ੈ✩‧₊˚Norman Reedus⋆.࿔*:･

The second time happened in the laundry room.

You were sorting clothes into piles beneath the dim yellow light when Brent wandered in carrying a basket that was barely half full.

He leaned against the doorway watching you for too long.

You ignored him.

Most women learned early how to ignore men like that.

“You always this serious?” he asked.

“Mhm.”

“That all I get?”

“Yep.”

He laughed softly, like you were flirting instead of trying to end the conversation.

You kept folding.

He stepped closer.

“You know,” he said, “I seen Dixon watchin’ you.”

Your hands paused for half a second.

That was mistake number two.

Brent noticed immediately.

A smug look crossed his face.

“Thought so.”

“There a point to this conversation?”

“Nah. Just curious.”

You turned away from him.

He moved closer again.

Too close.

Your shoulders tightened.

“You should back up.”

“Why?” he murmured. “Makes you nervous?”

Then his fingers brushed your hip.

Your entire body went rigid.

You stepped away instantly, basket scraping loudly across the floor.

“Don’t touch me.”

This time there was no mistaking the irritation in your voice.

Brent held up his hands again, but there was something ugly behind his eyes now. Something entitled.

“Jesus. You act like I’m attacking you.”

You stared at him coldly.

“You touch me again, I break your hand.”

For a second, silence stretched between you.

Then he laughed.

Not because he thought you were joking.

Because he thought you couldn’t do it.

You left before your temper exploded.

Daryl noticed anyway.

Of course he did.

Daryl Dixon noticed everything about you.

He noticed when you skipped breakfast because you were upset.

He noticed when your smile looked forced.

He noticed when you stopped lingering beside him during guard shifts.

He noticed when Brent stared at you during dinner hard enough to make your shoulders tense.

And Daryl especially noticed the way you avoided looking at the newcomer altogether.

By the fourth day, his patience snapped.

He found you repairing a tear in Glenn’s backpack near the fencing.

“What’s wrong?”

You glanced up. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You sighed.

Daryl crouched beside you, forearms resting on his knees, blue eyes fixed on your face with that intense quietness he carried everywhere.

“Someone botherin’ you?”

Your chest tightened immediately.

Because if there was one dangerous thing in the world—

It was Daryl Dixon caring about you.

You looked away first.

“S’not a big deal.”

“The hell it ain’t.”

“It’s handled.”

“Don’t sound handled.”

You threaded the needle too hard and stabbed your finger.

“Shit.”

Daryl instantly reached for your hand.

Large rough fingers wrapped around yours carefully, turning your hand over to inspect the tiny bead of blood.

The gentleness nearly undid you.

“There,” he muttered. “Y’always rush when you’re upset.”

Your throat tightened.

He looked up slowly.

“Who is it?”

You should’ve lied.

Instead, exhaustion won.

“Brent.”

The air changed immediately.

Daryl went still in the way predators did before they attacked.

“What’d he do?”

“Nothin’.”

His expression flattened.

“Try again.”

You hesitated.

Then quietly:

“He keeps touching me.”

Something terrifying flickered across Daryl’s face.

Not anger.

Worse.

Rage so deep it became calm.

“Where?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“Where’d he touch you?”

“Daryl—”

“Where.”

“My waist. Hip. Stuff like that.”

His jaw flexed so hard you heard his teeth grind.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Threaten you?”

“No.”

“Did ya tell him stop?”

“Yes.”

Daryl nodded once.

Then stood.

You felt immediate alarm.

“Daryl.”

He started walking.

Fast.

“Daryl.”

You stood too, heart pounding now.

“Daryl!”

He ignored you completely.

Which was worse.

Because yelling Daryl was manageable.

Silent Daryl was catastrophic.

You hurried after him across the yard just in time to see Brent near the fencing talking to Axel.

Daryl walked straight toward him.

Purposeful.

Deadly.

Axel saw his face first and immediately backed away.

Smart man.

Brent looked confused for approximately two seconds.

Then Daryl grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the fence hard enough to rattle the chain links.

The entire yard froze.

“What the hell—”

Daryl punched him.

No warning.

No speech.

Just fist colliding with jaw with a sickening crack.

Brent hit the ground.

Daryl followed him immediately.

“You touch her again—” punch “—I break every damn bone in your body—”

Another punch.

Blood splattered across the dirt.

People started shouting.

Rick moved forward.

Glenn grabbed his arm.

“Nah,” Glenn said quietly. “Let him.”

Brent tried to shove Daryl off.

Daryl hit him again.

“You hear me?!” Daryl roared.

The sound echoed across the yard.

You’d heard Daryl angry before.

He shouted.

Snarled.

Threatened.

But this was different.

This was pure protective violence.

The kind born from fear.

Brent spat blood onto the concrete.

“She ain’t your fuckin’ property—”

Daryl lost it.

Absolutely lost it.

He hauled Brent upward only to slam him into the fence again before driving his fist into his stomach hard enough to fold him in half.

“You don’t touch women who tell ya no!”

Another hit.

“You don’t put your damn hands on her!”

Another.

“Ya understand me now?!”

Rick finally intervened when Brent stopped fighting back.

“Daryl!”

Daryl shoved Brent away violently.

The newcomer collapsed into the dirt coughing blood and clutching his ribs.

Daryl stood over him breathing hard, chest heaving, knuckles split open and bleeding.

“Next time,” he said coldly, “I kill ya.”

Silence.

Nobody doubted him.

Not even a little.

Brent looked genuinely terrified now.

Good.

Rick looked between the two men grimly.

Then at Brent.

“Did you touch her?”

Brent stayed silent.

Rick’s expression darkened.

“Did you?”

“…yeah.”

The yard erupted immediately.

Tyreese cursed under his breath.

Maggie looked disgusted.

Carol’s face hardened into something vicious.

Rick nodded once.

“Then you’re done here.”

Brent’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re throwing me out over some girl—”

Rick grabbed him by the collar suddenly.

“Over a woman telling you no.”

Brent shut up immediately.

“You leave at first light.”

Rick released him hard enough to make him stumble.

Nobody argued.

Not one person.

Because the prison protected its own.

And you were theirs.

That night, Daryl sat alone on the guard tower cleaning blood from his knuckles.

The moonlight painted silver across his shoulders.

You climbed the ladder quietly.

He heard you anyway.

“Shouldn’t be up here.”

You sat beside him.

“Probably not.”

He kept cleaning his hands.

Didn’t look at you.

“You broke his nose,” you said softly.

“Mm.”

“Possibly ribs.”

“Mm.”

You looked sideways at him.

“You could’ve killed him.”

That finally made him glance at you.

His eyes were still stormy with leftover anger.

“Wanted to.”

The honesty stole your breath.

Daryl looked away again quickly, jaw tight.

“Hate men like that.”

Your chest ached suddenly.

Because this wasn’t about pride.

Or jealousy.

Or ownership.

It was about seeing you upset.

Scared.

Violated.

And not being able to stand it.

You reached carefully for his injured hand.

Daryl froze instantly.

Your fingers wrapped around his wrist gently.

“You’re bleeding.”

“S’fine.”

“It isn’t.”

You cleaned the split across his knuckles with water from your canteen.

Daryl watched you silently.

