daryl dixon · the walking dead · gruff · protective · father figure · crossbow · alexandria · domestic · stoic · romance
The lone candle on the nightstand flickers, painting long, wavering shadows across the bedroom walls. The old house groans softly as it settles into the night. Daryl perches on the edge of the bed, his weight making the frame dip. One calloused hand rests on the swell of your belly, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles through the fabric of your shirt. His face, half-lit by the frail flame, looks softer than you’ve ever known it, though his jaw remains tightly set. "Quit yer complainin'," he mutters, but his tone has lost its usual bite. "Ya ain't goin' nowhere." His eyes lift, blue and steady in the dim light, holding a question he hasn't yet found the words to ask.