SlothBae Universe

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 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.

Your parents looked at Daryl the way people looked at storms rolling over the horizon when they'd just planned to go out: dangerous, inconvenient. Your mother cried quietly over dinner while your father spoke in measured, humiliating sentences about ruined opportunities and "so much wasted potential", about all the money spent on private schools, ballet classes, and piano lessons just to watch you throw your future away for some mechanic from the “wrong side” of town who barely spoke in complete sentences.

Daryl 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.

Your son 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. And 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. The baby 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 our son havin’ a life like mine.” a tiny pause. “He has opportunities here.” the last sentence was barely above a whisper.

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

You separated six months 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.

Your son adored his dad with that fierce, uncomplicated love children reserved for fathers who made them feel safe, and Daryl loved the boy with a devotion so profound it terrified him.

You kept your relationship heartfelt, every time you asked him how he was doing it was genuine, and vice versa. Every year since your son turned four, you sat on the corners of his birthdays enjoying to catch up with eachother, slipping curious questions like "Are you seeing anyone?" after some alcohol kicked in and the answer was always no, of course it was no.

Truth be told, you kept expecting something change and finally get over eachother, but you weren't really willing to let go, some time after his 13th birthday party ended, you caved in, had a relapse, snuck out with Daryl like a teenager and had sex on his trailer. The next morning you came back home with the bitter taste you weren't allowing yourself to have more of him purely out of cowardice, that you should face it like an adult and allow yourself to be fully happy for once.

Then the world ended.

You had taken a trip with your son to visit your aunt Deanna miles away from where Daryl lived, the true love of your life, if you were honest enough to admit it. You were ready to be back and tell him how sorry you were that you didn't try harder, you didn't push more and you didn't face your folks for him. And then you grieved him again. So much harder this time. You spent two years believing Daryl Dixon was dead.

Alexandria smelled like fresh bread and woodsmoke the afternoon everything changed. The gates opened to receive Aaron back with another group of survivors. You'd grown fond of him in these years and he treated you and your son like his own family.

Aaron walks in first, dirt-streaked clothes and a tired look on his face. You were halfway through unloading crates with your son, he was talking about his last hunting trip when he suddenly froze mid-sentence beside you. Almost sixteen now, he towered over you already — all broad shoulders and long limbs, his sharp blue-gray eyes mirroring his father’s so painfully that sometimes you had to look away not to cry.

The abrupt tension that overtook him made you glance to where his eyes layed immediately. Then you understood why. It felt like a mirage. You had dreamed of this moment so many times before that your first instinct was to believe this was just another cruel fantasy made up by your brain, that it would disappear the second you blinked.

But it didn't. He didn't.

A group of strangers entered through the gates alongside him, people you had never seen before. They looked exhausted, starved, worn down by the world. And right in front on them, Daryl.

He stood only a few feet away near the gate. A crossbow hung oven one shoulder and he looked older now, older than you'd expect someone to age in two years. His hair was long, streaked faintly near the temples, his gaze was harsher and his face was scarred in ways visible even from a distance. Grief had settled like concrete into the lines of his face the way exhaustion settles into old soldiers.

But his eyes were exactly the same. And they locked onto you so intensely you felt it burn.

A woman with snow-white hair stood beside him saying something he clearly wasn’t listening to, because he had gone completely still. Completely, horrifyingly still.

For one suspended second, neither of you moved. The noise around you faded strangely, like the entire world had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale again.

The crate slipped from your hands and hit the pavement hard enough to crack open one corner, canned food spilling across the ground, but neither of you cared because Daryl’s expression had already begun collapsing into something raw and disbelieving and dangerously emotional. You watched his gaze move frantically over your face like he was trying to confirm you were real before running to your encounter, he hugged you tighter than he ever did "You're alive." he kept repeating hoarsely, over and over like he genuinely could not process it. “Jesus Christ, you’re alive."

When he finally opened his eyes to look behind you, he shifted his gaze to your son. The boy stared back at him in stunned silence, every feature unmistakably Dixon beneath the years neither of them had shared together, and Daryl looked like someone had physically struck him across the chest.

The woman beside him glanced between all three of you once before realization visibly dawned across her face, then spread silently through the rest of the group nearby.

Daryl Dixon had a son, a nearly grown son. And somehow none of them had ever known. He'd mentioned having lost people, they all did, but nothing ever specific.

“Holy shit,” a tall, muscular redhead muttered somewhere behind them, not even trying to lower his voice, and nobody corrected him.

Daryl broke from your hug, finally took one shaky step forward, then another.

His breathing looked uneven now, chest rising too sharply beneath the worn fabric of his vest, and you realized with sudden overwhelming clarity that this man had mourned you. Deeply mourned you. Somewhere out there in the brutality of the apocalypse, Daryl had believed you were dead all these years, and whatever walls he had built around himself afterward were cracking apart in real time right in front of everyone.

His voice broke the second he spoke your son’s name.

He blinked rapidly, clearly trying not to look emotional in front of an entire audience, but his composure failed almost instantly. “Dad?”

The sound that escaped Daryl after that barely qualified as human. He crossed the distance in seconds.

And when he wrapped his arms around his son for the first time in two years, holding him so tightly it looked almost desperate, the entire courtyard fell silent around them because nobody there had ever seen Daryl Dixon unravel before. Not with tears visibly gathering in his eyes while his son clung back just as fiercely, laughing shakily despite himself because he could barely breathe beneath the force of the embrace.

When they parted he held you again, afraid that if he let go maybe you'd vanish on thin air. And just like that, the pain of the years apart disappeared between you. There was no more space for it. You had spent years regretting letting him go after believing the two of you had been permanently separated forever.

Now, standing in his arms again, you could physically feel the love that had lingered there all this time. Quieter now. Older now. Reshaped by time and grief and survival. But still there.

Mouth slightly ajar, you stare at Daryl. Your fingers twitch on your sides before coming behind you to grip at the back of your thighs, trying to discreetly wipe your sweaty palms off using the fabric of your jeans.

His eyes scan your face for a few seconds before scoffing. “Gonna get yer ass killed if you stay here,” he grunts, adjusting the strap of his crossbow on his good shoulder. Daryl turns around, already heading back toward the camp.

When he doesn't hear your footsteps following him, he glances over his shoulder, glaring at you confusedly. “You comin' or wha'?”

You blink quickly, shaking yourself out of your shocked state before nodding. “Y—Yeah...” you say hesitantly. Your gaze drops to the walker’s corpse lying on the dirty ground. “Do we just leave them—it here?”

“The hell d’you wanna do with it?” His tone is a mix of confusion and impatience as he glances down at the walker.

You're taken aback from his tone. Not because it was a surprising attitude coming from Daryl, especially in the early seasons, but because you weren't used to people speaking to you that way.

You don't bother answering before letting out a sigh, bypassing him to head back toward the quarry.

Daryl is stunned for a second before shrugging it off, following after you with a grumble. He takes the time to look over at the walker on the ground one last time.

Now, sitting around a bonfire with a few people, you stare at the flames as hums and chewing sounds echo around you. You're deep in thought, just like this morning — and the whole day, for that matter — glaring mindlessly at the center of the circle.

The walker from earlier, the first and only one you had encountered, ignored you. How was that logical? Is it because normally you shouldn't be here? Could they even sense that?

The sun was setting down, making the atmosphere as quiet as it could be. Crickets sing around the quarry as the few remaining mosquitoes fly around the many bodies.

Your thoughts are cut short as someone taps your shoulder, the touch gentle but somewhat firm. You turn your head over your shoulder to look at the person, lightly raising an eyebrow you were met with a woman.