Then muttered:

“Shoulda told me sooner.”

You smiled faintly.

“You punched a man through a fence, Dixon.”

“He deserved worse.”

You laughed softly despite yourself.

His expression eased a little at the sound.

God, he loved your laugh.

You could see it in his face every single time.

Even when he tried hiding it.

The night breeze shifted between you.

Quiet settled comfortably.

Then Daryl spoke again, voice rougher now.

“When he touched ya…”

He swallowed hard.

“I hated it.”

You looked up slowly.

Not because of possessiveness.

Not because another man had touched you.

Because it hurt you.

That distinction mattered.

A lot.

“You scared me,” you admitted softly.

His eyes snapped to yours instantly.

“Would never hurt you.”

“I know.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Need ya t’know that.”

Emotion tightened your throat.

Daryl wasn’t good with words.

Which meant when he forced them out, they mattered.

You squeezed his hand gently.

“I know, Daryl.”

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth.

Your heartbeat stumbled.

“You got any idea,” he murmured quietly, “how hard it is watchin’ ya every day?”

Your breath caught.

“What?”

He laughed once without humor.

“Thought I was hidin’ it better.”

“You…?”

“Yeah.”

The confession seemed to physically pain him.

“I’m bad at this shit.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

This man.

This stubborn, brave, fiercely loyal man.

“You thought I didn’t know?”

Now it was Daryl’s turn to blink.

“What?”

You smiled softly.

“Daryl… you stare at me like I hung the moon.”

He looked horrified immediately.

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

His ears turned red.

Actually red.

You nearly laughed again.

“Shut up.”

“You punched a man bloody because he touched me.”

“He was bein’ a creep.”

“You threatened murder.”

“Still might.”

You laughed fully this time.

Daryl looked at you helplessly.

Then he smiled too.

Small.

Crooked.

Beautiful.

Your chest hurt with affection.

“You know,” you whispered, “that was kind of hot.”

Daryl nearly choked.

“The hell is wrong with you?”

“A lot, probably.”

He shook his head, grinning now despite himself.

Then the smile faded slowly as he looked at you again.

The air shifted.

You felt it immediately.

That pull.

That terrifying almost.

Daryl’s hand moved carefully against yours.

Giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His thumb brushed your knuckles once.

Twice.

Then he leaned in slowly enough for you to stop him.

You didn’t stop him either.

The kiss was soft.

Careful.

Like he was afraid of breaking something precious.

Your fingers slid into his hair immediately, and Daryl made a low rough sound in his throat that nearly melted you alive.

When he kissed you again, it was deeper.

Needier.

Months of tension finally cracking open.

He pulled back only enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“You got no idea,” he whispered, “how long I wanted t’do that.”

You smiled against his mouth.

“Do it again.”

So he did.

And somewhere below the guard tower, the prison carried on breathing around you both—

But for the first time in a long time, Daryl Dixon looked genuinely happy.

Brent left at sunrise.

Daryl personally escorted him to the gate.

Running a hand over your face, you groaned and sat up. It wasn’t until you were upright that your head started to throb. God, a splitting headache was the last thing that you needed. To make matters worse, you could smell the foul scent emitting from your sweet baby and your nose wrinkled. You were about to climb out of bed when you felt a warm hand on your shoulder. Your husband’s voice was rough with sleep when he spoke up.

“No, no, forget about it. I’ll take care of it all, you just focus on getting some rest.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause she definitely took a shit.”

“Sweetheart, I think I can handle a shitty diaper.”

Even though your skull felt like it was cracking open, Daryl’s words made you smile and you relaxed. Part of you wanted to be stubborn and insist on caring for her, but the fatigue was too strong. You gave in and nodded.

“Thank you, my love.”

“Of course. I’m her damn daddy. I’ll be on diaper duty.”

You loved the sound of that and you grinned. There were still aspects of fatherhood that terrified Daryl, but he’d adjusted surprisingly well. It probably helped that your daughter had already shown that she was a massive daddy’s girl. You sighed contentedly and gave him a chaste kiss.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

After taking a second to prepare himself for what was sure to be a disaster of a soiled diaper, Daryl got up and approached the small bassinet. You’d fallen back asleep quickly, so he quietly snuck out of the room with the baby pressed to his chest. While your little girl slept in your guys’ bedroom, she was changed in the nursery.

Daryl set the baby down on the changing table and unbuttoned her onesie. His thick fingers always fumbled on the clasps, but he managed. The fragrant scent hit his nose and he choked back a gag. You had been right. His angel of a daughter had filled her diaper. He groaned and mumbled to the baby.

“Jesus, what is in your mother’s milk?”

The baby answered with a small cooing noise and her tiny lips formed a small smile. She was mocking him. He held back another gag and started changing her. It had taken some practice, but Daryl was quite efficient at cleaning her. As he worked, he found himself pausing to admire the beautiful being the two of you had created. This baby had softened him in ways that he didn’t know were possible.

Once everything had been cleaned up, he swaddled the infant and walked over to the rocking chair. He sat down and began rocking her. Without even realizing it, he’d started humming a Nickelback song, and he laughed when the baby’s face scrunched up. He teased the young girl.

“What? You ain’t Nickelback? You’re a picky little thing.”

Pausing, he remembered the song that you were always humming and he sighed deeply. Daryl wasn’t the biggest fan of more contemporary music, but his daughter was. Her comfort was his top priority. Begrudgingly, he began humming “Love Is Like a Butterfly” by Dolly Parton. The combination of the rocking and his presence put her right to sleep. He smiled triumphantly and whispered.

“Spoiled little girl.”

He must’ve been more tired than he thought because Daryl was starting to drift off. Thankfully, the little girl was supported and lying against his chest. You’d find your little family there a few hours later.

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It was a quite beautiful day today. The nights were still cool but it got noticeably warmer each day. Summer was approaching - fast. With a smile and a hand on your forehead to shield your eyes from the sun, you watched your seven-year-old daughter play 'tag' with another few kids from the Hilltop. You and your little family had been here since about six months now - after living out in the woods in a little cabin ever since Rick... You couldn't finish that thought without tears blurring your eyes. It was meant to be only a few weeks. But weeks turned into months and months into years. You knew Daryl was still searching for his brother. He had never given up on this. The fact that he liked to live out there just a pretense.

The reason you finally settled in Hilltop? Your second daughter you gave birth to merely a month ago. Of course, Daryl wouldn't let you have his baby out there. He was too afraid something could go wrong - and Jesus and Tara were more than happy to take you in.

"How can you be so calm and... okay about it?" The sudden question from Henry - on which you and Daryl agreed to keep an eye on for Carol, caught you rather off-guard. You blinked and turned your head; focusing on the teenager. "Sorry, Henry? What do you mean?" You threw a question back at him while gently rocking the infant in your arms to keep her asleep. The young man nodded at the gates. "Daryl being out there so often. I mean, he's your husband, right? And a father. He should be here, with you."

