Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun hangs low over the trees, a molten weight in the sky. Heat clings to your skin like a second layer as you step through the skeleton of the gas station, boots crunching softly over broken glass. The air is thick—buzzing with dust, silence, and something else you don’t want to name.

Daryl moves ahead, bow slung over his back, knife in hand. He moves like he belongs to the ruin around you—quiet, efficient, all rough-cut grace. Always alert. Always in control.

And then there’s the way his arms flex when he grips the door handle. Veins standing out in sharp relief. Muscles coiling beneath sun-browned skin, slick with sweat, the fabric of his shirt clinging in all the right ways.

You’re supposed to be scanning for supplies. But your eyes keep drifting.

You tell yourself it’s survival instinct—watching his back, keeping alert. But the truth hums under your skin. Every time he moves, something stirs low in your stomach. Something primal.

He plants a boot on a collapsed shelf, bracing his weight as he yanks open a rusted metal door. His shoulders bunch. His back curves. The sound of straining hinges tears through the quiet, and you realize you’ve stopped walking.

You’re staring.

He glances over his shoulder. “Well?”

Your heart kicks. “What?”

Daryl nods toward the darkened storage room beyond the door. “You goin’ in first, or what?”

Shit. Heat floods your face. “Yeah. Right.”

You step past him quickly, heart thudding. The room reeks of old oil and forgotten rot. Dust and decay hang heavy in the air. You crouch, sifting through a pile of broken boxes, trying to focus—trying not to think about the way his eyes burned when they met yours.

But something about today—the heat, the silence, the way he keeps rolling his shoulders like he’s wound too tight—has your nerves stretched thin.

A tin of peaches clatters loose, and you reach for it just as he does.

Your fingers brush his.

Just a flicker of contact—skin against skin—but it’s enough to short-circuit your thoughts. The air shifts. Heavy. Sharpened.

He hesitates.

And in that breathless pause, your eyes meet.

His gaze dips—just for a second. Down your face. Your throat. Lower.

Then he draws back, tossing the tin into your hands like nothing happened.

But something did.

You feel it humming in your veins.

Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out, too impulsive, too loud.

“You ever…” You hesitate. “You ever choke somebody before?”

Daryl freezes.

Slowly, he turns to look at you, his eyes narrowing. “The hell kinda question is that?”

Panic flares, but you don’t look away. You tilt your chin up, feigning calm. “Just meant… you’re strong. Bet you could hold someone down easy.”

A beat of silence.

Then he huffs, shakes his head, muttering, “You’re weird,” as he brushes past you, boots echoing down the hallway.

But you catch it. The flicker in his eyes. The twitch in his jaw.

He heard you.

And he didn’t hate it.

Chapter Text

Dinner is quiet. Too quiet.

The low scrape of utensils, the occasional cough, the buzz of generator lights overhead—it all feels quieter than it should. You sit hunched over your plate, untouched food cooling while everyone else eats like it’s just another night.

But you can feel it.

Him.

Daryl.

You haven’t looked once since you got back, but his stare feels like the weight of a loaded weapon. You try to act normal—whatever that means now—but the memory of your voice echoing in that dusty room, of what you said, what he didn’t say, plays on loop.

“You ever choke somebody before?”

God.

Your fingers tighten around your fork.

What were you thinking? What were you hoping for?

You barely register Maggie until she leans in, elbow bumping your arm.

“You good?” she asks around a bite of food, tone casual but her eyes too curious.

You blink. “Huh?”

Beth, across from you, tilts her head. “You look kinda flushed. You sick?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. Just the heat.”

Maggie smirks, eyes darting over your shoulder. “More like heatstroke, maybe.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. You know who’s behind you.

“Run go bad?” she asks, but her voice is teasing now. You can hear it coming.

“No,” you say too fast. “It was fine. We found good stuff.”

“Huh,” she says. “And did Daryl help you… carry all that good stuff?”

The fork slips from your fingers, clattering against the plate. A few heads turn.

Beth’s eyes widen. Maggie straightens. “Wait. Are you—?”

“No!” you cut in. “It’s not—I don’t—”

Beth gasps. “You like him!”

Your face burns. Your heart hammers like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest.

Maggie stares at you, wide-eyed, and then slowly grins like a wolf who’s just scented blood.

“Shit, I was kidding,” she says, half laughing. “But look at you.”

You shove the tray away, rising from your seat, eyes down, voice low.

“Not hungry anymore.”

And then you’re gone, footsteps echoing down the hallway, away from their laughter

—but not from his gaze.

You know he was watching.

You felt it.

And if you’d turned around, just once, you’re afraid of what you might’ve done.

Chapter Text

The book in your lap might as well be blank.

You’ve read the same paragraph eight times. Or maybe it was ten. Doesn’t matter. You can’t focus. The words keep slipping off the page like water through your fingers.

All you can see is Maggie’s grin.

All you can feel is the heat of his stare.

And the echo of your own damn voice from earlier, slicing through the silence like a blade:

“Bet you could hold someone down real easy.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

God.

Why did you say that? What the hell were you trying to do—provoke him? Scare him? Tempt him?

You don’t know.

But the way he looked at you—brief, unreadable—has been branded into your skull.

A scuff of boots outside your cell jerks you upright.

Then a pause.

A knock—soft, barely more than a breath against the doorframe.

You already know who it is.

When you look up, Daryl’s there. Standing just outside the threshold, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders tense like he’s ready to bolt if you so much as breathe wrong.

For a second, neither of you move.

Then he clears his throat. “Didn’t know you read.”

Your lips twitch. Not a smile, exactly. Just surprise. “It helps.”

He nods once, eyes flicking around your little space—posters, blankets, scraps of you clinging to the cold concrete.

Then silence.

He shifts. Exhales through his nose. “That thing you said.”

Your stomach drops.

You start shaking your head. “Forget it. I was being stupid. I didn’t mean—”

“You think I could?” he interrupts. His voice is low, gruff.

You freeze. “What?”

He meets your eyes, jaw clenched. “You think I’m the kind of guy who… who would do something like that?”

Your heart kicks sideways.

“No,” you say, too fast, too earnest. “That’s not what I meant.”

His mouth tugs, jaw flexing like he’s holding something back. “Wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“I don’t,” you insist. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then what did you mean?” he asks, quiet but firm.

And suddenly the air is too hot. Your throat too dry.

Your fingers twist in the old blanket on your lap. “I meant…”

You swallow.

“I meant in bed.”

Daryl blinks. Stares.

Red creeps up his neck, blooming across his cheeks. He rubs the back of his neck, steps once into the room, then stops like he’s afraid to get closer.

“That what you meant?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod.

He exhales slow, like he’s trying to reset his heart.

“You’d want that?” he says after a beat. “With me?”

You meet his gaze. “I wouldn’t not want it.”

Something flickers in his expression then—dark, unreadable, electric.

He takes a step closer.

The room feels smaller, heavier. The air between you sizzles. He’s standing right in front of you now, hands still jammed in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them not to reach. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of how close his knees are to yours. How he’s looking at your mouth again.

And for a second—just one—he leans in.

His face is only inches from yours. His breath ghosts across your cheek, and you swear you can feel the tremble in his shoulders. His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to meet your eyes, searching. Waiting. Like he’s asking something he doesn’t have the words for.

Your breath catches. You lean up, just slightly, like instinct.

But he stops.

Pulls back. Just a breath, but it’s enough.

He looks down, jaw clenched, like he’s angry with himself.

Then he steps back, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Get some sleep,” he mutters, voice rough.

And just like that, he’s gone—leaving the room colder, emptier, and full of everything he didn’t say.

Chapter Text

The ride into town is quiet.

Not peaceful—tense. The kind of quiet that hums under your skin. Every vibration of the bike sinks into your thighs, every shift of Daryl’s shoulders beneath your hands makes your chest tighten. The wind does nothing to cool you down.

It hasn’t been the same since that night.

The way you looked at him.

The way he almost kissed you—and didn’t.

Now he lingers more. Stares longer. But still says nothing.

The pharmacy is sun-bleached and half-collapsed. Dust floats thick in the air. Shelves are overturned, meds scattered like forgotten promises. You scan for useful supplies, forcing your eyes anywhere but on him.

But he’s everywhere.

Moving through the room like he owns it. Like he’s part of it. The flex of his arms as he lifts a crate, the way his shirt clings to his back, sweat running down his neck in lazy rivulets—every motion sets something low in your stomach on fire.

You duck behind the counter, crouch, start rummaging through old bottles, pretending to focus. But you can feel him. Closer now. Watching.

And when you stand—he’s there.

Right behind you.

So close the air shifts. His body heat bleeds into your skin. You flinch without meaning to, heart hammering, breath shallow.

He doesn’t move.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet and raw. “Can’t stop thinkin’.”

You turn slowly, heart in your throat. “Thinkin’… about what?”

He exhales, eyes sweeping over your face. “You. That night. What you said.”

You swallow, lips parting.

“I ain’t slept right since,” he mutters. “Can’t get the sound of your voice outta my head.”

You don’t know what to say. He takes a step closer. Then another. Until your back hits the counter and he’s in front of you, eyes dark and full of something wild.

“I should walk away,” he says, voice low, almost pained. “But I ain’t gonna.”

His hand comes up, fingers brushing along your jaw—rough, callused, reverent. Your breath stutters.

“I been wantin’ to do this for too damn long.”

Then he kisses you.

No hesitation. No testing. Just heat and hunger and frustration poured into a single, devastating kiss.

You melt into him, hands gripping his vest, dragging him closer. His tongue slides against yours, claiming. His body presses into yours, firm and unrelenting, and you lose yourself in the feel of him.

He breaks the kiss, lips brushing your cheek. “Been losin’ my mind over you.”

And then his hands are on your hips, lifting you onto the counter. Your legs wrap around him without thought, bodies flush, friction unbearable.

But he doesn’t stay there.

Instead, he pulls back—just enough to strip your shirt off, tossing it aside. His eyes darken as they roam over your bare skin.

Then something shifts.

Without a word, his hands grip your waist, lifting you off the counter. Your boots hit the floor with a soft thud. You gasp as he turns you around in one smooth motion, pressing your front to the cool counter edge.

Your breath catches.

You brace your hands on the surface as his chest meets your back, his hand dragging up your spine until his thick forearm curls across your throat—secure, controlling, never cruel.

“This what you wanted?” he breathes against your ear, voice low and wrecked. “My arm around your neck? Keepin’ you still while I fuck you like you need?”

You whimper, nodding before your brain catches up. Your hips arch into him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his hand dropping  into your pants and between your thighs. His fingers slide through slick heat. “You’re soaked.”

You tremble beneath him.

He groans. “All this for me, huh?”

He doesn’t wait. You feel the heat of him behind you—thick, hard—pressing against your entrance. His free hand digs into your hip, grounding you.

“You sure?” he asks, low and gruff.

“Please,” you breathe.

He pulls down your pants from the back with rough hands. You feel him reaching into the front of his own pants, hear the button undoing and the ruffle of fabric.

And then he thrusts into you—slow and deep. Stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt.

Your mouth opens in a gasp, but no sound escapes. His forearm holds you firm, letting you take it, letting you feel every second.

“Jesus,” he groans, voice broken. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

He starts to move—long, controlled strokes that fill you perfectly. The weight of his arm around your throat, the scratch of his stubble against your cheek, the guttural sounds he makes every time you clench around him—it’s all too much and not enough.

“You like this?” he rasps. “Me keepin’ you where I want you? Takin’ you from behind like you belong to me?”

You nod, gasping, eyes fluttering shut.

He fucks you harder, deeper, the sound of your bodies crashing together echoing off the pharmacy walls. His arm tightens slightly around your neck, just enough to make your next breath stutter, just enough to make you whimper.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

His hand slides down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that make your knees tremble.

“You gonna come for me?” he breathes, his voice thick with heat. “Wanna feel you fall apart while I got you like this.”

It builds fast—hot, unbearable, everything tightening inside you.

“Daryl—” you gasp.

“Come on, baby,” he groans. “Show me.”

You break.

Your body arches, your voice cracks, and you come hard, clenching around him with a moan you can’t hold back. His hips stutter, and with a growl torn from deep in his chest, he buries himself inside you and follows—coming with a shudder that rocks through both of you.

He holds you there, bodies tangled, arm loosening gently around your throat.