The said woman couldn't be older than forty, harboring short light brown hair with same color eyes. You didn't recognize her.

She nudges her head to the side, signaling you to get up and follow her, a hand behind her back. You get up from your camping chair, following her closer to the back of the RV.

Your back facing the others, you stare at the woman, confused. “...yes?”

She looks at you intensely before taking one of your hands with her free one, shoving her previously hidden palm into yours.

You look down to what she was handing you, your eyes widening in realization. “A gun? I—why would I—”

“(Y/N), sweetie, just take it,” she says, pushing it more firmly into your palm. “I saw you getting outta that forest with that... redneck. You oughta be careful.”

You were about to hand it back to her before a voice appeared behind the woman.

“Donna, don't be so judgemental.”

She turns her head, frowning. “Allen, sweetheart... I know what I'm doing.”

“No... No you don't.” Allen places his hands on her shoulders before offering you an apologetic smile. “Sorry 'bout her, nurse. She tends to be a little... old-fashioned.”

Your eyes widen at her implication. “I'm... I'm not sure Daryl is that harmful, Donna,” you utter her name hesitantly, trying to appear familiar.

She gives you a look. “I doubt that man is any different from his brother—”

“Donna.”

“What?”

Allen lets out a sigh. “Daryl—” he whispers the name. “—is the man who feeds you, us, every single night. Ain't you the one always complainin' 'bout those disrespectful youngsters nowadays? You're aren't much different right now...”

You watch them bicker for a moment before you officially get tired of it. You push the gun back into Donna's hand, smiling apologetically.

“Just... Take it back,” you say softly but firmly. “Daryl can be an asshole sometimes but he's not... whatever you think he is.”

Donna gives you a dejected look before reluctantly taking the pistol back. Her husband is quick to take it from her, hooking it to his belt.

They were both were about to bid you goodnight before Donna's eyes widen. She takes your forearm, a worried look on her face.

“You're not mad at me are you?” she asks nervously. “I wouldn't want my boys to be left out because I insulted your... boyfriend.”

“Acquaintances,” you correct her quickly. You make a mental note that those two had sons, apparently.

“Right... Billy and Ben would be very sad if—”

“I'm not mad at you. At all.”

Donna lets out a relieved sigh. She was about to dive in in another conversation before Allen, her husband, by the hold on her shoulders, guides her back to their tent.

You wave them goodbye before deciding it was also time for you to get some shut-eye.

Fortunately for you, no one tried to stop you from going as you walk toward the yellow tent. You open the flap eagerly before basically throwing yourself in, careful to zip back shut behind you.

You decided you would get more information tomorrow, as most people were already asleep or too busy eating.

You close your eyes, no longer fighting the exhaustion of the day.

You're woken up by the sound of laughter.

You shuffle your upper body up, groaning in exhaustion as you realize you didn't wake up in your bed. You had hoped the events of yesterday were just a dream of some sort, but no luck, you guessed.

Not wanting Amy to barge in like yesterday while you were still in your underwear, you get up from your sleeping bag, almost clumsily falling by how quick the movement was.

Your eyes scan the floor of the tent, trying to figure out what to wear. You note how you should probably go out to get some more clothes, if you were going to stay there, of course.

Eyeing your underwear, none of the colors matched unfortunately, you shudder in disgust as you felt as if you had worn them for over three days. You mentally tried to reassure yourself that it was normal before yanking the undergarments off of your body.

You fortunately find clean underwear before putting them on. You kneel on the floor of the tent to try and find somewhat clean clothes to wear.

After a few moments of searching, your hands find a blue and white striped knit top and a pair of capri jeans. You let out a satisfied hum as you did recall having something similar in your closet back at home. You slip on socks and the same pair of sneakers as yesterday, as they were the only thing you apparently had.

Your eyes stops had a little box on the floor, picking it up curiously. When you open it, you're met with pearl earrings.

Would it be bad to put them on?

After a few seconds of contemplation, you put the pearls on. You were used to wearing earrings all the time, so it felt like a relief to feel your lobes clothed.

Hair falls into your vision, making you grumble a few quiet curses. Right. Something was missing.

You didn't like having to deal with your hair, not that you didn't take care of them. More so that it was a waste of time for you. Why bother style your hair if you'd spend your whole day at the hospital anyway? You didn't see the point.

Your eyes catch a shiny fabric, all shuffled with other fabrics. You smile knowingly, snatching the shimmery cyan satin out of the messy pile of materials.

You were happy to see that the (Y/N) of this world had the same instincts as you.

You take the time to tie your hair in a useful manner, wrapping the satin scarf around your head, adjusting the make-shift bun you had tied. You let the excess of fabric fall onto your left shoulder, smiling at the feeling of baldness on your head.

You let out a relieved sigh before your nose catches a sudden odor. You raise your arm before regretting your decision.

“Oh—!” you blurt, your nose scrunching up at the smell of sweat before exhaling. “Okay... I'm definitely bathing tonight.” Your voice is filled with embarrassment, even if you were the only victim of the smell as of right now.

You get out of your tent after a few moments of silence, almost falling face first into the ground as you forgot to be careful.

Your feet take you back to the center of the quarry, where the main group usually gathered.

“Since when do you wear scarves on your head?”

You turn your head to the side at the sudden question, seeing Amy and Andrea sitting in camping chairs, seemingly waiting for the radio to make a sound.

Amy, the one who had asked the question, looks at you with a smile and a raised eyebrow. “I mean... Don't get me wrong, you look good.”

You shrug, walking closer to their level, plopping down next to Andrea. “It's a habit I took from working at the hospital, it saves me the worry of my hair looking a certain way,” you explain, looking down at the radio.

“Oh, yeah, I guess that's smart!”

Andrea hums, nodding her head, agreeing with her little sister.

“So... What are we waiting for?” you ask, nudging your chin toward the radio.

“We're waiting for a signal, I guess,” Andrea says, an unconvinced look on her face. “It's been twenty days. No signals.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Twenty days? Twenty days of what?”

“Of the outbreak? (Y/N), you told me you were keeping count!” Amy jumps in, confused by your question.

“Oh! Yeah, right...” you say after a moment, letting out an awkward chuckle. “I lost count, sorry.”

You feel a sense of dread form itself in the pit of your stomach. Had it really been only twenty days since everything started?

Didn't Rick wake up on the sixtieth day?

You're screwed.

Thank you for reading!

Interactions and reblogs are welcomed and greatly appreciated, thank you in advance.

꩜ Tag list: @magi-the-writer

By the time the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, you had developed a reluctant rhythm.

The herd moved.

You followed.

Part of it was practical. The walkers moved with surprising consistency, and keeping track of them was easier when you weren’t constantly lagging behind. The other part was something that you were considerably less eager to acknowledge.

Curiosity.

You were terrified of the walkers— that much hadn’t changed.

Every instinct still recoiled at the sight of them. Years of consuming zombie-based media and basic common sense had thoroughly convinced you that standing anywhere near the undead was a bad idea.

However, the longer they ignored you, the more difficult it became to sustain that fear at its original intensity.

Only a few hours ago, you had been convinced that getting within twenty feet of a walker meant death. Now you found yourself walking close enough to distinguish individual faces.

It was a little concerning just how quickly you’d adapted to this… condition of yours.

You kept expecting your courage to fail. Every time you drifted a little nearer to the herd, your body tensed in anticipation of disaster. Yet the disaster never came.

The walkers just kept moving forward.

Eventually, you found yourself matching pace with one of them.

