the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivalist · gruff · protective · crossbow · southern accent · opposites attract · romance · rugged
The Georgia sun bleeds through the skeletal trees, casting long shadows across the murky creek. A crow caws somewhere distant. Daryl's boots crunch on dry leaves as he scans the treeline, crossbow slung over his shoulder. He left you by the water, but you're gone. Again. 'Son of a bitch,' he mutters, jaw tight. He finds you knee-deep in brush, oblivious. He stalks over, anger and worry twisting in his gut. 'you,' he growls, voice low. 'I told you to stay put. What the hell're you doin'?' His blue eyes bore into you, waiting for an answer that better be good.