Then he presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck, breath still ragged.

“You alright?” he murmurs.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah… more than.”

He chuckles, warm and low, nuzzling against your shoulder. “Good. ‘Cause that sure as hell ain’t the last time.”

You smile, breathless.

“Promise?”

His lips brush your skin again, voice soft and certain.

“Promise.”

Chapter Text

Daryl hasn’t said a word since you got back.

He dropped the bag of meds in the infirmary like it owed him money and then disappeared. No glance. No nod. Nothing.

Now he’s up on the watch post, bow slung across his back, arms folded, eyes scanning the tree line like it might burst into flame.

You’ve been folding laundry with Maggie and Beth for twenty minutes and you haven’t gotten through a single shirt.

Your hands keep stalling. Eyes drifting back to him.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

Not even a flicker.

The worst part is—you knew this could happen. You knew who he was. Knew he wasn’t the type to wake up soft and whisper sweet nothings.

But you didn’t think he’d vanish inside himself like this. Not after the way he held you. Not after the way he said, “This ain’t gonna be the last time.”

So what the hell was it?

You yank a shirt tighter than you mean to.

“You gonna strangle that shirt or fold it?” Maggie asks, not even looking up.

You freeze. “What?”

Beth giggles softly beside her, dunking socks into a bucket. “She’s been out of it all morning.”

Maggie smirks, still folding. “You haven’t said three words since breakfast. And I know you were sneaking looks at Daryl when you thought no one was watching.”

You snap your eyes back to the laundry in your lap. “I wasn’t—”

“He’s brooding,” Beth says in a sing-song whisper.

You glare at your hands, heart starting to thud harder. “He always broods.”

Maggie lifts her head finally, eyes squinting toward the tower. “Mm-hm. But today it’s extra dramatic. That’s a ‘punched a hole in a tree’ kinda brood.”

Beth leans closer, whispering, “Did something happen?”

“No,” you say too quickly.

Too sharp.

They both freeze.

Maggie’s brows lift. Beth’s eyes widen like a deer catching headlights. And now the silence isn’t comfortable. It’s loaded.

You try to laugh, but it dies in your throat. “I mean—not like that. We just—we went on a run, same as usual—”

Beth gasps. “Oh my God.”

“No!” you insist, heat crawling up your neck. “It wasn’t—look, it was nothing.”

Maggie tilts her head slowly. “Sweetheart, that wasn’t nothing. You’re redder than a fresh bite mark.”

You panic.

Hands fumble. A shirt drops. Your eyes flick up—straight to the tower.

And for one breathless second, you catch him.

Daryl.

Staring down at you.

Not glaring. Not avoiding.

Just watching.

The second you meet his eyes, he turns and disappears from view.

Your stomach twists.

Maggie follows your gaze, then looks back at you.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You slept with Daryl.”

You stand up, half-tripping over the laundry bin. “I gotta go.”

“Wait—wait!” Beth says, scrambling after you.

But you’re already walking away—heart pounding, ears burning, head spinning.

And somewhere behind you, you can still hear Maggie laughing.

Chapter Text

Two days.

Two days of patrol shifts and supply rotations keeping you on opposite ends of the prison yard. Two days of pretending it didn’t happen. Pretending it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

And you’re starting to feel like you’re losing your damn mind.

You haven’t spoken. Haven’t even looked at each other. Every time he rounds a corner, your heart jumps and then sinks when he keeps walking. Every time you catch him in your periphery—arms crossed, jaw tight, gaze locked on something that isn’t you—it hits like a bruise you keep pressing just to feel something.

And now you’ve been sent to grab gear from the old tool shed behind the block.

You’re halfway through uncoiling a hose when the door creaks open behind you.

You don’t have to turn to know it’s him.

You feel it before he says a word—the heat that walks in with him, the tension that rolls through the air like thunder on the horizon.

You stay bent over the crate, gripping the coiled rubber, breath coming shallow.

Then his voice, rougher than usual:

“You mad at me?”

You straighten slowly, back still to him.

“Are you?” you throw back.

A pause.

You turn.

He’s standing just inside the door, hands fisted at his sides, looking at you like he’s not sure what the hell he’s doing here—but he came anyway.

“Been a shit couple days,” he mutters.

You scoff. “Yeah. Noticed.”

“You’re avoidin’ me.”

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “You’ve been avoiding me, Dixon.”

That shuts him up.

He shifts his weight, glancing to the side. “Didn’t know what to say.”

“You promised it wasn’t a one-time thing,” you say, voice quieter now. “Then you vanished.”

“I didn’t vanish,” he says, jaw tightening. “I was just… tryin’ to think.”

“About what?” you demand. “Whether it was a mistake? Whether I’m some kind of mistake?”

His eyes snap to yours. “Don’t do that.”

“Then what?” Your voice cracks. “Because I’m not good at pretending it didn’t happen. I’m not built for the silence.”

He steps forward before he thinks better of it. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

Your breath hitches.

“But I don’t know how to do this,” he adds, quieter now. “You get that? I ain’t ever had… this kinda thing. Not where it meant anything.”

You stare at him, heart pounding.

“I don’t need you to say the right thing,” you whisper. “I just need to know I wasn’t alone in it.”

He moves again, closing the distance, eyes never leaving yours.

“You weren’t,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “Not even close.”

You swallow, throat tight. “Then why won’t you look at me? Why did you shut down?”

His jaw clenches. “’Cause if I let myself look at you again…” His voice breaks off. He steps closer, and now he’s right there, close enough you feel the heat rolling off him. “I ain’t sure I’d stop.”

Your breath catches.

“You think I forgot what you felt like?” he growls, voice soft but deadly. “Bent over that counter, beggin’ for more?”

Your lips part, heat coiling deep in your belly.

“You think I don’t wanna touch you every time I see you now?”

His hands flex at his sides. Yours curl into fists to keep from reaching.

“Then why haven’t you?” you whisper.

He looks at you like he’s torn in two. Like every second is a war in his chest.

“Because if I touch you again,” he says, voice fraying, “I won’t stop.”

The silence that follows is razor sharp. You’re both breathing too hard, too close, not touching but so close to it.

And then he turns.

Not away from you—but toward the door.

“I gotta finish patrol,” he mutters, already pulling open the door.

But before he steps out, he glances over his shoulder—

“This ain’t done.”

Then he disappears, leaving you in the quiet, heart racing, hands shaking.

And you’re not sure if you want to scream or chase after him and kiss him breathless.

Maybe both.

Chapter Text

The halls are quiet.

Soft murmurs of voices dying out. The scrape of boots. A cough from one of the cells. Outside, the wind hums low against the fence line. Night settling like a blanket over the prison.

You’re curled up on your cot, legs tucked under a blanket, a book open in your lap—though you haven’t turned a page in ten minutes.

You can’t stop replaying it. The shed. The look in his eyes.

“If I touch you again, I won’t stop.”

Your chest aches with it. You don’t want him to stop.

A shadow passes by your cell.

You look up.

Daryl.

He pauses just outside, his hand on the wall. Glances down the hall, then back at you. There’s a flicker of conflict in his eyes—like he’s debating whether to even open his mouth.

Then, softly: “Come with me.”

You hesitate, heart already jumping.

“Where?”

He doesn’t answer. Just gives you a look—a little pleading, a little desperate.

You close the book and rise. Pull on your jacket. Follow him into the dark.

Chapter Text

He leads you through the corridors like he’s memorized every blind spot, every loose board that creaks. Past the kitchen. Past the garden. Out through the south exit—where no one’s posted tonight.

No one sees you slip into the yard.

He doesn’t speak until you’re halfway up the old metal stairs of the guard tower. You follow in silence, blood rushing in your ears.

When you reach the top, he pulls the door shut behind you.

The room is small. Quiet. Lit only by the moon. You can see the yard from here. The stars. The fence line in the distance.

But you’re not looking at any of that.

You’re looking at him.

Daryl stands in the center of the room, pacing like a caged animal. His hands curl into fists, then flex. He turns, opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

You break first.

“You’re really bad at this, you know that?”

He looks up sharply.

“At what?” he snaps.

“This!” You gesture between you. “Whatever the hell we’re doing. You act like you want me, and then you disappear. You kiss me like it means something, and then you shut down like I’m not even here.”

“I never said it didn’t mean anything.”

“You didn’t have to!” you yell. “You showed me.”

“Keep your goddamn voice down!”

His jaw tightens. His breathing’s rough now. Like he’s holding back something sharp and dangerous.

“You think this is easy for me?” he growls. “You think I got some handbook for this shit?”

“I don’t need a handbook, Daryl. I just need you to be honest. To stop running.”

“You wanna know why I run?” he spits, stepping forward. “You wanna know why I keep my fuckin’ mouth shut?!”

“Yeah,” you shoot back. “I do!”

He’s shaking now. Fists clenched. Voice fraying.

“Because I’m scared, alright?! I’m fuckin’ terrified.”

The room goes silent.

His chest rises and falls like he’s just been in a fight. His voice drops—broken, raw.

“I lost my brother. My only family. I couldn’t stop it. I can’t go through that again.”

Your throat tightens.

“I can’t love somebody,” he says, voice cracking, “and have them ripped outta my hands. I ain’t built to survive that.”

You step forward slowly, heart pounding. “Did you just say you love me?”

He blinks.

His mouth opens. Then closes.

He turns for the stairs.

“No—Daryl—” you start, but he’s already halfway down.

You’re still standing there, heart shattered, when the door bursts back open.

He rushes back in, two steps at a time. Crosses the room in a heartbeat.

And then he’s on you.

He crashes into you like a wave—hands fisting in your shirt, mouth claiming yours like he’s been starved. You stumble back into the wall, gasping as his hands slide under your jacket, dragging it off your shoulders without breaking the kiss.

His voice is rough against your lips. “I fuckin’ love you. Hate how much I do. Makes me feel like I’m gonna break in half.”

You don’t get a chance to respond.

His mouth is back on yours, tongue sliding deep, kiss filthy and desperate and possessive. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, yanking your hips into his, grinding hard against you.

“I ain’t scared now,” he mutters, breathless. “You’re here. You’re fuckin’ mine.”

You moan as he spins you, shoving you against the window. The glass fogs from your breath. His hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just there, grounding you—and his voice drops to a growl.

“You remember how you begged for me last time?” he rasps. “You gonna beg again?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please.”

“Say it,” he demands, teeth grazing your jaw. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it—I want you.”

“Fuckin’ right you do.”

You hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the clatter of it hitting the floor. Then his hands are yanking down your pants, dragging your underwear with them. You’re bare in seconds, chest heaving, hands braced on the windowsill.

He doesn’t even tease this time.

His cock presses against your entrance, and then he drives into you—hard and deep, one smooth thrust that makes you cry out, forehead hitting the glass.

“God damn,” he snarls. “You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

His hands grip your hips like he owns them, pulling you back onto him with each brutal thrust. You’re dripping for him, taking everything he gives, every inch pounding into you, filling you over and over again.

“You feel this?” he growls, voice raw. “This is mine. Fuckin’ mine.”

You sob his name, body shuddering as he fucks you harder. Filthy praise and growled promises pour from his mouth, every word pushing you closer to the edge.

“Been thinkin’ about this for days,” he groans. “Your sounds, your skin, your tightness takin’ me like you were made for it.”

His hand slides between your legs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, dirty circles.

“Gonna come for me again?” he pants. “Gonna fall apart while I’m inside you?”

You nod wildly, barely able to breathe.

“Then fuckin’ do it, baby.”

You break.

The orgasm rips through you—white-hot and blinding. You cry out, body shaking, clenching hard around him. He shudders behind you, hips stuttering, and with a loud, broken groan, he spills inside you, burying himself to the hilt.

His body slumps against your back, breath ragged.

He doesn’t move for a long moment. Just holds you.

Finally, he presses a kiss to your shoulder, voice wrecked.

“I meant it,” he whispers. “All of it.”

You turn your head, eyes finding his.

“I know.”

And for the first time in days, you believe him.

Chapter Text

The sky’s just beginning to blush pink when you stir.

There’s a heavy arm draped over your waist. Warm breath on the back of your neck. The scent of pine, sweat, and sex clinging to both your skins like fog.

You blink slowly, still tucked against Daryl’s chest, half-covered by his vest. Neither of you ever made it down the stairs.

