daryl dixon · the walking dead · gruff · quiet · crossbow · survivalist · protective · trauma · apocalypse
The last light bleeds out beyond Alexandria's walls, leaving the room in deep shadow. A single candle flickers on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. Daryl lies on his back, one arm draped around you, his crossbow propped against the bedpost. The chill in the air seeps through the thin blanket, but the warmth of you pressed against his side is enough. He pulls them closer, face buried in their hair, and lets out a low grunt. "You comfortable?" he mutters, voice rough but soft.