if a ring was something you still even wanted after he’d bungled it so badly the first time.

but as he watched a single, silent tear slip down your cheek, something shifted in his chest. the heavy, stubborn knot he’d carried his whole life just... unraveled. the defensiveness melted away, leaving him entirely exposed. he didn't need to check if you'd changed your mind. he didn't need to throw it away. he already knew. he’d made up his mind the second he took it from that dresser drawer.

daryl stood up from the swing. the sudden movement made the wood groan loudly.

he took two nervous, heavy steps away, his boots thudding against the porch. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, took a ragged breath, and turned back around to face you.

then, for the first time in his life, daryl dixon willingly dropped to one knee.

he looked entirely out of his element. his frame was too big, his leather vest creaked, and his hands were trembling as he held the ring out toward you. a tear had tracked through the dirt on his own cheek, though he’d die before admitting it.

"i'm a pain in the ass," he choked out.

his mouth twitched, the corner pulling tight as he tried to anchor himself against the sheer panic of being this exposed.

"but i wanna keep hopin’ with ya."

he swallowed, his blue eyes fiercely, devastatingly earnest beneath his messy dark hair.

"wanna put up with me till the end of our days?"

you instantly nodded, tears spilling over. he reached out, his big, rough hand blindly grabbing for yours. his fingers were shaking so badly he didn't even notice which hand he took, his focus entirely consumed by the look on your face. through the heavy tears blurring your vision, a sudden, wet giggle slipped past your lips when you realized what he was doing—he had grabbed your right hand and was entirely focused on trying to guide the tarnished platinum onto your right ring finger.

the sound of your giggle made his shoulders stiffen immediately. he stopped, his brows furrowing as he looked from the ring up to your face, completely flustered.

you let out another breathless, watery laugh, your free left hand coming up to gently touch his knuckles, guiding his hands over to the correct side. "other hand, daryl," you whispered, your voice thick with crying but light with a sudden, overwhelming warmth.

daryl blinked, staring down at your left hand, and a dark, burning flush immediately flooded his neck and ears. "shit," he muttered, a rough, self-deprecating chuckle ripping from his chest as he shifted the ring to the correct hand. "told ya i'd mess it up."