You furrowed your brows into a frown and crooked your head a little. "Are you saying he shouldn't look for Eugene? He's family. We have to find him." Henry instantly shook his head. "No, no, that's not what I meant. I mean... All the other times. I... I heard you talking to my mom about it. How often Daryl leaves to be out there." Your expression instantly shifted into a soft smile. You patted the empty place beside the log you sat on; asking the teenager to sit. Henry obliged and sat down beside you. His eyes fell instantly on the tiny girl in your arms, then lifted to meet your eyes. "Daryl is out there because he has to. He needs to. Not just because he's still looking for Rick. If he doesn't go out, he feels trapped. Caged. It's the freedom he needs - and who would I be to take that away from him?" The young man nodded; dwelling a little on his thoughts and your words. You let him; patiently waiting for him to speak up again, but the voice of Mr. Sutton - Earl cut through your conversation. "Henry! It's time for your next lesson!" He looked at you again - almost apologetic. "I-I should-" "Sure, go." You gave him a smile and watched how he quickly walked off.

You spent a whole night and with that over a whole day without your husband, since he was still out searching for Eugene together with Jesus and Aaron. You weren't worried. You knew how strong he was; a survivor. He'd always come back to you - to his family. But it was always difficult for Willa - your eldest. She knew that her daddy was a brave man and able to defend himself, but she was just a child after all and therefore scared he wouldn't come back to her. Understandably. This afternoon, though, the door to your little trailer swung open quietly; revealing a visibly exhausted Daryl. Dog followed him and instantly ran over to greet you; tail wagging and squeaking excitedly. You giggled quietly - since you didn't want to wake Willa, who was taking a nap in yours and Daryl's bed, and scratched Dog's head. Willa did that most of the times when her father wasn't around. Sleeping in your bed any chance she got. It made her feel safe. The smell of her dad.

Daryl was by your side only seconds later. You sat on a comfortable rocking chair in the corner; currently nursing Ruby - your newest addition to the family.

"Hey, babe," you whispered and smiled as he bent down to kiss your forehead, "Hey." and then your lips. "Did you find Eugene?" You instantly asked; reaching for his hand to slip your fingers through his. Daryl nodded; "Mhm." chewing on the inside of his bottom lip - and that was when you knew. Something wasn't right. You could feel it. You knew that man by heart now after all these years. "Is he okay? Are you okay?" "He's fine. Delocated his knee is all. 'M good, too." "But?" Your husband paused for a moment; chewing on his lip again. "Jesus is dead."

Your eyes widened as a wave of shock and sadness over rolled you. "W-What? H-How?" The archer swallowed hard. "Damn new people. Dunno much 'bout 'em, 'cept that they are walkin' with the dead. Wear their faces as masks. We captured one of 'em. 'M gonna try 'n get 'er to talk." Those new and not really good news were kinda overwhelming to you; torn between grief and worry. You lifted your eyes again to look into the blue ones of your husband; instinctively clutching the tiny human being in your arms closer - something that didn't slip the bowman's notice...

"A-Are they a... threat?" He shrugged his shoulders, "Dunno yet. Hope not." and squatted down in front of you. "Me neither." "Dun worry, sunshine. I know tha' ain't easy, but... Please. This lil' gremlin 'ere needs ya more than those worries do." You nodded; knowing that he was actually right. And even if they were a threat... The Hilltop was more than capable of defending itself. You were more than capable of defending yourself. However, you had two daughters to worry about. An infant... The last thing you actually wanted was a fight.

"I know, I know, it's just..." You whispered; eyes landing on Ruby, who was more asleep than awake in your arms but still suckling on your breast from time to time. Daryl understood. Of course, he did. You two didn't need words to communicate. "Hey, darlin'..." He squeezed your hand - the one which was firmly tucked into his bigger hand, and gently cupped the baby's head with the other; running his thumb through the chestnut brown fuzz of hair. "I ain't gonna let anythin' happen to either 'a ya. You know that. 'M gonna protect you 'n our kids as long as my sorry ass walks this damn earth - no matter wha'." "I know that, baby, but... Ruby's barely a month old. A fight - or hence, a war would be-" Daryl instantly shook his head, "Nah. Dun think like tha'." and interrupted your sentence. "Lemme get some more information outta that girl first. Ain't no point in rushing into things, 'kay?" You nodded. "'Kay."

Your husband gave you one of those sweet smiles which were only reserved for you, before he pressed a lingering, sweet kiss against his newborn daughter's head. Then he straightened back up, kissed you again as well. Your lips moved lazily against his and shortly after the kiss ended, you lifted a hand to cup his bearded cheek. "You're tired, babe." It wasn't a question. It was a statement. He nodded, "Fuckin' exhausted, sunshine." and slowly let go of your hand to walk over to the bed where his other child was.

Willa was still napping. Dog now, too; having trotted off during the conversation you and Daryl had to lay down on his makeshift dog beg. You watched him take off his boots and join Willa with a soft expression. "Get some sleep, Dar." "Mhm," he hummed; inching closer to the litte girl and carefully scooping her up in his arms. The archer knew how much she always missed him when he was away - and he always tried to make it up to her. Cuddles, playling together or teaching her some things - just anything to spend time with her.

"'M plannin' to," he mumbled; holding his child in a protective embrace. As if Willa subconsciously noticed that her father was back, she melted in his embrace and cuddled closer in her sleep. Daryl smiled gently with his eyes already closed shut. You watched how your husband and daughter napped together for a few long moments, before you quietly stood up with Ruby still in your arms. You put her into the baby sling Daryl found quite a while ago while being outside and left the trailer.

Your mission was clear. Find Tara and Aaron and check in on how they were doing after Jesus... You couldn't finish that thought. It was always hard to lose a member of your family. You planned to check in on Eugene and Rosita as well. They were your people, too, after all. However, you ran into someone entirely else. A person you didn't see in quite a while and haven't crossed paths with yet since she was here at the Hilltop... Michonne.

"Michonne." At the call of her name, the woman turned to face you; having just stepped outside the Barrington house. Once her brown eyes landed on you, a huge smile spread on her lips - one you couldn't help but to reciprocate. "Y/N, hey." She quickly crossed the distance separating you and gave you a careful hug - one that you reciprocated happily as well. "Hey," you greeted her back. "Long time no seen..." You felt her nod against you before she took a step back to retreat from the hug and face you again. "Way too long..." Then her eyes landed on the little bundle of joy strapped to your chest. Her smile even widened. "You and Daryl...?" You nodded. "Oh, uh, yeah. We expanded our little family. Had her barely a month ago... Her name is Ruby." "That's wonderful, Y/N. I'm happy for you two. I really am. How's Willa?" "She's great. Little whirlwind," you answered; smiling at the thought of your daughter. "How's Jude and RJ?" "Good. RJ is almost as tall as Judith by now," Michonne said, then added with the happiness visibly draining a little from her face: "Jude constantly asks for you and Daryl. Willa, too. She misses you."

You sighed; head lowering. "You could've come to Alexandria, too for Ruby's birth. We all would've been happy to see you." You nodded. "I know, Mich, I know. It's just... I think we came here because Daryl still isn't quite ready to return home. At least for a longer period of time. You get what I mean..." You didn't want to spell Rick's death out. You couldn't. Not in front of Michonne.

She nodded as well; eyes mirroring grief and sadness now. "Yes, I know. I can't blame Daryl for that. I never will. He's been out there all those years, looking for him." You reached out a hand to gently touch her arm in a sympathetic gesture. "And he still is. He won't stop looking. He can't."