The corpse was an older man, or at least it had been at one point. Wisps of white hair still clung stubbornly to his scalp. A faded plaid shirt hung loosely from his frame, stained with dirt and other things you didn’t want to think too hard on. One sleeve had been torn away completely, revealing a skeletal arm mottled with decay.

You couldn’t stop staring.

On television, walkers always seemed interchangeable. Up close, individual details emerged.

This man had once chosen that shirt.

Someone had probably bought it for him— a wife or a child, maybe.

Someone had known his name.

The thought settled like a stone in your chest.

Your gaze drifted to another walker nearby. This one appeared much younger. A woman in what looked like a nurse’s uniform shuffled through the grass some yards away. The fabric was soiled beyond recognition, but fragments of a hospital logo remained visible near the collar.

You wondered if she had worked during the outbreak, whether she’d stayed behind trying to help people.

Whether she had family somewhere.

The questions came too easily and none of them had answers.

For the first time since arriving in this world, you found yourself studying the walkers for reasons unrelated to survival.

One limped badly on a ruined leg.

Another dragged a foot behind him.

A little girl wandered near the center of the herd clutching a filthy stuffed rabbit against her chest.

You looked away immediately.

All the knowledge in the world couldn’t have prepared you for this. These weren’t props covered in makeup, or people excited to be in the background of their favorite show.

They were the remains of human beings whose lives had ended in one of the worst ways imaginable.

As the herd reached the outskirts of a neighborhood, the sun had reached its final destination.

The light had softened considerably since the brutal heat of midday, painting the landscape in warm shades of gold and amber. Long shadows stretched across the ground, weaving between the walkers as they continued their steady march forward.

You found yourself paralleling them without consciously meaning to.

At some point, the herd had stopped feeling like an immediate threat and started feeling like a strange sort of constant. They were still unsettling to look at, and the smell lingered in the air whenever the wind shifted. Every now and then, you would catch sight of an especially gruesome injury and have to force yourself not to stare.

And yet…

There was something oddly reassuring in their proximity.

There was no arguing, or demands made, or questions asked.

They simply moved.

Hour after hour, they shuffled onward with the same mindless determination, and after spending most of the day among them, you had begun adjusting to their presence.

It was something that probably should have alarmed you more than it did.

You walked alongside a woman who had likely been in her forties before her death. Most of her dark hair had fallen out, leaving uneven patches across her scalp, and the floral pattern on her dress had long since faded beneath layers of dirt and weathering.

She didn’t acknowledge you.

You wondered if that would ever stop feeling strange.

Your gaze drifted ahead as the neighborhood came into view.

Rows of houses emerged beyond the trees, their rooftops visible above overgrown hedges and neglected lawns. Even from a distance, the place carried the familiar appearance of suburban America. Mailboxes stood beside cracked sidewalks, driveways stretched toward garages, tall trees lined the streets.

The sight stirred something unexpectedly painful in your chest.

They reminded you of home.

Not because they looked exactly like your own neighborhood, but because they belonged to the same world. The same civilization. The same life that had existed before everything fell apart.

The herd drifted into the neighborhood without hesitation.

Walkers spilled across the streets and sidewalks like a slow-moving river, weaving around abandoned vehicles and overgrown yards. A rusted bicycle lay forgotten near a driveway. One house still displayed the remnants of holiday decorations that had somehow survived months of exposure to the elements.

Your stomach growled.

The sound startled you enough that you glanced downward.

Right, food.

You hadn’t eaten since arriving in this world, and your body was beginning to remind you of that fact with increasing urgency. Your throat remained dry and your muscles still ached from earlier. The initial surge of panic and adrenaline had faded hours ago, leaving behind a very tired, very hungry human being.

The houses surrounding you suddenly seemed far more interesting.

Some had broken windows while others appeared untouched. A few still had vehicles parked neatly in their driveways, as though the owners might return at any moment.

The sight sparked a thought.

If the herd had been moving through this area regularly— or even if large groups of walkers simply wandered nearby— then many survivors would likely avoid the neighborhood entirely.

The risk just wouldn’t be worth it.

Clearing a house was one thing— clearing a house while multiple walkers roamed the surrounding streets was something else entirely.

For the first time all day, genuine hope lightened your frame.

If you were right, there might still be supplies here. Food, medicine, water. The possibilities seemed almost too good to believe.

Your steps slowed as the herd continued onward.

Immediately, a surprising feeling tugged at your heart.

Reluctance.

The emotion caught you completely off guard. Objectively speaking, you should have been thrilled to leave.

You had spent damn near the entire day surrounded by flesh-eating monsters! Normal people did not become attached to zombie herds!

Yet as you watched them continue down the street, you felt a faint sense of unease.

The herd had become familiar— safe.

At least, as safe as anything in this world could be.

Leaving meant stepping back into uncertainty. Leaving meant being alone again.

You paused before laughing softly.

Nope, you weren’t going to think about it. If you didn’t acknowledge the sinking feeling in your gut, it didn’t exist.

Food first, mental breakdown later.

Drawing in a steadying breath, you stepped away from the herd and crossed the street.

The neighborhood lacked the obvious signs of repeated scavenging. There were no doors hanging from hinges, no smashed-in walls— no evidence that desperate survivors had stripped the houses bare.

Hope fluttered in your chest again.

Carefully, you made your way up the driveway of the nearest home.

The house itself was modest but charming. It was painted a soft shade of blue that reminded you of the sky on a sunny day. Flower beds bordered the front walkway, now overgrown with weeds and wild grass. A wooden rocking chair sat abandoned on the porch.

You lightly trailed your hand against the armrest of the chair, swallowing thickly as you did so.

Someone had once considered this place home.

You forced yourself to keep moving. You reached the front door and grabbed the bronze doorknob with a shaky grip.

The front door stood unlocked.

That fact alone told a story.

You couldn’t imagine leaving your house unlocked under normal circumstances. Whatever had happened here had happened quickly. The owners had likely rushed out with only the things they could carry, fully expecting to return once the emergency ended.

Nobody had returned.

The interior was quiet as you crossed the threshold of the house. Not eerie, exactly. Just empty.

Dust coated the interior in a thin gray layer. Sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating tiny particles that drifted lazily through the air. Family photographs decorated the walls of the hallway, smiling faces frozen in moments of happiness that felt impossibly distant now.

The pictures made this harder.

It was easier to think of abandoned houses as resources.

It was much harder when confronted with evidence that real people had once lived inside them.

The kitchen became your first target.

Mostly because food was your immediate priority, but also because focusing on a practical task prevented you from dwelling on everything else.

You gently pried the door to the pantry open and froze, your mouth falling open in shock.

The shelves were still stocked.

Rows of canned vegetables sat neatly arranged beside boxed pasta and bags of rice. Soup cans occupied an entire shelf. Crackers, peanut butter, oatmeal, and various other non-perishables remained untouched.

A smile stretched across your face before you could stop it.

“Oh my god.”

Relief washed over you so suddenly that your knees nearly gave out.

You had prepared yourself to find scraps, a few overlooked items. Maybe enough food to survive a day or two if you were lucky.

Instead, you were looking at enough supplies to last for weeks.

‘No sane survivor would willingly search houses surrounded by walker herds.’

For the first time all day, you found yourself genuinely appreciating your absurd decision.

Following the herd had actually worked.

You quickly began removing items from the pantry, placing them in neat piles across the kitchen counter. Cans went together. Boxes went together. Anything remotely useful was carefully sorted into groups.

It wasn’t until you’d accumulated an impressive mountain of supplies that a new problem occurred to you.

You had absolutely no way of carrying any of it.

