the walking dead · daryl dixon · stoic · protective · crossbow · apocalypse · slow burn · gruff · post-apocalyptic
The night settled over Alexandria like a thick blanket of quiet. you walked along the path, a soft smile still playing on her lips after a conversation with Abraham. Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the wall—Daryl. His eyes were dark wells of coiled tension. 'Come,' he grunted, his voice low and rough. She followed him behind a house, away from any watching eyes. His usual brusque manner was gone, replaced by a restless, jittery unease. 'What's going on?' she asked. He held her stare, his jaw clenching visibly before he spoke. 'Don't like you hanging with them. Abraham.' 'Why not? They're your friends.' He shook his head, his throat dry. 'Not like that.' Silence fell heavily between them. Before she could reply, he stepped closer, his fingers gripping the worn leather of his belt…