celeste

You were grieving the rest of your youth, your freedom, so many things all at once. Grieving a future you hadn't even lost yet, but one that suddenly felt doomed by those two bright lines. You felt stupid. Reckless. You fucked up.

The test trembled between your white-knuckled fingers as you stared so hard as if you looked long enough, the lines would disappear. The house around you had gone silent in that eerie upper-class way expensive homes often did, where every room was too large and too polished to feel lived in.

Daryl stood awkwardly in the doorway, dirt on his boots and oil beneath his fingernails from the afternoon working in, looking painfully out of place beneath the warm yellow chandelier light spilling down the hallway. He had been twenty-one years old and already carried himself like someone much older, shoulders permanently braced for impact, hands roughened by work, eyes too guarded for a man that young, but the second you looked up at him with tears threatening to spill over, he hovered over you protectively.

"S’okay,” he murmured, pulling your head gently against his chest, unsure of what else he could possibly say. “We’ll figure it out.”

Despite everything people assumed about Daryl Dixon, despite the cigarettes and the silence and the rough edges that made strangers dismiss him before he even spoke, his first instinct had always been loyalty. “Ain’t runnin’ from it.” And you knew him well enough to know he meant it.

The worst night came over dinner, when you decided you wouldn't scape telling your parents.

The dining room had always felt more like a museum exhibit than a place where families gathered. The crystal glasses sparkled beneath the light, silverware had been arranged with military precision, and your mother had insisted on using the good china as though appearances could somehow soften the conversation you knew was coming.

Daryl showed up in a white button-down shirt you'd bought him. He looked uncomfortable from the moment he stepped through the door, tugging absentmindedly at the sleeves and clearly wishing he could disappear into the floorboards. You had squeezed his hand beneath the table when he sat beside you, and though he hadn't said anything, his fingers intertwined yours immediately.

Your mother barely touched her food.

Your father, on the other hand, seemed to have rehearsed every word.

"So," he began, carefully setting down his wine glass, "have the two of you given any thought to what exactly comes next?"

You frowned. "Dad–"

"No, sweetheart, I'm asking a reasonable question. Your finals have deadlines. Your entire life had a clean trajectory."

"Our lives still do." you replied quietly. Your father sighed heavily.

"You were supposed to travel. You were supposed to get internships abroad. You had opportunities most people would kill for." His eyes drifted toward Daryl. "And now?"

The room went silent.

Daryl lowered his gaze to his untouched plate.

"Harold..." your mother whispered softly.

"No, Mary, she deserves honesty." He turned back to you. "Do you know how much money we spent making sure you had every advantage? Private schools. Piano lessons. Ballet. Tutors. Summer programs. Years of preparation."

You sat quietly, you knew that.

"And for what?" he asked quietly, disappointment proving far crueler than anger. "To throw it all away?"

Your mother quietly dabbed at her eyes with a napkin.

"Please don't do this."

"I am doing this because I love her." His gaze moved toward Daryl again.

"We tried to warn you about your little forbidden adventure, but life had it's own way of sobering people up."

You felt Daryl's hand tense around yours.

"Sir–"

You father interrupted him sharply. "Tell me honestly, son. What exactly are you offering her? Because I fail to see how changing oil and repairing engines compensates for everything my daughter's giving up."

"Dad!" you snapped.

But Daryl simply sat there. He sat through every word with his jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack from the pressure. He never defended himself, raised his voice or begged. He simply endured it because you were pregnant, exhausted, and scared, and somewhere in that silence he had decided your comfort mattered more than his pride.

"Darling," he continued, softening his voice. "You'll have all our support raising this child. But–" he glanced at your boyfriend again, sharpening his tone once more. "don't you think, for a second that I'm being conniving of this." he pointed between you.

The months that followed were ugly in ways neither of you had expected. Not because of the baby, but because the world around you made it painfully clear how little faith it had in the possibility of people like you surviving together.

Benjamin was born during a thunderstorm after nine painful hours of labor. It felt like the weather itself mimicked your screams with thunder shaking the hospital windows. Even against your parents’ wishes, Daryl stayed beside you the entire time.

The gentle nurse who spoke to you afterward admitted she had never seen a man more terrified in her life than when he heard you screaming in pain.

Once the baby was finally placed against your chest, Daryl felt his entire world change. He muttered something under his breath while staring down at the tiny screaming infant wrapped in blue blankets, looking stunned in the purest sense of the word. Your son had his eyes.

For a while, the two of you tried. God, you tried harder than most people ever knew. Daryl picked up extra work wherever he could find it, often coming home with grease on his hands and exhaustion dragging beneath his eyes so heavily it aged him years overnight, while you balanced college classes with motherhood and constant battles against your parents’ disappointment.

