#lotusfics

___

It’s another beautiful day at the prison. You get up early and spend the morning hovering around Daryl, rambling in that easy, half-joking way you always do whenever you’re with him. It’s become a habit now, almost routine. Where Daryl is, you’re never far behind, and sometimes it’s the other way around.

He’s crouched by his motorcycle, hands working over parts he’s probably done with already. Truth is, he’s been finished for a while, but he keeps up the act. Just to let you talk longer. Just to stay in your company a little more.

“You’re not done fixing it?” you ask, not for the first time today.

“Nah,” he says, same answer as always. You don’t call him out.

Leaning against the bike, you grin at some sudden thought. He looks up at you, squinting against the morning sun. “What?” he asks.

“Did I ever tell you how much I loved jewelry?” Your voice softens, edged with nostalgia, and that grin widens. Daryl just grunts, which you take as a no. “I used to be obsessed with it. Rings, necklaces, bracelets…” Your smile falters for only a second at the thought of a world that doesn’t exist anymore but it’s back almost instantly, your eyes glowing again. “Especially bracelets. I had this whole drawer full of em.”

Daryl studies you in the way he always does, soaking up your energy, drowning in your enthusiasm. He can’t explain it. He just likes watching you light up, like the world hasn’t managed to take that part of you away yet. “Yeah?” he mutters, forcing his gaze back to the motorcycle so you don’t notice how intently he’s listening.

“Mmhm. I had this dumb idea once. Matching bracelets with a boyfriend. Thought it’d be romantic.” You give him a sly grin. “Maybe I should’ve saved the idea for you.”

Daryl’s hands freeze. Heat crawls up the back of his neck, his ears burning. Matching bracelets? With you? Hell no. He can’t even look at you now, not when his brain’s already painting the damn picture of your hand slipping that thing onto his wrist, smiling all soft like it means something. He shakes the thought off fast. Stuff like that just isn’t for him. Not bracelets, not cute matching crap. He’s not the kind of man who gets to have that. “Ain’t wearin’ no damn bracelet.” He scoffs, muttering something about it being childish.

“Relax, Dixon. I’m kidding… mostly.” Your laugh rings out, light and genuine, and it knocks something loose in his chest.

___

A week passes, and you’re up on the watchtower when something catches your eye. A glint in the sun, just beyond the fence. Curiosity nags at you until you finally spot it: one of the walkers shuffling near the fence has something on its wrist. You squint, leaning forward, and your stomach flips. 

“No fucking way,” you mutter, a grin tugging at your lips. Bracelets. Two of them. Your mind is already racing ahead, imagining yourself handing one to Daryl, imagining the look on his face. Anticipation surges, and before you can think twice, your feet are already moving. You make quick work of the rope that ties the fence closed, sliding through the gap, heart racing with both excitement and the kind of recklessness you’ve always carried around like a second skin.

The herd presses against the barrier, their groans echoing. You circle around them quietly, knife in hand. A couple of stragglers notice you, and you take them down cleanly, steel blade sliding through their rotting skulls. Your eyes stay fixed on your target. “Come on, ugly,” you taunt, waving your arm. “This way.”

The walker staggers toward you, snarling. You dart forward, driving your knife into its skull. For a second, relief floods through you, until the dead weight collapses against you, slamming you hard into the dirt.

“Fuck.” You groan, squirming beneath it, shoving the body aside until you’re free.

“Y/N!” a voice calls out, sharp with panic. You twist your head and see Glenn sprinting from the prison yard, eyes wide.

Instead of panicking, a laugh bursts out of you, breathless. Your hands fumble at the corpse’s arms, tugging at the bracelets. The first one slips free easily but when you yank at the second, it snaps, beads scattering across the grass. “Dammit!” you whine as you clutch the intact bracelet to your chest, still grinning despite yourself.

Glenn finally reaches you, chest heaving as he takes in the scene. His expression is halfway between horror and disbelief. “What the hell were you doing?”

You finally look up at him, sheepish but not all that sorry. “Sorry. I had to.”

His eyes flick to the bracelet clutched in your hand, and you can see it hit him, what you almost died for. He scrubs a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. “You’re insane,” he says as he helps you to your feet. Then his gaze drops to your arm. “Shit, Y/N. You’re bleeding.”

You follow his gaze and only then notice the cut on your forearm, blood sliding down in a thin line. You sigh and roll your eyes at yourself. “Great.”

___

By evening, word has reached Daryl. He storms into your cell, seeing you on the bunk with gauze wrapped around your arm. “Yer outta ya damn mind.” His sigh is heavy.

“Hey,” you smile up at him, sitting up. “I missed you too.”

“The hell were ya thinkin’ runnin’ out like that?” He kneels in front of you, eyes scanning the cut on your arm.

You hold up the bracelet, grinning like it’s no big deal. “I got this.”

Daryl stares at it, dumbfounded, then finally puts it together. “Ya didn’t-” He stops, looks at your unfazed smile, and sighs. “Ya nearly got yerself killed for some damn bracelet?”

You blink at him. “It wasn’t just any bracelet. It’s pretty. And it was fun. Besides,” you wave your wrist in front of him, “I got it, didn’t I?”

Daryl stares at the little loop of beads on your wrist  like it is the stupidest thing in the world, but he can't ignore how happy you look, your eyes shining with pride. Still, what you did almost got yourself killed and he’s not letting it slide. He glares at you again. “Ain’t funny. Ya coulda got bit.”

“I didn’t.”

“Coulda.” 

You soften, smile fading just enough. “Daryl… I just wanted something to remind me of before. Something normal.” He remembers the way you’d talked about bracelets, how much they’d meant to you. His brows relax slightly. He can’t stay mad. He never could when it comes to you.

___

The next morning, you wake to the faint press of something around your wrist. You lift your hand and freeze, blinking in the dim light. You scramble to your feet, flick on the lamp, and finally see it. A bracelet. Not the shiny one you risked your life for yesterday. This one is clumsy-looking, handmade, knotted strips of leather. Your breath catches. “What the…” You pull on your boots and hurry outside, finding him on the steps sharpening his knife. “Daryl.”

“Hm?” He doesn’t look up.

You march to stand in front of him, holding up your wrist. “What’s this?”

His ears turn red as he ducks his head.

“Daryl.” 

He sighs and finally glances at you, that cornered, reluctant look he always wears when he does something vulnerable. Without a word, he lifts his own sleeve. On his wrist sits another bracelet, nearly identical to yours. Your eyes go wide, mouth hanging. “You…”

“Ain’t nothin’,” he mutters, looking away. “Just… figured ya wouldn’t be runnin’ after no damn walkers if ya had one already.”

You can’t stop smiling. You reach for his hand, tugging him to stand, dropping whatever he’s been holding onto the steps. You give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”

His face reddens instantly. He’s never used to your affection and suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “So… matching bracelets, huh?” you tease, trying to distract yourself from the warmth rising in your chest.

He groans, scrubbing a hand down his face as if it’ll erase the embarrassment. “Don’t start.” His eyes flick from the bracelets on your wrists to his, then back to your smile. He swallows hard, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

You laugh, imagining him staying up in his cell, carefully making bracelets for you. Knowing he knows what you like, and that he values it… it gives you butterflies. “I’m never taking it off. You’re not either.”

Daryl scoffs, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, tugging up slightly. He finds himself thinking maybe, just maybe, he’ll make you a hundred more, a hundred lifetimes even, as long as it keeps you smiling like this. 

___

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___

It took Daryl almost two whole years to realize he was in love with you.

You’d been around each other since the beginning, moving from camp to camp, never staying long enough to call anywhere home. The world didn’t give much room for that. But when you finally made it to the safe walls of Alexandria – something in him settled. That’s where he got close to you, closer than he ever thought he could be with anyone. Close enough to realize one quiet night that what he felt for you wasn’t just friendship or family anymore. It was something more. Something he couldn’t ignore. He was damn glad you felt the same way.

It took Daryl exactly two weeks to realize you and him were officially a thing. 

After that first kiss, things just kept happening. You started crashing in his bed sometimes, cooking together, doing basically everything together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Neither of you talked about what it meant – didn’t seem like you had to. You were his, and he was yours. That was enough.

Until someone brought it up one night at a family dinner. You both got so flustered trying to answer that the poor guy gave up and changed the subject. Later that night, you’d gone home and had the most awkward talk of your lives, finally deciding you were, in fact, in a relationship. As ridiculous as it sounded to both of you – considering neither of you “did” relationships, and Daryl never had – that’s how it happened.

It took Daryl another three months to realize he wanted to marry you. 

He heard Rick introduce you as his girlfriend to a newcomer one day and felt something weird in his chest. The first few times someone called you his girlfriend or partner, he’d felt his whole body warm – embarrassed, flustered, proud – he couldn’t tell. But this time was different. Still warm, but not in a good way. There was an irrational frustration bubbling up inside him. It just wasn’t enough. “Girlfriend” suddenly didn’t sound right. What he felt for you went way beyond that.

“Marry her already,” Carol joked one day, half-laughing.

Daryl only scoffed and brushed it off. Marry? That was absurd. If someone had told him two years ago he’d be thinking about marrying anybody, he’d have laughed his ass off. Marriage wasn’t in the cards for someone like him – hell, a relationship wasn’t supposed to be. But then again, he was in one. With you. So maybe absurd wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

He managed to shove those thoughts aside for a while. Until it happened again.

“Daryl and his partner…” Michonne said it this time, talking to someone from another community Daryl didn’t recognize. You were right next to him, so he looked over, trying to see if the word “partner” bugged you the way it did him. You didn’t even flinch. So he told himself he was being ridiculous and took a small step closer to you – just in case whoever she was talking to didn’t get what “partner” really meant.

Shit. He was doing it again. Overthinking. 

The word just felt too vague. What if the guy didn’t realize “partner” meant you – the person Daryl would kill for, die for, and everything in between? Why the hell did he care anyway? When did Daryl Dixon ever care what people thought? But he guessed it was because it was you. And he fucking adored you. He needed everyone to see that even if neither of you were big on PDA.

“You okay?” your voice broke through his thoughts. You’d placed a hand on his shoulder, looking at him with those soft, knowing eyes. You always seemed to catch him thinking too hard.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his hand finding yours. He gave you a look that said don’t worry. You stared at each other for a moment before you started to pull your hand away. Daryl almost let you but then he reached for it again. This time, he held on. The look you gave him said everything. You were smiling, cheeks flushed, and he felt that warmth again, the good kind.

