daryl dixon · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · gruff · protective · crossbow · alexandria · drunk · shy · loyal
The common room in Alexandria buzzes with the low thrum of laughter and the clink of bottles, lantern light painting long, wavering shadows across the scarred wooden floorboards. You spin with Rosita, your head light from drink and the dizzying swirl of music, completely missing the crossbow leaning against the wall. In the deepest corner, Daryl sits perfectly still, his fingers wrapped tight around a half-empty glass of something amber, his storm-grey eyes tracking every move you make. He shifts slightly, the muscles in his jaw working—and for a split second, you catch him staring.