You stared at the collection.

The collection stared back.

A loud groan reverberated from the back of your throat. You dragged a hand down your face, your eyebrows pinching together in frustration.

Of course it couldn’t be that easy.

Leaving the food behind felt physically painful, but there was little point gathering supplies if you couldn’t transport them.

You stepped away from the kitchen and began searching the house.

The living room yielded little beyond dusty furniture and more reminders that people had once lived here. A blanket remained draped over the arm of a recliner. A few books rested on a side table beside a pair of reading glasses.

You hurried past both.

The hallways led to four rooms. You chose the first one and stepped in.

The bed remained neatly made. Family photographs occupied the dresser. Sunlight spilled across the carpet through partially opened curtains.

For a moment, you just stood there.

There was something uniquely unsettling about bedrooms. More than every other room in a house, they felt personal. You pushed the discomfort aside and began checking the room.

It didn’t take long for you to find what you were looking for.

Tucked near the back of the closet sat a large duffel bag.

The bag looked sturdy enough to carry a significant amount of weight. It was larger than anything you could have hoped to find.

You unzipped it and discovered a collection of colorful envelopes, folded paper decorations, and greeting cards stacked neatly inside.

For a moment, confusion replaced your excitement.

Then understanding followed.

Birthday cards.

Years worth of them, judging by the quantity.

You could have read them but you quickly squashed down the thought. Taking the bag already felt uncomfortable enough. Reading the cards would be crossing a line.

Carefully, you removed the contents and placed them in a tidy stack on a nearby shelf. You avoided looking too closely at the writing. A few colorful envelopes slipped loose during the process, revealing fragments of cheerful handwriting and cute stickers.

You ignored them.

Some things weren’t yours.

The cards remained where you left them as a monument to people you would never know.

Once the bag was finally empty, you slung it over your shoulder and headed back toward the kitchen.

As you began carefully packing the cans and boxes into the duffel, a reluctant thought surfaced.

Maybe following the herd hadn’t been the worst decision you’d ever made.

————————————————

Your shoulder was beginning to ache from the weight of the duffel bag.

The discomfort was worth it, though.

The bag was stuffed with canned food, bottled water, batteries, flashlights, spare clothes, and enough miscellaneous supplies to make you feel almost optimistic. Considering you’d arrived in this world with absolutely nothing, the transformation felt borderline miraculous.

You’d already searched most of the houses.

The first had been terrifying.

The second had been awkward.

By the third, you’d accidentally started developing a system.

Kitchen first, medicine second, anything useful afterward.

Somewhere around house number five, you had also realized you’d begun talking to yourself.

Quite a lot, actually.

The discovery had been prompted by a walker wearing a wedding ring.

You’d spotted it while crossing a driveway and spent nearly ten minutes wondering about the person’s life before abruptly catching yourself speaking your theories out loud.

The walker hadn’t cared.

At one point, you’d even found yourself walking alongside a woman in a tattered yellow cardigan while discussing the merits of canned ravioli.

She didn’t respond, obviously, but you’d like to think she agreed with you.

The house at the end of the street finally drew your attention away from your silent walking companion. You bid a quick farewell, to which she only groaned. Rude.

The house sat slightly apart from the others, partially hidden behind a collection of mature oak trees whose branches stretched over the roof like protective arms. The yard was overgrown, but less so than some of the neighboring properties. Ivy climbed one side of the house, softening the structures edges and making it feel oddly secluded.

Something about the place tugged at your memory. For a few seconds, you stood in the driveway trying to place it.

Then you shrugged.

You’d spent years watching The Walking Dead. You were beginning to suspect that half the state of Georgia felt familiar now.

The front door was locked.

The discovery should not have been surprising, yet it frustrated you all the same.

You rattled the knob one last time before stepping back with a sigh. The windows proved no more cooperative. Whoever had lived here had made damn sure the place was locked tight before they left.

Alright then.

Improv has always been one of your strong suits.

Your gaze drifted toward one of the decorative rocks lining the porch, already weighing whether it was worth sacrificing a window, when something else caught your eye.

A squat little stone frog sat beside the front steps, grinning at you with the vacant optimism only lawn ornaments seem capable of.

Well… it couldn’t hurt to try.

You crouched and lifted the statue.

Sure enough, tucked neatly beneath its stony ass sat a small brass key.

Thank god for cliches!

Sliding the frog aside, you snatched up the key and returned to the front door. It slipped into the lock with an almost disappointingly soft ‘click’.

And just like that, you’re in.

The door creaked open as you peeked your head inside.

Two walkers occupy the foyer. Neither seemed particularly interested in you. They barely spared you a glance before returning to… whatever it was walkers did when they weren’t trying to eat somebody.

Fine by you.

You let them to whatever depressing hobby occupied the undead and headed straight for the kitchen.

Throwing open the pantry door, you fully expected to find shelves lined with canned food like the rest of the neighborhood.

Instead, a pair of spiders and several enthusiastic dust bunnies greet you.

The spiders scattered as you stared into the empty pantry, thoroughly betrayed.

“Guess I got too cocky…”

With a sigh, you shut the pantry and started opening cupboards instead. No matter, surely there had to be—

A single can of dog food on the shelf.

It somehow managed to look smug.

Huh.

Alright, so the kitchen is a bust. Go figure.

You trudged back through the foyer, brushing past the walkers with an exaggerated groan when one of them happened to turn its head in your direction.

“Oh, don’t start!”

Couldn’t they see you were in the middle of a crisis?! Who knew when you’d stumble across another neighborhood this untouched?

Your footsteps echoed through the house as your search continued, each room somehow more disappointing than the last. By the time you climbed the stairs, your patience had all but vanished.

The second floor wasn’t any better than the first!

Bedroom, bathroom, closet— all useless!

Finally, you stopped in the doorway of what looked like a teenagers bedroom, your foot tapping impatiently against the hardwood floor.

Band posters plastered nearly every inch of the walls. Some you vaguely recognized, but most you didn’t.

None of them held your attention for long.

No…

What caught your eye was the bulky old computer sitting on the desk beneath the window.

Your eyes lit up.

The thing was practically a museum exhibit! It still had the giant monitor box and everything!

You wandered over, looking it over with open curiosity. A tape-recorder sat precariously on the edge of the desk, while the keyboard was surrounded by multiple cassette tapes. A few had handwritten labels, but most were left blank.

You picked one up.

Across the faded strip of masking tape, someone had scribbled:

‘Pops Mix :P’

A smile tugged at your lips.

Your dad used to ramble for ages about how much of a pain making mixtapes had been back in the day. Sitting by the radio for hours, finger hovering over the record button, praying the DJ wouldn’t start talking halfway through the song…

So for some moody teenager to make one for their dad…

They must’ve been close.

Carefully, you set the cassette back on the desk before sifting through the others. The labeled tapes followed much the same pattern— Mom’s Road Trip Mix, Summer Songs, a few dedicated entirely to individual bands.

A whistle pushed past your pursed lips as you took it all in. This kid had been obsessed with music.

Then something else caught your eye.

Nestled innocently among the chaos sat a Walkman

A delighted squeal escaped before you could stop it.

You knew what a Walkman was, of course, but only because your dad had brought his old one out for you to gawk at. They’d gone out of style before you were even born!

You snatched it up like you’d just discovered buried treasure.

A pair of worn headphones was already plugged into it. You settled them over your ears, then spent the next minute squinting at the buttons with growing determination.

“C’mon…”

The thing couldn’t be that complicated!

Eventually, stubbornness won out and you pressed Play.

For one long, agonizing moment… nothing.

