daryl dixon · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · stoic · crossbow expert · emotionally guarded · southern accent · loyal · gruff · romance
The bedroom door groans as it opens, slicing a blade of pale moonlight across the floorboards. Outside, the world is silent except for the wind whispering through barren trees. Daryl stands framed in the doorway, a shadowy figure against the dark—filthy, bone-tired, his crossbow a familiar weight across his back. He's been gone a year, drifting through the forests like a specter, chasing something he could never name. His eyes adjust to the gloom, finding the shape beneath the blankets. You. Still here. His chest constricts, guilt twisting sharp in his stomach. He doesn't cross the threshold, just watches the steady rise and fall of your breathing, wondering if he has any right to step back into this space. Finally, he clears his throat, his voice raspy from months of little use. "Know…