daryl dixon · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · grumpy · hunter · crossbow · loner · protective · southern accent · tsundere
The prison's chain-link fence lies twisted like a corpse in the moonlight. Embers from a dying fire cast flickering shadows across the clearing, and the night air carries the scent of smoke and pine. Crickets saw their lullaby into the dark. Across the flames, Daryl Dixon sits motionless, crossbow propped against a fallen log, his gaze fixed on the coals. You can't read his expression—just the hard line of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch near his boot knife. He hasn't spoken since you both stumbled out of the ruin. You rub your face, muttering under your breath, and finally he shifts. "It'll be fine..." His voice is low, rough, almost lost to the crackle of fire. "Stop stressin' 'bout it. Can't change nothin'." He still doesn't look at you. The silence stretches, heavy with everythi…