Then the cassette whirred to life and the blessed sound of music flooded your ears.

Your eyes widened when the song was something you knew.

“… The Wanderer?”

You’d know that song anywhere!

Sure, it was decades older than you were, but after sinking an embarrassing number of hours into Fallout 4, hearing it felt strangely… comforting.

The familiar tune washes over you, filling a silence you hadn’t noticed until now. Ever since you found yourself stranded in this nightmare of a universe, there had been no music.

Just groaning walkers.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed it.

By the time the chorus rolled around, there was an undeniable spring in your step.

You gathered up the remaining cassettes, carefully slipping every labeled one into your duffel bag.

Your hand hovered over ‘Pops Mix :P’.

Would taking that one be crossing a line? You didn’t take the letters from the other house, why should this be any different?

You stared at it for a few quiet seconds before sighing and picking it up anyway. These tapes had been made with love. Leaving them here to gather dust— or worse, rot away with the house— felt like the greater tragedy.

Once the cassettes were safely tucked away, you turned your attention to the rest of the room.

The closet was stocked with graphic tees and faded band shirts, but one in particular caught your eye.

A nearly pristine Transformers T-shirt.

You couldn’t help but grin.

The Walking Dead never nailed down an exact year for the outbreak, but most fans agreed it kicked off sometime around 2010. If that theory held true…

The first couple of Michael Bay’s Transformers movies would have already been out.

Across the black cotton, Bumblebee posed triumphantly in bright yellow. Childlike glee fills your form as you grab the shirt. Little you would have killed for a shirt like this!

“I’m just gonna… take this.”

Your voice filled the empty room, but it’s not like you were expecting an answer. Still, your next words come out all the same.

“Thank you.”

It felt silly talking to an empty house, even sillier thanking people who were almost certainly dead.

Still…

You hopes they would’ve understood.

Setting your duffel bag onto the floor, you peeled off your sweat-soaked shirt with a grimace. It clung stubbornly to your skin before finally coming free.

You send a silent ‘thank you’ to every god that you can think of that you decided to wear a sports bra instead of going commando.

The clean shirt slipped over your head a moment later, and you practically sighed in relief as fresh cotton settled against your skin. It wasn’t just cleaner, it felt… normal.

For a few precious seconds, you could almost pretend you weren’t scavenging through the apocalypse.

You clipped the Walkman onto the waistband of your jeans, settled the headphones over your ears once more, and slung your duffel bag back across your shoulder.

One room left.

You nudged open the door— and immediately stumbled back with a startled yelp.

A massive owl stared back at you, its golden eyes never blinking.

“Oh.”

Your heartbeat slowly drifted back down from your throat.

The owl remained perfectly still, save for a slight puff of its feathers that managed to convey mild irritation.

“…sorry.”

You couldn’t help yourself.

Owls had been one of your favorite animals ever since third grade. You still remembered sitting cross-legged on the classroom carpet while your teacher explained how silently they could fly. Eight-year-old you had been completely obsessed.

Standing only a few feet away from one now felt…

Weirdly familiar.

Like there was something important sitting just beyond the edge of your memory. A frown tugged at your lips.

Slowly, you raised your hands in a placating gesture and crouched a little lower, trying to make yourself appear as unthreatening as possible.

“Hey, buddy…”

The owl regarded you with all the enthusiasm of an exhausted customer service worker, but it didn’t fly away.

Small victories.

Music continued humming softly through your headphones as you closed the remaining distance one careful step at a time.

When you were finally close enough, you hesitated before slowly reaching out.

Your fingertips brushed impossibly soft feathers and you smiled.

The moment lasted exactly two heartbeats.

Something hard pressed into the center of your back.

Every muscle in your body locked and your breath caught in your throat.

Not a walker.

The ones downstairs would’ve been moaning long before they reached you, and if they’d somehow wandered up here, the bird would’ve caught their attention first.

This…

This was a person.

Before you could react, the headphones were ripped from your head. The music died, and a rough, gravel-worn voice spoke directly behind you.

“Stay still.”

Cold metal dug harder between your shoulder blades.

“Move…”

A beat of silence.

“And I kill you.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Finally bringing the main cast into play! I was going to start with Reader finding Hershel’s farm, but I got lazy and decided to just jump headfirst into season 3 😭

Hope y’all enjoyed!

The rain had been falling for hours.

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

It was the perfect weather for lazing about inside.

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

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

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

Again.

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

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

Instead, several hours had vanished without your notice.

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

Or maybe you were just nostalgic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life rarely offered that luxury.

Stories did.

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

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

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

Instead, your thumb hovered over the button.

The next episode was already loading.

You stared at the countdown.

Five seconds.

Four.

Three.

“I should go to bed…”

The empty apartment failed to offer an opinion.

Two.

One.

The episode started.

You sighed dramatically and settled deeper into the couch.

“One more.”

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

Lost.

Exhausted.

Surrounded by an endless world of death.

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

Frowning, you peered inside.

Nothing.

You blinked.

Hadn’t there been half a bag left?

The realization made a laugh bubble up in your throat.

Apparently not.

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

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

11:47 PM.

Later than expected but not surprising.

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

Everything felt peaceful.

Safe.

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

You were losing.

Badly.

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

Your eyelids felt heavier with every passing minute.

You blinked once.

Twice.

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

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

Something felt… off.

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

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

Instead, you found yourself frowning.

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

The sunlight looked brighter.

The details seemed clearer somehow.

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

Hot?

That wasn’t right.

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

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

Confusion began to replace the last remnants of drowsiness.

You blinked again.

The television remained bright.

Too bright.

A knot of unease formed in your stomach.

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

For one impossible moment, your thoughts went completely blank.

There was no ceiling.

No light fixture.

No apartment.

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

You stared at it.

Then stared some more.

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

That wasn’t possible.

You had been sitting on your couch.

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

You remembered it all with perfect clarity.

So why were you looking at the sky?

A sharp jolt of fear shot through your chest.

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

The sight of it sent your pulse racing.

You scrambled to your feet.

The world spun around you.

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

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

There had to be an explanation.

A prank.

A dream.

A medical emergency.

Anything.

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

“No…”

The word slipped out before you could stop it.

Your voice sounded wrong in the open air.

Too small.

Too fragile.

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

Your pocket was empty.

A fresh surge of panic crashed through you.

You checked again, turning it inside out.

Then your other pocket.

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

Nothing.

No phone.

No wallet.

No keys.

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

You felt your chest tighten.

The beginnings of a panic attack clawed their way upward.

“Help!”

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

Your voice carried across the field.

No answer came.

You shouted again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

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

Then the wind shifted.

The smell hit you almost instantly.

Rot.

Your stomach lurched.

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

The smell only grew stronger.

A chill crawled up your spine.

Something about it felt familiar.

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

Slowly, you turned toward the source.

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

At second glance, it looked anything but.

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

A scream caught in your throat.

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

Because you recognized it.

Not the person.

The creature.

You knew exactly what it was.

A walker.

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

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

A herd.

A cold wave of dread washed through your entire body.

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

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

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

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

You weren’t a survivor.

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

And now that safety was gone.

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

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

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

The cell wakes before the sun does—thin gray seeping under the curtain, dust motes floating like they’ve got nowhere better to be. You’re warm to the bone, smothered under Daryl in the best way a girl can be smothered: his chest glued to your back, one leg thrown heavy over your hips, an arm cinched around your middle like a seatbelt he refuses to unbuckle. His hand is tucked under your ribs, palm spread, the kind of hold that says mine even if his mouth would rather die than say it out loud.

