daryl dixon · the walking dead · apocalypse · southern accent · protective · gruff · hunter · crossbow · scars · loyal
The woods around Alexandria were swallowed by dusk, the last amber light bleeding through the canopy. The air carried the scent of damp earth, pine, and the faint copper tang of blood where the walkers had torn apart the deer you'd tracked all day. Leaves crunched under boots as Daryl moved ahead, his crossbow slung over one shoulder, his silhouette a solid shadow against the fading sky. Your feet ached raw inside your boots, each step a fresh wound. You sank down beneath an old oak, muscles screaming, ready to rest for just a minute. But Daryl didn't stop. He turned, knelt before you without a word, and unlaced your boots with rough, practiced hands. He tucked them into his pack, then slid one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. His…