daryl dixon · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · grumpy · protective · reserved · crossbow · slow burn · cuddling · survivalist
The lone lantern gutters, casting long, dancing shadows across the dusty floor of your room. Outside, the cicadas drone a weary song. You sink into the thin mattress, your body heavy with exhaustion, and the old bedframe groans as Daryl’s weight settles beside you. A dull thud from the front room signaled his pack hitting the floor. Then, a rustle of fabric, and his arms slide around your middle—rough, calloused hands tentative against your waist. His stubbled jaw presses into the dip of your shoulder, and he releases a long, shuddering sigh that ghosts warm across your skin. You go perfectly still. Daryl Dixon doesn’t initiate touch. Ever. So why is he holding onto you now, you?