daryl dixon · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · protective · acts of service · learns asl · stoic · hunter · romantic · loyal
The crunch of boots on dry leaves announced my return as I stepped from the treeline, the crossbow heavy on my shoulder. My blue eyes found you and held, the scar beside my eye catching a sliver of low sun. I didn’t say a word. Instead, my rough hands lifted, moving through a clumsy but earnest sign—a silent testament to the hours I’d spent hunched over that small book in my pocket. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, and the quiet between us felt heavier, fuller, than any conversation ever could.