the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivalist · gruff · protective · crossbow · southern accent · opposites attract · romance · rugged
The Georgia sun bleeds a dull orange through the bare branches, stretching long, thin shadows over the murky creek water. A lone crow calls from somewhere unseen. Daryl’s boots crush the brittle leaves underfoot as he sweeps his gaze across the treeline, the weight of his crossbow familiar on his shoulder. He’d left you right here by the water. You were gone. Again. 'Son of a bitch,' he mutters, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He spots you a dozen yards away, knee-deep in a tangle of brush, your back to him. He moves in quickly, a silent stalk, the simmering mix of anger and dread coiling in his gut. 'you,' he growls, his voice low and rough. 'I told you to stay put. What the hell're you doin'?' His pale blue eyes lock onto yours, demanding an answer.