You were exhausted all the time, surviving on burnt coffee, interrupted sleep, and a stubborn love that refused to die even when life gave it every reason to.

But eventually the pressure became unbearable.

Your parents escalated from disapproval to ultimatums, threatening to cut you off completely — tuition, housing, every safety net you and your son had left.

You and Daryl had your final fight the night your son turned three, screaming at each other in the apartment kitchen while the little boy slept in the next room. You knew in that moment that you would remember the look in his eyes for the rest of your life, the exact moment Daryl realized you were drowning beneath expectations you could no longer carry.

“Ya think I wanna be the reason your whole damn life falls apart?” he snapped, voice raw with frustration and heartbreak tangled together. “Think I don’t see what this is doin’ to you?”

“It’s not you." you cried back immediately.

“But I’m in your way."

“Daryl.”

“Yer family’ll never see me as one of ‘em, and they already said they’ll cut you out if ya stay with me.” He cupped your cheeks, taking a deep breath before continuing, calmer now. “I don’t want Ben to have a life like mine.”

"He won't, he has you. You're nothing like your dad."

"He deserves better than me."

The sentence shattered something inside you.

"No." you whispered fiercely. "Daryl, don't you dare." He only smiled sadly.

"He got opportunities here." the last words barely rose above a whisper.

"He got schools. College. A house. Stability."

"And you!"

His face crumpled.

"And I love him enough not to gamble with his future."

You let out the most heartbreaking sob he had ever heard. Because loving someone wasn't always enough to survive the machinery of the world crushing down around you.

And because, as you looked at the man you loved with all your heart, you realized with unbearable clarity that neither of you was trying to leave. You were trying to save each other.

Daryl pressed his forehead against yours and finally let the tears fall. "I love you." he whispered shakily. "So much."

You broke completely.

"I know."

"No." his voice cracked. "Need ya to know that. Need ya to know I ain't stoppin' because I don't love you."

"I know."

"Ain't ever gonna stop."

You separated officially a month later. There were nonstop tears, shaking hands, and promises to stay kind to each other for your son’s sake, and somehow, against all odds, you managed it. You became good coparents. Great ones, even. Better friends than lovers by the end of it, as you liked to lie to yourself.

Daryl stayed involved no matter how far life dragged him, showing up for birthdays with awkwardly wrapped gifts and scraped knuckles, teaching your son how to fish before he learned long division, how to track deer prints through mud, how to throw a punch without breaking his wrist, how to survive disappointment quietly.

Unfortunately, cars appeared unimpressed by wishful thinking, and the Georgia heat had begun slowly dismantling all the effort you'd put into your appearance that morning. By the time you heard the low rumble of a motorcycle approaching in the distance, you had already composed three separate speeches in your head regarding the unfairness of the universe.

The motorcycle slowed as it approached your stranded vehicle before eventually pulling a few feet ahead of you. You braced yourself for either an overeager man who would mistake basic politeness for encouragement, or a well-meaning retiree determined to explain your own car to you while addressing you exclusively as sweetheart.

You weren't ready to face the rider who removed his helmet, revealing slightly overgrown dark hair and eyes so startlingly blue that they nearly distracted you from the fact that he was, quite frankly, unfairly handsome, not like the men you were used to, there was nothing polished about him. His clothes were worn, his boots scuffed, and the leather vest hanging over a faded shirt suggested a man far more interested in practicality than fashion, yet the overall effect was annoyingly attractive in a way the carefully groomed men who attended your father's charity dinners couldn't dream to be. He looked first at the smoke escaping from your engine, then at you, then at your shoes, and though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly, his expression remained overall unreadable.

"You break down?" he asked.

You glanced pointedly at the engine.

"Nah, I like to stand beside highways in expensive shoes and contemplate my terrible decisions."

To your surprise, amusement softened his features, and the small smile that appeared transformed his entire face in a way that felt almost unfair.

"Weird pick for a hobbie."

There wasn't a trace of mockery in his voice, only quiet humor, and immediately you felt a twinge of guilt for your sarcasm. "Sorry," you sighed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "It's been a day."

He simply grunted, then, without fanfare or unnecessary questions, he stepped forward and peered beneath the hood. You watched him for several moments before raising an eyebrow.

"Shouldn't you ask before touching things?"

"If ya want I'll just take off and leave ya where you are." He grunted.

"Sorry, do your thing."

"Mhm."

After another few moments spent muttering incomprehensible mechanical phrases beneath his breath, he straightened and wiped his hands against a rag he seemed to have produced from nowhere. "Radiator's shot. You ain't drivin' this."

You stared blankly.