Carol’s words came back to him then. Marry her already.

Looking at you now, it didn’t seem so impossible anymore. Maybe the idea wasn’t so ridiculous. Maybe he could see himself marrying you. Calling you his wife-

He looked away before you could notice the way that thought made him all jittery. But he could see it – you and him. Forever.

So yes. Daryl was going to marry you.

Daryl felt a certain kind of peace after making up his mind about it but only for a short while, because then came the question: what now? What was next? Did he have to go about it the traditional way? Get down on one knee and just ask? The thought alone made him cringe.

No. That wasn’t him. And it wasn’t you either.

But still, what the hell was he supposed to do? He realized he was missing one crucial thing in the whole equation – a ring. No, two. He needed one for himself too, right? Fuck. He was terrible at this.

Finding the perfect rings was a pain in the ass. 

Daryl’s head was completely blank. He didn’t know shit about romantic gestures before you and not that he knew any better now, clearly. So later that night, when you were fast asleep next to him, head tucked into the crook of his neck, he lifted your left hand carefully and studied your ring finger. Then he pulled a small piece of thread from his pocket – he’d been keeping it there just for this – and quietly measured it.

He searched every possible source, thinking maybe he’d stumble upon one in some abandoned jewelry store, except there weren’t any left within a hundred-mile radius of Alexandria, as he found out the hard way. He almost wished he’d realized his feelings for you earlier, back when there were still stores to raid. Maybe he could’ve grabbed one of those cheap rings from the counter near the cashier in Atlanta.

He even considered Glenn’s old method – taking a ring from a walker on the Prison fence. It was smart. Daryl thought about it a million times, even went out looking for a few days before giving up. Not because he didn’t want to but because it didn’t feel right. Even though he knew you wouldn’t care where it came from, he wanted it to be something special. Something just for you.

That’s when it hit him: he could have it made.

So, the next time he was visiting Maggie at Hilltop, he wandered off to the blacksmith and asked Earl for a favor. The man looked confused at first, like he thought he’d misheard. Then realization hit, and the big grin spread across his face made Daryl want to bury himself right then and there. It was embarrassing as hell.

But it was worth it.

Daryl stayed the night at the Hilltop, claiming he was “too tired” to go back to Alexandria (really, Earl had said it’d take him a full day to finish the job). When Daryl saw the pair of simple silver bands the next morning, his chest warmed. First from excitement because he was finally going to do it, and then from pure mortification because he was finally going to do it. 

Shit. What if you didn’t like the idea? Daryl was so clouded by his own wants that he forgot to consider yours completely. Sure, you’d told him once that you’d stay with him forever, said it like it was obvious, but some small, scared part of him still thought it might all fall apart one day. He could take on a few dozens walkers, fight those Saviors fuckers twice over, survive five more apocalypses – but asking you to marry him? That scared the hell out of him.

So he did what a coward would do. He didn’t ask. Not yet. He just kept the rings in his pocket – waiting for the day he’d miraculously grow a pair of balls and do it.

The day it finally happened, you and Daryl had gone out with a few others – Rick, Michonne, and a couple more – to survey the area near the broken bridge that had once connected the communities. If the bridge were still there, travel would’ve been easier, shorter; now, it was all roundabout roads. Rick had split people into pairs to cover different sections, and naturally, Daryl went with you.

That had been three weeks ago. 

You were mid-conversation when a gunshot rang out. Both of you froze, scanning the area. Then another shot. And another. Heart racing, you and Daryl ran toward the sound, spotting an old shed along the way. But as you approached, the unmistakable groans of walkers filled the air. A herd. Big. Surrounding the area.

Without a word, Daryl grabbed your arm and pulled you back the way you’d come only to find more walkers, drawn by the earlier shots, blocking your path. The rapid firing had slowed to single, measured shots, and all you could do was hope it wasn’t because whoever was shooting had run out of ammo or was already being torn apart.

Before you could protest or think, Daryl shoved you toward the shed. Closer inspection revealed it wasn’t just a shed. The inside had clearly been lived in despite the crumbling exterior. 

Once safe inside, Daryl moved one of the last heavy pieces of furniture against the door, blocking every entrance. He turned to you and asked if you were okay. You nodded and returned the question. He gave a short, curt nod, then sat down beside you, glancing through a small hole in the window one last time.

“I hope they’re okay,” you murmured after a long silence.

Daryl looked at you and thought he saw a flicker of something he couldn’t quite place on your face. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Mmhm,” you nodded again, restless. After sitting there for what felt like forever, you stood and moved from one hole to another, assessing the situation.

Daryl studied you silently and came to a realization that you were definitely planning something, and he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it. 

He didn’t. In fact, he hated your plan. It was stupid.

“We can wait it out,” he growled. 

“Daryl, they could be dead right now for all we know. We have to do something!” 

Normally, he’d already be out there, stabbing his way toward Rick and Michonne. But you were here, and your safety came first. He couldn’t risk both of you going out until it was safer. He sure as hell wasn’t leaving and abandoning you in this rusted, crumbling box either. 

“Just cover me. Your bow is quieter. I know I can make it to that car and distract them long enough-”

“Nah.”

“Daryl.” He didn’t look at you. You sighed and paced a little before announcing, “I’ll check the back.”

But Daryl was too slow. The next thing he knew, you were shouting outside – of course you had slipped out – luring the walkers away from the front. He bolted, moving whatever had been blocking the door, and ran into the fray, forced to follow your plan. Together, you successfully outran the herd. 

Daryl opened his mouth to scold you then but Rick came running up, shouting his name, Michonne and the others behind him.

“Are you two okay?” Rick yelled.

Daryl, still catching his breath, asked, “What the hell happened?”

Rick explained that the herd had come out of nowhere and everything had gone to shit from there.

After everyone caught their breath, Michonne decided it was best to come back out later; they only had a few hours until sunset. Daryl told the others to head home and pulled you aside somewhere safe, away from any wandering walkers. Michonne had asked if you were both okay, and after seeing the looks on your faces, she didn’t press. It was obvious: you needed to talk.

“We can talk at home, you know?” you said, averting your gaze, feeling a twinge of guilt.

Once Daryl was sure the others were far enough away, he walked over and pulled you into a tight hug. You let out a surprised gasp but hugged him back. He’d thought about yelling at you, letting his anger out for making him worry and almost getting yourself killed. It would’ve been easier to be a dick, but he didn’t want to. All that mattered was that you were okay. He buried his forehead against your shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I had to,” you said softly, feeling the tremble in his hands resting on your back.

“Ya didn’t have to.”

Pressed together, Daryl thought back to the moment he saw you running into the herd and his heart dropping. That was the instant he realized he couldn’t wait any longer. After days and nights obsessing over how and when to ask you, the timing didn’t matter. Not anymore. 

Marry her already. 

Carol’s words had been echoing in his head for weeks, and somewhere along the way, they’d started to sound like his own.

Fuck it. He was going to do it now.

Daryl pulled back from you slightly, reaching into his jeans pocket – and froze. Only one band. One ring. He tried not to panic as your hand reached for his face so affectionately. Shit.

He pulled back completely, scanning the forest floor for the missing ring.

“Daryl?” your voice made him even more nervous. He could only pray that the ring left in his pocket was yours, if it wasn’t then he could only hope that the next trip to Hilltop wouldn’t make you suspicious. He squinted at the ground, tracing his own footprints, considering going back to the shed when your voice made him turn around.

“Looking for this?” The glint in your hand was unmistakably the ring he’d been frantically searching for, and it made him feel like a complete idiot.

“It fell when you were moving the shelves back in the shed,” you said matter-of-factly. Daryl almost forgot how to breathe.

“I didn’t wanna say anything then because…” You stopped yourself, not wanting to admit the truth – the part about being scared, never imagining yourself marrying anyone, but with Daryl, none of that mattered anymore. You stepped closer, eyes glassy. “Is this what I think-”

“Yeah.” The word left his throat like a whisper. This was it. He had to do it now. He pulled the other identical ring from his pocket. You gasped, and he couldn’t tell if it was shock, joy, or “what the hell are you doing?” But Daryl didn’t care. He had to say it.

“I had Earl make ‘em a few weeks ago. I ain’t good at this. I-” He paused as your other hand touched his arm, your voice softly calling his name, and he continued. “You’re it for me. If ya think this is-”

“Yes,” your voice was shaky. You smiled at his confused face before continuing, “Yes, I’ll fucking marry you. Daryl.” 

Awkward silence hung between you as you processed everything, until you threw your arms around his neck and kissed him. Daryl kissed you back immediately, unconsciously letting go of the crossbow in his hand.

You broke off the kiss and looked down at the rings in your and Daryl’s hands. Your cheeks were visibly pink, and he was sure his were the same. You both slipped the rings onto each other’s left ring fingers, your hands naturally finding each other again after, fingers laced tight.

“Oh my god. Do we have to, like, have a wedding or something?” you asked, half joking, half serious.

Your lighthearted question echoed one of Daryl’s thousand silent thoughts about the whole thing since he’d decided to do it. He didn’t know what to say. Personally, the idea of standing in front of everyone while Father Gabriel said his name out loud made him want to crawl into a hole and die. But if you wanted it, if that’s what made you happy, he’d do it. Anything for you. Anything.

“Do ya wanna…?” he asked carefully.

“Hell no. I’d rather die.” You let out a breathy laugh. “Besides, this is all I need.” You lifted your intertwined hands, the rings glinting softly in the fading light. “I love you, Daryl Dixon. That’s all I need.”

Daryl felt his whole body go warm again. The good kind of warm. The best kind. He didn’t even have to think before muttering, “I love you too.” And then, after staring at your radiant smile for what felt like an eternity, he felt the need to add, “So fucking much.”

The kiss that followed started out soft and turned hungrier when your hands found each other again. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching yours beat for beat. He kissed you like he’d been waiting forever and held you close like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. 

When you finally broke apart, both out of breath, you stayed there for a moment – foreheads touching, breathing each other in, the world outside going silent for once. You whispered against his lips, a small grin tugging at yours, “We better fucking get home. Now.”

