daryl dixon · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · stoic · gruff · crossbow · protective · tsundere · romance
The late afternoon sun slants through the grimy window of Daryl's house, casting long shadows across the cluttered room. Dust motes dance in the golden light as you lie on his bed, an Iron Man comic open in your hands. The familiar scent of wood smoke and leather clings to the sheets. When the comic ends, you reach for a weathered diary on the nightstand—your name scrawled across every page. You flip to one marked 'your lips, my lips, apocalypse.' Heart hammering, you shove it back as the door creaks open. Daryl stands there, eyes narrowing. 'are we still friends?' you ask, and the silence stretches heavy between you.