Sometime in the middle of the night, your anger burned to ash and gave way to something raw and quiet. You remember his arms tightening around you. The tremble in his voice when he whispered, “I ain’t lettin’ you go.”

You almost let yourself believe it.

Now morning light creeps across the floor, golden and honest in a way night never is.

You shift beneath him. He grumbles, half-asleep, and mumbles, “Five more minutes.”

You almost smile.

Then you hear it.

“Daryl!”

Rick’s voice, loud and close. Too close.

Your heart lurches.

Daryl bolts upright, wide awake now. You scramble to your knees, grabbing your shirt and dragging it over your head with trembling hands. Your pants are half inside-out, but you manage to get them on while Daryl yanks his jeans up and grabs his crossbow.

“Daryl, you up there?” Rick again—closer. Stairs. He’s on the stairs.

You and Daryl lock eyes for half a second—panic mirrored in both your faces.

There’s no time.

The door swings open with a creak and Rick steps in.

His gaze sweeps the room once, lands on you.

On Daryl.

Both of you rumpled.

Breathless.

Guilty as sin.

Daryl straightens, awkward and stiff. “We were—uh—I was just—”

Rick holds up a hand.

“Don’t. I don’t care.”

Daryl shuts his mouth.

Rick glances out the window, all business. “We got a situation. Town’s gettin’ bad—runnin’ hotter than we thought. Need you on point.”

Daryl nods. “Yeah. Got it.”

Rick turns to you next, tone clipped. “You stay here.”

You blink. “What?”

“We need someone at the gate in case things go sideways. You’re faster than most, and Glenn’s down with a bad stomach. I need you here.”

You nod slowly, but your eyes flick to Daryl.

He hasn’t looked at you since Rick walked in.

He shoulders his crossbow, adjusts the strap, and finally glances over.

One nod. That’s it.

And then he walks past you, down the stairs without a word.

You just stand there, the silence ringing in your ears louder than Rick’s footsteps.

Your chest tightens as you stare out over the yard, watching him fall into formation like nothing happened. Like you didn’t fall asleep in his arms. Like he didn’t say he loved you.

And suddenly it all feels stupid again.

Like you let yourself believe something that only existed in the dark.

Like you almost reached him—but not quite.

You lean against the window, eyes burning, jaw tight.

You don’t cry.

You just stand there, watching him disappear into the horizon.

And wonder how many times you’re gonna let him walk away before it breaks you for good.

Chapter Text

You haven’t left the gate in nearly seventy-two hours.

The others keep telling you they’ll be fine. That Rick and Daryl know what they’re doing. That they’ve handled worse.

But no one says it like they believe it anymore.

The town was already going to shit. Too many walkers. Too many blind alleys. One bad call and it could’ve all turned. You know that. You feel it like a live wire under your skin.

You barely eat. Barely sleep.

You sit on the tower steps or pace the fence line, eyes fixed on the horizon like you can will them into appearing.

Beth brings you tea in the mornings. Maggie brings stale crackers. Glenn even came by yesterday with a can of peaches and a tired, hopeful smile.

You couldn’t stomach any of it.

Now the sun’s dipping behind the trees and Maggie’s sitting on the steps with you again.

“You’re making yourself sick,” she says softly.

“I’m fine,” you mutter.

She doesn’t say anything for a long minute.

Then: “Glenn told me you snapped at Beth yesterday.”

You exhale sharply, staring out at the trees. “She keeps trying to feed me like I’m gonna break.”

Maggie gives a dry laugh. “You’re halfway there.”

You don’t answer.

“You said it didn’t mean anything,” she says next, quiet but steady. “That you and Daryl—whatever it was—wasn’t anything serious.”

You tense.

“So why are you falling apart now?” she adds. “Why can’t you breathe without checking that damn road?”

You whip your head toward her. “You think I want this? You think I chose to feel like this?”

Her face softens. “No. I think you let yourself fall, and now you don’t know how to survive the freefall.”

Your throat closes. You can’t answer. Can’t even look at her.

You just stare at the road.

And wait.

Chapter Text

The night is cold. You can barely feel your hands. But you don’t go inside.

You’re sitting by the gate again, hugging your knees to your chest. Maggie and Beth went back inside hours ago. Glenn came to check on you once, but you didn’t respond.

Now the world is just darkness and wind and the distant groan of the dead.

Until you hear it.

A low rumble.

Faint. Familiar.

A car engine.

Your heart stutters.

You shoot to your feet, stumbling toward the fence, eyes wide, hands gripping the chain-link as headlights cut through the trees.

A car.

A beat-up old sedan, dragging something from its rear axle, sputtering like it might give out at any second.

It’s Rick’s.

You run to the gate and start unlocking it as it rolls closer, breath coming fast, chest tight. Your hands are shaking so hard you fumble the latch twice.

When the car finally rolls through and comes to a stop, Rick slams it into park.

And then you see it.

Daryl—in the passenger seat, slumped forward, blood on his arm, his shirt, his face.

Your stomach drops clean out.

You rush to the passenger door, yanking it open. Rick’s already getting out, grim-faced.

“Don’t panic,” he says. “He’s alive.”

But your ears are ringing. You barely hear him.

“Daryl?” you breathe.

He stirs. Groans. Doesn’t open his eyes.

Your hands hover, unsure where to touch him. Afraid you’ll make it worse.

Rick’s voice is calm, but tight. “It was a trap. Storefront was rigged. He took the brunt of it. I dragged him out.”

You nod, blinking fast, trying to keep it together. “What—what do you need?”

“Get the infirmary ready. We’ll carry him in.”

You run.

You don’t remember your legs moving. Just the blur of motion. The panic. The dread.

By the time Glenn and Maggie reach the car to help Rick, you’ve already torn the infirmary open and cleared a table. Sheets. Bandages. Water. Anything you can find.

He’s bleeding through his shirt. His head’s resting against Rick’s shoulder as they lift him out, legs dragging. One arm limp. One eye swollen shut.

But he’s alive.

You stand frozen in the infirmary doorway as they carry him inside.

Blood drips on the floor.

And all you can think is:

I almost lost him.

I never told him.

And he never told me back.

Chapter Text

Daryl’s still unconscious.

He’s been cleaned up, stitched where he could be stitched. Glenn and Rick worked quietly, steady hands despite the tension. You helped where you could—wiping blood off his temple, squeezing gauze until your fingers went numb.

Now, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

You’re sitting just outside the infirmary, back against the wall, knees drawn up, hands clutched in your lap. The sterile smell of alcohol and sweat clings to you. His blood is under your fingernails.

Maggie appears beside you like a ghost, crouches down, rests a hand gently on your arm.

“You should eat something,” she says softly.

You shake your head.

“I mean it. You’re gonna fall over.”

“I can’t,” you whisper. “Not yet.”

She doesn’t push. Just sits beside you in silence.

After a while, your voice cracks the stillness.

“I wouldn’t’ve looked at him. Not before the world ended.”

Maggie turns, her expression gentle but surprised.

“Daryl,” you say, still staring at the infirmary door. “Before all this… I wouldn’t’ve even seen him.”

You laugh once—wet and sharp.

“I mean—some dirty guy with a chip on his shoulder and a death wish? He wouldn’t have even registered.”

Maggie doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

“And that makes it worse, somehow,” you go on, voice breaking. “Because he’s been out there. All that time. Before I even knew what survival looked like. Before I understood anything about what matters.”

You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. “He’s been walking around out there—alone, hurting, waiting—and I didn’t even know.”

“And now?” Maggie asks gently.

“Now I can’t stop thinking about him,” you whisper. “Every second. Every breath. He’s in it.”

You look down at your hands, still stained red. “It doesn’t make sense. He barely talks. Half the time, I don’t even know what he’s feeling. He looks at me like I’m gonna disappear. And sometimes I think maybe I will.”

You inhale shakily.

“But there’s this… thing between us. This pull. Like the universe just slammed us together and said, here, deal with this. And I hate it. Because I can’t control it. I don’t understand it. But I want him.”

You swallow hard.

“I need him.”

The silence that follows feels like it could swallow you.

Maggie reaches over and squeezes your hand. “That’s love, honey. Doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to be real.”

You nod, eyes burning.

Then—

A sound.

From the infirmary.

A groan. Low, rough, familiar.

You’re on your feet before you realize it, stumbling forward, slamming the door open.

“Daryl?”

He stirs on the cot, brow furrowing, one hand twitching toward the edge of the mattress.

Your breath leaves you in a rush.

He’s awake.

He’s awake.

You drop to your knees beside the bed, grabbing his hand gently.

“Hey,” you whisper. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His eyes crack open—barely—and they land on you.

He doesn’t speak. Just squeezes your hand, weak but steady.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead to the back of his hand, tears slipping free now without apology.

And for the first time in days, something inside you unclenches.

Chapter Text

Daryl is healing.

His bruises are fading. His limp is slower now. The bandages are tighter, cleaner, changed by Carol’s careful hands. He’s back on light duties—checking fences, organizing supplies, sometimes just walking the perimeter like he can’t stand still.

But he hasn’t said a word to you.

Not since he woke up.

He eats near the kitchen. Sleeps in the outbuilding behind the tower. Spends most of his free time with Carol—talking low, heads bent close, like the weight of the world is easier between them.

You know it’s not romantic. Carol’s never looked at him that way. She’s comfort, not complication.

But it still hurts.

Maggie’s tried, bless her. Told you to give him time. That maybe he’s just trying to feel like himself again. That maybe it’s fear, not distance.

But all you feel is hollow. Empty.

Stupid, even.

You sit at the entrance of the cell block most nights now, elbows on your knees, staring across the yard as the sun goes down and the world dims around the edges. It’s easier than sleeping. Easier than pretending things didn’t change.

That you didn’t.

Tonight is no different.

The air is cool, crisp. The last blush of twilight fading into deep blue. Somewhere behind you, someone’s laughing—maybe Glenn, maybe Beth. It feels a hundred miles away.

Then you see him.

Daryl.

He steps out of the kitchen, backpack slung over one shoulder, boots kicking through the dry dirt as he limps across the yard toward the outbuilding. Same path he takes every night now.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t look toward you.

Just walks.

And something aches inside your chest—sharp and cold and unbearable.

You don’t realize how tightly your hands are clenched until a voice behind you says quietly, “You gonna let him keep walking away?”

You jump, spinning.

Carol stands just behind you, hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket, face soft but knowing.

“I didn’t hear you,” you mutter.

She nods toward the yard. “Didn’t figure you did. You were too busy watching him like you were planning his funeral.”

You look away, swallowing hard. “He’s fine.”

“No, he’s not,” Carol says simply. “Neither are you.”

You laugh once, bitter and low. “He doesn’t need me. He’s got you.”

Carol’s eyes narrow, but not in anger. “He talks to me because I don’t ask for anything. Because I don’t expect anything.”

“And I do?” you snap, voice too tight.

“No,” she says, stepping forward. “You offer something. That’s the difference.”

You shake your head, blinking fast. “There’s no room for this, Carol. Not in this world. There’s too much to lose.”

Her hand lands on your shoulder, firm and steady.

“Maybe that’s why it matters so much.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

She leans in slightly. “Don’t let his brokenness make you believe you can’t love him. Or that he doesn’t want to be loved.”

You stare across the yard.

Daryl’s almost at the tower now, steps slow, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of things he won’t say.

Carol squeezes your shoulder one last time, then walks away, leaving you alone in the dark.

And still—

You don’t move.

Not yet.

But your heart pounds.

And your feet are starting to itch.

Chapter Text

You don’t know when your feet started moving.

Carol never says another word—just watches you go with that quiet, knowing gaze of hers. You cross the yard, boots crunching the dirt in slow, deliberate steps, heart beating like a war drum.

The door to the outbuilding looms in front of you. You hesitate, hand hovering just inches from the handle.

Then you push it open.

The hinges groan softly.

Inside, the air is warm, a sharp contrast to the cool night outside. Daryl’s made it his own—lined a few cot mattresses across the floor, scattered with blankets, a couple of pillows propped against the wall. A gas lantern flickers low on a wooden crate, casting soft, golden light across the space.

He’s already in bed, shirt off, blanket pulled across his lower half. He’s propped against the pillows, head tilted back against the wall. A cigarette smolders between his fingers. His chest rises and falls slowly, the bruising along his ribs still vivid in the glow.

