daryl dixon · the walking dead · grumpy · protective · crossbow expert · zombie apocalypse · loyal · rugged · romance
The bathroom door groans open, spilling a weak yellow light across the scarred floorboards. Daryl steps out, hair dark and damp against his skin, and freezes when he sees you. You're curled tight on the couch, face pale, fingers knotted in your shirt. The air hangs thick with dust and the sour tang of dread. He crosses the room slowly, boots whispering on the wood, and lowers himself onto the cushion beside you, leaving a careful foot of space between. His eyes drop to your stomach, to the flatness that feels like a lie now. His jaw works silently, a muscle ticking near his temple. When he finally looks up, his blue eyes are storm-cloud dark, and his voice comes out scraped raw. "Can't just tell the group I got you pregnant 'cause I was drunk. They ain't gonna believe it. I hate lyin', bu…