Later that night, as you both lay tangled in his bed, Daryl was overcome with a sense of joy and something he didn’t even know how to name. A part of him cursed himself for not doing it sooner, for ever doubting your affection, for being too much of a pathetic loser to do it more romantically – not immediately after almost getting mauled by the damn walkers and losing one of the rings in the process. What the hell? 

And now he’d have to deal with people coming up to congratulate him later, all the fussing, the explaining. Though, he decided he didn’t give a fuck anymore.

He was just glad it finally happened. Glad that, somehow, everything led to this moment – you, beside him, wearing that ring he thought he’d never find. And he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, every bit of it, because now you were officially his forever.

You were his wife.

___

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___

You and Daryl are a thing now–or, well, as close to a thing as Daryl Dixon would ever get. After everything the two of you survived together, the close calls, and the unspoken feelings that had stretched between you, it finally happened. You’d confronted it. Him. Each other.

Not that it looks anything like Glenn and Maggie, or Rick and Michonne. Yours and Daryl’s kind of “official” isn’t something anyone can put a neat label on. It isn’t for show. It’s quieter than that. Private but still real. 

___

It had all started one night when he’d let something slip. Daryl told you how he felt, but it hadn’t been some grand confession – just an unintentional yet intimate slip of words.

You and Daryl had ended up sitting side by side, shoulders nearly brushing, when you’d made some offhand joke. Something about him being real romantic for a guy who’s never dated anyone. You’d meant it to tease. Normally, he would’ve scoffed, but this time he just sat there, fingers fiddling, his eyes fixed on the ground like you’d said something he didn’t know how to answer.

“What?” you nudged his shoulder, smiling. “Didn’t like the compliment?”

He gave a little shrug. “Don’t think I’d be any good at that kinda stuff.”

You were surprised he even said anything at all, especially about this. Whenever you’d jokingly flirt with him or mention anything related to romance, he usually brushed it off with pretended annoyance. Not tonight. Not now. He finally said something about it.

Your heart picked up at his rare vulnerability. You just needed to confirm it somehow before he tried to change subjects. So you reached for his hand, and when he didn’t pull away, though he looked like he might, your chest warmed. 

Truth was, his heart was racing so hard he was afraid you’d hear it. Heat spread across his face, and he could only hope the dim night light did a good enough job at hiding the nervous mess whirling inside him.

You laced your fingers through his, feeling the faint twitch of his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it, of course he didn’t. “You’re better than you think,” you murmured, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. “You don’t gotta try so hard with me.”

For a long moment, he was quiet. You thought maybe he hadn’t heard you. Then his voice finally came, low and almost uncertain.

“Ain’t never felt this way ’bout nobody before.”

You could almost feel your heart stop at that. That was it. A confession from Daryl Dixon. And it was exactly the kind you’d expected from him. “Good,” you whispered back, smiling into his flannel. “’Cause I feel the same way.”

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand. The gesture was shy and uncertain, but it stayed with you long after. That was the night it had become official. Not in anyone else’s way. In yours.

___

Daryl wasn’t someone who showed care through words or soft touches. His love was in what he did, the quiet, unspoken things. That was just him. Still, sometimes you wondered what it would be like to be openly touchy with him, to have that easy kind of affection you craved. Physical touch had always been your language, the way you gave love and the way you felt it in return.

Daryl knew that. He’d known it from the way your hand would always brush against whoever you were talking to. He’d known it the first time your fingers touched his arm without warning, when he unconsciously flinched back. You hadn’t understood his reaction at first, and your apology that followed had been so soft, so sincere, he couldn’t forget it. You learned soon enough, though.

So he’d known it, too, in the way you started being more cautious, more careful with him. But over time, it changed. Your closeness stopped feeling foreign. He’d begun to expect your touch, even if he never quite got used to it. Probably never would. But he’d try. For you.

___

You’re now up on the watch platform at Alexandria’s gate, restless and waiting. You’d traded shifts with Rosita hours ago without even bothering to explain yourself. No one questioned it. You just wanted to be here when Daryl came back.

Then there he is.

The car rumbles down the road, sputtering like it’s about to give out, and you hurry down the ladder to the gate. By the time you’re swinging it open, the vehicle is already rolling through.

Abraham’s the first to climb out, swearing under his breath like the air personally wronged him. “Biggest damn pain in the ass scavenging trip in history,” he grumbles, tossing his hands up. “World’s gone to shit and we still can’t find toilet paper. Civilization really is dead.” Glenn follows out, popping open the trunk until Maggie walks over to greet him with a hug.

Your eyes skip right over to the driver’s seat. Daryl’s still sitting there, arm hanging out the window, turning a crumpled piece of paper over and over in his hand. His brows are drawn, like the thing might bite him if he looks at it too long.

You walk straight toward him, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm where it rests on the window. “How was it?” you ask, smiling in that way you hope comes across as casual.

The reaction is quick, too quick. He stuffs the paper into his backpack and pushes the door open, stepping out as soon as he feels your touch.

Your smile falters, just for a beat, before you paste it back on. You hope he didn’t notice. 

He manages to look at you, shaking his head slightly as a response to your question, and you nod back, the quiet understanding between you stretching a beat longer than it probably should. You both must have been standing like that for a while, because Abraham suddenly pipes up from somewhere behind you, squinting at the two of you like he’s trying to read a map. 

“Y’all gonna stand there all day or actually hold hands or somethin’?” His grin is obnoxious, and you roll your eyes while Daryl mutters something that sounds suspiciously like shut up under his breath. Glenn snorts quietly behind him, and even Maggie shakes her head, grinning. 

When the noise dies down, Daryl shifts slightly, finally starting to tell you about the run in a bit more detail. You hum quietly, letting him speak, waiting for the story to unfold. When he hesitates, you give a small, teasing smile. “It’s okay. We’ll do better next time. If you let me go with you, I mean.”

He chuckles softly at your words, his eyes flicking to yours for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by how easy it is to get lost in your smile. Almost instinctively, your fingers brush against his, lingering there. 

For a heartbeat, he almost lets your hand stay. But then, like he suddenly remembers where they are, he pulls away. Not sharply, not suddenly. Just a subtle, almost nervous retreat, as if the act of holding your hand in front of everyone would make him combust. He leans forward, shifting his attention to Abraham’s rambling, pretending it’s nothing.

But you notice. Of course you notice.

And he notices that you notice.

Shit. The word echoes in his head. His chest feels tight. He didn’t mean to pull away. Hell, he barely even realized he did it until it was too late. He’s not even sure why. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s habit, maybe it’s both. All he knows is that your expression flickered for a second, quick enough that no one else would’ve caught it, but it’s burned into him.

___

Later that night, the living room has mostly emptied out, soft laughter drifting from upstairs as people settle into their own corners of comfort. You lean against the doorframe, chatting with Michonne and Eugene. Daryl watches from the couch, pretending not to, eyes flicking up only when you laugh or tilt your head in that way that always gets to him.

When the talk winds down, you do what you always do: hug Michonne goodnight, press a quick kiss to Eugene’s cheek. Nothing new, nothing strange. But Daryl feels his chest tighten anyway. He’s seen it a hundred times and it still gets him every damn time. Still makes his throat go tight, still leaves him cursing himself for not knowing how to let it come as easy as you do.

He shifts, adjusting his body and leans back into the couch like it might make him look casual, like he hasn’t just been sitting there stewing. You come over and sit next to him. Not too close. You already know his boundaries better than he does.

The room is quiet now. Cozy. Feels like home in a way Daryl never thought he’d get to have. But his head is a storm. He can’t stop replaying earlier, the way your fingers had brushed his hand, the way he pulled away like a coward. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t even think, just reacted. And he caught that look on your face, even if you tried to hide it. That tiny falter in your smile.

After a beat of silence, you both start talking at the same time.

“So-”

“Sorry ‘bout-” he cuts himself off, jerking his chin toward you in that way of his. “Go ‘head.”

“No,” you shake your head lightly. “You go.”

Daryl’s gaze drops, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans, while yours stay still at your side. He swallows before finally muttering, “Sorry ‘bout earlier.”

You blink at him, not immediately sure what he means. Then it clicks. Of course it does. You always seem to know what’s rattling around in his head, even when he barely says a word. “Daryl…” your voice softens, caught between surprise and reassurance. “You don’t have to apologize. It was nothing.”

“It weren’t nothin’.” His response comes fast, too fast, like the words are trying to outrun his nerves.

He glances at you then, just for a second, like he needs to make sure you understand. That he knows. That he saw the look on your face. That he wishes he hadn’t done it. His jaw works like he wants to say more, but the words tangle up somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You nod, trying to look understanding. “We don’t have to- like, do anything if… you know, if you don’t want people to know or…” Your words trip over each other, fumbling. You immediately regret saying it, wishing you could pull them back.

Daryl’s quiet, deep in thought, cursing himself over and over. Of course you’d think he didn’t want people to know about you. That wasn’t it at all. If anything, they'd known before you and him even figured it out for yourselves.

“It ain’t that,” he blurts, quicker than it normally takes him to respond. His eyes flick to yours, making sure you’re really listening. “I’m tryin’. Ain’t good at it – the public stuff. But I’m gon’ try.”

“You don’t have to,” you say softly.

“I want to,” he says again, just as quick, almost tripping over the words.

You smile then, a real, warm smile that lights your face. “Thank you.”

The next thing you know, his hand slips into yours. It was warm, rough, and hesitant. His fingers clumsily interlace with yours, like he’s still figuring out how it works. You glance down at the sight and let out a soft chuckle. “You’re getting good at this.”

“Stop.” He ducks his head, hair falling forward to hide the small smile tugging at his mouth. 

You suddenly grin at a thought, your body fully facing his now. “Public stuff.” You say the words slowly, teasing. 

Daryl sees that look on your face and groans immediately, head tipping back a little as if asking the universe for patience. You’re about to say something. Something that never fails to make him feel cornered. He doesn’t hate it, though. 

You lean in slightly, eyes glinting. “Does that mean you’re good at, say… private stuff?” 

He exhales through his nose, half a laugh and half a plea. His shoulders tense, not from discomfort but from the way his body doesn’t quite know what to do with itself when you talk like that. 