He doesn’t look at you.

Just takes a slow drag, smoke curling into the air.

You hover in the doorway, unsure, unmoving.

Seconds pass like molasses.

Then—

“You just gonna stand there lettin’ all the cold in?” he mutters, voice rough from smoke and silence.

You swallow hard. Shut the door behind you.

The latch clicks, echoing louder than it should.

You step further in, closer, but still not close enough. His eyes remain on the ceiling.

“You should be resting,” you say, voice quiet.

“I am restin’,” he replies, finally looking at you. “Ain’t exactly runnin’ laps.”

A pause.

Then, quietly you ask: “How bad was it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Your throat feels tight.

“I thought you were dead,” you admit.

He glances away, exhales smoke. “Yeah. So did I.”

Another beat of silence.

Then: “Rick told me what happened. Walkers in the alley. You ran into the blast to pull him out?”

He shrugs one shoulder, winces slightly. “Did what I had to.”

Your fists clench. “And you didn’t think I’d care if you died out there?”

His jaw ticks. “Wasn’t thinkin’ about you.”

The lie stings more than it should. You know it’s not true. But it still hits like a slap.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” you whisper.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters.

Your heart cracks wide open.

“I can’t hear any more of this,” you say, stepping forward now, voice shaking. “I can’t stand here and pretend I don’t want to crawl into that bed and feel you just to know you’re still here.”

He looks up then.

Really looks at you.

And whatever was holding you back breaks.

You close the distance in three steps and fall to your knees to kiss him—hard, desperate, but not rough. Your hands frame his jaw, fingertips trembling. His cigarette falls to the side, forgotten.

He kisses you back instantly.

But it’s not like before.

It’s not filthy or fast or angry.

It’s slow.

Careful.

Devastating.

His hands come up to your waist, palms warm and steady. He shifts, pulling you down into his lap, groaning softly when your weight settles over him. But he doesn’t rush.

He holds you there, kissing you like he has all the time in the world.

And for once—you let him.

Chapter Text

Clothes fall away slowly.

Your jacket. His blanket. Your shirt. His breath.

He winces as he shifts down onto the mattress, but waves you off when you try to stop him.

“I got you,” he whispers, voice thick.

You slide over him, knees bracketing his hips, and he lets his hands roam—slow and reverent—up your thighs, across your waist, up your back.

Every inch of you, he touches like it matters.

His fingers trace the curve of your ribs. The dip of your spine. The soft line of your jaw.

“I ain’t ever done this,” he murmurs against your throat.

You blink down at him. “Done what?”

He meets your eyes, and for once, he doesn’t look away.

“Felt like this about someone.”

It hits you so hard you stop breathing.

He strokes your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I don’t know how to be good at it. But I wanna try.”

Your heart aches.

“You are good at it,” you whisper. “Even when you’re scared.”

His hands guide you down, slow and steady, and when he slides inside you, it’s not sharp—it’s soft, tender, full of quiet promise.

You gasp against his neck, body trembling, and he holds you tighter.

“Let me take my time,” he breathes. “Just wanna feel you.”

You start to move together—slow, rocking, steady.

But after a few moments, he shifts beneath you.

You pause. “Daryl—”

“I’m alright,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. Then he gently rolls you, turning you onto your back.

You gasp as the cold sheets meet your skin. He follows you down, his body hovering over yours, supported on trembling arms.

He grimaces as he moves, a soft hiss of pain slipping past his lips.

You reach up instinctively. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he rasps, eyes locked on yours. “Wanna see you. All of you.”

You fall silent.

Because he means it.

He pushes inside again—deep, slow—and this time, he’s looking at you. Not away. Not through you.

At you.

His hips move in a steady rhythm, careful of his ribs, but still full of need. His body fits against yours like you were made for this—like he’s finally letting himself have you completely.

And he watches you.

Every breath.

Every gasp.

His hand slides up to your face, thumb stroking your cheek, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

Tears sting the back of your eyes—not from sadness, but from the weight of it. The honesty in his voice.

He leans down and kisses you—soft and aching, hips rocking deeper, his pace picking up while still being gentle.

Your hands roam his back, fingers splaying over his scars, his skin, his pain. You hold him like you never want to let go.

And when it happens—when you both fall—it’s quiet and shaking and real.

You cry out softly, clutching him close, and he buries his face in your neck as he follows, body trembling, voice breaking on your name.

After, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays inside you, chest pressed to yours, his hand still stroking gently through your hair.

And the whole time—

He doesn’t look away.

Chapter Text

The outbuilding door creaks open just after sunrise.

Daryl steps out first, crossbow slung over his back, head ducked low, hair tousled. He’s got that same scowl he always wears in the morning, like the sun personally offended him.

You follow behind him a few seconds later, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself, blinking against the light.

You don’t speak.

You don’t walk close.

But you don’t need to.

Because the way you move—silent, natural, almost synchronized—is enough to make people pause.

Rick, standing near the garden, eyes the two of you as he ties a sling of gear across his chest. Glenn and Michonne share a brief glance from where they’re checking weapons at the table.

Carol meets your eyes for half a second and nods once, barely there.

Only Maggie doesn’t look surprised.

She’s waiting by the gate, hands resting on the strap of her rifle.

You split from Daryl and join her without a word.

The two of you fall into step, heading for a perimeter check.

It’s quiet at first—just the sound of boots crunching dirt, the distant groan of a stray walker against the outer fence.

Then Maggie says, “So. You didn’t sleep in your cell last night.”

You snort softly. “That obvious?”

“You’ve got bedhead and a glow that I know ain’t from no good night’s sleep,” she says dryly. “Yeah.”

You flush, tugging your collar up instinctively.

“Carol knew first,” you admit. “She told me to go after him. That I shouldn’t let his brokenness scare me off.”

Maggie nods. “Smart woman.”

You walk in silence for a minute.

Then: “It wasn’t like before.”

Maggie glances sideways. “What wasn’t?”

“The sex,” you say, almost too quiet. “It wasn’t about heat or tension or frustration. It was… soft. Slow. Like he wanted to prove something.”

Maggie stops walking.

Turns to face you fully.

“What?”

“He looked at me. Really looked. Like I was something he wanted to keep.”

Her gaze softens. “You love him.”

“I do,” you whisper.

You look down at your hands.

“And that terrifies me,” you continue. “Because this world? It doesn’t let you keep anything. You get attached and it gets ripped out from under you.”

Maggie touches your arm gently.

“I know. I’ve lost more than I care to count.”

You nod slowly, eyes stinging.

“But I keep choosing love,” she says. “Because even if it ends, it matters.”

You breathe in deep.

Let it settle.

Then: “He hasn’t said it again. Not since that night. I don’t even know if he remembers saying it. He didn’t even really say it. We argued, it was in the heat of the moment.”

Maggie smiles, small but sure.

“Doesn’t need to say it every time. Sometimes, it’s in the way he breathes near you. Or the way he walks across the yard without looking back—because he knows you’re behind him.”

You glance back toward the prison yard.

Daryl’s crouched by the fence, repairing a section of loose wiring. His movements are focused, steady—but his eyes flick up, toward the treeline.

Toward you.

Just once.

Then he goes back to work.

Your heart aches in your chest, not with longing—but with something real.

Something here.

Maggie watches you watching him.

And says, “He’s yours, you know.”

You shake your head, but she’s already turned, walking again.

And this time—

You follow with a smile that feels just a little bit lighter.

Chapter Text

It’s a beautiful day.

The kind of rare, perfect weather that makes it easy to forget the world is broken. The sky is wide and blue. The trees sway soft in the breeze. Somewhere in the yard, Beth sings something light under her breath, and Judith answers with a baby squeal of delight.

You’re sitting near the steps when Daryl walks up, shadow cutting across your legs.

“I wanna show you something.”

You blink up at him.

He doesn’t explain. Just nods his head and waits.

You follow him.

Through the halls, through turns you’ve never taken, past a locked door he jimmies open with a pocketknife. Then up a narrow metal staircase that groans under your feet.

And then—

You’re there.

The roof.

Sunlight pours across the concrete in wide golden sheets. The whole prison sprawls out beneath you—fields, fences, guard towers. You can see the entire yard. Rick and Glenn near the crops. Maggie helping Michonne string wire. Beth on a blanket with Judith, both of them laughing. Carl watching protectively over his sister.

You stop, breath caught.

Daryl walks to the edge like it’s second nature and drops down to sit, legs dangling over the side.

He doesn’t look at you.

But he pats the spot beside him.

You go.

You sit close—but not touching. He needs space. You can feel it in the way his shoulders are set.

For a while, he says nothing.

Just watches.

Then, softly:

“My mom died in a house fire. I was twelve.”

You glance at him, startled by the suddenness of it.

He still doesn’t look at you.

“She used to fall asleep with lit cigarettes. Dad came home drunk, house was half gone before we even woke up.”

Your breath catches.

“I got out. Barely. She didn’t.”

A pause.

“Merle was already gone. Joined up with the military when he was barely eighteen. Said he couldn’t take it anymore. Left me with our old man.”

His voice flattens. Quiet. Dangerous.

“You know what kind of man beats a kid just for existing?”

You shake your head, throat thick.

“That was my world,” he mutters. “Learned early how to disappear. How to keep my mouth shut and take a hit.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on some far point beyond the trees.

“I didn’t have friends. Didn’t go to school much. Just the woods. Hunting. Hiding.”

You want to touch him. But you don’t. Not yet.

“Merle came back when I was older,” he says. “Bounced in and outta town. Got arrested. Got high. Got gone again. But he was all I had. He… saw me.”

You close your eyes for a moment, trying not to picture Daryl as a boy—alone, bruised, waiting for a brother who barely showed up.

“I thought I lost him for good when this shit started. But then I found him again. The Governor had him. Tried to make us fight to the death.” His jaw clenches. “We escaped. Thought that was it. Second chance.”

He finally looks at you.

Not long. Just a glance.

“And then I found him turned.”

You suck in a breath.

Daryl looks back at the trees.

“He’d been shot. Didn’t even look like him anymore. Just this… hollow thing.”

Another pause. His voice breaks a little.

“I put him down.”

You blink back tears.

He sniffs, wipes a hand across his face roughly.

“I’ve lost everything that ever made me feel like I wasn’t just some piece of shit meant to survive and nothing else.”

Silence stretches.

Then, softer:

“And now I got this thing in my life that feels good. That feels… warm.”

He finally turns to you. Really looks at you.

And it floors you.

Because you’ve never seen Daryl Dixon afraid.

“Feels like the moment I let myself want it, it’s gonna get taken. And that scares the shit outta me.”

You reach for him then, slow and sure, and take his hand.

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes.

Hard.

“I ain’t never been good at this,” he murmurs. “But I ain’t gonna lie to you.”

A long breath. One more look.

“I love you.”

The words hang in the air like something sacred.

Something earned.

You don’t cry.

You just press your forehead to his, fingers curling tight in his, and whisper:

“I love you too.”

Below, the world keeps turning. Beth sings to Judith. Glenn laughs. Rick calls out orders.

But up here, on this rooftop, you’ve found the one thing the world couldn’t kill.

And it’s yours.

Chapter Text

The morning sun cuts clean across the yard, warm on your shoulders, your boots kicking up dry dirt as you move down the length of the fence. It’s a good day—peaceful, as peaceful as it gets.

The group’s out in full.

Rick and Hershel talk in low voices near the eastern post, probably about the crops. Maggie and Beth are teasing Carl, who tries to act unimpressed, but his grin keeps giving him away. Glenn sharpens poles nearby. Carol and Tyreese haul a bin of spears over to replace the bloodied ones.

You’ve been on fence duty for a while, pacing, stabbing through chain link as the walkers groan and push against it. The morning crowd is manageable—a dozen at most, heads lolling, fingers scraping against the wire.

And Daryl’s close.

You can feel him.

You haven’t said anything out loud. Haven’t made a grand announcement. But you haven’t hidden it, either. He brushed your hand when you grabbed your gear this morning. You caught him watching you while you tied your boots. Now, every time you move down the fence line, he shifts with you—one eye on the walkers, the other on you.

You drop a groaning walker with a clean stab between the eyes.

Then another.

Then your knife slips.

It hits the dirt just inside the fence line.