"My mom walks with the dead 'cause that's what the dead do. It's their world and we have to live in it," Lydia stated firmly and tugged up the sleeve of her sweater to reveal the bruises on her arm. "And what my mom does, she does for a reason." Daryl had to suppress a scoff; hand gripping the aged steal of the cell bars the girl was caged behind. "Yer mom beats you 'cause she loves you? That's bullshit." Lydia merely shook her head; "No... It isn't." eyes trained on the archer. "When you stay soft, people die," she whispered almost threateningly and told Daryl what happened to her dad. How he died.

"You were just a little girl. It wasn't your fault." Lydia instantly shook her head at Daryl's actually reassuring words. "I was stupid. I deserved to die. But my dad was soft, and now he's the one that's dead." This time, Daryl couldn't prevent a disapproving, disbelieving huff from escaping his lips. "What was he supposed 't do? Just watch his little girl get bit?" "When you can't bend, you break. He broke." The man shook his head. "That's not true. We're makin' it better. We're building it back up. Changing it back." "Yeah?" Lydia whispered; a sarcastic tone swinging in her voice. "You don't belong with these people. Maybe you used to, but not anymore. You're hard, they're soft." Daryl leaned in closer to the bars. "You don't know shit about me," he spoke lowly - dangerously, and just when he wanted to speak up again, small steps suddenly cut through the tense air. Bare feet against stone. "Daddy?"

Daryl froze in all his movements for a moment before every parental instinct inside him took over. To get called 'daddy' by his very own flesh and blood had always been and would always be a privilege. Something he'd treasure until his last breath.

The archer gave his prisoner a warning glare before he turned to face his daughter. The hardness around his edges melted away like ice in the heat of Spring. Especially at the sight of his child.

Willa wore her blue pyjama onesie; stuffed animal her dad found for her back when she was a baby clutched tightly to her chest. Her long, slightly wavy hair - in a mix of yours and his hair color, hung rather messily over her small shoulders. One little hand rubbed her eyes - who looked suspiciously reddish and wet. The love Daryl felt rush through his body in this very moment was immeasurable.

"Willa," he spoke her name softly - tenderly, "Why are ya up, huh? 'S late. Whatcha doin' here?" and took a long stride forwards to get closer to her. Then he squatted down to be on eye-level with the small girl; facing her properly. "H-Had a nightmare," she whispered; visibly trying to suppress a sob. Daryl's heart threatened to break. If he could, he would - even in her dreams, hunt down anything and everything that only dared to threaten her to protect her. To make her feel safe. "'M sorry 'bout that, munchkin. You wanna talk about it?" To that question, the girl only shook her head; bottom lip trembling dangerously. "C'mere," the archer offered without hesitation and opened her arms for his daughter to seek comfort in. She did; short arms reaching around his neck to snuggle against him. Face buried in his shoulder. Daryl lifted her up then; arms securely wrapped around her - like a protective shield.

He just held her for a long moment; giving Willa the time to calm down again and just letting her feel that her father got her. That she was safe now with him.

Lydia watched the scenes unfold in front of her eyes rather... shocked and gobsmacked. The only side she got to know of Daryl was rough. Hard. Unforgiving. Cold. He didn't seem like a family man. "You... You're a father?" She caught herself asking; still in disbelief. The archer looked over his free shoulder to face the teenage girl again. "Told ya... You don't know anythin 'bout me," he almost growled and instantly redirected his attention back to his daughter. Lydia blinked; thoughts running wild inside her head, while Daryl pressed a lingering kiss against Willa's temple. "Where's yer mama, munchkin?" "Asleep," Willa mumbled in the leathery fabric of his signature angel-winged vest before she slightly lifted her head off his shoulder to look at him. "Didn't want to wake mama or my baby sister. You always say they need sleep."

Daryl had been sure his heart couldn't melt more - until now. His expression turned incredibly soft; a small smile gracing his chapped lips. "Tha's very thoughtful 'a ya, munchkin. 'N ya came to look fer me instead?" She nodded with a big yawn. Daryl's smile even widened. "C'mon. Let's getcha back to bed, yeah? Munchkin's need their sleep, too," he said and freed one hand to gently tickle her side - which made the seven-year-old squirm and giggle slightly. Before he rounded the corner to the stair, he turned to look at Lydia again. "We ain't done yet," the archer simply said and without another word made his way up the stone steps.

He carried his daughter back to the cosy trailer you shared as a family, stepped quietly inside - to not wake you and his newborn, and went to tuck Willa back in bed. Made sure she was warm, comfortable and safe. "'Kay... Try to sleep. 'M here now," Daryl whispered and leaned down to press a lingering kiss against the girl's forehead. He was about to leave the tiny room, when Willa held him back. "Daddy?" She whispered into the dark with a slight insecurity in her voice. "Yeah?" She shuffled underneath her blanket; trying to clutch the blanket closer. "C-Can you stay? Please?" Daryl melted all over again. How could he ever say no to her? "Sure, munchkin. I'll stay at least 'til yer asleep. Move over a lil'." The archer couldn't see the relief and happiness in his daughter's face, but he could feel it. After he had kicked off his boots and joined Willa in the actually way too small bed, she instantly cuddled against his side. He smiled as well; protectively tucking her against him. He stayed and cuddled her until he felt her relax and drift back off to sleep. After Daryl made sure that she was still properly tucked in, he grabbed his boots and quietly snuck out of the room.

His main destination was, of course, his very own bed. After yet another adventurous and kind of hard day, he was more than eager to get his very own cuddles. He loved being close to you. He needed to be close to you.

Daryl made two quick stops. The first one was Dog, who laid in his makeshift dog bed. He loved his animal best friend and squatted down to give him a well-deserved head scratch. "Hey, buddy, hey," he whispered, and the faithful canine gave an excited little squeak in return. "Did ya look out for yer ma and baby sisters while I was gone? Yeah, ya did. Good boy. Yer such a good dog." He petted the Malinois for another short while, before he straightened back up to let him get some sleep as well. Daryl's second stop - he got closer to his main destination, was the little crib which stood beside your side of the bed. Of course, he had to check in on his newborn daughter as well. Ruby was fast asleep; tiny fingers curled into fists. He just watched her for a long moment; smiling softly. Daryl fought the want to pick her up in his arms and carry her around for a while; just feeling her light weight and marvelling at how small she was compared to him. How soft and delicate. But he resisted; not wanting to wake her up.

Giving the miniature human a last loving look, he turned to finally go to bed himself. He made quick (but quiet) work taking off his boots, jeans, vest and shirt, before he slipped in bed underneath the covers beside you. His body was acting on its own will and instantly searched for physical contact; naturally. Daryl took you carefully in his arms; pressed his warm body against yours. Chest to back with one strong arm around your midsection to keep you close.

The archer's intention definitely was not to wake you up, but since you had Ruby, your sleep was lighter, and so you stirred. "'S jus' me. Sleep on, sunshine," Daryl whispered and pressed a chaste kiss to your neck; trying to save the situation. But the 'damage was done'. Your hand found his on your waist and you instinctively snuggled closer. He was warm. Always. Like a human heater. "Called it a day, babe?" You mumbled; still a little sleepy. "Mhm," he hummed behind you; hating that he woke you but also loving to talk to you. "Kinda had to. Willa looked fer me." You shifted and turned in his embrace to face him. "What?" He nodded. "Mhm. Had a nightmare 'n wanted to let you 'n Ruby sleep. So she looked for me." You huffed out a breath. "That girl is something else..." Your husband smiled - unbeknownst to you. "Well, she's ours, so..."

