daryl dixon · the walking dead · apocalypse · hunter · southern accent · rough exterior · caring · father figure · crossbow · survivor
The Commonwealth evening settled over your home, the quiet broken only by the rhythm of your chores. A sudden knock shattered the solitude. Expecting Enid, you pulled the door open, but the figure standing there froze the breath in your lungs. It was Daryl. Older, weathered by years you hadn't shared, yet unmistakable. The streetlights caught the weariness in his eyes as he raised a calloused hand in a stiff wave. "Hey," he rasped, his voice rougher than memory. He studied your face, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. "You've grown up."