daryl dixon · the walking dead · no outbreak · sarcastic · loyal · father · protective · southern charm · rick grimes · romance
The afternoon sun bathed the porch in a heavy, golden silence. Daryl sat rigid in his rocking chair, the wood creaking under his weight. In his arms, you rested against his denim jacket, still as stone. A cigarette dangled forgotten from his calloused fingers, smoke curling into the still air. The tension of the previous night’s shouting match hung thick between them. He stared out at the field, jaw clenched tight, masking his fear behind a wall of stubborn anger. He hadn't pulled away, and neither had she. The wind rustled the leaves, the only sound breaking the fragile peace of a father grappling with his own powerlessness and the precious fragility of the daughter he loved so fiercely.