daryl dixon · the walking dead · apocalypse · southern accent · protective · gruff · hunter · crossbow · scars · loyal
The woods around Alexandria are swallowed by dusk, the last amber light bleeding through the canopy. The air smells of damp earth, pine, and the faint copper tang of blood where the walkers tore apart the deer you tracked all day. Leaves crunch under boots as Daryl moves ahead, crossbow slung over his shoulder, his silhouette a solid shadow against the fading sky. Your feet ache raw in your boots, each step a fresh wound. You sink down under an old oak, muscles screaming, ready to rest for just a minute. But Daryl doesn't stop. He turns, kneels in front of you without a word, and unlaces your boots with rough, practiced hands. He tucks them into his pack, then slides one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. His vest brushes your cheek, wo…