"Wonderful. That means absolutely nothing to me."

"Means no driving. Car bad." he repeated as if speaking to a toddler.

"Ah," you nodded solemnly. "now you're speaking my language."

To your immense satisfaction, a small grin showed. Brief and quiet, gone almost before it arrived, but unmistakably there. And suddenly you found yourself absurdly pleased with the idea that you'd managed to make this handsome stranger smile.

"I got a shop in town," he offered after a moment. "Can have it towed there. Fix it up."

You blinked. "You own a repair shop?"

"Mhm."

"Ya stop to rescue strange women on the side of the road often?"

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "You looked miserable." The simplicity of the answer caught you entirely off guard, you were expecting something along the lines of "Only the pretty ones" – you got that often. But there was something deeply refreshing about a man whose motivations appeared to begin and end with simple kindness rather than the expectation of reward. You glanced down at your ruined afternoon, your ridiculous shoes, and the expensive car currently attempting to expire, and despite everything, you smiled.

"Well," you said softly, "I appreciate your concern for miserable women, uh–" you stopped, realizing you hadn't asked for his name.

And for the first time since he'd stopped, the stranger smiled fully, the expression warm and so stupidly beautiful.

"Daryl."

You smiled back.

"Daryl" you repeated, already suspecting that your busted radiator might end up being the luckiest disaster of your life. You presented yourself too, motioning your hands to shake his. His hands were calloused and permanently stained from keeping them on engines so often, and yet the contact of his skin to yours so slightly made you shiver.

The tow truck took about an hour to arrive, by the time it did, you'd be lying to yourself if you said you didn't feel a sting of disappointment from having to say goodbye to the redneck you'd practically just met.

During the waiting time, he sat with you on the sideway, mostly just listening to you, at least at first, then gradually revealing small details of himself. You found out he had a brother, and that overall, your lives were very different. As your car was getting towed, you handed him a small paper with your number written in tidy handwriting to which he took in suspicion.

"What's this?"

"My number?..." you answered, unsure, and suddenly embarrassed. "I don't suppose your shop operates entirely on telepathy? So you call me when it's done." you nervously added.

"Oh–" understanding dawned across his features. "right, yeah, I'll call." he lifted the small piece of paper and awkwardly scratched his neck, and to your immense delight, the tips of his ears turned pink. Suddenly that intimidating, broad-shouldered biker looked shy. The sight was so endearing you nearly smiled yourself silly.

"I hope so."

Neither of you knew then that the repair would only take three days. That you'd spend those three days thinking about a man you'd known for less than two hours, and by the third day, you had become thoroughly annoyed with yourself.

It was absurd, really. You found yourself wondering ridiculous things while sitting through meetings and answering e-mails. Had he always been so quiet, or had you simply done enough talking for both of you? Did he smile like that often? Was he thinking about you too?Most embarrassingly of all, after you picked up his call letting you know that your car was ready, you caught yourself changing outfits twice before reminding yourself, quite sternly, that you were only picking up your car. Nothing more.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped in, and immediately you were struck by how perfectly the place matched its owner. It wasn't polished or modern, and it certainly lacked the sleek professionalism your father would have preferred, but it felt lived in. Tools hung neatly on pegboards, old photographs occupied the walls, and somewhere in the background, classic rock played softly enough that it blended with the hum of the ceiling fan.

When your eyes found him you automatically smiled. Daryl was bent over the hood of a truck, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged across his forearms, entirely absorbed in whatever he was doing. You doubted he had even heard the bell. Which meant you had several uninterrupted seconds to appreciate the view.

"Daryl." you greeted nervously.

He looked up, then smiled.

Not the polite little smile he'd given you on the side of the road. Not the amused smirk that seemed to appear whenever you said something ridiculous, this one happened before he could stop it, and the sight of it softened something inside you immediately.

"Hey."

"Hello to you too." you couldn't help but to smile back.

He wiped his hands on a rag, though the effort seemed largely symbolic considering the amount of grease currently decorating him. "Car's ready."

"I had hoped so! Otherwise this would've been a very expensive social call."

That earned a quiet snort.

"Thought I would understand if you called just to see me." you half-joked, his ears turning pink again.

"Ya very convinced for someone I found basically abbandoned on the side of the road." this time, you were the one who laughed.

As Daryl disappeared into the office to retrieve your paperwork, you found yourself wondering whether he seemed disappointed, the thought appeared out of nowhere and settled itself squarely in your chest. Because suddenly it occurred to you that this was it.

You'd pay him, drive away, and if it depended on life's odds only, you'd most likely never see him again. The idea left a strange heaviness in your stomach.

