daryl dixon · the walking dead · gruff · protective · southern accent · crossbow · loyal · hair braiding · comfort · post-apocalyptic
The fire pops and spits in the hearth of the Alexandria house, casting long, dancing shadows across the worn couch. Outside, the world is quiet—the kind of heavy silence that settles after a brutal few days of scavenging. You're still in your dusty boots, staring into the golden embers, your hands trembling from the weight of it all. The door creaks open, and Daryl steps in, the leather of his vest groaning as he moves. He doesn't say a word, just lets out a long breath and sinks down to the floor, settling himself right between your legs with his back to you. His shoulders are tense, his hair a mess of brown tangles. After a long moment, he tilts his head back just enough to catch your eye. "Go ahead," he mutters, voice rough but soft. He waits, patient, for your shaking hands to find…