A pause. Once the light moment passes, you’re both suddenly aware of your joined hands. You bounce your hand lightly against his, playing with it before stopping to lace your fingers together again. This time, his hold feels a little stronger, maybe you’re imagining it, or maybe he just doesn’t want to let go.

You straighten slightly, your gaze flicking to his arm. “Can I?” you ask, your hand hovering in the air. He nods once.

You touch him, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. His body shifts until it’s angled toward you too. You trace small circles on his arm with your thumb before moving higher, to his shoulder. Just as your hand nears his hair, you pause again. “Okay?”

Daryl nods. When your fingers slide into his hair, his eyes flutter shut. You brush a few stray strands away from his face, letting your touch trail down to his jaw. His stubble grazes your skin, rough and warm, and you swear you feel him shiver. His eyes open again, uncertain where to look.

“Still okay?” you whisper.

When he doesn’t nod, you glance up to meet his eyes. The look he gives you is answer enough, a silent yes. Your thumb sweeps across his cheek once before you start to pull your hand back, and he unconsciously leans into your touch. His eyes close again until you say his name softly. He opens them to see that familiar teasing smile tugging at your lips.

“This okay for private stuff?”

For once, he doesn’t scoff. He just stares, at your mouth, at the way your breath hitches, at how close you suddenly are. Don’t screw this up, his mind whispers, but he can’t move, can’t look away. You’re so close, the air thick between you, both of you waiting for the other to break it.

So when you start to lean in and then hesitate halfway, he gives your hand a small, almost hesitant tug. His wordless way of saying it’s okay.

You close the space. 

It’s clumsy. Neither of you are good at this, Daryl most of all. The kiss is quick, tentative, like neither of you can hold it for long without running out of air, without feeling like your chest might explode. When you pull back, he swallows hard, heart hammering. Foreheads still pressed together, you let out a soft giggle, teeth catching your bottom lip.

Daryl pulls away to look at you and ducks his head again, cheeks burning, suddenly aware of what just happened. Every instinct tells him to get up, to leave this room, this house, Alexandria even, anywhere that’ll give him some distance from that damn glint in your eyes. But he can’t. He won’t. Because even though it terrifies him, it’s also the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

You squeeze his hand lightly, taking the other in yours. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “We can take it slow. Public stuff. Private stuff… We have all the time in the world.” 

Daryl's hands squeeze yours back, as if grounding himself. A real smile tugs at his lips as the thought settles in: he’s never been good with touch, never known how to give it, but it’s your love language, and for you, he’s going to learn how to speak it.

___

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___

Daryl was more than happy when you finally moved into his house, though he’d rather drop dead than admit that to anybody.

You’d been together for a good while now, long enough that it didn’t make sense for you to still be sleeping in two different beds every night. But when you were the one to suggest moving in, Daryl just blinked at you like you’d spoken in another language. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it – he’d wanted that since the day you first stayed over and fell asleep on his chest – it just never crossed his mind as something he could ask for.

So yeah, when you said it, he’d just grunted out something like, “If ya want,” but he was over the damn moon inside. You. Here. All the time. No more waiting for visits. No more watching you walk away. Finally, he’d have you all to himself.

Or so he thought.

Because Dog apparently took the whole “moving in together” thing real personal.

The mutt was overjoyed – tail wagging, bouncing around, practically glued to your side from morning ‘til night. He’d follow you around like your personal shadow, soaking up every bit of affection you gave him. 

At first, Daryl thought it was cute. His two favorite things in the same place, getting along like they’d known each other forever. Made his chest feel full in a way he couldn’t really explain.

But then it got a little too much.

You’d kneel on the floor every morning, right in that same patch of sunlight near the kitchen window, cooing at Dog and giving him all the attention he didn’t deserve. You’d scratch behind his ears, kiss his big dumb head, let him lick your face, and laugh when he nudged at your hands like it still wasn’t enough.  

The worst of all was when you’d talk to him in that soft tone and call him good boy in that singsong voice that Daryl secretly wished you’d use on him too. 

And Dog, smug bastard that he was, soaked it all in – head in your lap, tongue lolling out. 

Daryl would say he wasn’t jealous of his own damn dog, but that’d be a lie. 

“Ya spoil him too much," he finally said one morning, watching from where he was sitting. 

You didn’t even look up, still kneeling by Dog, your fingers buried in his fur. “He deserves it.”

“Yeah, guess he does,” Daryl muttered, but it came out more bitter than he meant.

You smiled, not catching the tone, and ruffled Dog’s fur again. The dog flopped onto his back, and you obliged without hesitation, rubbing his belly like the damn mutt owned the place. Daryl had half a mind to say he found Dog, he’s the one who feeds him, he’s the one who keeps the fleas off his back, but that’d sound stupid. Worse than stupid.

So he just sat there, jaw tight, watching his dog – no, your dog now apparently – wag his tail like he was the luckiest bastard alive.

You glanced up once and caught him staring. “What?”

“Nothin’.” He looked away too fast. It wasn’t that he didn’t love seeing you happy – hell, he’d do anything just to hear you laugh like that – but lately, it felt like Dog got that version of you more than he did. And he was irrationally pissed. 

___

Daryl woke up one night to find Dog sprawled across your side, taking up more space than any animal his size had a right to. You were curled around him like he was a damn teddy bear, hand resting lazily on his fur, and Daryl was half hanging off the edge of the bed, freezing.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbled under his breath. Dog cracked one eye open and thumped his tail once against Daryl’s leg, like he was mocking him.

He reached out to push Dog off, but you shifted in your sleep and mumbled something sleepy.“Don’t move him, Daryl. He’s comfy.”

“Yeah, I’m real comfy too,” he whispered back, voice dripping with sarcasm.

But you were already back asleep, breathing even and peaceful.

Daryl watched your relaxed face for a while before huffing out a quiet laugh. He couldn’t stay mad. Not at you. And even if Dog was a pain in his ass sometimes, the mutt was also the reason you were so happy. 

Still didn’t mean he had to like it.

___

The next morning, Daryl must’ve been a little too obvious with his brooding because you seemed to catch on right after finishing your usual love-shower for Dog.

“Okay,” you said, leaning back against the counter, watching him like you were piecing something together. “What’s going on with you lately?”

“Nothin’.” Daryl didn’t even look up from his plate, just poked at his eggs like they’d done him wrong.

“You sure?” you pressed, tilting your head. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.” He finally glanced up at you for half a second before looking away again.

“Uh-huh.” You crossed your arms, a knowing smile creeping in. “You’ve been sulking for three days straight.” You gave him that little look – the one that said I know you’re being dumb but I’ll let you talk yourself out of it.

He stabbed at his food with his fork, jaw flexing. “Just thinkin’.”

“About?”

Daryl shrugged, shoulders tight. “‘Bout how ya like that dog more’n me.” He regretted saying it instantly. The words slipped out before his brain had a chance to stop them. He hadn’t planned on saying it out loud, hell, he’d been trying to wrestle that stupid thought down for days.

You blinked once before letting out one of those breathy laughs. “Daryl Dixon, are you jealous of Dog?”

“’Course not,” he muttered too fast, suddenly real interested in the fork in his hand.

You grinned, taking a step closer. “You totally are.”

“Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughing again as he shot you a scowl.

“Ain’t jealous of no damn dog,” he said after you finally stopped laughing, his ears turning red, wishing he could be anywhere else right now. 

“Mhm,” you teased, walking over to him, voice lowering. “So if I called you a good boy right now, you wouldn’t like that?”

Daryl groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Yer impossible.” 

You leaned in then to press a soft kiss on his cheek. It was enough to knock all the fight out of him. He felt his face heat instantly. “You love me,” you said, still smiling.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “That’s the problem.”

Dog barked once, tail wagging like crazy. You grinned at him. “Don’t worry, buddy, you’re still my favorite.”

Daryl shot the dog a look. “Yeah, we’ll see ‘bout that.”

___

Later that evening, Daryl sat slouched on the couch, Dog stretched out on the floor beside him. The mutt nudged Daryl’s hand with his nose, tail thumping lazily against the rug. Daryl sighed but gave in, running his rough fingers through the dog’s fur. 

“Ya ain’t bad, ya know that?” he muttered. “Just don’t go stealin’ all my attention next time.” Dog gave a low woof, tongue lolling out like he understood every word. “Yeah, yeah,” Daryl huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. 

When the front door creaked open, Daryl looked up from where he sat, Dog sprawled at his feet. You stepped inside, light from the doorway spilling in behind you, your face lit up instantly when you spotted them.

“Aw, look at you two,” you said with a teasing lilt. “Finally getting along.”

Daryl grunted, shifting slightly as you dropped onto the couch beside him, your thigh brushing his. You reached down to scratch Dog’s ears, voice softening. “Who’s a good boy,” you murmured, all sweet smiles, before glancing up at Daryl with that look.

“You still mad at me?”

He wasn’t mad, not really, but hell if he was gonna admit that right away, so he just shrugged and looked away. “Ain’t mad.”

“Jealous then?” you nudged his shoulder with your own. He didn’t answer, which was answer enough. You smiled softly, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You know there’s enough of me to go around, right?”

“Don’t seem like it,” he answered, though his voice was quieter now.

You laughed under your breath, lifting your head just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Daryl didn’t respond, just gave you a halfhearted scowl that probably would’ve looked a lot meaner if his damn heart wasn’t doing that jumpy thing it always did when you looked at him like that. 

Then you went and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, and it made him go all fidgety. He could face walkers, storms, and all kinds of hell, but you being affectionate always threw him off.

He tried to play it cool, tried to act like it didn’t get to him, but then your hand was suddenly in his hair, fingers slipping through the mess of it. And just like that, all that effort went right out the damn window.

“See?” you murmured, voice soft and teasing, nails gently scratching his scalp the exact way that made his eyes feel heavy. “You get pets too.”

“Stop,” he grumbled, though it came out weak, more breath than sound. His head tilted toward your touch before he could stop it, traitorous thing that it was.

You giggled. “You’re worse than Dog.”

“’M not,” he mumbled, but his words slurred from how relaxed he’d gotten. His eyes fluttered half-shut, shoulders sinking deeper into the couch. He didn’t even realize he was leaning into your hand until you stopped.

When you did, he let out a small huff, barely audible, but you laughed, and he couldn’t help the tiny twitch of his mouth in return.

“C’mere,” you said softly, tugging on his arm.