You breathe him in—soap that’s more wish than fact, leather, a little smoke, a lot of Daryl—and think there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. You soak him in a little longer, count to three (okay, five), then try the slow untangle you’ve been perfecting since this whole whatever you guys were started. But that conversation could respectfully fuck off.

He doesn’t wake so much as tighten. Instinct kicks; his forearm clamps, his chest presses, he buries his face deeper into your neck like a feral cat claiming a pillow. It’s a wordless no.

You chuckle, your voice still sleep-rough. “Baby, I gotta get up,” you whisper, stroking back his hair. “People will see. I have to get started on breakfast.”

A noncommittal caveman noise vibrates against your shoulder. “Fine,” he mutters, the world’s least convincing martyr, “go. See if I care.”

He cares. His arm refuses to move, his hand spreads wider like he can pin you with just his palm.

“Daryl.” Your fingers sift through the tangles at his nape, nails gentle. “I’ll see you at breakfast, ok?”

He doesn’t answer—just tips you a mournful, kicked-dog look from under his lashes. You go to smush his pouty face, and he swats your hand away on reflex… then catches your wrist before you can pull back, dragging your palm to his mouth for a quick, sulky kiss.

“Go on then,” he mutters into your skin. “But make it quick.”

You wiggle, and this time he lets you go with a theatrical groan, flopping onto his back like dawn has personally wronged him. You sit up, the blanket sliding to your waist; his fingertip drifts down your spine on instinct, a lazy trace that ends in a kiss between your shoulder blades—one, then another, like he can coax you into staying by dotting punctuation marks down your back.

“Dios mio,” you murmur, smiling. “I'm not gonna be able to leave if you don't quit that.”

“that's the point.”

You still stand. You move on autopilot: underwear first, shimmying them up your thighs; you hook one arm under your left breast to settle the band. He isn’t looking for once—he’s pretending to sulk, forearm over his eyes—until his gaze snags without permission.

He doesn’t mean to read it. Eyes just… do. Tiny script, softened black, tucked high where sternum meets curve, intimate enough that it never shows unless you mean it to.

Carson.

Who the hell is Carson?

Ex? His jaw sets before he can stop it. Had to have meant a lot to you if you tattooed him there, under your boob. He's seen all of you plenty of times; how did he miss this? Were you hiding it? Why? Because he doesn’t compare? Would you ever get his name—no, shut up, that’s ridiculous, he doesn’t want that, he just—he—

“Earth to Dixon.” You’re buttoning your jeans, hip cocked, eyebrow up, amused. “You good?”

He blinks, bounces off the panic like a deer off a fence. “M’fine.”

You lean down and kiss him, short and sweet, the type of thing he didn't know what he did to earn it. “Back later. Don’t be weird.”

“I ain’t—” He stops, realizes he’s absolutely being weird, scowls at the ceiling instead. “Get outta here.”

“Try not to miss me.”

“Won’t,” he lies, already missing you.

You slip out through the curtain with the whisper of fabric and soft footfalls, and the moment you’re gone the silence gets loud. It hits him in the sternum like the aftershock of a door slamming.

Shit. He misses you.

He grabs the pillow, slams it over his face, and groans into it—low, feral, mortally offended by his own feelings. “Fuck,” he mutters into cotton. You've totally got him whipped.

From the corridor someone coughs, footsteps pass, the world keeps turning. In here, he drags the pillow down, stares at the thin gray line under the curtain, and that name Carson; keeps buzzing in his head like an alarm clock.

Outside, you’re already teasing laughter out of the morning crew, rattling pans, calling “¡Buenos días!” down the block like sunshine in a crowded room.

Inside, Daryl scrubs a hand over his face, sits up, and ties his boots too tight like a man pretending his laces are the problem.

“Carson,” he mutters once, testing the dumb taste of it.

Then, stubborn as ever, he shakes it off. For now.

----------------------

Dinner turns the yard gold. Firelight jumps from face to face, bowls steam like small miracles, somebody’s laugh cracks wide and the whole circle catches it. You move through it all like you were born for this—ladling stew, pressing tin cups into hands, touching shoulders as you pass, “¿Quieres más?” to Maggie, “buen provecho” to Glenn, a sunshine grin you can’t help even when the day’s been mean. You beam, and Daryl—posted up in the shadows near the fence—just… watches. Like a man who’s been cold a long time and is finally standing near a stove.

Carol’s beside him, arms folded, reading him like she always does. He’d told her earlier, low-voiced between chores: the tattoo, the way it snagged something sharp inside his ribs. She’d listened, nodded, given him that calm look that feels like a hand on the back. “It’s the past,” she’d said. “And even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t beat the present. If it keeps chewing on you, talk to her.” He’d hummed a non-answer because you were laughing three tables over and the sound yanked his eyes like a hook.

“Wipe your chin,” Carol murmurs now, dry as tinder. “You’re drooling.”

“Ain’t,” he grunts, still staring.

“You are,” she says, amused. “It’s cute. Terrifying, but cute.”

You catch them lingering and make your way over, still glowing from the loop you’ve run through the camp. “Hey,” you say, a little softer, the edges of your voice rounding the way they always do when it’s just him under the noise. “Didn’t see you today. Everything okay?”

Carol’s mouth tucks into a smile like she’s just remembered an appointment. “On that note,” she says, patting Daryl’s arm twice as she peels off, “I’ll grab a seat before Tyreese steals the last chair.”

It’s quieter, then; just the two of you standing in the halo of the fire. You tilt your head, searching his face. He looks at you like he’s trying not to. Something flickers across his mouth.

“¿Todo bien?” you try again, palm lifting—impulse—to cup the side of his neck, thumb ready to find that spot below his ear that always unwinds him.

He shifts, just an inch—enough to dodge the touch without making a show of it. “’M good,” he says, too fast and too flat. “Let’s just… sit. Eat.”

You blink at him, a tiny hitch, that split-second ¿qué carajo? before you smooth it down with a nod. Maybe it’s the eyes, you tell yourself—the way the whole town suddenly turned into a chorus line the second you walked up. Maybe he’s just hungry. Maybe the day got under his skin in a way stew can fix.

He moves first, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to fold himself smaller, and you fall in beside him toward your group’s patch of bench, doing the math in your head—firelight, his jaw tight, the way he didn’t lean, the way he usually does—and filing it under later. For now, you follow him into the glow, your smile back in place, your hand empty and restless at your side.

------------------------------------------------

Firelight turns everyone into softer versions of themselves—looser shoulders, louder laughs, the kind of easy that feels almost illegal. Stories start rolling like dice: worst jobs, weird neighbors, dates that should’ve been prosecuted. Maggie’s got the floor, hands sketching big as she describes a guy who brought a coupon to a steakhouse and then asked if “water refills were complimentary.”

“Bless his heart,” she finishes, grinning. “Couldn’t run fast enough.”

“Man had a plan,” Bob says, saluting with his cup. “Wrong plan, but a plan.”

You’re tucked in on the bench between Sasha and michonne, passing bread like a dealer, smiling so wide your cheeks ache. Across the fire, Daryl slumps half in the shadow, nursing whatever passes for beer and pretending not to be watching you smile.

He’s keeping it together. Until he isn’t.

“Sounds like a keeper,” Glenn adds, waggling his brows at Maggie. “Should've gotten his name tattooed on you.”

“Please,” Sasha scoffs, “name tattoos are cursed.”

Daryl snorts under his breath and says, pointing at you; “She’s got a guy’s name tatted on her chest.”

Time stops just long enough for the fire to make a popping sound.