Daryl returned with the keys in one hand and several forms in the other. He explained what had been wrong with the car, and you nodded along with all the enthusiasm of someone pretending to understand a foreign language.

"So she's healthy again?" you asked.

"Mhm."

"And she won't explode?"

His mouth twitched. "Shouldn't."

"Excellent. I've always hated surprises."

He smiled again.

God.

The full transaction lasted less than five minutes, still, neither of you moved, a strange reluctance hung in the air.

Daryl shifted awkwardly, and you adjusted your purse strap.

"Well–"

"I uh–"

You overlapped eachother. You both smiled awkwardly.

"Ya can go first." he motioned for you to say. The poor man looked genuinely uncomfortable, as though he wanted to say something and had absolutely no idea how, perhaps that was what gave you the courage.

"Can I ask you something?"

His eyebrows rose slightly.

"Mhm."

"You don't... happen to drink whiskey, do you?"

The question seemed to catch him entirely off guard.

"Huh?"

"As a thank-you," you clarified quickly. "For rescuing miserable women stranded on highways and saving their outrageously expensive cars." Immediately, he shook his head.

"You ain't gotta do that."

"I know."

"Really."

"I know."

"So don't."

You smiled.

"Daryl."

"Mhm?"

"I'm asking because I want to."

If he was a cartoon, his head would've shaped into a question mark, because men like Daryl Dixon didn't spend much time being pursued.

The tips of his ears burned hot again, and to your immense delight, he looked down. He was adorable.

"Just a drink?" he asked quietly.

You smiled.

"Just a drink."

It turned out that "just a drink" became one too many.

And then dinner.

Because once Daryl relaxed enough to stop worrying about saying the wrong thing, you discovered that beneath the shyness and quiet grunts lived a man with a dry sense of humor and a kindness so effortless that it almost hurt. He listened when you spoke. Really listened. He remembered things you mentioned in passing. He laughed softly at your jokes, even the terrible ones, and whenever you caught him looking at you, there was always that same expression in his eyes.

Like he couldn't quite believe you were real. By the time the bartender announced last call, neither of you had noticed the hours passing.

Outside, the air had cooled considerably, and the streetlights cast soft pools of gold onto the sidewalk.

"Thanks." Daryl murmured as the two of you lingered beside his bike.

You blinked.

"For what?"

He shrugged.

"Tonight."

It was palpable neither of you were eager to say goodbye. You stood there smiling like idiots, no one willing to leave first.

"You know," you said softly, "for a man who can rebuild an engine, you're surprisingly bad at this."

His brow furrowed.

"Bad at what?"

"Taking signs."

And with it came the most endearing blush you'd ever witnessed. "Never said I was good at it."

"No?"

"No."

You stepped closer.

"So what exactly are you waiting for?" he swallowed dry. Then, with all the caution of a man handling something precious, Daryl reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers trembled slightly, and your hands traveled one to his arm and the other to the nape of his neck, pulling him in to close the distance you couldn't wait for him to do so anymore.

His lips were warm, a little dry, tasting faintly of beer and whiskey. One hand settled lightly against your waist, hesitant enough that it made your chest ache, and you found yourself smiling against his mouth because somehow, impossibly, the intimidating mechanic with the beautiful eyes seemed far more nervous than you were.

When you finally pulled away, Daryl looked slightly dazed. His cheeks were red and eyes impossibly soft.

"You got any idea what you're doin' to me?"

You smiled innocently.

"No."

His laugh was soft and helpless.

"Imma need more of this." and he leaned to kiss you again, for the second of so many times you'd loose count on that night.

Unfortunately, cars appeared unimpressed by wishful thinking, and the Georgia heat had begun slowly dismantling all the effort you'd put into your appearance that morning. By the time you heard the low rumble of a motorcycle approaching in the distance, you had already composed three separate speeches in your head regarding the unfairness of the universe.

The motorcycle slowed as it approached your stranded vehicle before eventually pulling a few feet ahead of you. You braced yourself for either an overeager man who would mistake basic politeness for encouragement, or a well-meaning retiree determined to explain your own car to you while addressing you exclusively as sweetheart.

You weren't ready to face the rider who removed his helmet, revealing slightly overgrown dark hair and eyes so startlingly blue that they nearly distracted you from the fact that he was, quite frankly, unfairly handsome, not like the men you were used to, there was nothing polished about him. His clothes were worn, his boots scuffed, and the leather vest hanging over a faded shirt suggested a man far more interested in practicality than fashion, yet the overall effect was annoyingly attractive in a way the carefully groomed men who attended your father's charity dinners couldn't dream to be. He looked first at the smoke escaping from your engine, then at you, then at your shoes, and though the corner of his mouth twitched faintly, his expression remained overall unreadable.

