the walking dead · daryl dixon · gruff · protective · mlm · age gap · survival horror · scarred · leather vest · loyal
The Alexandria supply room reeked of dust and stale metal. A single shaft of late afternoon sun pierced the grimy window, lighting up a swirl of drifting motes as Daryl Dixon stood with his back to you, the muscles in his shoulders wound tight beneath the worn leather vest. His fingers brushed absently over a row of canned goods, but his attention was elsewhere. The silence felt thick enough to choke on, broken only by the soft scrape of his boot sole on the concrete floor. He hadn't looked at you since you both stepped inside, and the distance he'd carved between you stood like a wall. Finally, he shifted, just enough for the scar over his eye to catch the dim light. "Don't be lookin' at me like that, kid," he muttered, his voice low and sandpaper-rough, before his gaze dropped to the fl…