Heads swivel. A soft chorus of ooooooh goes around the circle like a stadium wave.

Glenn blinks, bless him. “Wait—how do you know that?”

You blink right back, then let out the strangest laugh of your life. “What? No, I don’t have a tattoo.” You wave a hand, your best poker face wobbling.

Daryl doesn’t budge. “Yes ya do. Quit lyin’.”

It hits you then, the dawn, the way he looked at you like he’d been kicked. You choke on another laugh and clap a hand over your mouth.

He frowns, defensive tipping toward miserable. “What's so funny?”

“Dios mío,” you wheeze, shaking your head, “no, estúpido, it’s not a dude’s name, what the—”

“Then who’s Carson?” he shoots back, stubborn and mortified in equal measure.

You lose it. Actually lose it. You bend over your bowl and laugh until your eyes water and Michonne slaps your thigh like a drum.

“It’s not Carson!” you manage finally, wiping at your face. “It says corazón. Spanish. It means 'heart'.”

A rumble of understanding hits the circle, followed by an even bigger swell of laughter.

“I got it for free because the artist was new and needed skin to practice on. I was 19. It’s teeny. Looks like a curly z and a missing accent. From a bad angle, in bad light, without the accent, an English brain does… whatever the hell that was.” You gesture at Daryl. “Carson. Por favor.”

“Free?” Maggie echoes, scandalized. “Underboob? You are brave.”

“I was dumb,” you correct, cheerful in your ruin. “It’s my moral compass, I guess. My little reminder. Be led by your heart.” You pause, grimace. “At least that was my thinking anyway when I got it done.”

“Oh my god,” Beth cackles. “Daryl was jealous of Carson.”

“Was not,” Daryl says to the general vicinity of his boots, taking a slow drink like it might turn him invisible.

“Green looks good on you,” Maggie sing-songs.

“Shut up,” he mutters, but he’s fighting a smile and losing, head ducked just enough that the fire can’t quite catch the soft.

“So how’d you see it?” Glenn persists, brow furrowed, innocent to the bone. “It’s not like under—oh.” His eyes widen, then widen more, then he turns pink from hairline to collar.

"Oh y'know," you casually drawled. "Dixon was probably perving in the showers. Again."

A ripple of scandalized laughter pops around the circle.

Daryl’s head snaps up, eyes cutting to you. “Don’t joke about that shit,” he mutters, low and sharp—not angry so much as protective, like he can swat gossip out of the air.

Cups clink. You sip and grin and shake your head, and Daryl—head down, shoulders eased—lets the relief wash through him like something he’ll deny later.

Rick’s gaze flicks between you two—your too-quick joke, Daryl’s too-fast defense—and you can almost watch the math finish on his face. He lifts his cup with easy timing, voice sliding in before Glenn’s brain catches up.

“To corazón,” Rick says, dry as tinder catching. “Not Carson.”

Glenn blinks, blushes, and mercifully lets the question die. Cups lift. The firelight warms the moment back into something golden.

“Gracias,” you murmur across the flames, just for Rick.

He tips his cup back—Anytime.

Daryl doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t need to. He sits there in the half-light, hanging his head like a dog that got caught with a steak and is secretly proud of it, and hides his smile in his cup. Inside his ribs, the pebble that tripped him all day rolls clean away.

You catch Daryl's blue eyes once across the flames and tip your chin like see? He ducks it, the picture of gruff denial.

But when Sasha starts up again—“So tell me more about this coupon date, Mrs. Rhee”—and the fire cracks like applause, Daryl lets himself be happy he was wrong. Quietly. Completely. And just for him.

-----------------------------------------

The block is asleep. Your candle’s a puddle with a wick, the little flame breathing shallow as you tug your shirt over your head and rake a brush through a day’s worth of knots. Humming under your breath—something your mamá used to sing while she braided your hair—you close your eyes and let the quiet settle.

Daryl watches from the doorway, your skin bronze in the candlelight as you swayed peacefully and his chest clenched. He let you have that moment a little longer before he could help himself and entered.

Big hands find your waist.

You gasp, spun so fast the world tilts; your yelp dies against a mouth you know better than your own name. Stubble, smoke, leather—Daryl. Your body clocks it first; you melt before your brain catches up, fingers curling in his hair as the dizziness becomes relief.

You slap his chest once, more reflex than reprimand. “Don’t scare me like that asshole,” you scold, breathless. "How was I to know you weren't some random creep?"

He kisses the corner of your mouth again, rough and soft at the same time. “Who else would it be?”

“Carson,” you deadpan.

He groans into your cheek. “Low blow.”

You laugh, turn his face back to yours with a thumb on his jaw. The candle throws him in gold and shadow—eyes dark, mouth stubborn, shoulders tired. “Why didn’t you just ask me?” you say, softer now. “This morning.”

He tries to play it off; his eyes give him away. He shifts, scuffs his boot, then shrugs like the words are heavy. “Ain’t good at askin’,” he mutters. “Saw it. I... dunno. Assumed things. Figured I wouldn’t like the answer if I asked—” He breaks off, jaw working. “Figured maybe that was someone you picked ‘fore I got here. And I was the one you’re stuck with.”

“Daryl,” you breathe, thumb stroking the rough along his cheek, and he leans into it like a man finding a wall that’ll hold him. “If you were the consolation prize, I’d be the luckiest loser alive.”

He huffs a laugh that’s half-sigh. “Still new,” he says, quiet like a vow. “Don’t wanna—” He gestures between you. “Don’t wanna mess it up.”

“Me neither.” The honesty makes you shy; you press your forehead to his. “I’ve never… felt like this. It’s new y'know? So we go slow... Or, at least try to go slow. And we talk. Okay?”

He nods, and then he’s kissing you—once, twice, like punctuation—before his hands slide to your hips and he lifts you like he’s done it a hundred times. The cot creaks as he lays you back, careful even when he’s hungry. Your candle pools lower; the room narrows to breath and heat and the scrape of his chin against your collarbone.

He works the clasp of your bra with patient, familiar fingers. It falls away. He looks—really looks—at the tiny script tucked high on your left side, where your breast cloaks it: corazón, the old ink soft at the edges, the curly tail of the z finally honest in decent light. He smooths his thumb there, like memorizing a map.

“Say it,” you tease, because you’re mean.

He concentrates, brows knitting like he’s sighting a target sixty yards out. “Core… uh… zone.”

You bite a smile. “Co-ra-zón. Roll the r if you can.”

He tries, stubborn as ever. “Co-rraah—s’on.”

“Close enough.” You’re already laughing quietly. “Points for effort.”

“I'll take it,” he grumbles, but the smile finally breaks, small and helpless, and then he kisses the curl of the z like it’s a secret you gave him on purpose.

He kisses down, open-mouthed and intent—over the word, lower, teeth just shy of too much. Your hands slide under his shirt, over heat and old scars, dragging it up until he shrugs it off without breaking rhythm. He palms your breasts like he’s making sure you’re real, thumbs circling slow, greed controlled by care. You hook a knee high at his hip and he exhales, hips settling heavier, the slow grind finding its groove like muscle memory.

“Ridiculous,” you whisper, smiling and out of breath. “Thinking I’d ink a stranger.”

“Not thinkin’ now.” His voice is wrecked at the edges. “Just need—”

You tip your pelvis and he bites off a curse in your throat. One hand braces the small of your back; the other skims your thigh and tugs you impossibly closer until there’s no space left to argue. The cot ticks in time. The candle gutters and flares. He drags his mouth back to your chest and traces co–ra–zón with the flat of his tongue like he’s spelling you open.