You sigh and crouch down to grab it.

That’s when it happens.

A skeletal hand shoots through a gap in the chain, fingers latching onto your forearm with unnatural speed. The walker snarls, yanking hard. You cry out, falling forward onto your knees as the fence rattles violently.

“Shit!”

Everything happens at once.

You scramble backward but can’t break free—its grip is iron. You see the jagged edge of a broken canine tooth, inches from your face.

Then a familiar whistle of air.

Thwip.

The walker’s head jerks. The bolt embeds deep in its skull. It collapses with a wet grunt.

Suddenly, Daryl’s there.

He’s on his knees beside you before you can even sit up, pulling you into his arms.

“You okay?!” His hands roam—checking your arms, your neck, your back. “Did it bite you? Did it fuckin’ scratch you?”

You’re stunned. Shaken.

But fine.

“I’m okay,” you breathe, heart hammering. “I’m okay.”

Still, he checks you again—pulling your sleeve up, tilting your chin to look for scratches, his eyes wide with pure, undiluted panic.

“Daryl,” you say gently, hand on his chest. “I’m fine.”

He blinks at you—eyes raw, frantic.

And then his thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away a splatter of blood.

His hand lingers.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there in the dirt, in the middle of the yard, in front of everyone.

His mouth crashes into yours, deep and sure, one hand cradling your jaw, the other gripping your waist like he needs to feel you breathe. You kiss him back without hesitation, hands fisting in his shirt, the world narrowing to the space between your mouths and the relief in his body.

When he finally pulls back, it’s slow. Careful. His forehead rests against yours.

And then—

Rick’s voice breaks the silence.

“Well, shit. If that’s what it takes to get a guy to open up, I’m startin’ a walker stampede tomorrow.”

Laughter erupts.

Beth whoops and claps her hands. Glenn lets out a full belly laugh. Maggie whistles. Even Carl blushes and snickers.

Daryl groans, ducking his head.

You hide your face in his shoulder, giggling as he mutters, “Son of a bitch.”

You both stand up, still half tangled together. He slings an arm around your waist as you walk back toward the rest of the group, your knife forgotten, the blood still drying on your shirt.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because everyone knows now.

And no one’s surprised.

Not really.

Chapter Text

The fire crackles in the barrel at the center of the courtyard, casting a warm, dancing glow over everyone gathered in the circle. Tin bowls in laps, spoons clinking gently, the smell of stew—barely-there meat, overcooked potatoes, and something Beth swears was oregano—hanging in the air like a miracle.

This is rare.

Everyone’s here.

Even Carl, who’s usually too cool to sit with the adults. Even Tyreese, who normally eats in silence. Hershel’s laughing at something Glenn said. Maggie and Beth are curled up together on a log, whispering and giggling between bites.

You’re tucked on an old camp chair beside Daryl.

He hasn’t said much.

He’s chewing like it’s a full-time job, eyes glued to his bowl like it contains national secrets.

But his thigh presses against yours. His hand occasionally brushes your knee. And every once in a while, you catch him glancing at you when he thinks no one’s looking.

Only—everyone is looking.

They’ve been stealing glances since sunset, waiting for the awkward silence to break.

It doesn’t take long.

“So,” Glenn says, grinning over his spoon, “I guess near-death really puts things in perspective, huh?”

You don’t even have time to answer before Beth chimes in, eyes sparkling. “You should’ve seen his face. I’ve never seen Daryl move so fast. Not even for a deer.”

Carl nods solemnly. “I thought he was gonna cry.”

Daryl freezes mid-bite.

“Did not,” he mutters.

“You totally did,” Glenn says. “You were like ‘Oh god, my woman’s dying, better sprint across the yard and shoot a walker like Legolas in a panic attack.’”

Laughter breaks out across the circle.

Even Rick chuckles. “He looked like he was ready to take on the whole herd just to get to her.”

You glance sideways.

Daryl’s ears are turning bright red.

He shifts in his chair like it’s betrayed him, shoving another spoonful of stew in his mouth and chewing like he’s solving a crime.

Carol, across from you, smirks. “It’s okay, Daryl. We all get flustered when our girl’s in danger.”

“Weren’t flustered,” he mumbles.

You lean in close and whisper, “You kissed me like the world was ending.”

“Don’t remind me,” he mutters, flushing even deeper. “That was the adrenaline.”

“Sure it was.”

“I panicked, alright?”

You grin into your bowl.

Tyreese raises his canteen like a toast. “I say let the man panic. He’s earned it.”

Rick chuckles, leaning back. “Hell, I say it’s about damn time. You two’ve been makin’ eyes at each other for months. I was starting to think I’d have to lock you in a cell just to make it happen.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you quip, and the circle howls.

Even Daryl laughs—quietly, but it’s there. He shakes his head, rubbing his jaw, and finally mutters under his breath, “Buncha assholes.”

You bump your shoulder against his. “You love it.”

He grunts. But he doesn’t pull away.

The conversation shifts. Carol brings up needing more clean rags in the infirmary. Glenn mentions a weak point in the fencing on the east side. Someone jokes about teaching Judith to talk so she can sass everyone properly.

But the mood stays light.

For once.

The stars blink overhead like they’re watching, and the fire crackles on, and for a little while—

It’s just laughter and warmth and full bellies.

No walkers. No blood. No fear.

Just family.

Just this.

And Daryl, quiet beside you, finally sets his bowl down, slips his hand into yours beneath the fold of your coat, and leans in just slightly.

“I do love it,” he says low, so only you can hear. “Long as you’re beside me when they’re teasin’.”

You smile into the firelight.

“Always.”

Chapter Text

The cell is barely wider than the mattress pushed against the wall, but it’s yours.

Or at least—it feels that way.

A makeshift curtain hangs across the bars for privacy. There’s a small oil lamp flickering on an overturned crate. Your boots are stacked in the corner, and one of Daryl’s shirts hangs from the bedframe like it belongs there.

It’s colder now at night. Enough to see your breath when you first crawl under the blanket. Enough that even Daryl, stubborn as he is, gave up sleeping in the outbuilding without a fight.

You’re curled into his side now, your head resting on his bare chest, one leg slung over his, a blanket tangled around your bodies. His skin is warm against yours. His heartbeat is steady.

He’s tracing slow, lazy circles on your back with the pad of his thumb.

You haven’t said anything in a while. You don’t need to.

But then he speaks, voice soft and scratchy.

“Y’know… I never thought I’d have this.”

You shift slightly to look up at him.

“This?” you ask.

He nods once. “Peace. A bed. You.”

You smile, fingers drifting across his ribs. “You deserve it.”

He huffs. “Dunno if I do. But I’ll take it.”

Your hand settles over his heart. “You’re not who you were before. You’re more. And you didn’t just survive—you found your way to this. To us.”

His arm tightens around your waist, the circles on your back growing slower.

“I think about that night sometimes,” he murmurs. “When you came to the outbuilding. What if you hadn’t?”

You smirk against his skin. “I think Carol would’ve shoved me across the yard if I hadn’t.”

He chuckles—a low, warm rumble in his chest.

Then silence again.

And stillness.

And then—

Crack.

A sharp sound.

From the yard.

You both freeze.

Your head lifts.

Daryl’s hand stops moving.

Then—

Another snap. Metal grinding. A low groan—no, many groans. And the unmistakable wet shuffle of dragging feet.

You bolt upright.

Daryl throws the blanket off and is on his feet in seconds, grabbing his pants and boots in one motion.

“What is it?” you whisper.

He’s already moving to the curtain, tugging it aside. “Walker sounds. Too close.”

You grab your flashlight, your knife, tugging your coat over your arms. Your stomach twists.

Daryl steps into the corridor just as Rick’s voice rings out from the far end of the cell block.

“Up! Everyone up!”

Then a gunshot.

You and Daryl share a look.

No time to ask questions.

You sprint for the stairs together, heart thundering.

At the end of the corridor, you nearly collide with Glenn and Maggie, both wide-eyed, weapons drawn.

“Gate breach!” Glenn shouts. “They came through the south fence—the one near the spot you got grabbed!”

Your stomach drops.

Daryl swears under his breath.

“Go!” Rick yells from above. “We’ve got walkers in the yard—inside the outer fence. Close!”

The group bursts into motion.

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Carl sprints past with Carol close behind. Tyreese pulls Judith from Beth’s arms and runs for the stairwell. Panic hums in the air like static.

As you and Daryl hit the main doors, you see it—

The south fence.

Torn open.

A hole where the walker reached through just yesterday—ripped wider now, clawed apart by dozens of hands.

And beyond it—

Walkers.

Pouring in like a black tide.

Too many.

Too fast.

You grip your knife tighter.

Beside you, Daryl loads his crossbow, jaw tight, eyes hard.

The peace is gone.

And the fight begins again.

Chapter Text

The yard is chaos.

Snarls, screams, the metallic slam of fists against fencing, and the wet, sickening squelch of blades tearing through rot.

Walkers flood through the breach like water through a cracked dam. Their limbs scrape the walls, bones clicking like broken windchimes. The world has narrowed to violence and fire and survival.

You fight like hell.

Your knife is slick with gore. You don’t think. You can’t. Every time a walker lunges, you react—stab, pivot, kick, stab again. Your arms ache. Your legs shake. But you don’t stop.

You can’t stop.

Because every time you look up—

Daryl is too close to the fence.

Too deep in the horde.

Too goddamn reckless.

“Daryl!” you scream. “Get back!”

He doesn’t listen.

He yanks a walker off Maggie, drives a blade into its eye, then spins and buries his crossbow bolt in another’s skull. He’s moving too fast. Too hard. Like his body doesn’t matter. Like the only thing that does is keeping everyone else alive.

“Daryl!”

You sprint toward him just as he’s tackled by a walker that drops from the wall. He slams into the dirt with a grunt. You shout, but he rolls first, driving a boot into its jaw and stabbing upward—once, twice, until it stops moving.

Blood spatters his face.

He pants hard, shoulders heaving.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” you shout over the chaos.

He ignores you—grabs another spear and keeps fighting.

You burn.

Then—

A scream.

High. Human.

Your head snaps toward the sound.

It’s Aaron—one of the newer camp members. He’s pinned near the storage shed, a walker gnawing at his shoulder. He kicks, screams again, blood spraying across the gravel.

Carol and Tyreese rush toward him.

You follow—knife raised—shoving through the press of undead.

But it’s too late.

The walker’s already torn through the muscle.

Tyreese crushes its skull with a hammer.

Aaron is sobbing, his face gone pale.

“I—I didn’t see it—I didn’t—”

Rick’s face hardens. “Get him inside!”

They drag Aaron toward the infirmary, but everyone knows.

There’s no fixing this.

You clear the rest of the yard with grim fury. The group fans out, patching the breach, dragging bodies into piles. Blood coats the grass. The night smells like rot and smoke.

You drop to your knees, panting, hands trembling.

Across the field, Daryl kneels beside Aaron. The man is barely conscious now, breath rattling. He looks at Daryl like he wants something—mercy. Forgiveness. Peace.

Daryl doesn’t hesitate.

He draws his knife.

And drives it into Aaron’s skull.

The body twitches, then goes still.

No one speaks.

Rick nods once.

“Let’s get him buried.”

Chapter Text

You’re leaning against a fence post, body vibrating with rage and exhaustion. Your shirt is soaked with sweat and blood. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You see him approach.

Daryl.

His face is tight. Shirt torn. Jaw clenched. He still has blood on his neck.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You look up.

And you glare.

The kind of glare that doesn’t need words.

His expression falters.

“I was just—”

“Don’t,” you bite. “Don’t say it.”

He steps closer. “I had to. You were—”

“You always have to, don’t you?” Your voice shakes. “Always have to play the goddamn hero. Even if it gets you killed.”

“I was protectin’ you,” he snaps, the edge in his voice returning.

“I didn’t ask you to!”

That stuns him.

You push off the post, storming past him.

He grabs your arm—gently, but firmly.

“Don’t walk away.”

You twist out of his grip.

“I will if you keep doing this. If you keep throwing yourself at death just to prove something.”

He stares at you. Gutted. Silent.

You turn.

And walk into the dark.

Leaving him behind with the dead.

Chapter Text

The silence between you and Daryl has grown thick.

