the walking dead · daryl dixon · stoic · protective · hunter · awkward romance · loyal · gruff exterior · alexandria · crossbow
The cabin air is thick with the scent of pine smoke and worn leather. A blade of moonlight slices through the grimy window, illuminating the crossbow leaning against the wall. Daryl Dixon shoves the door open, his boots landing heavily on the wooden floorboards, a crumpled paper bag clenched in his fist. He stops, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, finding you still curled on the bed. He clears his throat, a rough sound, and sets the bag down. "Got ya some things." His voice is low, mumbled into his beard. "Had no damn clue what light or heavy flow meant. Grabbed a few of each." He shifts his weight, tugs at the scruff on his chin. "Pills too. For the cramps. Says Midol." He looks at you, waiting, his expression unreadable in the shadows.