"You break down?" he asked.

You glanced pointedly at the engine.

"Nah, I like to stand beside highways in expensive shoes and contemplate my terrible decisions."

To your surprise, amusement softened his features, and the small smile that appeared transformed his entire face in a way that felt almost unfair.

"Weird pick for a hobbie."

There wasn't a trace of mockery in his voice, only quiet humor, and immediately you felt a twinge of guilt for your sarcasm. "Sorry," you sighed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "It's been a day."

He simply grunted, then, without fanfare or unnecessary questions, he stepped forward and peered beneath the hood. You watched him for several moments before raising an eyebrow.

"Shouldn't you ask before touching things?"

"If ya want I'll just take off and leave ya where you are." He grunted.

"Sorry, do your thing."

"Mhm."

After another few moments spent muttering incomprehensible mechanical phrases beneath his breath, he straightened and wiped his hands against a rag he seemed to have produced from nowhere. "Radiator's shot. You ain't drivin' this."

You stared blankly.

"Wonderful. That means absolutely nothing to me."

"Means no driving. Car bad." he repeated as if speaking to a toddler.

"Ah," you nodded solemnly. "now you're speaking my language."

To your immense satisfaction, a small grin showed. Brief and quiet, gone almost before it arrived, but unmistakably there. And suddenly you found yourself absurdly pleased with the idea that you'd managed to make this handsome stranger smile.

"I got a shop in town," he offered after a moment. "Can have it towed there. Fix it up."

You blinked. "You own a repair shop?"

"Mhm."

"Ya stop to rescue strange women on the side of the road often?"

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "You looked miserable." The simplicity of the answer caught you entirely off guard, you were expecting something along the lines of "Only the pretty ones" – you got that often. But there was something deeply refreshing about a man whose motivations appeared to begin and end with simple kindness rather than the expectation of reward. You glanced down at your ruined afternoon, your ridiculous shoes, and the expensive car currently attempting to expire, and despite everything, you smiled.

"Well," you said softly, "I appreciate your concern for miserable women, uh–" you stopped, realizing you hadn't asked for his name.

And for the first time since he'd stopped, the stranger smiled fully, the expression warm and so stupidly beautiful.

"Daryl."

You smiled back.

"Daryl" you repeated, already suspecting that your busted radiator might end up being the luckiest disaster of your life. You presented yourself too, motioning your hands to shake his. His hands were calloused and permanently stained from keeping them on engines so often, and yet the contact of his skin to yours so slightly made you shiver.

The tow truck took about an hour to arrive, by the time it did, you'd be lying to yourself if you said you didn't feel a sting of disappointment from having to say goodbye to the redneck you'd practically just met.

During the waiting time, he sat with you on the sideway, mostly just listening to you, at least at first, then gradually revealing small details of himself. You found out he had a brother, and that overall, your lives were very different. As your car was getting towed, you handed him a small paper with your number written in tidy handwriting to which he took in suspicion.

"What's this?"

"My number?..." you answered, unsure, and suddenly embarrassed. "I don't suppose your shop operates entirely on telepathy? So you call me when it's done." you nervously added.

"Oh–" understanding dawned across his features. "right, yeah, I'll call." he lifted the small piece of paper and awkwardly scratched his neck, and to your immense delight, the tips of his ears turned pink. Suddenly that intimidating, broad-shouldered biker looked shy. The sight was so endearing you nearly smiled yourself silly.

"I hope so."

Neither of you knew then that the repair would only take three days. That you'd spend those three days thinking about a man you'd known for less than two hours, and by the third day, you had become thoroughly annoyed with yourself.

It was absurd, really. You found yourself wondering ridiculous things while sitting through meetings and answering e-mails. Had he always been so quiet, or had you simply done enough talking for both of you? Did he smile like that often? Was he thinking about you too? Most embarrassingly of all, after you picked up his call letting you know that your car was ready, you caught yourself changing outfits twice before reminding yourself, quite sternly, that you were only picking up your car. Nothing more.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped in, and immediately you were struck by how perfectly the place matched its owner. It wasn't polished or modern, and it certainly lacked the sleek professionalism your father would have preferred, but it felt lived in. Tools hung neatly on pegboards, old photographs occupied the walls, and somewhere in the background, classic rock played softly enough that it blended with the hum of the ceiling fan.

When your eyes found him you automatically smiled. Daryl was bent over the hood of a truck, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged across his forearms, entirely absorbed in whatever he was doing. You doubted he had even heard the bell. Which meant you had several uninterrupted seconds to appreciate the view.

"Daryl." you greeted nervously.

He looked up, then smiled.