He hesitated for a second, some part of him always unsure if he deserved moments like this, but he went anyway. Always did. He shifted closer, letting you tug him down until you both slid sideways onto the couch, the old cushions dipping under your combined weight. 

You ended up on your back, half tucked into the corner while Daryl hovered over you for a moment, bracing a hand beside your head before lowering himself down with a quiet grunt.

Your legs tangled up easily, his thigh slotting between yours, his arm winding beneath your neck to pull you closer until his chest was flush against you. He fit there naturally, like he’d done it a thousand times even if he still acted unsure every damn time.

You brushed a thumb over his jaw, the faint scruff rasping under your touch. “Comfy?” you teased.

He hummed low, almost a growl, and buried his face against your shoulder. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Your fingers found their way back into his hair, lazy and soft, tracing slow patterns that made him melt further against you. One of his hands found your waist, thumb rubbing absent circles there, breathing you in.

Dog gave a little grumble from the floor, tail thudding once like he was claiming jealousy too. Daryl cracked one eye open just long enough to mutter, “Jealous?”

You chuckled, wrapping an arm around his middle and sinking closer. “Now you’re just projecting.”

Daryl snorted quietly through his nose, shaking his head. He let out a slow breath, the last bit of tension draining out of him as he pressed a small kiss to your hair, before resting his head back down against your chest.

That was when he figured that maybe sharing your attention wasn’t so bad after all. Not when you still ended up right here, tucked against him, where he wanted you the most. 

___

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___

Daryl only ever calls you by nicknames.

“Trouble,” when you’re being reckless or teasing, which is all the time and he’s sick of it (not really, not even a little).

“Sunshine,” when he’s being smug, or when you’re in one of your good moods. 

“Girl,” when you’re testing his patience in that way he secretly likes.

There are plenty more nicknames he’s picked up over the years you’ve known each other. These are just the ones that stuck, the ones that come around almost daily. It’s adorable, really. The inside jokes between you two are part of what makes you inseparable. You annoy him, he pretends it works, but it never does. Your attempts only make him adore you more, though he’d never say it out loud.

The problem, however, is that he rarely ever says your actual name. Not that it bothers you. You just… miss hearing it from him. You’ve learned he only uses it when he’s scared, angry, or in those rare, soft moments he lets you see – the kind that slip past his walls, which are still high and mighty despite how close you’ve gotten. 

Tonight, the two of you sit on the bridge over Alexandria’s pond, legs hanging over the edge, your hand absentmindedly fiddling with one of your recently sharpened knives. You’re deep in thought, lost in the quiet.

“Ya gonna cut yerself, Trouble.”

You scoff, realizing what you’ve been playing with. “You say that every time I touch something sharp.”

“’Cause every time ya do, ya damn near prove me right.”

He sounds like a mom, which makes you chuckle. You set the knife down and meet his eyes. He’s already looking at you.

“Y’know,” you start, leaning forward a little, “I don’t think I’ve heard you say my name all day.”

He frowns, searching his memory. “Sure ya have.”

“Nope. Just two ‘Trouble’s, a few ‘hey’s…” You pause, pretending to search your memory, then shrug in mock defeat. “That’s it.”

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose and turns his gaze back to the water. “Ain’t no rule says I gotta say yer name every day.”

“Maybe not,” you tease, “but I like the sound of it on your lips.”

That gets him. His eyes snap back to you immediately. You’re at it again. He hears you say things like that all the time, but he never gets used to it. This time feels different, though. Maybe because he’s aware of it now, aware that he avoids saying your name. It makes his stomach twist. You calling him out only makes him fidget more, the way he always does around you. You love it. Watching Daryl Dixon get all restless over a few simple words. It’s like poking a bear that secretly loves the attention. 

He adjusts himself a little, avoiding your eyes as he says your name – well, it comes out more like a whisper you almost don’t hear.

“What was that?” you press, though you heard it just fine. Your heart is racing a little, from the thrill of provoking him, or just because he said your name.

He sighs, exasperated. “I said it.” 

“Barely,” you nudge his shoulder, growing impatient. What’s keeping him from saying it properly, anyway? You sigh dramatically. “You’re gonna make me think you don’t like saying it…” you drawl, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. Then, with an exaggerated gasp, you clutch your chest. “Or worse. Maybe you don’t even like me at all.”

You glance at Daryl mid-ramble. He’s not really looking at you… well, he is, but more specifically, his gaze is fixed on your mouth, following the movement of your lips as you talk. You narrow your eyes, catching him, and tilt your head slightly. “Are you even listening, Dixon?”

Daryl turns away for a moment, chuckling to himself, before his gaze returns to you, face more serious now. You’re about to ramble again when he finally says it. Your name. Not half-joking, not a whisper. Just the word. 

You pause, savoring the sound of his voice saying something that feels unfamiliar, and yet somehow completely familiar. “Say it again.”

His eyes dart between yours and your lips, lingering on the curve of your smile before snapping back to your gaze. After a beat, he does as you asked, the word rolling off his tongue this time full and deliberate.

Moments like this are rare, and you wish you still had your phone to record his voice as proof he really said it. You fight to keep from smiling, biting your bottom lip, pretending that one word didn’t just make your heart do a little backflip.

“I guess you actually know my name,” you murmur, unable to fight the grin spreading across your face. 

He shakes his head at your fluster, trying to play it cool, though you know he’s feeling the same jittery warmth – probably worse. “What’re ya smilin’ about?”

You shift closer, resting your head on his shoulder, your arm slipping into his. “Told you I like the sound of my name on your lips.”

You do it again. You make his chest go all warm with your words, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. So he just presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

And there, sitting together on the bridge, the two of you are just present. No walls, no nicknames, just the warmth of each other’s presence, and the quiet understanding that some things, like the way he says your name, are only yours to share.

___

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___

The morning feels unusually peaceful. After settling into the prison, Rick’s group and the people from Woodbury have begun to fall into a predictable routine. Rick and Hershel tend to the crops. The children run around or gather in the library for story time. Some keep watch at the fence, spearing walkers through the skulls. The rest busy themselves with whatever needs doing. It’s peaceful. Too peaceful.

You don’t trust how normal everything seems. It doesn’t feel possible to ever be “normal” again. Not after everything. The farm. Lori. The Governor. You’ve lost too much. So you start pulling away. It feels easier to breathe when you’re on your own. You make excuses to stay in your cell, reading or keeping busy with small tasks. Sometimes you head outside, telling Maggie or Carol you’re going hunting but really, you just want the quiet. That’s the closest you’ve come to peace.

Still, you try. You walk over to where Carol is cooking just outside, the smell of something warm drifting in the air.

“Morning” you greet her with a small smile.

Carol glances up and returns the smile. “Morning. You hungry?”

“Starving” She laughs softly and motions for you to sit. You lower yourself onto a bench. That’s when Daryl comes over, speaking quietly to Carol about something, though his eyes flick briefly in your direction before shifting away. Carol then asks Patrick, the boy with glasses who’s been following Carl everywhere lately, to take over the cooking. He replies with the kind of bright eagerness only a boy like him could have. “Yes, ma’am.” Patrick says quickly, pushing his glasses up as he steps forward. He looks at Daryl and thanks him for bringing in a deer before asking to shake his hand. 

Daryl hesitates and looks at Carol who’s already grinning next to him. Daryl brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking the grease from each one before finally offering his hand. Patrick beams as he shakes it like it’s the biggest honor in the world.

The moment is unexpectedly soft, even a little funny, and you find yourself smiling at the sight. There’s something about the way Daryl acts around Carol that makes him harder to look away from. That’s when Daryl catches you staring. His eyes linger on yours for just a second before he gives you a small nod. You smile back. Then he turns away, falling into step beside Carol as the two of them walk off together. The bond he shares with Carol is endearing.

Even more endearing is the bond you share with him. 

When you first met Rick’s group back on Hershel’s farm, you thought Daryl seemed unapproachable. He was hot-headed, always shouting and picking fights with Shane or anyone who disagreed with him. But after watching how hard he tried to look for Sophia, Carol’s little girl, you started to see him in a different light. That determination. The way he pushed himself for someone who wasn’t even his, made you realize there was more to him than anger.

Without meaning to, you began observing him more. The way he lingered on the edges of the group, the way his words could be sharp but his actions always revealed something softer underneath. Over time, you learned that despite his rough exterior, he cared deeply for the people around him. Once he set his mind to something, there was no stopping him.

The first time you really interacted with him was when he was laying in bed, injured after falling from a horse while searching for Sophia. You walked in holding a tray of food.

“Daryl? I’m Y/N,” you said quietly. “I brought some food.” 

 He turned his head, gave you a quick glance, and then shut his eyes again.

“You’re not eating?”

“Nah.” The word came out low, more like a hum than a reply.

“Hershel said-” You stopped yourself, deciding not to finish the sentence. Instead, you set the tray down on the chair beside the bed.

You had just turned to leave the room when you heard it.

“Thanks.” The word came out so soft you almost thought you imagined it.

After that, you made a point to bring him food, to offer help when you could. You always smiled at him, whether he returned it or not. Over time, a quiet friendship had formed between you and Daryl while the group was surviving together, leading up to the prison. You’d grown close enough to share stories of before the world went to hell. Daryl talked about his brother Merle often. You had never met him but from the way he described him, Merle sounded like a jerk. And he really was a jerk when you finally did meet him. 

You were there for Daryl when he lost Merle, and he was there for you when you lost someone close too. The bond between you two was the kind of thing most people would mistake for simple friendship or family. Anyone who spent enough time watching knew it was something different. Carol saw it first, then Rick, then Maggie. Now it feels like everyone knows.

Everyone except both of you.

Daryl would always find some reason to hang around you. Lately, it had become even more noticeable. Whenever you joined the group on a run, Daryl would be there. You figured it was part of his nature, that he wanted to protect the people he cared about as best he could. Maybe that was all it was. 

When you went out “hunting” outside the gates, he didn’t tag along. He probably understood that you needed some alone time and maybe it was the same for him. You appreciated the peace. Not until recently did you notice him following you a little more than before. 

___

Today, after finishing your meal, helping Beth with Judith, and hanging around some of the others, you needed that alone time again.

As you thank Carl for opening the gate for you, Daryl appears. “Where ya goin’?” You pretend not to hear him and keep walking. Carl answers for you, “She’s going hunting or something.” 