He wasn't wrong with that.

"Indeed, baby... But she's asleep now?" "Yah. Carried her back to bed 'n tucked her in." "Good. That's good." You paused and tucked your head underneath Daryl's chin; feeling him and enveloping yourself in his scent. Home. He didn't say a word either; fingers slowly, gently caressing the clothed skin of your smaller back.

"Any luck with Lydia?" The archer shook his head - a movement you felt. "Nah. Not really. Ain't know nothing new except the things she told Henry." he said; voice low but rough. "She'll talk eventually. Judging by all the things you told me so far, her life hadn't been easy. Her mother isn't easy. Give her some time - or just trust Henry with this." Daryl grumbled at your words and shook his head again. "Dunno if I should trust Henry with it. He's acting caring, yah, but so damn... headless 'n reckless, too. Tellin' her about our people and the Kingdom... He doesn't even know her." You couldn't suppress a small giggle. "Wha'? Ain't funny, darlin'. This group could be dangerous." "I know, I know, but...," you started and rubbed your hand over his naked shoulder blade. "Have you ever - just for a moment - considered that Henry is doing this for a reason?" He scoffed. "Which would be?" You bit your lip for a second; smiling. "Well... I think he's in love." "Love?" Your husband grumbled. "Nah."

You raised an eyebrow at him. "No? Never heard of love at first sight? 'Cause I think this is exactly what we got here. Besides, I know how a man in love looks, and..." You paused; burying your fingers in Daryl's lush curls. "... Henry positively looks like it." The archer melted into your touch; having to suppress a moan. "Yeah?" "Mhm. You should know, baby," you teased him a little. "After all, you wear that look everytime you look at me." He grunted and buried his head in your chest; mumbling something incomprehensable. You giggled softly and just held him against you; letting the man cuddle you. "Have some patience, Dar. Things will turn out just fine for us." His grip around you tightened a little. "Hope so," he whispered; trying to turn off his worrying, overthinking brain. No matter how things were going to turn out with Lydia and this new... group, his first priority was to make sure you and the kids were safe.

Tall.

Dark coat soaked through.

Wild blue eyes.

A fresh split in his lip.

He looked like trouble in human form.

You remembered staring at him for a long second before replying, “You look like the reason wars start.”

His grin had arrived instantly.

Crooked.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

That had been the beginning.

Murphy came into your life like a storm front.

Loud.

Violent.

Impossible to ignore.

The MacManus twins had a reputation long before you officially met them. Everybody in South Boston knew the brothers were chaos wrapped in Irish charm. Fights followed them like stray dogs. So did women, cops, and rumors.

Especially rumors.

You heard all of them.

That Connor was the sweeter twin.

That Murphy was the meaner one.

That they’d put three men through a pool table over an insult.

That they’d once disappeared for two weeks and come back covered in bruises and blood.

You believed every word.

Mostly because Murphy looked exactly like a man capable of all of it.

But then he started showing up at the diner where you worked.

Every night.

Always near closing.

Always pretending he was there for coffee.

You caught on after the third time.

“You hate coffee,” you said one evening while refilling his cup anyway.

Murphy looked offended.

“Irish people can enjoy coffee.”

“You put six sugars in it.”

“That’s because American coffee tastes like burnt piss.”

You snorted despite yourself.

Murphy watched you laugh like he’d personally accomplished something monumental.

That should’ve warned you.

You weren’t easy with people.

Never had been.

Life had taught you early that love was usually just another word for leverage. Your father drank too much, your mother left too often, and every relationship after that seemed determined to prove vulnerability was just a prettier form of self-destruction.

So you learned to survive.

You learned sharp words cut before fists could.

You learned to leave first.

You learned how to smile without meaning it.

Murphy noticed all of it.

Of course he did.

Murphy noticed everything about you.

The fake smile you used on rude customers.

The way you stiffened when strangers touched your waist passing behind you.

The exhaustion hidden beneath sarcasm.

He noticed you before you even realized he was looking.

And God, he looked at you constantly.

Like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve with his bare hands.

Connor liked you immediately.

That complicated things.

Because if Connor approved of someone, Murphy became protective fast.

The three of you started spending time together naturally.

Late-night bars.

Cheap takeout.

Murphy and Connor arguing over hockey while you laughed yourself sick.

You fit beside them too easily.

That terrified you.

You remembered one night especially.

The three of you sat on the roof of their apartment building wrapped in winter coats while Murphy smoked beside you.

Connor had gone downstairs for more beer.

The city lights reflected gold against Murphy’s face.

“You trust people too easy,” you told him quietly.

Murphy glanced at you sideways.

“No, I don’t.”

“You trust me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

He took a long drag before answering.

“You’d rather hurt yourself than hurt somebody else.”

Your breath caught.

Nobody had ever understood you that quickly before.

Murphy shrugged like he hadn’t just cracked something open inside you.

“It’s obvious.”

You stared at him too long after that.

Far too long.

The problem with Murphy MacManus was that he loved recklessly.

Not casually.

Not carefully.

Recklessly.

Everything about him existed at full volume.

His anger.

His loyalty.

His grief.

His joy.

Murphy laughed with his whole body and fought like he wanted God himself to intervene.

And when he started loving you, he did that recklessly too.

You just didn’t realize it at first.

It started small.

Murphy walking you home every night without asking.

Murphy remembering your favorite songs.

Murphy staring at men too long if they flirted with you.

Murphy touching the small of your back in crowded places like instinct demanded it.

Then it got worse.

One night, a drunk asshole grabbed your wrist outside the bar.

Murphy broke his nose before you even processed what happened.

Another time, you casually mentioned your apartment radiator was broken.

Murphy showed up six hours later carrying tools and swearing aggressively in Gaelic.

You watched him kneeling beside your heater muttering curses under his breath while Connor laughed nearby.

“You know,” Connor said cheerfully, “he likes ye.”

Murphy threw a wrench at him.

Connor dodged easily.

“You’re subtle as a fuckin’ heart attack, Murph.”

“Shut up.”

You tried not to smile.

Tried not to feel warm about it.

Tried not to fall.

You failed spectacularly.

You realized you loved him in the worst possible moment.

Murphy had blood on his hands.

Literal blood.

Not his.

You stood in his apartment kitchen at three in the morning while he leaned against the counter breathing hard.

Connor was gone.

Somewhere handling whatever disaster had just happened.

And Murphy…

Murphy looked furious.

Terrified.

Alive.

“What happened?” you whispered.

Murphy scrubbed a hand down his face.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Murphy.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

And there it was.

Fear.

Not for himself.

For you.

“You gotta stop looking at me like that,” he said quietly.

Your pulse skipped.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m somethin’ worth saving.”

The ache in your chest nearly swallowed you whole.

Because suddenly you understood.

Murphy genuinely believed he was doomed.

That violence lived too deep inside him for anything gentle to survive beside it.

You stepped closer carefully.

“You don’t scare me.”

Murphy laughed once.

Humorless.