Not the polite little smile he'd given you on the side of the road. Not the amused smirk that seemed to appear whenever you said something ridiculous, this one happened before he could stop it, and the sight of it softened something inside you immediately.

"Hey."

"Hello to you too." you couldn't help but to smile back.

He wiped his hands on a rag, though the effort seemed largely symbolic considering the amount of grease currently decorating him. "Car's ready."

"I had hoped so! Otherwise this would've been a very expensive social call."

That earned a quiet snort.

"Thought I would understand if you called just to see me." you half-joked, his ears turning pink again.

"Ya very convinced for someone I found basically abbandoned on the side of the road." this time, you were the one who laughed.

As Daryl disappeared into the office to retrieve your paperwork, you found yourself wondering whether he seemed disappointed, the thought appeared out of nowhere and settled itself squarely in your chest. Because suddenly it occurred to you that this was it.

You'd pay him, drive away, and if it depended on life's odds only, you'd most likely never see him again. The idea left a strange heaviness in your stomach.

Daryl returned with the keys in one hand and several forms in the other. He explained what had been wrong with the car, and you nodded along with all the enthusiasm of someone pretending to understand a foreign language.

"So she's healthy again?" you asked.

"Mhm."

"And she won't explode?"

His mouth twitched. "Shouldn't."

"Excellent. I've always hated surprises."

He smiled again.

God.

The full transaction lasted less than five minutes, still, neither of you moved, a strange reluctance hung in the air.

Daryl shifted awkwardly, and you adjusted your purse strap.

"Well–"

"I uh–"

You overlapped eachother. You both smiled awkwardly.

"Ya can go first." he motioned for you to say. The poor man looked genuinely uncomfortable, as though he wanted to say something and had absolutely no idea how, perhaps that was what gave you the courage.

"Can I ask you something?"

His eyebrows rose slightly.

"Mhm."

"You don't... happen to drink whiskey, do you?"

The question seemed to catch him entirely off guard.

"Huh?"

"As a thank-you," you clarified quickly. "For rescuing miserable women stranded on highways and saving their outrageously expensive cars." Immediately, he shook his head.

"You ain't gotta do that."

"I know."

"Really."

"I know."

"So don't."

You smiled.

"Daryl."

"Mhm?"

"I'm asking because I want to."

If he was a cartoon, his head would've shaped into a question mark, because men like Daryl Dixon didn't spend much time being pursued.

The tips of his ears burned hot again, and to your immense delight, he looked down. He was adorable.

"Just a drink?" he asked quietly.

You smiled.

"Just a drink."

It turned out that "just a drink" became one too many.

And then dinner.

Because once Daryl relaxed enough to stop worrying about saying the wrong thing, you discovered that beneath the shyness and quiet grunts lived a man with a dry sense of humor and a kindness so effortless that it almost hurt. He listened when you spoke. Really listened. He remembered things you mentioned in passing. He laughed softly at your jokes, even the terrible ones, and whenever you caught him looking at you, there was always that same expression in his eyes.

Like he couldn't quite believe you were real. By the time the bartender announced last call, neither of you had noticed the hours passing.

Outside, the air had cooled considerably, and the streetlights cast soft pools of gold onto the sidewalk.

"Thanks." Daryl murmured as the two of you lingered beside his bike.

You blinked.

"For what?"

He shrugged.

"Tonight."

It was palpable neither of you were eager to say goodbye. You stood there smiling like idiots, no one willing to leave first.

"You know," you said softly, "for a man who can rebuild an engine, you're surprisingly bad at this."

His brow furrowed.

"Bad at what?"

"Taking signs."

And with it came the most endearing blush you'd ever witnessed. "Never said I was good at it."

"No?"

"No."

You stepped closer.

"So what exactly are you waiting for?" he swallowed dry. Then, with all the caution of a man handling something precious, Daryl reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

His fingers trembled slightly, and your hands traveled one to his arm and the other to the nape of his neck, pulling him in to close the distance you couldn't wait for him to do so anymore.

His lips were warm, a little dry, tasting faintly of beer and whiskey. One hand settled lightly against your waist, hesitant enough that it made your chest ache, and you found yourself smiling against his mouth because somehow, impossibly, the intimidating mechanic with the beautiful eyes seemed far more nervous than you were.

When you finally pulled away, Daryl looked slightly dazed. His cheeks were red and eyes impossibly soft.

"You got any idea what you're doin' to me?"

You smiled innocently.

"No."

His laugh was soft and helpless.

Without him there, the house felt larger than it should have, and the monsters you dialed with silently hovered over you worse in these nights alone.

It always began the same way.

