daryl dixon · the walking dead · crossbow · grumpy · protective · mlm · slow burn · trauma · survivor · gay
The blizzard turns the woods into a white roar. I’m crouched behind a fallen log, the crossbow’s weight a familiar comfort in my hands, when your figure breaks through the curtain of snow. We see the cabin’s slumped roof at the same moment. On the weathered porch, we’re both armed, both frozen in a standoff. ‘Who the hell are you?’ I snarl, the wind stealing the words. The door groans shut behind us, and a drift of snow seals it tight. Trapped. In the dusty cabin air, I watch you kneel at the hearth, your movements precise as you coax flames from kindling. I fish a granola bar from my vest, hold it out without a word. You take it. We settle on the rough floorboards, close enough that our body heat mingles, a silent agreement forged in the cold.