“Sweetheart, I scare myself.”

Still, he didn’t move away when you reached for his hand.

His fingers trembled once when you touched him.

Just once.

Then they tightened around yours hard enough to hurt.

Like he needed grounding.

Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

“You should leave,” he whispered.

“You don’t want me to.”

His jaw flexed violently.

“No.”

The honesty of it wrecked you.

“You ever think,” you said softly, “that maybe you deserve to be loved anyway?”

Murphy stared at you.

Something raw opened in his expression.

Terrifyingly vulnerable.

Then suddenly his hand was cupping your jaw.

Warm.

Rough.

Careful despite the blood still drying across his knuckles.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath caught.

His thumb brushed your cheek slowly.

“If you asked for my body,” Murphy murmured, eyes locked onto yours, “I’d give it.”

Your heart stopped.

“If you asked for my soul,” he continued roughly, “I’d bleed it out.”

The room went dead silent.

You could hear your own heartbeat.

Murphy looked horrified with himself immediately afterward.

Like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Like the truth escaped accidentally.

But it was too late now.

Because you saw it.

All of it.

The terrifying depth of his devotion.

Murphy MacManus loved like religion.

Like martyrdom.

Like destruction.

And maybe you should’ve run from that.

Maybe you should’ve known loving someone that intensely could ruin you.

Instead, you kissed him.

Murphy made a broken sound against your mouth.

One hand slid into your hair instantly while the other pulled you flush against him.

The kiss wasn’t careful.

It wasn’t tentative.

It felt inevitable.

Years of restrained want detonating all at once.

Murphy kissed like he did everything else—desperately, passionately, like the world might end tomorrow.

You gasped softly when his forehead rested against yours afterward.

His breathing was uneven.

“So that’s a yes then?”

You laughed breathlessly.

Murphy looked dazed hearing it.

Actually dazed.

Like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You touched his face gently.

“I love you too.”

Murphy closed his eyes immediately.

Like the words physically hit him.

When he opened them again, emotion sat there completely undisguised.

Nobody had ever loved him safely before.

You realized that suddenly.

People wanted pieces of Murphy.

The excitement.

The danger.

The charm.

But not the ugly parts underneath.

Not the violence.

Not the guilt.

Not the darkness clawing around inside him.

You did.

All of him.

Murphy looked at you like he was seconds from either worshipping you or falling apart entirely.

Possibly both.

“You’re gonna ruin me, sweetheart.”

You smiled softly.

“Too late.”

Loving Murphy meant accepting unpredictability.

It meant late nights and bruised knuckles and Connor yelling somewhere in the background constantly.

It meant Murphy climbing into your apartment window at impossible hours because he “didn’t wanna wake ye.”

It meant him sleeping sprawled half on top of you like he needed constant reassurance you were still there.

It meant violence too.

Not toward you.

Never toward you.

Murphy handled you like something sacred.

But violence existed around him like weather.

You learned to clean cuts.

You learned how to tell the difference between his angry silences and his guilty ones.

And Murphy learned you weren’t fragile.

That you didn’t need saving every second.

That loving someone didn’t mean owning them.

Still, he worried constantly.

One night after a fight left his cheekbone split open, you cleaned the wound while he sat shirtless on your bathroom counter.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he muttered.

You dabbed antiseptic carefully against his skin.

“Like what?”

“Like ye love me.”

“I do love you.”

Murphy looked genuinely overwhelmed every single time you said it.

Like he still hadn’t adjusted to being wanted.

His hand slid around your wrist gently.

“You deserve better than this.”

You snorted softly.

“There you go again.”

“I mean it.”

“You think I want easy?” you asked quietly.

Murphy stared at you.

You touched his jaw carefully.

“I want you.”

Something emotional cracked open in his face.

Then he kissed your palm.

Slowly.

Reverently.

Like prayer.

The first time Murphy told someone about you, he nearly started a riot.

A man at the bar called you “Murphy’s girl” with a crude grin.

Murphy slammed him against the wall hard enough to crack plaster.

Connor had to physically drag him backward.

“She’s not some fuckin’ possession,” Murphy snarled.

You pulled him outside afterward before he murdered someone.

Snow fell lightly around you while Murphy paced like a furious wolf.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“He was drunk.”

“He disrespected ye.”

You grabbed his jacket.

Murphy stopped instantly.

Always instantly for you.

“You know what I think?” you said softly.

“What?”

“I think nobody’s ever protected you properly.”

His expression changed immediately.

Like the words landed somewhere deep.

Painfully deep.

You stepped closer.

“So now you protect everyone else instead.”

Murphy swallowed hard.

You touched his cold face carefully.

“You don’t always have to bleed for people to prove you love them.”

Murphy’s eyes burned into yours.

“But I would.”

And God.

That was the problem.

He would.

Murphy would burn alive for the people he loved and call it devotion.

You kissed him before he could say anything else.

Slow.

Certain.

When you pulled back, Murphy rested his forehead against yours.

“You’re it for me,” he whispered.

No jokes.

No dramatics.

Just truth.

“I know,” you whispered back.

“You said that you were gonna clean up while I was gone. There’s beer cans everywhere and the sink’s full. The trailer looks like shit.”

That’s what he was upset about? Without even meaning to, you rolled your eyes and scoffed. Daryl was about to lay into you again when you cut him off.

“The dishes are from me makin’ dinner for you. It’s in the fridge, asshole. I was just closin’ my eyes after.”

Your words made Daryl hesitate, but he wasn’t ready to admit his mistake. He was still choosing to fixate on the fact that you hadn’t picked up like you’d promised. This was out of character for him, but before you could call him out again, he snapped.

“That’s great, but it ain’t what I asked you to do. Is it that fuckin’ hard to pick up some cans and wash them dishes?”

Daryl had never spoken to you like this, and it was coming out of nowhere. You’d literally just woken up, so you were unaware of the kind of day he’d had. That didn’t excuse this behavior, though. You didn’t know how to respond, and you just stared at him. That only added to his anger and he kept going. He was meaner than a wet panther.

“Don’t look at me like that. Ain’t a monster just ‘cause I refuse to live in filth again.”

It was the last sentence that made everything click for you. Daryl was lashing out because he was being reminded of his childhood trailer. Your expression softened, and you opened your mouth to apologize, but he didn’t let you. He’d realized what he’d said, and he couldn’t handle a conversation like this. Not when he was roaring mad. His voice was quieter, but still harsh.

“I need a fuckin’ smoke.”

With that, he stormed out of the room and back out the front door. You made no effort to follow him. While he wallowed in his bitterness, you got out of bed and started cleaning the living room. There was no way for you know that he’d have this extreme of a reaction to you neglecting a chore. That didn’t negate the guilt that had settled in your stomach.

As you took care of the cans, Daryl was out on the front porch, huffing his cigarette. His free hand was white knuckling the wooden step. He took long drags and exhaled slowly, steadying his breathing without trying to. Once his muscles had relaxed, his brain spiraled again. You deserved better than him - someone who wouldn’t yell at you over something as simple as not picking up. Fuck, he’d been being a royal asshole.

Several minutes had passed when he finished the cigarette and prepared himself to go back inside. He dropped the butt in the ashtray you kept out here for him and dragged a large hand over his face. He needed to make it up to you.