You saw the same cold, dirty walls, they felt like closing in on you on that claustrophobic cubicle you spent long hours in back at the Sanctuary. Negan's voice echoed on the back, you felt it approach you, you felt like the walls had finally closed in enough they'd inevitably crush you, then, the scenario changed.

You ran through dim corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead, your footsteps echoing against concrete walls. Every door you reached slammed shut before you could touch it. Every turn led nowhere. The air felt too thin to breathe.

You called for help. No one answered. The voice came closer and closer.

A violent crack of thunder tore through the darkness.

Your eyes flew open.

For a moment you couldn't move. The nightmare clung to you stubbornly, refusing to loosen its grip even as reality returned. Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, and every breath felt shallow. You felt your body damp from sweat, not because it was hot, the rainstill hammered against the windows, lightnings lashed beyond the curtains, illuminating the room in brief, bright bursts before plunging everything back into shadow.

You pressed a hand against your chest and tried to slow your breathing.

It was over. You were safe. You knew that.

Instinctively, you rolled toward the other side of the bed, seeking comfort where you had found none for weeks. Your hand brushed against warmth.

You froze.

Slowly, almost afraid of what you might discover, you lifted your head from the pillow.

Lightning flashed again. The shape beside you became unmistakable.

Broad shoulders. Dark hair falling over a familiar face. One arm thrown carelessly across the blanket, and for several seconds you could do nothing but stare.

You had imagined this moment so many times over the last three weeks that part of you genuinely wondered whether you were still asleep. Whether your mind had conjured him out of loneliness and exhaustion.

Then he shifted slightly beneath the blankets.

And you knew.

"Daryl."

His name escaped as little more than a whisper, his eyes opened immediately.

The reaction was so characteristically him that it nearly made you laugh. Three weeks away hadn't changed the fact that he still slept lightly enough to wake at the slightest sound.

For a brief second confusion crossed his features. Then he saw your expression, tears you hadn't even realized were there.

Every trace of sleep vanished from his face.

"Hey."

The single word nearly undid you.

You crossed the distance between you without thinking, and Daryl caught you effortlessly as you all but collapsed against him. Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you close with urgency. The familiar scent of leather, soap, and rain clung to him, and for the first time since waking, you felt something inside your chest begin to loosen.

One hand slid into your hair while the other settled firmly against your back.

"Same as always?"

You shook your head against his shoulder.

His grip tightened. You didn't have to explain yourself. Daryl knew.

He had witnessed enough of them over the years to recognize the aftermath immediately. The trembling hands. The lingering panic. The way you always sought him out before you were fully awake.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The storm continued raging outside, but it seemed distant now, reduced to little more than background noise beneath the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"You got back early." you murmured eventually.

A soft huff of amusement stirred beneath your cheek.

"Couple hours ago. Didn't wanna wake you." You stared at him.

"Daryl."

"What?"

"You got home after three weeks and didn't wake me up?"

His mouth twitched faintly, he looked at you with innocent eyes.

"You looked comfortable."

The ridiculousness of the statement might have annoyed you if your chest wasn't already overflowing with affection. Leave it to Daryl Dixon to cross half the state, return home unexpectedly, and decide that interrupting your sleep would somehow be more inconsiderate than allowing you to spend hours unaware he was back home.

A laugh escaped you. You reached up and brushed your fingers through his hair, his eyes softened immediately.

"You okay now?" he asked.

"I'm getting there."

Without a word, he shifted lower against the mattress and opened his arm, silently inviting you closer, and you didn't gladly.

The moment you settled against his chest, Daryl wrapped himself around you completely. One arm curved securely around your waist while the other rested across your shoulders, drawing you close enough that every breath he took moved through both of you.

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky once more, but it no longer made your pulse jump. The nightmare had retreated completely now, stripped of its power by warmth and familiarity and the man holding you as though he had missed you just as desperately.

Perhaps he had.

You felt his lips brush lightly against your hair.

A quiet confession from a man who had never been particularly good with words.

You smiled and tucked yourself closer.

Within minutes your eyes began to grow heavy again.

This time, when sleep came, it carried none of the darkness that had haunted you before. The last thing you felt was Daryl's hand resting securely against your back and the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath your ear.

Because Spencer had mistaken your politeness for encouragement.

Daryl had been away on a run with Rick and Aaron for nearly two weeks, and though he had left with his usual grumble and a promise to be back before you had the chance to miss him too much, you knew better. You missed him the moment he walked through the gates.

Besides, there were some things easier dealt with when your boyfriend happened to be terrifyingly competent with a crossbow and a permanent scowl.

You hadn't told him. Partly because you didn't want to worry him, and partly because you knew exactly how he'd react.

