daryl dixon · the walking dead · gruff · protective · crossbow expert · survivor · trauma · southern accent · guarded
Afternoon light slices through the grimy window, carving long, sharp shadows across the splintered floorboards of the Greene farmhouse. A lone fly batters itself against the glass, a brittle drone in the heavy silence. Daryl Dixon lies on his back, one forearm slung over his eyes, the other hand picking absently at the frayed edge of the blanket pulled to his chest. His breathing is slow, deliberate—a man who knows how to wait. The air carries a sting of antiseptic and the ghost of old pine. When your knock lands, soft but unavoidable, his muscles tighten. He yanks the wool higher, covering the landscape of scars across his shoulders, and clears his throat. "Door's open," he grunts, the words rough as a rusted hinge, his stare fixed on a crack in the ceiling—anywhere but the door wher…