Going back into the trailer, he saw that you’d thrown away all the trash and the remorse hit him like a truck. You were in the kitchen plating dinner. He cautiously went to join you when he noticed that you’d only prepared one plate. You glanced in his direction and shrugged indifferently. The hurt was clear in your voice when you spoke again.

“You eat whenever you’re ready.”

You didn’t even wait for his answer before grabbing your plate and moving to the couch. You weren’t even going to eat at the table with him? The tense atmosphere and the disruption in routine made his heart race. There was no point in arguing, though. Silently, he dished up and sat down at the table. Alone.

As Daryl examined the food, he could tell that you’d put a lot of time into it, and you’d made his favorites. You’d fried chicken and steamed collard greens. That explained the added dishes in the sink. If possible, he felt even worse about his outburst. Taking a bite of the chicken, his eyes fluttered shut, and he hummed in satisfaction. Despite the air in the home feeling suffocating, he spoke up in a much softer tone.

“This is real good, darlin’. Thank you.”

He half-expected you to ignore him, so he was surprised when you responded. You still sounded a bit upset, but your voice was devoid of any previous venom.

“You’re welcome. There are more greens in the fridge if you want ‘em.”

“Yeah? There’s turkey neck in it, right?”

In spite of the previous argument, Daryl’s question made you laugh. The only way to get him to eat anything green was to add meat. You finished your bite and smiled a little. The mood was lifting, even if it was only slightly.

“Taste it and let me know.”

“You best not be trickin’ me, woman.”

You rolled your eyes at his grumbling and watched as he finally took a bite of his collard greens. The turkey meat was visibly mixed in, but he still looked suspicious of it. As soon as he swallowed, he grinned and nodded.

“It was good.”

“Has it ever not been?”

“Not answerin’ that. That sounds like a trap.”

That comment is what fully broke the tension, and you erupted into a fit of giggles. Daryl was likely remembering the first time you cooked a meal for him and botched it. In your defense, the two of you had been teenagers. You finally pulled it together and feigned annoyance.

“Hey, that was one time. You ate that shit, too.”

“Only ate it ‘cause we were both stoned.”

He had a point. Neither of you would’ve stomached that meal if there wasn’t smoking involved. You decided to stop being stubborn and crossed the living room to sit with Daryl. He tried to look indifferent, but his eyes lit up when you sat beside him. Neither of you had brought up the argument, but he knew it was coming.

To his surprise, you kept quiet and went back to eating your food. The two of you continued in silence until you’d both cleaned your plates. Daryl went to grab the dishes when you spoke up again.

“You tryna make it up to me?’

Daryl’s cheeks flushed and shrugged. He knew you’d likely want a verbal apology, so he did his best. His voice was strained, but no longer biting.

“I’m sorry ‘bout earlier. I had a shit day at work and comin’ home to a dirty trailer pushed me over the edge.”

He paused and picked at his thumbnail for a second. Getting him to verbalize emotions was like pulling teeth. You made sure to give him your full attention and waited patiently. It took another few seconds for him to continue.

“You didn’t deserve to be spoken too like that. I was way outta line.”

“Thank you, baby. I should’ve cleaned like I said that I would.”

Unsure how to accept your apology, Daryl just nodded and got up on his feet. He gave your shoulder a soft squeeze and disappeared into the kitchen to put the dishes in the sink. When he returned, he pulled you out of your chair and started kissing your neck. You knew exactly what he was doing and you couldn’t resist teasing him.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Showin’ you how sorry I am.”

“You’re gonna have to do better than that, baby.”

That was all the incentive that Daryl needed. He grabbed your hand and lead you to the bedroom. Tonight was going to be about you and he was determined to fix things. Despite the fact that you’d accepted his apology, he was still sick to his stomach over the conflict. He was starting to spiral again when the sight of you lying on the bed broke him from his thoughts. His voice was thick with need when he groaned.

“Fuck, look at you. Where do you want me?”

“Right here.”

You gestured between your legs and Daryl immediately obliged. He got on his knees beside the bed and waited for further instruction. Your tone was slightly impatient when you spoke again.

“You plan on doin’ anythin’ or are you just gonna sit there?”

Daryl quickly corrected himself and started taking off your sweatpants. He was still moving a little slower than you’d like, but you didn’t comment on it. For now. Once they were off, and he saw that you weren’t wearing underwear, he paused again. This resulted in you tangling your hand in his dark hair and forcing his head forward.

“You scared of my pussy or somethin’?”

He blushed and quickly shook his head. You weren’t usually this rough with Daryl, but he was liking it much more than he anticipated. His words came out in a low whine.

“No, I-I just need to taste you.”

“Then do it.”

Wasting no time, Daryl hooked your legs over his shoulders and kissed from your knees up to your cunt. He flattened his tongue and lapped at your seam. His motions were slow at first, but he picked up speed when he felt your thighs squeezing the sides of his face. While he licked feverishly at your core, he mumbled apologies against your skin. Your fingers tightened in his hair, and you teased him between gasps.

“Speak up, baby. I can’t hear you.”

Daryl begrudgingly complied and momentarily pulled back to speak. His face was glistening with your essence, and he was slightly out of breath.

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“Can’t be that sorry ‘cause I haven’t come yet.”

Not wanting to upset you again, Daryl went back to work and his tongue swirled your clit. He sucked softly and kept looking up at you through dark lashes. His hands shook ever-so slightly as they anchored on your hips. He was getting worked up. You noticed this immediately and raised an eyebrow.

“You wanna come, don’t you? You don’t get to finish until I do.”

That was all the encouragement that Daryl needed, and his movements increased in intensity. He continued sucking at your clit while he slipped two fingers inside of you. They pumped in and out of your core as he worked. Praises fell from your lips as you neared that edge.

“Such a good boy. Makin’ me feel this good.”

His efforts were soon rewarded when the euphoria washed over you and you cried out. Your grip went slack in his hair and Daryl continued to guide you throughout the pleasure. He was desperate to be good for you. Being good meant that he got to find his own release. Once he knew that you were satisfied, he pulled back and wiped his damp beard. He smiled sheepishly and asked hesitantly.

“How was that? Was I good?”

It took several seconds for you to catch your breath before you nodded and found your voice. The pride in your tone was evident.

“That was real good, baby. Lay back and let me return the favor.”

Not having to be told twice, Daryl got up on the bed and laid on his back. He watched through hooded eyes as you undid his belt. You wanted to make this last, so you slowly removed his jeans. When his boxers were exposed, you were able to see the outline of his erection. You cocked your head and teasingly dragged your finger across the fabric.

“This is just from eatin’ me out?”

Your boyfriend was slightly mortified by the question and his skin flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. Daryl avoided your eyes and nodded. You grabbed his chin and directed him to face you. Your tone was thick with demand.

“Look at me and use your words. I won’t touch you if you just lie there.”

The threat of not being touched was all it took for Daryl’s throat to tighten with something akin to panic. His breathing was ragged when he frantically shook his head.

“Don’t stop. Touch me. Please.”

“That’s a good boy. Keep doin’ that. Tell me what you want, my hand or my mouth?”

Daryl took a second to think before coming to his decision. He forced himself to sound more confident than he felt, but it still came across as him begging. That was exactly what you wanted.