You make your way to your favorite spot by a small pond in the woods and pull out a book you’ve already read at least three times. The books from the Woodbury library didn’t have enough of your favorite genres, so you stick to what brings you comfort. After checking that the area is safe, you settle in.

Then you hear it. Leaves crunching. Your hand immediately goes to the gun at your side, pointing it at the sound. Then you realize it’s Daryl. You sigh before telling him to come out.

“What are you doing?” The words come out harsher than you intended.

He pauses, looking around. “Good spot” he says, not answering your question.

“What are you doing here?” you repeat yourself.

“Huntin’ or somethin’,” he replies, clearly mocking what Carl said earlier.

“You don’t have to follow me everywhere, you know.” You deadpan. “I can take-” 

“Ya can take care of yerself.” He finishes your words as he sits down on a nearby rock and rests his crossbow on his lap.

“If ya wan' me to leave-” he says after a pause. “No” you interrupt, maybe a little too quickly. “I don’t mind. Just… stay.” You give him a tight smile. Daryl nods and turns his gaze back to the scenery. For a moment, the sound of the pond, the birds, the rustling leaves, and his presence almost make up for the annoyance you’d felt at being interrupted. 

As you sit and read, you occasionally hear the sound of something hitting the surface of the water. You look up from your book and see Daryl absentmindedly throwing rocks into the pond.

You try to go back to reading again, but him being here is just too distracting. You decide to just close the book and turn to face him fully. “Can I ask you something?” Your sudden question makes him meet your gaze, holding it longer than he normally does. He looks away first, fiddling with the rock he was going to throw. “What?” he finally says.

“Why are you following me around?” you ask with a straight face. He scoffs before realizing that you were being serious. “Even Carol noticed it. She asked me about you the other day and-” 

“What’d she say?” he interrupts. 

“She… asked if there’s anything going on between us.” you say quickly, fumbling over your words. “Which is ridiculous because- I mean…” You gesture between the two of you. “That’s ridiculous, right?” You try to laugh it off and notice him chewing on his bottom lip, like he always does when he’s thinking too hard about something. “Daryl?” 

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on,” he mutters, but it doesn’t sound convincing even to him. Now that he has to think about it, he is kind of offended. Ridiculous? What’s so ridiculous about this? Maybe it is. He doesn’t deserve to be with you, not like that. But ridiculous? 

“You sure?” You’re teasing now, trying to lighten the mood. “Because it kinda seems like you like being around me.” 

“Quit it.” He pretends to be annoyed. You laugh and the two of you slip back into another quiet silence. Daryl can’t help but feel heat creeping onto his cheeks. It’s not like you haven’t teased him before, but never this obvious, never this flirty. He’s usually oblivious to things like this, except when it’s Carol joking around with him, but with you it’s different. Whatever this is, it makes his stomach flip. He forces himself not to turn away, not to hide his face. 

 “I just like knowin’ you’re alright” he says quietly, not really sure if you even heard it. Maybe he didn’t mean for you to. He doesn’t want to admit it but there’s something about the way you settle here, alone, that makes him want to be near you. He’s suddenly aware of every little motion you make. He swears he’s not thinking about it too much. He’s just paying attention. That’s all. Right? 

You study him for a moment, your gaze following the sunlight catching the edges of his hair, making it look lighter than usual. Without thinking, you shift closer and raise your hand, brushing your fingers softly through his hair.

Daryl freezes, staring at the way your eyes crinkle a little when you smile at the sight, like you’re in awe. His heart kicks up, faster than he’s used to. He’s known you long enough, seen you smile at him countless times, hugged you more than once. So why does this closeness feel different? Why does this little thing make him feel like he’s out of breath? What is wrong with him?

“Y’know, I like having you around,” you say with a small smile, unaware of the storm in his chest.

Daryl keeps staring at you. “Me too,” he mutters, shifting awkwardly.

His unexpected response brings your eyes to his and only then do you realize how close you’ve gotten. The air feels heavier. Your gaze accidentally flickers down to his lips before darting back up. His cheeks are pink, his ears red, and maybe you’re imagining it but he looks downright flustered.

Before anything can happen, the sound of footsteps and leaves crunching snaps both of you toward the treeline. A walker staggers out. You reach for your gun, but Daryl’s quicker, his crossbow fires, the bolt sinking into the walker's skull.

You both stand now, the tension shattered. He glances at you as he reloads. You exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Relief, maybe. Or disappointment. You can’t tell.

“You gotta teach me how to do that someday,” you say with a dry laugh, touching your own burning cheeks.

“Never,” he replies while retrieving his bolt.

But whatever it is, whatever’s building quietly between the two of you. It doesn’t need to be named because eventually, this thing will grow. Maybe slowly. Maybe painfully. But for today, just this quiet, shared space, the soft sunlight, the rustle of leaves, and his presence, is more than enough.

___

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___

You had been pitching the idea of a silly little picnic date to Daryl for weeks. At first it was just a joke, something to tease him with when you caught him in a rare good mood. But the more you thought about it, the more it started to feel possible. And if it was possible, why the hell not.

When Rick started assigning people to scout out locations that might still be worth looting, you jumped at the chance and immediately offered to go with Daryl. It felt like the perfect compromise. You could get him out of Alexandria under the pretense of being useful and if you were lucky, you could steal a little time together along the way. In the privacy of your own head, you called it a date. To Daryl, it was a mission. You knew that was the only reason he said yes. It was useful, necessary, and therefore acceptable in his book. You took the win anyway.

Today was the day.

And honestly, it started off pretty nicely. You enjoyed the long bike ride, the steady hum of the engine cutting through the quiet. You were pressed against his back, arms wrapped tight around his waist, and you could feel the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. It was peaceful in a way you rarely got anymore.

You spent most of the trip talking about everything and nothing at all, the way you always did, while Daryl listened, grunting or chiming in every so often. He kept his serious face on, like it was strictly business, but you knew him well enough to tell it was doing him some good too.

The scouting went about as expected. A couple of places turned out to be decent finds, enough to make the trip feel worthwhile, but most of them had been picked clean long ago. Still, you did not mind. You had already gotten what you wanted out of the day, or at least, you thought you had.

The last location was a massive industrial warehouse sitting adjacent to the skeletal remains of a supermarket. Somehow, the warehouse was still half-full. It was the kind of honey pot that made your heart race – canned goods, tools, things that could actually keep people alive. You might have actually gotten the chance to take some of them on the ride home had you not heard a sudden shout from outside.

A man came running past the open doors, panic written all over his face. He was being chased by something, and it did not take long to realize it was a herd. A big one. 

You and Daryl were forced to abandon the warehouse, but you both could have gotten away easily. You would have, too, if not for your stubborn ass, as Daryl so lovingly liked to call it.

You wanted to help him. The man looked terrified, the same desperate fear you remembered from the day you’d found Father Gabriel cowering on that rock a long time ago.

“We can help him!” you had shouted, your voice cutting through the noise, even as Daryl kept hauling you toward his bike. 

Gravel skidded under your boots as you fought him, panic and adrenaline buzzing in your veins like a live wire. You wrenched yourself free and yelled to the stranger again. It was loud enough that several rotting heads snapped in your direction, the dead peeling off from the mass and stumbling toward you instead of the man.

It was only then, with the smell of decay suddenly too thick in your nose, that you realized how wrong you’d been. The herd was bigger than you thought. They were pouring out from between the buildings like a dam breaking, their groans layering over each other until the sound felt suffocating.

After that, everything went to hell.

The stranger didn’t make it. In the chaos, he was dragged down anyway, his screams sharp and human before being swallowed whole by the wet sounds of tearing. The noise lodged itself deep in your chest. You barely had time to process the horror before you and Daryl were forced to abandon the bike – shoving it hastily into a dense thicket of brush – and run.

That alone should have been miserable enough, but you also managed to sprain your damn ankle in the process.

And on top of all of that, Daryl was furious.

___

The woods were quiet now, save for the rhythmic crunch of dead leaves under your boots and the constant hum of nature. No walkers had shown up in the last twenty minutes, but the silence between you and Daryl was louder than any herd.

He walked at least fifteen paces ahead, his crossbow raised and ready. He was far enough away that you couldn’t talk to him without raising your voice, but close enough that he could spin around and put a bolt through anything that even thought about coming near you. 

That was Daryl Dixon. Even while giving you the silent treatment, he was hyper-aware of your safety. Still protective. Still the man you fell in love with.

You questioned that sentiment, however, when your leg began to give out. The limp was impossible to ignore now, each step heavier than the last as you shifted most of your weight onto your good leg, half hopping to keep up with his pace.

Daryl kept moving, apparently too pissed to notice or care.

“This is very gentlemanly of you, I gotta say,” you half shouted toward his back, stopping for a moment to catch your breath.

He kept walking like he had not heard a thing. You knew he had. So you raised your voice just a little more. “This is how you treat the love of your life, huh. So romantic.”

Daryl finally stopped and glanced to the side.

For a brief second, you thought you had finally gotten through to him. Then two rotting bodies staggered out from behind a thick tree in a patch of tall grass.

Oh, great. He had stopped for walkers. Not for you.

You scoffed loudly, the motion sending a sudden twinge through the area just under your left ribs. 

“Fuck,” you hissed, the sound involuntary. You grabbed your side, more startled than anything.

You had almost completely forgotten about it, the pain buried under the adrenaline of the escape. You remembered being shoved hard into a metal shelving unit back at the warehouse, but you hadn’t realized until this moment that it had left a mark. It wasn't unbearable, likely just a deep bruise, but the throb was making itself known now that your heart rate was slowing down. 

You took a careful breath, testing it, then straightened. Okay. Not great, but manageable. You made a mental note to check it properly later, preferably on your own. The last thing you needed was Daryl noticing it and getting even angrier, though a part of you doubted he was paying you any mind at all right now.

The familiar snap of a bolt cut through the air, burying itself cleanly into one walker’s eye socket and dropping it to the ground. Daryl moved to pull the knife from his hip and drove it into the other walker’s temple with practiced ease.

He retrieved the bolt from the skull of the first, wiping the blood off on his jeans, and continued walking without looking back. 

“We should cut east soon,” you broke the silence again after several minutes, lifting your gaze toward the descending sun, its light barely breaking through the dense canopy overhead. 