Not angry, not storming—it’s worse. It’s distant. Careful. Like walking on cracked glass and pretending it’s stone. He moved back into the outbuilding the night after the attack, claiming he couldn’t sleep well inside. No one questioned it.

But everyone knows.

Especially Maggie.

She sits beside you on the bed now, one leg tucked beneath her, her fingers idly twirling the frayed edge of a bandage roll.

“Still haven’t talked?”

You shake your head, picking at a tear in your sleeve. “No. Not since that night.”

Maggie sighs. “He’s got that Dixon pride. It’s half the reason he survives and half the reason he screws everything up.”

You let out a dry laugh.

“He doesn’t get it,” you murmur. “He doesn’t get that I’m angry because I care. Because I was terrified. Watching him throw himself into danger like he had nothing to lose—like I didn’t matter.”

Maggie watches you quietly, her expression soft.

“I know he’s not used to being someone people worry about,” you add, voice low. “But he’s not out there alone anymore. He has a group. He has—”

Your voice cracks slightly.

“He has me.”

The cell block is quiet except for the occasional footstep echoing down the hall, the faint thud of someone dropping a crate or moving supplies.

Then—voices.

Raised. Sharp.

You and Maggie both freeze.

It’s Rick and Daryl. Just down the corridor. Their voices bounce off the concrete walls, words indistinct at first.

Then clearer.

Rick: “It’s not just about moving fast. You need backup.”

Daryl: “I don’t need her comin’ with me if that’s what this is about.”

Rick: “She’s one of our best. I’m not asking.”

A pause.

Then Daryl’s voice again—tense, low, furious.

“You know damn well that ain’t why you picked her.”

You and Maggie share a look.

Rick’s footsteps echo closer.

He rounds the corner a second later, slowing as he sees you both seated by the cell. He hesitates just a beat.

“Hey,” he says, carefully neutral.

You stand slowly.

Maggie leans forward slightly but doesn’t speak.

Rick sighs and rubs a hand down his face.

“Supply run,” he says. “We need meds and disinfectant from the vet clinic we cleared last month.”

You nod, waiting.

Rick meets your eyes.

“You’re going with Daryl.”

The silence in the cell is immediate and deafening.

Your stomach twists. You glance past Rick, down the hall, where you can just barely see Daryl’s silhouette near the door—tense, still, half in shadow.

He’s waiting. He knows.

You take a breath, steel your voice.

“Did he agree to that?”

Rick’s gaze doesn’t waver. “He doesn’t have to agree. He knows it’s the right call.”

You nod once, cold settling into your bones. “When do we leave?”

“An hour,” Rick says. “Pack light. Be fast. Get back before nightfall.”

He turns and walks off without another word.

Maggie exhales beside you. “Well… that’s one way to get you two in the same room.”

You press your fingers to your temples.

“He’s going to hate this.”

She stands and squeezes your shoulder. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s what you need.”

You watch Daryl’s form disappear out the side door to the yard.

You don’t feel ready.

But the world doesn’t wait for readiness.

It just moves.

And you’d rather face the dead outside the fence than the ache inside your chest.

Chapter Text

The bike rumbles beneath you, the engine a constant low growl that vibrates through your thighs and into your chest.

You’ve ridden with Daryl a hundred times.

But this time is different.

You clutch the back of his jacket—not around his waist like you used to, not pressed in close for warmth or comfort. Just… enough to stay on.

Your fingers grip stiff denim.

Your chest is tight.

The wind bites at your face as trees blur past in streaks of green and brown. The road ahead snakes through the landscape like something half-swallowed by time, cracked and uneven and overrun by weeds. The sky is overcast, cold light falling in sheets over the horizon.

You don’t speak.

He doesn’t look back.

And you—

You’re stuck inside your head.

Maybe I was stupid to think this could work.

You watch the back of his neck as the wind pulls at strands of his hair, and the ache behind your ribs throbs harder.

What did I really expect? That love would rewrite the world? That a man like him—hard edges and haunted silences—would wake up one day and stop flinching from being needed?

You blink against the sting in your eyes.

We wouldn’t have worked in the old world. We wouldn’t have met. Wouldn’t have looked twice at each other. I would’ve been coffee shops and normal jobs and casual dates with men who wore button-downs and sent flowers.

And Daryl? He would’ve been back roads and cheap beer and bruised knuckles and the kind of silence people avoid eye contact with.

So what the hell made me think we’d work now—after the world ended?

A gust of wind slices through your jacket, and you hold tighter out of reflex.

We’re not built for soft things anymore.

And maybe we never were.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

You don’t cry.

You won’t cry.

Not now. Not with your hands on his jacket and your heart in pieces.

Chapter Text

Daryl pulls the bike up slow, gravel crunching under the tires as the clinic comes into view—half-collapsed but still standing. Ivy creeps along the brick. The windows are busted, dark like empty eye sockets.

He kills the engine.

You let go of him the second the bike stops.

No words.

You swing your leg over, your boots hitting the ground with a hard thud, and you stalk toward the entrance before he can say anything. You hear him behind you—getting off the bike, loading bolts into his crossbow—but you don’t turn.

You push open the clinic door and disappear inside, your steps echoing down the hollow hallway.

You don’t know if you’re trying to find supplies.

Or just trying to get away.

Chapter Text

The clinic is colder inside.

The air smells like mildew and disinfectant, with a lingering tang of something long dead. You move through the hallway with stiff, purposeful strides, boots echoing against the cracked tile, your flashlight beam sweeping over faded posters of smiling animals and shelves lined with expired meds.

You don’t look back.

You don’t listen for him.

You just focus on the list Rick gave you.

Painkillers. Antibiotics. Gauze. Saline if it isn’t cooked.

You find a dusty supply room half-collapsed but still mostly intact. A few drawers are busted open, but there are still sealed boxes. You yank open your backpack and start loading it quickly—cotton rolls, bandages, two bottles of iodine, a set of tweezers.

You don’t hear it.

Not at first.

Not until it’s right behind you.

A dry, but wet gurgle.

You spin.

A walker lurches out from behind a fallen cabinet, jaw hanging open, half its cheek missing. Its fingers stretch toward you as it snarls—too close. You reach for your knife—

Too slow.

Thwip.

The walker’s head jerks sharply sideways as a crossbow bolt punches clean through its skull. Blood explodes in a violent arc across the cabinet and sprays your arm and cheek.

You gasp, stumbling back.

And then—

“What the fuck were you thinkin’?”

Daryl’s voice booms down the hallway.

You stare at him, chest heaving.

He storms toward you, reloading fast, eyes wild. “You’re walkin’ into back rooms alone, no blade, not even listenin’? You tryin’ to get yourself killed?”

You wipe blood from your face with your sleeve, trembling—but not from fear anymore.

You stare him down. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you nearly got yourself ripped apart last week because you decided it was your job to save everyone without backup!”

“I had backup—!”

“You ignored the plan! You ran off like you didn’t give a damn what happened to you!”

“I was protectin’ you—!”

“I didn’t need protecting, Daryl—I needed a partner! Not someone willing to die to prove how little they think they matter!”

That lands.

He recoils like you slapped him.

His mouth opens—closes—then he growls, “You think I don’t care? You think this is about me not givin’ a shit?”

“I think you’d rather die a hero than stay alive and let someone actually love you.”

Silence.

His jaw clenches so tight it looks like it might snap.

And then he explodes.

“You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like to lose everythin’ and then have to trust that somethin’ good won’t just disappear too!”

“I’ve been there! I’ve lost everyone too!”

“But you still believe in this,” he snaps, jabbing a finger between you. “You still think it’s somethin’ worth fightin’ for, like it’s safe. Like love’s some kinda f—in’ blanket that keeps the monsters out.”

You stare at him, fury choking you. “And you? You just run from it. You’d rather be alone than risk loving someone who might stay!”

His breathing is ragged. His hands are fists.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he finally says, low, broken. “But I don’t know how to be any other way.”

You blink.

That hurts. More than any shout.

He looks at you—really looks—and says:

“You’re the best damn thing that’s happened to me since the world ended. And that scares the shit outta me.”

You feel tears behind your eyes—but they don’t fall.

You grip the strap of your backpack so hard your knuckles go white.

Neither of you moves.

The walker’s body twitches on the floor.

The silence is deafening.

And nothing about this feels fixed.

Chapter Text

The silence after Daryl’s last words is thick—so thick you can hear your own breath, the drip of something behind the cabinets, the groan of the clinic walls.

But you don’t back down.

You don’t soften.

You can’t.

Not when the heat is still in your blood. Not when everything between you feels like it’s been chewed up and spit back out. You stare at the walker on the floor, then back at Daryl.

Your voice is tight.

“Since we’re already out here, we should hit the supermarket on the way back.”

Daryl’s brow furrows. “What?”

You don’t flinch. “Judith’s formula’s almost out. Beth said they were trying to stretch it, but it won’t last the week. No point making two runs when we’re already out.”

His jaw sets. “It’s too far. Too exposed.”

You cross your arms. “We’ve been there before. We know the layout. We get in, grab what we need, get out. Quick.”

“We came back with five people last time. We’re down to two.”

“We’re not two amateurs, Daryl.”

He takes a step toward you. “It ain’t about that! It’s about bein’ smart.”

You stare at him, hands trembling—not from fear now, but fury. “You want to talk about smart? Where the hell was that logic when you were throwing yourself in front of twenty walkers without backup?”

He throws his arms out. “This ain’t the same!”

“It is. You made a reckless decision because you didn’t trust anyone to have your back. And now I’m supposed to sit here and play it safe while a baby runs out of food?”

His face darkens. “You’re not goin’.”

“I am.”

“The hell you are.”

“If you’re too scared to do what needs doing, then I’ll go alone.”

That hits like a slap.

His eyes flash—hurt, rage, something wounded behind them. “Don’t you dare throw that in my face.”

“Then stop acting like loving someone means being the only one allowed to make the decisions.”

He’s breathing hard now. Fists at his sides. You think—for a second—he’s going to turn, walk out, leave you to it.

But instead—

He growls, low and deadly, “Fine. We go. But we do it my way. We move fast, we stay out of sight, and the second it gets hot, we leave.”

You nod, defiant. “Fine.”

You turn and storm toward the door, the fight still burning under your skin like acid.

Behind you, Daryl mutters something too low to catch.

You don’t ask him to repeat it.

You just load your gun.

And walk straight into the cold.

Chapter Text

The motorbike rumbles to a stop just inside the outer gate. The sun is already dipping below the tree line, throwing long shadows across the yard.

Daryl doesn’t say a word.

He kills the engine, climbs off, and disappears without looking at you.

No glance. No nod. Just gone—into the maze of fences and shadows like he was never there at all.

You stay on the bike for a moment, frozen, hands gripping the seat like you’re holding onto something that might vanish too.

Eventually, you move.

Chapter Text

You hand Rick the med supplies with barely a word. He thanks you with a grim nod, sensing your mood but not pressing. Then you head down the corridor where Beth rocks Judith gently in her arms near the infirmary. You pass her the baby formula.

Beth’s eyes light up. “Seriously? You found some?”

You nod. “Twelve tins. Back of the old market.”

Beth hugs the box to her chest. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You manage a small smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

As you turn, you spot Maggie and Glenn curled together on a mattress in the common room—her head on his shoulder, his fingers threading lazily through hers.

For a second, it feels like a punch to the ribs.

Maggie looks up and spots you. Her smile falters.

She starts to move, about to sit up, concern written clear across her face.

You shake your head softly.

I’m fine.

She hesitates.

You mouth it again.

I’m fine.

Then you walk away before she can question it.

Chapter Text

The cell block is quiet.

Too quiet.

You check the outbuilding. The guard tower. The showers. Nothing.

Daryl is gone.

Panic begins to press into your throat—tight and hot.

He’s not inside. He’s not where he usually broods. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since the run. You feel it again—that old fear creeping in. The one that tells you he’s leaving before you can leave him. That he’s disappearing the way people do when they don’t know how to stay.

Then—

You remember.

That night on the rooftop.

The first time he told you about his past. About losing Merle. About how much you scared him because he didn’t want to lose anything again.

You turn and bolt for the stairwell.

Chapter Text

The door groans open, rusted metal dragging against the frame.

Cool night air greets you, brushing your face like a whisper. The stars are sharp and bright, scattered across the sky in messy constellations. The trees below rustle soft in the dark.