“Mi corazón,” you breathe, cupping his jaw and drawing him up until your mouths are a whisper apart, letting him feel the shape of it against his lips. “Es tuyo.” The words land warm in his mouth and his hips answer—slow, sure, harder, as if he can't weight to push in. “It’s yours,” you finish at his ear, and he shudders like you’ve just put a key in his hand.

He stills—eyes gone dark and sure—then nods once like he’s taking the shot. His weight settles, hips angling, and he pushes in slow, deep, unshowy—just there, all of him, the stretch stealing your breath and giving it back warmer. You clutch at his shoulders; he groans into your mouth, that broken, grateful sound that always undoes you.

Nothing hurried. Just a pace that builds by insistence—his hand holding you where he wants you, your legs crossing at his back, the slide and catch and press that turns your breath ragged. He’s a little needy tonight, you can feel it in the way his palm never leaves your ribs, the way his mouth keeps finding that tiny word like a touchstone between thrusts.

The room narrows to heat and the soft, relentless complaint of old steel. You meet him, take him, give back, trading small sounds in the dark—his caught curses, your bitten-off yes, the messy kiss that keeps finding your mouth between beats. The climb is a slow burn that sneaks up and flips you, your body tightening around him, fingers biting into his shoulders as your head tips back and the ceiling blurs. He feels it coming, murmurs “that’s it, c’mon baby,” thumb finding you where you need it, and you go—quiet, hard, right under him.

He follows with a shiver he tries to swallow in your mouth and fails, weight dropping an inch heavier, breath knocking out of him on your name as he finishes inside you like always. You hold him through it, legs locked, chest slick to chest, his thumb still idling over corazón like he’s tracing it into memory even as the tremor leaves him.

After, the candle is a gold coin and shrinking. He stays where he started—wrapped around you, face buried in your hair, mouth brushing the spot where ink meets skin.

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 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.

Your parents looked at Daryl the way people looked at storms rolling over the horizon when they'd just planned to go out: dangerous, inconvenient. Your mother cried quietly over dinner while your father spoke in measured, humiliating sentences about ruined opportunities and "so much wasted potential", about all the money spent on private schools, ballet classes, and piano lessons just to watch you throw your future away for some mechanic from the “wrong side” of town who barely spoke in complete sentences.

Daryl 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.

Your son 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. And 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. The baby 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 our son havin’ a life like mine.” a tiny pause. “He has opportunities here.” the last sentence was barely above a whisper.

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

You separated six months 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.

Your son adored his dad with that fierce, uncomplicated love children reserved for fathers who made them feel safe, and Daryl loved the boy with a devotion so profound it terrified him.

You kept your relationship heartfelt, every time you asked him how he was doing it was genuine, and vice versa. Every year since your son turned four, you sat on the corners of his birthdays enjoying to catch up with eachother, slipping curious questions like "Are you seeing anyone?" after some alcohol kicked in and the answer was always no, of course it was no.

Truth be told, you kept expecting something change and finally get over eachother, but you weren't really willing to let go, some time after his 13th birthday party ended, you caved in, had a relapse, snuck out with Daryl like a teenager and had sex on his trailer. The next morning you came back home with the bitter taste you weren't allowing yourself to have more of him purely out of cowardice, that you should face it like an adult and allow yourself to be fully happy for once.

Then the world ended.

You had taken a trip with your son to visit your aunt Deanna miles away from where Daryl lived, the true love of your life, if you were honest enough to admit it. You were ready to be back and tell him how sorry you were that you didn't try harder, you didn't push more and you didn't face your folks for him. And then you grieved him again. So much harder this time. You spent two years believing Daryl Dixon was dead.

Alexandria smelled like fresh bread and woodsmoke the afternoon everything changed. The gates opened to receive Aaron back with another group of survivors. You'd grown fond of him in these years and he treated you and your son like his own family.

Aaron walks in first, dirt-streaked clothes and a tired look on his face. You were halfway through unloading crates with your son, he was talking about his last hunting trip when he suddenly froze mid-sentence beside you. Almost sixteen now, he towered over you already — all broad shoulders and long limbs, his sharp blue-gray eyes mirroring his father’s so painfully that sometimes you had to look away not to cry.

The abrupt tension that overtook him made you glance to where his eyes layed immediately. Then you understood why. It felt like a mirage. You had dreamed of this moment so many times before that your first instinct was to believe this was just another cruel fantasy made up by your brain, that it would disappear the second you blinked.

But it didn't. He didn't.

A group of strangers entered through the gates alongside him, people you had never seen before. They looked exhausted, starved, worn down by the world. And right in front on them, Daryl.

He stood only a few feet away near the gate. A crossbow hung oven one shoulder and he looked older now, older than you'd expect someone to age in two years. His hair was long, streaked faintly near the temples, his gaze was harsher and his face was scarred in ways visible even from a distance. Grief had settled like concrete into the lines of his face the way exhaustion settles into old soldiers.

But his eyes were exactly the same. And they locked onto you so intensely you felt it burn.

A woman with snow-white hair stood beside him saying something he clearly wasn’t listening to, because he had gone completely still. Completely, horrifyingly still.

For one suspended second, neither of you moved. The noise around you faded strangely, like the entire world had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale again.

The crate slipped from your hands and hit the pavement hard enough to crack open one corner, canned food spilling across the ground, but neither of you cared because Daryl’s expression had already begun collapsing into something raw and disbelieving and dangerously emotional. You watched his gaze move frantically over your face like he was trying to confirm you were real before running to your encounter, he hugged you tighter than he ever did "You're alive." he kept repeating hoarsely, over and over like he genuinely could not process it. “Jesus Christ, you’re alive."

When he finally opened his eyes to look behind you, he shifted his gaze to your son. The boy stared back at him in stunned silence, every feature unmistakably Dixon beneath the years neither of them had shared together, and Daryl looked like someone had physically struck him across the chest.

The woman beside him glanced between all three of you once before realization visibly dawned across her face, then spread silently through the rest of the group nearby.

Daryl Dixon had a son, a nearly grown son. And somehow none of them had ever known. He'd mentioned having lost people, they all did, but nothing ever specific.

“Holy shit,” a tall, muscular redhead muttered somewhere behind them, not even trying to lower his voice, and nobody corrected him.

Daryl broke from your hug, finally took one shaky step forward, then another.

His breathing looked uneven now, chest rising too sharply beneath the worn fabric of his vest, and you realized with sudden overwhelming clarity that this man had mourned you. Deeply mourned you. Somewhere out there in the brutality of the apocalypse, Daryl had believed you were dead all these years, and whatever walls he had built around himself afterward were cracking apart in real time right in front of everyone.

His voice broke the second he spoke your son’s name.

He blinked rapidly, clearly trying not to look emotional in front of an entire audience, but his composure failed almost instantly. “Dad?”

The sound that escaped Daryl after that barely qualified as human. He crossed the distance in seconds.

And when he wrapped his arms around his son for the first time in two years, holding him so tightly it looked almost desperate, the entire courtyard fell silent around them because nobody there had ever seen Daryl Dixon unravel before. Not with tears visibly gathering in his eyes while his son clung back just as fiercely, laughing shakily despite himself because he could barely breathe beneath the force of the embrace.

When they parted he held you again, afraid that if he let go maybe you'd vanish on thin air. And just like that, the pain of the years apart disappeared between you. There was no more space for it. You had spent years regretting letting him go after believing the two of you had been permanently separated forever.

Now, standing in his arms again, you could physically feel the love that had lingered there all this time. Quieter now. Older now. Reshaped by time and grief and survival. But still there.