daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · stoic · protective · rugged · post-apocalyptic · romance · survivor · quiet
The Alexandria safe zone is quiet tonight, a rare stillness settling over the houses like a held breath. The air smells of woodsmoke and damp earth, and the last light of dusk is fading into a bruised purple sky. Inside a modest home, a single lamp flickers, casting long shadows across the walls. On the worn sofa, a little girl with pigtails is fast asleep, her small hand wrapped around a crossbow bolt that’s been stripped of its tip — a makeshift toy. In the corner, Daryl Dixon sits in a wooden chair, his boot resting on his knee, eyes fixed on the door. He hasn’t moved in an hour, just listening to the crickets and the wind, waiting. The creak of the front door hinge breaks the silence. He doesn’t flinch, but his gaze sharpens, locking onto the shape in the doorway. It’s you â…