The woods felt thicker here, shadows stretching long between the trees. You kept walking as you talked, trying to ignore the dull throb in your ankle. Daryl had slowed at some point, now walking closer to you than before, still a step ahead but no longer putting distance between you.

“If we keep going this way, we’ll start circling,” you went on, eyes narrowing as you studied the path ahead. Something felt wrong. The trees were familiar, but not in the way they should have been. This was not the route you usually took back to Alexandria. “Do you know a shortcut I don’t know about or-”

Your boot snagged on a thick tree root before you could finish the thought. You stumbled forward, momentum pitching you off balance. You would have gone straight down if your hand had not shot out and caught the rough bark of a nearby tree.

The jolt sent a brief flare of pain through your ribs again, a sharp reminder that made you grit your teeth, but it was nothing compared to the lightning bolt that tore through your ankle when you put weight on it to steady yourself.

You hissed through your teeth, screwing your eyes shut as you fought to stay upright.

Daryl spun around. His eyes locked onto you, and for the first time since the warehouse, the anger was gone, replaced by a flash of raw panic. You could see the effort it took, as if he were swallowing whatever words wanted to come out. You shifted awkwardly, trying to regain your footing on your own, stubbornly refusing to ask for help.

After a second, Daryl stepped into your space. He slid a hand under your arm, his grip firm and stabilizing. But he still didn’t say anything.

Then, just as quickly, he pulled his hand away.

Before you could ask what the hell that was about, Daryl turned his back to you and crouched down.

“What are you doing?” you asked, confusion cutting through the pain as you stared at the back of his vest.

“Get on,” he said simply, turning his head just enough for you to catch his profile.

Your first instinct was to laugh it off, to argue, to tell him you could walk just fine. But the ache in your ankle flared again, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second. You swallowed your pride, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. 

“You wanna tell me where we’re going first?” you asked lightly, trying to peer around him.

He didn’t turn around. “Just shut up and get on my damn back.”

There was no room for debate in his voice. No anger either, not really. Just stubborn resolve.

You hesitated for a heartbeat longer, then carefully leaned forward, arms sliding around his shoulders as you shifted your weight onto him. He adjusted instantly, one hand hooking securely under your thigh to keep you steady as he pushed up to his feet with a quiet grunt. 

The sudden height made you gasp, fingers tightening in the leather of his vest. “You know,” you muttered near his ear, “if you drop me, I’m haunting you. I mean it.”

“Won’t,” he replied, already moving again.

You naturally reached for the crossbow in his hand, fingers closing around the familiar weight. Daryl loosened his grip without comment, letting you take it from him. You slung it carefully over your back, the strap settling against your shoulder blades, before relaxing fully against him. The familiar scent of leather, sweat, and the faint trace of cigarette clung to him. 

You pressed your face briefly into the side of his neck, more instinct than thought, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Daryl didn’t answer. He just adjusted his hold on your legs, hitching you up higher, and kept walking.

The forest moved around you as he carried you, branches brushing past, leaves crunching under his boots. The silence stretched until it got too loud to ignore.

“He could’ve made it,” you said finally, voice quieter now. “If we’d been faster. If we hadn’t wasted time- We could’ve pulled him out. I could’ve done more-”

“Ya did what ya could,” he said, not letting you finish. 

You froze for a moment, the words sinking in slower than they should have. You had not expected him to respond at all. 

“That’s not true,” you insisted, lifting your head so your chin hovered near his shoulder. “We both know it. He was scared, Daryl. He was still alive.”

“He was already dead,” Daryl said, voice firmer now. “Just didn’t know it yet.”

You frowned, frustration twisting in your chest. “You don’t know that.”

“I seen that look before,” he replied. He adjusted his grip on you. “People runnin’ on panic, not thinkin’. Herd that size, that close. Ain’t a damn thing we coulda done without gettin’ ourselves killed too.”

You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat. “So we just leave people now? Is that who we are?”

He stopped walking. The sudden stillness made your heart stutter. Daryl tilted his head just enough that you could see part of his face, eyes sharp but not angry.

“I was tryin’ to save ya,” he finally said. “And ya made it real hard today.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, then closed it. The image of the man’s face flashed behind your eyes, terror wide and helpless. You realized then that Daryl wasn’t mad about the stranger. He was terrified of the silence that would have followed if you hadn’t made it.

You sighed, the fight draining out of you, leaving only exhaustion. “I just hate that we left him,” you said softly.

“Don’t mean it was wrong,” Daryl replied as he started walking again, his voice softer but still rough around the edges in that way it always got when he was trying to comfort you without actually saying the words.

You let out a slow breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. The rhythm of his steps lulled you for a moment before you huffed a soft laugh.

“Wow,” you said, tilting your head back enough to look at the darkening sky through the branches. “So this is you talking again. Guess the silent treatment’s officially over.”

He snorted under his breath. “Ain’t silent. Ya just don’t listen.”

“Oh please,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “You didn’t say a single word to me for like an hour.”

“Ya talk enough for both of us,” he muttered.

“And you love it, Dixon,” you teased as you shifted on his back, nuzzling further into his neck, breathing him in. You couldn’t see his face, but you could practically hear the smirk in his breathing.

___

The forest began to thin again, trees giving way to a small clearing. Your gaze drifted forward, unfocused at first, until something familiar caught your eye. A squat shape. A slanted roof. Wood darkened by age and weather.

You stiffened on his back. “Hey. Wait a second.”

Daryl slowed, then stopped.

“That cabin,” you said, lifting your head, recognition hitting you. “I know this place.”

He glanced back at you slightly. “Yeah?”

“Michonne and I came across it months ago. You knew about it?”

“Found it on a run a while back,” he admitted. “Figured we’d hole up. Let your ankle rest. Head back in the mornin’.”

You frowned. “Daryl, I wanna go home. We’re not that far. We can make it.”

“Nah,” he said, already shifting his weight and starting forward again, clearly aiming for the cabin. “Not with your heavy ass on my back.”

You smacked his shoulder. “Rude.”

“And ya ain’t walkin’ on that ankle.”

“I can limp,” you argued. “I’ve done worse.”

He did not slow. “You’re not limpin’ all the way back.”

“I’m fine,” you protested weakly. “It’s just a sprain.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly unconvinced. 

You opened your mouth to push back, then stopped. Now that the adrenaline had fully drained from your system, the pain was catching up to you. Your ankle throbbed dully with every step he took. The ache beneath your ribs had crept back in, sharper now that you were aware of it again. 

You exhaled defeatedly. “Fine. But we leave first thing in the morning. No detours.”

He huffed, the sound a mix of amusement and resignation. “Wasn’t plannin’ on startin’ a vacation.”

Funny, you thought. You’d left home half-hoping this would turn into some kind of mini vacation date. And for the most part, it had been exactly that – as close as things ever got to one now. 

“Good,” you said, pressing your cheek back against his shoulder with a small, content laugh. “Because I miss our bed. And a shower. And not almost dying.”

Daryl adjusted his grip on you as the cabin came fully into view. “Yeah,” his voice was a little softer this time. “Me too.”

___

The inside of the cabin looked exactly as you remembered. The air was stale, heavy with dust and old wood. A thin layer of grime coated nearly every surface, undisturbed except for the faint, dusty tracks you and Michonne had left behind months ago. There were otherwise no signs of anyone else.

Daryl set you down carefully near the door and retrieved his crossbow from your back before moving past you, already in scavenging mode. You limped farther inside, doing a slow sweep while he checked the back room and the narrow loft. Drawers and cabinets came up empty, their contents long since picked through even before all those months ago. You found nothing but rusted cans, splintered shelves, and a spider that sent you hopping back with a hissed curse.

In the end, the haul was depressingly thin. A worn blanket folded into the corner of a crate, still intact despite its age, and a half-empty box of matches tucked behind a loose floorboard. You shook the box once, listening to the rattle, and decided it counted as a win.

While you were emptying your pack onto the small wooden table, lining up what little you had managed to bring, Daryl got to work without a word. He wiped the couch down with a rag from his pocket, scrubbing at it with visible effort. The grime barely lifted, the leather permanently darkened by years of neglect, but he gave it a few more swipes anyway. 

You watched him with a faint smile. “Look at you,” you said lightly. “Cleaning up our bed for the night. Thank you.”

Daryl answered with a low grunt, already shifting his attention elsewhere. His eyes flicked to the table where you’d laid everything out. A couple cans of food, a lamp, water bottles, and a book sitting neatly on top.

He stopped short. Stared at it. Then snorted. “Ya brought a book?”

“I thought this was gonna be a cute little date,” you said, shooting him a pointed look as you leaned against the table to take the weight off your foot. “And you’re not exactly a conversationalist, Daryl, in case you didn’t know.”

He huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh if you squinted hard enough, shaking his head as he turned toward the door. Without another word, he grabbed a length of rope and stepped outside, already slipping back into survival mode to set up the perimeter.

You watched from the doorway as he strung thin rope across the entrance, tying empty cans to it so they would clatter at the slightest movement. Another line went up along the side window, more cans hanging unevenly, ready to announce anything foolish enough to get close. He wedged a piece of wood behind the doorframe so it would stick when opened, not enough to block it, just enough to slow someone down. 

By the time Daryl came back inside with an armful of wood for the fireplace, the sky had fully surrendered to night. 

You both sat on the floor and ate straight from the cans, knees brushing, the quiet between you easy and unforced. When you were done, you pushed yourself up to move to the couch, but the motion required a twist of your torso.

A sharp, hot ache shot through your ribs, stealing your breath. You froze, sucking in a harsh inhale through your nose, schooling your face into something neutral. If you were lucky, Daryl wouldn’t notice and make a big deal out of it.

But he was already looking at you.

He watched you for a second too long, his eyes narrowing. “Ya hurt?”

You waved it off, forcing a grin as you shifted carefully to sit. “Yeah. I’ve been limping for miles, genius.”

Daryl exhaled through his nose, clearly not buying the deflection. He crouched down in front of you. “Show me.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, already twisting to reach for your boot laces. “It’s probably just a bruise. The ankle’s the real problem.”

As you bent forward, a sharp sting flared again in your side, and your hand moved on instinct, pressing against your ribs to guard them. You didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the motion like a hawk.