And there he is.

Lying on a blanket near a makeshift campfire in a rusted barrel. A cigarette smolders between his fingers. His shirt is unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, hair mussed from the wind.

He doesn’t look up.

Just speaks, quiet.

“Knew you’d come.”

Your chest twists.

You step closer, but not too close.

“You weren’t in your bed.”

“Didn’t feel like sleepin’.”

You hesitate, then sink to your knees beside him, careful, slow.

The fire pops softly, casting flickers of light over his profile.

“You were on the bike,” you say, voice low. “Then you were gone.”

“Didn’t think you wanted me around.”

“That’s not true.”

He takes a long drag from the cigarette, eyes still on the stars.

You watch the smoke curl into the dark.

“I was so scared,” you whisper. “And not just because of the walkers or the run or the fight. I was scared that you were slipping away and I wouldn’t even see it happen.”

He turns his head then—just slightly.

“I’m still here.”

You swallow hard. “Then stop running.”

He flicks the cigarette away, embers scattering.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admits. “I don’t know how to love somebody without fuckin’ it up.”

You lay down beside him, close but not touching.

“You don’t have to get it right,” you say. “You just have to stay.”

The silence stretches again—but this one feels different. Not cold. Not empty.

Just… quiet.

Shared.

He shifts, finally, turning his body toward yours. His fingers brush yours in the dark.

Not a kiss. Not a confession.

Just presence.

Chapter Text

You’re still lying beside Daryl on the rooftop, the fire burned down to embers and your bodies heavy with exhaustion and adrenaline. The silence between you is softer now—warmer, like something earned.

You shift slightly, the motion tugging at dried blood on your sleeve. A grimace crosses your face.

Daryl notices.

“You’ve still got blood on you,” he mutters, voice gravel-thick, watching the way you wrinkle your nose. “Dried all down your arm. Pretty sure there’s some in your hair too.”

You glance at him, amused. “Didn’t realize you were the hygiene police now.”

His mouth quirks into a half-smirk. “Ain’t that. Just…” He eyes you deliberately. “Hurts me a little. Knowin’ you’re still walkin’ around smellin’ like that fuckin’ clinic.”

You chuckle. “Well, it’s not like I’ve had time for a bath.”

He looks at you for a beat—then stands.

Offers his hand.

Your stomach flips.

“You comin’ or what?”

You blink.

His expression doesn’t change.

But his eyes are darker now.

You take his hand.

Chapter Text

You follow in silence. The corridors are cold, abandoned, the hum of sleeping bodies barely audible. Daryl doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look back. Just moves with purpose, heat rippling off him.

At the generator room, he throws the switch.

Whrrrrrrr.

The power hums to life. Lights stutter and glow down the hallway.

You raise a brow. “Rick’s gonna lose his shit if he finds out we used the generator for—”

Daryl turns on you, full force. “Shut the fuck up.”

Your heart kicks.

Your mouth snaps shut.

He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the showers.

Steam fogs the mirrors before the water even hits tile. The pipes groan. The first spray blasts hot and heavy into the room.

Daryl walks you backwards into the heat. You’re fully clothed. Still breathing like nothing’s happening.

Then he grabs your throat.

It’s not tight—it’s just there. A reminder. A command.

“You wanna fight?” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “You wanna argue, run your mouth?”

Your breath hitches. You nod.

“Then do it after.” His eyes burn into yours. “Right now, you’re mine. All fuckin’ night.”

Then he kisses you—devours you. Teeth, tongue, lips, control. It’s filthy, wet, and raw. He kisses like he’s punishing you for every time you looked away, every time you answered back.

You rip at his shirt. He yanks at yours. Hands pulling, teeth dragging, steam curling between your bodies. The second his pants hit the floor, yours follow, clothes landing in a messy pile already soaking under the spray.

Neither of you care.

He grabs your hips and turns you hard, slamming you into the wall, water pounding down on your back.

His hand finds your throat again—firmer this time—pinning you there as he slides his fingers between your legs.

“So fuckin’ wet already,” he mutters against your neck. “You get this soaked from fightin’ me?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck, Daryl, please—”

“Oh, you’re gonna beg?” he growls. “Louder. Let it out.”

“Please, I need you—”

“Yeah?” He strokes harder, two fingers curling inside you. “Come on. Break for me.”

You do.

Fast.

Shaking, crying out as your pleasure tears through you, your nails scraping tile, knees buckling—

He catches you.

And grins.

“One.”

You don’t get time to recover.

He spins you around and drops to his knees, tongue dragging through your folds like he’s trying to taste your soul. You scream, already sensitive, already aching.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t slow.

When you come again, it’s with a broken cry—your whole body convulsing while his hands push your hips against the tile, holding you in place.

He stands.

“You ain’t done.”

You’re gasping. Wrecked.

But you reach for him anyway—get on your knees, mouth watering, steam fogging your vision.

“Jesus,” he groans, watching you. “Look at you. Filthy fuckin’ angel.”

You take him deep, slow—spit and heat and moans. His hand tangles in your hair, his head tipped back, hips twitching.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You suck my cock like you own it.”

You hum around him and he growls, yanking you off before he loses control.

“You want me?” he pants. “Take it. Now.”

He lifts you—literally lifts you—and slams you back against the wall again. You wrap around him instinctively, and he pushes inside in one brutal, perfect thrust.

The sound you make is half-sob, half-prayer.

He fucks you hard, one hand gripping your ass, the other locking around your throat, forcing your gaze up to his.

“Look at me when you come.”

“I—I—”

“Look at me.”

You do. And when it hits you—violent and blinding—he watches every second of it.

“You break so fuckin’ pretty,” he grits. “Keep goin’. Give me more.”

You cry out, body overstimulated, tears streaking down your cheeks from the heat and the intensity. Your soaked hair sticks to your neck, water hammering down.

“I can’t—”

“You will.”

He carries you to the floor, lays you down without leaving you. Water pools under your backs, splashing over your abandoned clothes.

He fucks you into the tile.

Deep, punishing thrusts, his hand gripping your face now—thumb dragging across your bottom lip, smearing spit and heat and whatever’s left of your control.

“You mine now?”

“Yes—yes, Daryl—”

He thrusts harder.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

He kisses you—rough. Wet teeth, a flash of tongue, growling low.

“You’re gonna remember this,” he whispers against your mouth. “Every step you take tomorrow. You’ll feel what I did to you.”

You come again. Hard. Screaming his name.

That tips him over.

He grunts, one last deep thrust, and he fills you—panting, shaking, voice breaking in your ear.

The water keeps pounding down.

Steam rises around you like smoke after a fire.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just lays there.

On top of you.

Inside you.

Heart thundering.

Breathing like he just survived the end of the world again.

Chapter Text

The generator dies with a low grrrrr-chunk, and the building slips back into the hush of midnight shadows.

You and Daryl are giggling.

Like kids.

Soaked to the bone, clothes clinging to skin, hair dripping all over the tile. You’re both breathless from the scramble to turn everything off and now? Now you’re trying to get dressed in the dim light of the corridor—barefoot, shivering, and totally wrecked from what just happened.

Daryl’s half-hopping, half-cursing, trying to tug his soaked jeans back up over his hips.

You snort, covering your mouth as you lean against the wall. “Real smooth,” you whisper. “Could’ve planned this whole midnight tryst a little better, Romeo. Maybe brought a towel or two?”

He glares at you through wet hair, muttering, “Could’ve planned on you bein’ quiet.”

You raise your brows, voice smug. “Pretty sure you were the one saying ‘beg for it’ so loud we probably woke the whole block.”

He freezes halfway into his shirt, smirking despite himself.

You’re both still laughing under your breath as you creep down the corridor, leaving a wet trail behind you like guilty, oversexed sea creatures.

“Shit,” you whisper, looking back at the trail of puddles. “We’re gonna flood C Block at this rate.”

Daryl shoves your shoulder gently. “Shut up.”

You take two more steps—and slam directly into a broad chest.

Your heart drops.

Rick.

His arms are crossed. His eyes are wide. His voice? Ice cold.

“Are you two outta your goddamn minds?”

You and Daryl both freeze like teenagers caught making out behind the bleachers.

Rick’s eyes flick down to your soaking shirts, your dripping hair, the sloshing squelch of Daryl’s boots. “Generator’s running in the middle of the night. Half the damn prison’s awake from the noise. There’s water on every step of C Block and you’re—” He gestures wildly. “—leaking.”

You stifle a laugh. Daryl doesn’t.

Rick spins to glare at him. “You think this is funny?”

“No, sir,” Daryl says flatly, eyes on the ceiling. But you can see the twitch in his lips.

Rick sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like you’ve both just given him a migraine. “Fuel’s not unlimited. Water’s not unlimited. And neither is my patience for midnight… adventures.”

You nod solemnly, eyes wide and fake-innocent. “It won’t happen again.”

Rick points toward the hallway like an exhausted school principal. “Back to your cell. Now. And dry off before someone breaks a hip.”

You both shuffle past him like scolded children.

Daryl mutters under his breath, “Worth it.”

Chapter Text

You’re still laughing as you shut the cell door behind you.

Everything is wet—your shirts, your pants, your hair, the floor. You’re both peeling the clothes off again, cold and still giggling, Daryl trying to pull his socks off while hopping on one foot and swearing under his breath.

“I think Rick grounded us,” you tease, climbing onto the cot.

Daryl strips off the last of his clothes, shoves them into a wet heap near the door, and crawls in after you.

He’s warm.

Even wet, even rumpled and annoyed, he feels like a furnace against your skin.

He kisses you.

This one is different.

Softer.

Slower.

But the way his fingers slide across your waist, the way he nudges his hips against yours—he’s hard again, already, pressing up with no shame.

You raise an eyebrow, breath hitching as you feel it.

“Again?”

Daryl smirks, all teeth and trouble.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice like gravel and sin. “Again.”

Chapter Text

The sun hangs low and golden over the yard, casting long shadows as the group eats in scattered clusters—mugs of weak coffee, dented metal bowls filled with overcooked oats and whatever edible scraps Hershel’s been growing in the dirt.

Carol and Rick stand near the pig pens, voices low but calm.

“That one ain’t lookin’ good,” Carol murmurs, nodding toward a sluggish sow in the corner of the pen.

Rick sighs, resting a hand on the fence. “Yeah… been off her feed since yesterday.”

“She got a name?” Carol asks, a little smile tugging at her lips.

Rick shoots her a look. “You know how I feel about that.”

Carl, crouched nearby, doesn’t even glance up from what he’s doing. “Her name’s Violet.”

Rick straightens, pointing a finger. “Carl.”

Carl shrugs, deadpan. “What? She looks like a Violet.”

Daryl walks by just in time to ruffle Carl’s hair and clap him on the shoulder. “You can’t name somethin’ you’re gonna eat, kid. Makes it weird.”

As he says it, you stroll by, bumping his arm with a playful slap. “You’ve named your crossbow, but you’re worried about naming a pig?”

He smirks, eyes tracking you as you walk away. “That’s different. I don’t plan on eatin’ her.”

You glance back, grin sharp. “Debatable.”

You make your way across the yard to where Maggie and Patrick are sitting on the picnic table bench, bowls in hand. Maggie’s laughing at something Patrick said—probably another bad joke—but the moment you sit down, Daryl’s eyes trail after you.

He gives you a slow, sweeping look from under that mess of hair—up, down, dragging over your skin like he’s seeing everything.

Last night slams into your mind.

The heat. The water. His hands on your throat. The way he made you beg.

You nearly drop your spoon.

Maggie bumps her knee against yours under the table. “Earth to horny shower demon.”

Your eyes snap to hers. “What?”

She smirks, spoon in her mouth. “You two wake the dead last night?”

Patrick chokes on his oats, turning red so fast it’s almost impressive.

You burst into laughter, leaning forward on your elbows as Maggie fakes innocence, patting Patrick’s back like she didn’t just drop a bomb.

“Sorry, Patrick,” you manage between giggles. “Some things you can’t unhear.”

He mumbles something about going to help Hershel and scurries off, still beet-red.

You and Maggie dissolve into more laughter, while Daryl watches from across the yard—smirking, silent, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He catches your eyes again.

This time, there’s no teasing in it.

Just that familiar, filthy glint.

Chapter Text

You wake up in the dark.

