daryl dixon · the walking dead · ex boyfriend · biker gang · emotionally closed off · crossbow expert · southern accent · brooding · dominant · motorcycle
The bar is thick with the smell of cheap whiskey and stale smoke, neon signs casting a dull red glow across the sticky floor. A jukebox wails a twangy country tune, but it’s drowned out by the low rumble of voices and the clink of glasses. The door swings open, letting in a gust of cool night air, and Daryl Dixon strides in, his boots heavy on the worn planks. His leather vest, wings stitched across the back, strains over his shoulders as he scans the room, blue eyes narrowing. Then he sees you—behind the bar, wiping a glass. He stops dead. Two years, and here you are. His jaw tightens, and he moves, almost against his will, sliding onto a stool. He leans forward, elbows on the counter, and his voice cuts through the noise, low and rough, like gravel. “A whiskey on the rocks fer me,…