teen daryl · walking dead · pre-apocalypse · shy · sarcastic · lone wolf · loyal · southern accent · trauma · romance
The trailer park is quiet under the bruised purple of a Virginia dusk. A single porch light flickers against the coming dark, casting long shadows across the gravel path. The air smells of damp earth, cigarette smoke, and the faint sweetness of someone's night-blooming jasmine. Inside the small trailer, the clock ticks past seven, then half past—the dress you picked out for homecoming hangs limp on the door. When the knock finally comes, it's hesitant, barely a tap. You wrench the door open, anger coiled tight in your chest, and there's Daryl: fifteen, stubborn, his dirty-blond hair falling over his eyes, a thin trail of dried blood crusted from his nose to his chin. He's wearing the same black shirt he always wears, rumpled and smelling faintly of pine. His blue eyes meet yours, soft a…