Not because something startled you. Not because of a nightmare.

Because your body knows something’s wrong.

Daryl’s still asleep beside you, one arm flung lazily across your waist. His breathing is deep and even, chest rising in time with yours.

But something’s off.

A sound. Low and wet. Muffled.

You slip out from under his arm, bare feet hitting the cold floor. You creep toward the hallway, every instinct on alert.

Then you see him.

Patrick. Half-shuffling, half-stumbling down the corridor, coughing so hard his shoulders jerk with each one. He leans into the wall, dragging a palm across it, leaving a smear behind.

Even in the dark, something about his silhouette is wrong.

You don’t say anything.

You should.

But you don’t.

Just press yourself against the cell bars and watch him disappear into the shower block.

Chapter Text

It happens fast.

Too fast.

You hear the scream before the light even breaks.

By the time you and Daryl reach the cell block, it’s chaos.

People are running. Shouting. There’s blood on the walls, on the floor, smeared and fresh. The smell hits your nose like a punch—copper and bile and death.

You grab someone’s arm—Lizzie, sobbing and frantic—and she chokes out, “Patrick—he turned—he bit—there’s more—”

You don’t think. You run.

Daryl’s right behind you, already loading a bolt into his crossbow.

Then you see it.

Patrick—what’s left of him—tearing into someone on the ground, blood drenching his mouth, his skin grey and veined.

A woman screams.

More walkers now—turned overnight, hidden in locked cells, now free. They’re inside the block, inside the living space. You don’t know how many.

Daryl’s already moving, yelling your name. “Stay back!”

You don’t listen.

You grab a knife and charge into the fray.

It’s brutal.

Bodies fall.

You help a man slam a cell door shut on a walker’s face just in time.

Daryl fights like he’s possessed—no mercy, no hesitation. Every bolt lands. Every knife strike is a kill.

Then—quiet.

The last one collapses.

Blood pools on the floor, soaking into blankets and mattresses.

You stand there, panting, knife dripping in your hand, hands shaking as adrenaline wears off.

Daryl turns to you, eyes wide, voice low. “You okay?”

You nod.

But you’re not.

Because you remember watching Patrick walk to the showers.

And you didn’t stop him.

Chapter Text

The prison smells like bleach and blood. The sun’s high now, but everything feels cold.

Rick’s face is a thundercloud as he gathers the council. “We need to isolate the sick. And we need to find out how far this thing’s spread.”

Hershel’s rubbing his hands together, jaw set. “We need volunteers.”

You speak before you think. “I’ll help.”

Daryl’s head snaps toward you. “The hell you will.”

“I saw him,” you say, voice hard. “Last night. Patrick. I watched him cough his lungs out and I did nothing. I’m not standing by again.”

Hershel looks at you like he understands. Like he knows you’re already in this, whether anyone says it aloud or not.

Daryl doesn’t argue in front of the group.

But his silence is loud.

Chapter Text

He avoids you.

At first, it’s subtle—skipping meals, switching shifts. Then it becomes obvious.

You only see him from across the yard now, handing out supplies, talking to Rick about runs. His eyes always find you—but the second you catch them, he looks away.

Carol tries to fill the space.

Maggie brings you food.

Hershel becomes your anchor in the ward. He praises your calm, your care, your courage.

But at night, when you lie awake in the makeshift quarantine cell, alone with your thoughts, you wonder if Daryl left you behind because he’s scared—

—or because he’s already written you off.

Chapter Text

You lose three people in two days.

Karen. A teenager named Jacob. An older man who taught Carl how to whittle.

You help clean the blood. Hold people down when their fevers spike. Sit with the ones who cry out for their mothers.

And you wonder if this is penance.

Every time you close your eyes, you see Patrick.

Every time you wake up, someone else is gone.

Chapter Text

It starts small.

You brush off the sore throat.

Ignore the way your hands are shaking when you pour water.

You don’t tell Hershel. Don’t want him to see.

But by the third day, you can barely stand.

He helps you to a cot without a word, covering you with a blanket that smells like bleach and smoke.

When Daryl shows up at the glass, it’s late.

Everyone else is asleep.

You’re curled on your side, coughing weakly, trying to keep it quiet.

And when you finally lift your head—you see him.

Hands braced on the window.

Eyes wide with panic.

Like the world’s already ending again.

You don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

But the look on his face tells you everything.

You’re burning.

Your skin is on fire, your body drenched in sweat, sheets twisted around your legs like chains. The air feels thick, heavy, like you’re trying to breathe underwater.

You don’t know if it’s day or night.

You don’t even know if you’re awake anymore.

Everything is fractured.

And Daryl is everywhere.

You see him sitting at the end of the cot, hair damp, cigarette dangling from his fingers.

He doesn’t look at you.

Just says, voice low and rough, “Told you not to go in there.”

You blink, but he’s gone.

Replaced by the image of him standing in the flow of water—dripping wet, shirt clinging to him, eyes fierce as he says, “Shut the fuck up,” before he kissed you in that shower like he owned your soul.

You reach for him, whisper his name, but he fades again—

You’re in the woods now.

Or maybe it’s the yard.

There’s blood on your hands. You hear screaming.

Someone’s turning.

You’re holding a knife. You can’t move.

Your legs are made of lead.

You look up and Daryl’s standing across the field, yelling your name.

But your voice doesn’t work.

You try to run to him, but the world warps—colors smearing, sounds distorting.

Suddenly his voice is right at your ear, whispering:

“You’re mine.”

You gasp and wake for a moment—really wake. The cell is spinning. You try to sit up but your head slams with pain.

You catch a flicker of someone beyond the glass.

Daryl?

You blink.

No—just Hershel. He’s watching you from across the room, eyes heavy with concern.

You collapse back, pulse thudding in your ears, skin soaked in sweat.

Then the dream takes you again.

You’re back in the tower. The first time he kissed you like he meant it. That half-snarl in his voice, the way his hand fisted in your shirt before he kissed you like he was going to break from the need of it.

Your fingers grip empty air.

You whisper his name into the silence.

You don’t know if it’s out loud or not.

“Daryl…”

The next voice is different.

Soft.

Soothing.

“I’m here.”

You turn your head.

He’s there.

Sitting beside the cot.

His hair is a mess. His clothes are dirty. His boots are kicked off at the side. There’s a smear of blood on his arm that isn’t yours.

His hand is on your forehead.

Cool.

Solid.

Real.

“You ain’t dyin’,” he says, voice cracking. “You don’t get to do that. Not after all this.”

You try to speak, but only a dry, cracked sound escapes. Almost a laugh of relief.

He leans closer.

“You’re gonna stay, y’hear me? You’re gonna stay, and yell at me, and steal my damn shirts, and make fun of my cookin’. You’re gonna wake up and kiss me like you mean it this time.”

Your hand reaches out, barely lifts.

He grabs it. Holds it to his chest.

You feel the tremble in his ribs.

And then you fall again—into dreams of warm arms and cigarettes and rough hands stroking your back while he murmurs your name over and over again.

Chapter Text

The world feels off before anyone says a word.

The air in the prison’s thicker today. Heavy. Like the walls know what’s coming before he does.

Daryl sits outside the quarantine room, on the cold concrete floor, elbows on his knees, his face buried in the dirty crook of his arm. He hasn’t slept in two days.

He hasn’t left the corridor since the fever took hold.

He’s waiting.

But not for this.

Not for this.

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Slow. Hesitant.

It’s Hershel.

Daryl doesn’t even lift his head. Just says, flat and low, “She still breathin’?”

There’s a long silence.

Then—

“Son…”

The sound that leaves Daryl’s throat isn’t human. It’s a broken thing. A warning. A plea.

He stands too fast, stumbling a little, rage and grief already clawing up his chest.

Hershel’s eyes shine with sorrow. “She went quiet a few minutes ago.”

“No,” Daryl says.

Hershel reaches out. “Daryl—”

Daryl snaps.

He shoves Hershel back, teeth bared, voice hoarse and cracking. “Don’t say it! Don’t you fucking say it!”

People come running—Rick, Maggie, Carol. The echo of boots and breathless panic.

Rick reaches for his shoulder. “Daryl—”

Daryl grabs him by the collar, slams him against the wall. “Do something!”

Rick tries to speak, but Daryl’s already shaking him. “You’re supposed to fix shit! You always fix shit!”

“Daryl, I can’t—”

“She was fine!” Daryl’s voice cracks, his eyes wild and wet. “She was gettin’ better. She laughed yesterday! She fuckin’ laughed.”

Maggie covers her mouth, sobbing openly now. Carol’s eyes fill, and even she can’t speak.

Rick looks devastated, grief swallowing his features. “Daryl… if she turns—”

“You ain’t touchin’ her!” Daryl roars, shoving him back so hard Rick stumbles. “You touch her, I’ll kill you. You hear me?! I’ll fucking kill you.”

Hershel blocks the door.

One hand out. “Please don’t go in there. You don’t want that to be the last—”

Daryl’s voice goes flat. Dead. “Move, old man.”

“Daryl—”

“Move.”

There’s something in his eyes—something so wild, so feral—that even Hershel, brave and steady Hershel, steps aside.

Daryl pushes the door open.

It’s quiet inside.

Too quiet.

The hum of the generator, the faint buzz of flies… and her.

Lying there.

Still.

Sheets soaked in sweat, hair plastered to her face, lips parted, pale. Lifeless.

He drops to his knees so hard his bones crack against the concrete.

His breath leaves him in one violent exhale, and his whole body trembles.

“No, no, no, no—” he whispers, crawling toward the cot. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this to me.”

He presses his forehead to her arm. It’s cold.

He tries to speak but nothing comes out. His mouth opens, jaw shaking, but all he can do is sob.

His hands grip her limp fingers.

“I was gonna tell you…” he chokes. “I was gonna say it. Out loud. I—I had the words this time.”

He presses her knuckles to his mouth.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.”

He slides up to the edge of the cot, pressing his forehead to her temple.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

His voice is barely a whisper now.

“I was mad… not ‘cause you helped people. Not ‘cause you were brave.”

His voice cracks again.

“I was mad ‘cause I knew… I knew I’d lose you. And I was too selfish to stop you. And too fuckin’ scared to let you go.”

He brushes her damp hair from her face with trembling fingers.

“You were too good for me. I knew it from the first goddamn second.”

The silence stretches.

Daryl kisses her cheek, then her forehead. His hands shaking like a leaf in a storm.

“I love you,” he says, finally. The words shake out of him, raw and real. “I love you so much it hurts.”

He reaches for the knife at his belt.

Pulls it with a slow, heavy motion.

Positions it at the base of her skull.

And chokes on a sob so brutal it echoes through the room.

He leans over her one last time, sobbing into her neck, whispering against her cold skin.

“I’m sorry.”

Chapter Text

The cell is dark.

Even with the sun somewhere high above the yard, light barely reaches this corner anymore. It never did, really. That was part of why you chose it — privacy, quiet, a place no one bothered you unless they had to.

Now it’s just empty.

Daryl sits on the edge of the cot, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head low. The mattress is still damp where he washed the sheets and laid them back down, as if that would matter. As if it would fix something.

Your things are still here.

Your boots by the wall.

A shirt draped over the edge of the bed, twisted where you dropped it after that night you both snuck back from the showers.

It still smells like you.

Daryl picks it up with shaking fingers, presses it to his face.

Then sets it down like it’s fragile. Like it might crack in his hands.

His crossbow leans against the wall. He hasn’t touched it since… since before.

Hasn’t eaten.

Barely spoken.

He rubs a hand over his face, stubbled and gaunt now, eyes raw from crying.

Then he looks at the pillow beside him.

The one you always used.

He doesn’t lie down.

Can’t.

He just stares.

Like maybe if he sits there long enough, the universe will undo itself. The sickness. The silence. The moment you stopped breathing.

The knife sits beside his boot. Clean now. But it still feels bloody.

Daryl lets his head drop into his hands, breathing shallow, chest barely rising.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He’s fought walkers, hunger, death itself.

But this?

This silence?

He doesn’t know how to fight this.

He stares at the floor, voice breaking on a whisper no one will ever hear.

“World took everythin’… and still, you’re the only thing I ain’t ready to let go of.”

And then—

Nothing.

Just the sound of wind through broken windows.

And a man sitting in the dark, holding the last good thing he ever had.