“Hey,” he said quietly, and before you could protest, he guided you back until you were lying against the couch cushions. They creaked under your weight, dust puffing up faintly. 

Daryl reached for the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to see, and you couldn’t help yourself. “You trying to undress me now?”

He shot you a look that was equal parts warning and fond annoyance. 

The lamplight caught the dark bloom spreading along your side, ugly and tender-looking. His jaw tightened slightly as he took it in, thumb hovering just short of touching. Whatever he decided, he let your shirt fall back into place with care.

“Ain’t much I can do for that,” he muttered, brows pulling together in a frown.

You wrinkled your nose. “It’s fine. I’ll have Denise look at it first thing when we get home.” You reached out, brushing a few loose strands of hair away from his face, your thumb pressing lightly between his brows to smooth the worry lines before moving to cup his cheek. “Stop worrying.”

He stilled under your touch, eyes flicking up to yours. For a second, Daryl didn’t say anything, the tension in his face finally easing even if only a little.

“Can’t help it,” he finally said. He nudged your hand away gently, but his fingers lingered, thumb brushing your knuckles before letting go.

Then his focus shifted, all business again. He moved lower, settling in front of your legs, hands warm as he carefully unlaced your boot. He took his time, easing it off instead of tugging, like he knew exactly how much pressure was too much. 

Daryl looked at your ankle for a long moment, fingers probing gently, testing the swelling with careful pressure. You watched his face as he worked, the crease between his brows deepening every time you sucked in a breath or flinched just a little too hard.

“Hurts?” he asked quietly, eyes still fixed on your ankle.

“Only when you touch it,” you said, then winced as he pressed a particularly tender spot. “Which is unfortunate, considering that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Daryl huffed a soft breath through his nose. You watched the top of his head for a moment, the silence stretching. “Are you still mad at me?”

His fingers stilled for a fraction of a second before he shook his head. “Ain’t mad.”

You gave him a look he did not bother meeting. “Yeah? Because you made me hop after you for miles without saying a word. Kinda felt like mad.”

He glanced up then, only meeting your eyes for a brief second before his gaze flicked away again, like he had already said too much. “I was focused.”

“On ignoring me?” you pressed lightly.

He sighed, longer this time, and went back to easing the pressure on your ankle with careful fingers. “Didn’t wanna say somethin’ I couldn’t take back,” he said finally, his voice low and reluctant, like pulling the words out cost him something.

That caught you off guard. Your frustration softened. “I just wanted to save him.”

“I know,” he muttered. He paused, his hands resting on your leg. “When I saw that herd... and you runnin’ toward it like that...” He swallowed, the movement harsh in his throat. “Thought I was gonna lose ya.”

You swallowed hard. “You should’ve told me instead of going quiet like that.”

He shrugged, eyes fixed on his hands. “Ain’t good at that part.”

You knew that. You had seen him angry at other people, seen how it came out loud and sharp, all teeth and shouting. He had never done that with you. Not once. For a fleeting, selfish moment, you almost wished he had. At least then you would have known where you stood instead of guessing.

Silence settled between you again, but this time it was filled with the distant sounds of the woods and the steady rhythm of your breathing. You shifted slightly and called his name softly. When he still didn’t look up, you reached out and gently guided his face toward yours.

“I don’t need you to never be mad,” you said, searching his eyes. “I just need you to not shut me out.”

Daryl held your gaze, something unguarded passing between you, then he nodded once. You stayed like that for a long moment, the tension finally breaking, before he dropped his eyes again and went back to tending your ankle.

After another quiet moment, he leaned back on his heels, like he had reached a conclusion he did not love but accepted anyway. “Swellin’s not too bad. Gonna be sore. You’ll live.”

You exhaled dramatically, throwing your head back against the cushion. “Wow. Inspirational. You’re done playing medic?”

“Yeah,” he said, already pushing himself up. “Don’t move.”

“Too late.”

Before Daryl could walk away, you reached out, hooked a finger into the belt loop of his jeans, and gave a firm tug.

He stumbled a little, caught off guard. “What’re ya doin’?”

“C’mon,” you said, scooting over to make space on the narrow couch. “I almost died today. I deserve cuddles.”

He scoffed, shaking his head, though there was zero heat in it. “Ain’t how this works.”

You didn’t argue. You just pulled him down. He came willingly, albeit with a grumble, letting you lean up and press a quick, soft kiss to his lips before settling against his side. Your head found his shoulder easily, your body fitting into his like muscle memory had taken over. You tucked your face into the warm space beneath his jaw and sighed, the smell of dust and Daryl filling your lungs.

Daryl shifted slightly, adjusting so he could hold you closer, pulling the blanket snugly over both of you. He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your head, and for a long moment neither of you moved, just letting the quiet settle around you. 

As your eyelids grew heavy, you took a mental inventory of your grand romantic getaway. You had watched a stranger get eaten alive, nearly snapped your ankle in half, and you were currently cuddling on a couch that smelled distinctively like dead mice and old mildew.

You couldn't help but smirk into the rough fabric of his vest. If you were grading this on a curve, it was a solid two out of ten. But you were warm, you were safe, and you were currently drooling on Daryl Dixon without fear of retribution. You’d take it.

"Worst date ever," you mumbled against his chest, the words slurring with exhaustion.

Daryl’s chest rumbled beneath your cheek, a snort that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He tightened his grip on you just a fraction.

"Told ya," he grunted.

You didn't have the energy to argue. You just let the dead weight of the day pull you under, content in the knowledge that next time, you were just going to steal a bottle of wine and hide in the pantry.

___

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___

You and Daryl are out on another run together. It’s routine now. The quiet ritual you both fall into without ever saying much. Sometimes it’s you knocking on his door, sometimes him at yours, both of you carrying that unspoken invitation: let’s get out for a while. A hunting trip. A scavenging run. Anything beyond the walls of Alexandria where it feels easier to breathe.

It’s been like this for months. A rhythm neither of you names. You’re not just partners on runs. Not just friends. Not quite anything else either. Something hangs in the space between you, wordless and warm, but lately it’s felt different. There’s a thinness to it, a gap you’ve let grow. You’ve been quieter, slipping out at odd hours. He’s been watching, noticing. He’s no good at talking, but he’s not blind.

He knows grief when he sees it. Knows it because he’s drowning in his own. Beth’s loss still sits on his chest like a stone. He sees your eyes go far away sometimes and he wonders whose name you’re thinking, what you’re running from. He doesn’t push. He never has. He just lets you hover around him. Lets you keep coming back even when you’re half somewhere else.

You and Daryl had gone far out of Alexandria this time, scavenging in an abandoned store. Dust and broken glass crunched under your boots. Then walkers started appearing, more and more.

“Get out! Now!” Daryl yelled, sprinting for the exit, covering your back.

But you saw it. That stupid bottle of wine.

It sat on a low shelf, its glass catching a shard of sunlight through the dirty window. For a heartbeat, everything else blurred out – the walkers, Daryl’s voice, even your own pounding pulse. All you saw was the deep red liquid, the familiar shape. In that exact moment, it felt like a lifeline. Like if you could just have it, just hold it, maybe you’d stop feeling so hollow. Maybe you’d stop seeing blood on your hands when you closed your eyes.

Without thinking, you dropped the two walkers lunging at you and grabbed it.

You hit the ground hard, a walker on top of you.

Daryl was there instantly, stabbing, yanking you free. His hands were rough on your arms, his breathing ragged. He didn’t say a word but his eyes were wild.

You ran for Daryl’s bike, but a swarm of walkers blocked the way. Daryl shoved you into the back of a car, jumped into the passenger seat, and tried to start it. Of course it didn’t.

___

Now you are trapped, the walkers pressing in, the wine bottle useless in your hands. You notice it immediately. His eyes. The way he keeps checking the rearview mirror. Once. Then again. The second time lingers too long. You can feel the heat of it even without looking. “Just say it,” you bite out, sharper than you mean to. “Either say it or quit fucking staring at me, Daryl.”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw is tight. You know that look. You’ve seen it a hundred times, that silent fury he uses when he’s scared for you. He’s always like this. Never yelling, never saying the thing you know he’s thinking. Just locking it down. It makes you feel like you’re being watched through glass.

“Fucking say something!” The words rip out harsher this time, frustration boiling over.

Finally, he moves. A pause. The flick of his lighter. The faint glow of a cigarette between his fingers. He takes a slow drag, smoke curling around him, before glancing back at you through the mirror. “Ya tryin to get yerself killed?” His voice is calm. Too calm. Collected in a way that makes your skin prickle, because he has no problem snapping at others. You’ve seen it countless times. But with you, he pulls back. And it drives you mad.

You meet his eyes in the mirror, your voice steadier now. “You wouldn’t have let me die anyway.”

The cigarette hangs between his fingers. He doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on you through the glass. Heavy. Unreadable. Something that feels almost like anger but cuts deeper.

He notices the bottle in your lap. He’s seen you slip away lately, reaching for anything to dull the edges of your loss, like he’s been reaching for his own ghosts. But he doesn’t know how to ask. Doesn’t know how to say that it scares him to see you like this.

You look out at the walkers pressing against the dirty windows, their hands smearing the glass, and it hits you that this could be it. And you dragged Daryl into this mess. All for a bottle of wine. Just something to drink. Now the two of you are boxed in, a car surrounded on all sides.

“Sorry you’re dying here with me.” The words slip out in a dry laugh, one of those sarcastic jokes you only make when your body is running on empty. Daryl knows this. He notices everything. You glance back to the rearview mirror. His eyes are already there, locked on you, sharp and steady. Your chest tightens. Your vision blurs once the truth finally claws its way through. “I- I just needed something that felt normal, like before,” you admit, voice trembling. “And I’m sorry… I know you’ve been through your own shit too, but I can’t do this alone anymore.” 

For a moment, there’s only the sound of walkers dragging their bodies against the car. Daryl leans forward, stubs out his cigarette, and turns just enough to look back at you without the mirror between you. His voice is low, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “I ain't going nowhere.”

His words hit you like an anchor, steadying your spinning thoughts. You let out a long breath, finally letting some of the weight go. You don’t know why it took you so long to tell him how alone you’ve felt, how much you needed him. Maybe it’s the almost-too-late realization: he’s never going anywhere. And neither are you. Where would you even go without him?

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