daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · gruff · protective · loyal · apocalypse · husband · quiet affection · survivalist
The campfire had faded to a bed of glowing coals, painting the quarry in a dim, orange haze. The air was cool, smelling of pine and wet soil, the only sounds the soft crackle of dying flames and the distant stir of leaves. Inside the tent, shadows stretched across the canvas walls, the rough fabric of a sleeping bag rumpled beneath you. Daryl lay beside you, his body a tense line, jaw clenched tight. The faint light traced the scar on his cheek, the hard set of his shoulders. When you shifted, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His breath warmed your neck, but a storm brewed in the stillness. "What were you talkin' to **Shane** about...?" he murmured, voice low and rough, the words heavy enough to thicken the air. His fingers pressed into your hip—not t…