“Your mouth. I-I want your mouth.”

Satisfied with Daryl’s pleading, you freed his hard cock and took it into your hands. You licked the underside of his shaft and held eye contact with him. He rested a large palm on the back of your head, but he was careful not to push you. You were the one in control.

You kept your eyes locked with his and wrapped your lips around his cock. Shifting forward, you moved him deeper into your mouth and began bobbing your head. Daryl’s head lolled back against the pillow, and he let out a low whine. The sound was music to your ears. He choked out a word between his gasps.

“Please.”

You knew exactly what he was asking for and you doubled your ministrations. Your hand stroked part of Daryl’s length while your tongue circled the head of his dick. The stimulation was more than enough and the orgasm knocked the wind from him. He whined and whimpered your name as he came. You didn’t stop until your mouth was filled.

Giving him a moment to breathe, you removed him from your mouth and swallowed. Daryl wiped the sweat from his brow and gathered himself. His words were weak and slurred with exhaustion. That didn’t wipe the smile from his face, though.

“We’re good at this whole makin’ up thing.”

“Damn straight, we are.”

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“Kid won’t last out here.”

Daryl says it like it’s fact.

Like the sky is blue. Like walkers bite. Like the world ended and never bothered to apologize.

You crouch in front of the child, keeping your voice soft.

“What’s your name?”

A pause.

“…Eli.”

Seven, you learn.

Seven and already alone.

You glance back at Daryl.

He’s watching—sharp, assessing, already calculating the risk.

“We can’t just leave him,” you say.

Daryl exhales through his nose, jaw tight.

“Didn’t say we would.”

But he doesn’t sound convinced.

You reach out slowly, letting Eli see it coming before you take his hand.

“He can stay with us,” you say.

Daryl looks at you like you’ve just volunteered him for something dangerous.

Which, to be fair—

You have.

At first, it’s temporary.

That’s what you both tell yourselves.

Just until you find somewhere safer.

Just until the kid adjusts.

Just until…

Something.

But “temporary” stretches.

Days turn into weeks.

Weeks into months.

And somewhere along the way—

It stops feeling temporary.

Daryl doesn’t know what to do with a kid.

That much is obvious.

He hovers at the edges at first. Keeps his distance. Watches more than he interacts.

Eli doesn’t push.

Just… exists near him.

Quiet.

Observant.

It’s you who bridges the gap.

You show Eli how to clean small cuts. How to pack a bag. How to stay quiet when needed.

You also teach him softer things.

How to laugh again.

How to sleep without clutching a weapon.

How to be a kid—even just a little.

And Daryl—

Daryl watches all of it.

The first time Eli laughs, it’s because of Daryl.

Completely by accident.

Daryl trips over something stupid—an old root, hidden under leaves—and mutters something under his breath that Eli definitely shouldn’t hear.

You freeze.

Waiting.

But Eli just… giggles.

Soft at first.

Then louder.

Daryl goes still.

Looks at the kid like he’s some kind of wild animal that just did a trick.

“…What?” he mutters.

Eli just grins.

And something in Daryl’s chest shifts.

After that, he tries.

Not in obvious ways.

Never obvious.

But you notice.

He starts bringing Eli small things from runs—nothing big, just bits and pieces. A better pair of shoes. A half-decent blanket. A comic book that’s missing pages but still readable.

Eli treasures every single one.

And Daryl pretends he doesn’t see.

You fall into a rhythm.

Unspoken.

You handle the emotional parts.

Daryl handles the danger.

You patch Eli up when he scrapes his knee.

Daryl teaches him how to hold a knife properly.

You sit between them at night.

Sometimes talking.

Sometimes just… being there.

It feels—

It feels like something you’re almost afraid to name.

“You’re good with him.”

You say it one night, watching Eli sleep curled between you.

Daryl shrugs, eyes fixed on the fire.

“Kid’s alright.”

“That’s not what I said.”

He doesn’t respond.

But you see it—the way his gaze flicks to Eli, softer than anything else he allows himself.

“…Don’t wanna screw him up,” he mutters.

Your chest tightens.

“You won’t.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

The first time Eli calls him “Dad,” it’s an accident.

Sort of.

“Dad—” Eli starts, then freezes like he’s just stepped off a cliff.

Silence.

You look at Daryl.

Daryl looks at Eli.

Eli looks like he’s about to apologize.

“…Didn’t mean—” the kid starts.

Daryl cuts him off.

“It’s fine.”

Too quick.

Too rough.

But he doesn’t correct him.

Doesn’t tell him not to say it again.

And later that night, when Eli’s asleep—

You see Daryl sitting a little closer than usual.

Like he’s guarding something fragile.

Terminus nearly takes all of it away.

You.

Eli.

Everything.

You get separated in the chaos.

One second you’re running with Eli’s hand in yours—

The next, he’s gone.

The next, Daryl’s gone too.

And the world collapses into panic.

When Daryl finds you again, you’re bleeding.

Bad.

But alive.

“Eli—” is the first thing you say.

“He’s safe,” Daryl cuts in immediately.

Your breath leaves you in a rush.

Relief hits so hard it almost knocks you out.

He crouches in front of you, hands already checking your injuries, movements urgent and rough.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m—”

“Stop.”

The word snaps out sharper than usual.

You go quiet.

His hands are shaking.

You notice that this time.

Later, when everything settles—when you’re far enough away, when Eli is asleep again, safe between blankets and exhaustion—

You find Daryl sitting alone.

Staring into nothing.

You sit beside him.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“I thought I lost you.”

His voice is quiet.

Raw.

You turn to him.

“I’m right here.”

He shakes his head slightly, like that’s not enough.

“Not just today,” he says. “Back there. Before. Thought I lost you both.”

Your chest tightens.

“You didn’t.”

“I almost did.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Then he looks at you.

Really looks.

And there’s no hiding in his expression now.

No distance.

No walls.

Just truth.

“I can’t—” he starts, then stops, frustrated. “Ain’t good at this.”

“At what?”

He exhales sharply.

“…Feelings. Words. All that.”

A small, tired smile tugs at your lips.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

That almost earns a huff of amusement.

Almost.

Then he sobers again.

“I love him,” he says.

Your heart softens immediately.

“I know.”

He shakes his head.

“No, I mean—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “That kid… he’s mine. Don’t care how it happened. He’s mine.”

Your throat tightens.

“I know,” you repeat softly.

A pause.

Then—

“And you.”

The words hit harder.

You blink.

“…What?”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“I love you.”

Everything stills.

“I—” He drags a hand through his hair, clearly struggling. “Been there a while. Just… didn’t say it. Didn’t know how. Didn’t think—”

You don’t let him finish.

You lean forward and kiss him.

It’s not gentle.

Not hesitant.

It’s relief.

Fear.

Everything you almost lost crashing into everything you still have.

His hand comes up instantly, gripping your jacket like you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

When you pull back, you’re both a little breathless.

“You’re an idiot,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he mutters.

“But you’re my idiot.”

That earns you something rare—

A real, quiet smile.

Later, when you lie down beside Eli, Daryl settles on the other side.

Close.

Solid.

There.

Eli shifts in his sleep, reaching out instinctively.

One small hand finds yours.

The other finds Daryl’s.

And neither of you pulls away.

Not this time.