The mere thought of Daryl discovering another man had been making you uncomfortable was enough to picture the storm cloud that would settle over his face, so you tried to handle it yourself before he arrived.

"Spencer, seriously, quit it. I'm not interested."

"Not interested right now?" he'd asked hopefully.

"No. Not interested. Period."

And he smiled. Actually smiled.

As if his persistence would somehow change your mind.

"I get it, you're difficult."

"No, Spencer, you're being difficult. I don't want you." you pause between every word like you're speaking to a toddler.

His expression changed to something like disappointment for only a second before that easy smile returned, making your skin crawl for reasons you couldn't explain.

"Guess I'll keep trying then."

You'd stopped even replying to his greetings after that, not wanting to give the man any reasons to think he had a shot with you.

When Daryl arrived, you took a mental note to explain him everything. How annoying Spencer had been these last couple of weeks, how scary it was starting to look for you. But you waited the first day to pass, enjoying a peaceful time with him before throwing the bomb when things were calmer.

The next day, you woke up earlier than him, it had rained the night before, leaving the air cool and smelling faintly of wet earth. You had changed into one of Daryl's old shirts, the oversized sleeves hanging past your wrists, curled them up to make him breakfast, while your head wondered how you'd approach the subject without him storming out of your house immediately and stamping his fists directly onto Spencer's nose.

A knock woke you from your thoughts. You sighed deeply.

"Come on, I know you're home." the known voice said from the other side of the wall.

You closed your eyes.

Of course ignoring him had apparently encouraged him. Wonderful.

"Can we just talk?" his voice called through the door. "You've been avoiding me.". No shit.

You remained frozen on your spot. Then came another knock. Louder this time.

"Seriously?"

You were just beginning to gather your voice to yell at him to leave when footsteps sounded behind you and strong arms slid around your waist.

You nearly jumped out of your skin before a familiar warmth pressed against your back.

"Who the hell's bangin' on your door?"

"Good morning, sleepyhead." you dodged the question, turned to face him and press your lips to his. "Missed you so much these days."

"I missed ya too."

He wore only a pair of overused sweatpants, his exposed chest was marked with scars colored differently, some old and some new ones, his hair was a mess, falling over eyes still heavy and swollen with sleep, and there were faint marks from the pillow pressed against one side of his face. Confusion had settled into a frown as he glanced toward the front door and then back at you.

The knock came again. Daryl frowned.

"Seriously, hun, who's that?"

You stiffened, and immediately, he noticed.

"Who is it?"

"Promise you won't get into a fight for this."

That answer earned you a look.

"The hell's going on?"

"Spencer's been bugging me like an asshole but's gotten worse now. He's been knockin trying to get me to talk to him."

"He's-" Daryl looked between you and the door. "He's been coming to your place?" you nodded.

"I told him with all the letters I wouldn't want him painted gold but he won't listen."

Daryl's eyes darkened.

"That little prick–"

"Y/n?" Spencer called from outside.

Silence. You felt Daryl go completely still.

"Daryl?"

His head turned very slowly toward the front door.

"Daryl–" you repeated weakly.

"Sweetheart."

Another knock interrupted you.

"I know you're in there!"

Daryl released you with alarming slowness, you had witnessed walker hordes that looked less threatening. He wasn't angry at you, not even close.

But there was a very particular expression on his face that usually preceded somebody making poor life choices.

"Daryl."

"Mhm."

"Behave."

"Mhm."

"That wasn't convincing."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead so absentmindedly it nearly distracted you from the fact that he was marching toward the front door with absolutely no shirt on. He opened the door.

Spencer's confident smile vanished so quickly you wished you had recorded to replay it later.

Because as the door opened and he expected you, finally deciding to give him a chance or invite him in, stood instead Daryl Dixon, looking thoroughly unimpressed with existence itself, broad-shouldered and shirtless, like he owned the place.

And behind him, visible over his shoulder, stood you. Wearing one of Daryl's shirts.

Spencer blinked.

Daryl blinked back. Then, with all the warmth of a man discussing the weather, he asked.

"Can I help ya?"

The poor fool actually opened his mouth.

"I uh... I was looking for–"

"For my girl?"

Daryl's eyebrow lifted, he sounded calm — which made things worse.

"She's busy, pal."

Spencer's eyes widened.

My girl. The words settled warmly in your chest despite the embarrassment threatening to kill you.

"Didn't know y'all were together."

Daryl's expression got heavier.

"Well, now ya do." The message was, thankfully, finally received.

Spencer muttered something that sounded like an apology before retreating down the street with remarkable speed.

Daryl watched him until he was far enough, then closed the door, turned around and looked at you smiling like a child who just got cotton candy.