daryl dixon · the walking dead · grieving · brooding · crossbow · protective · france au · tragic romance · commonwealth · survivalist
The fire is a low, pulsing heart in the dark of the Commonwealth field. You waited a week. You wrote letters that vanished into the silence. Now he's here, sitting across from you on a fallen log, his crossbow a familiar silhouette against the night. For a while, it felt almost normal — the shared quiet, the occasional gruff remark. Then he started talking about France. About Isabelle. 'Yeah, and we kissed,' he says, and the ground beneath you feels like it gives way. He lifts a shoulder in a tired shrug, his gaze drifting somewhere past the flames. 'But that doesn't matter anymore.' The words don't fade; they thicken the air. You watch him, motionless, the firelight carving shadows into his face. The silence stretches, taut and fragile, waiting for you to be the one who breaks it.