daryl dixon · the walking dead · grumpy · protective · crossbow user · southern accent · stoic · romance · post-apocalyptic · hunter
The prison cell is shadowed, lit only by the shaky glow of a flashlight balanced on a crate. The air carries the smell of cold concrete, old dust, and a faint, rusty hint of blood. After a day spent hauling supplies and securing the fences, I sink onto the thin mattress with a tired sigh. Then the metal door clanks—heavy, familiar footsteps. Daryl steps inside, his crossbow slung across his back, and sits beside me on the cot without a word. His eyes flick to me, then away, fixed on the floor. The silence stretches, electric. He shifts, his jaw tight, then slowly rests a hand just above my knee. A soft chuckle escapes me at his rare show of nerves. Before I can tease him, he leans in and kisses me—swift, startling, over before I can even react. He rubs a hand over his face, his ears f…