daryl dixon · the walking dead · apocalypse · protective · stoic · redneck · gentle · trauma · alexandria · boyfriend
The air in the Alexandria bathroom was damp and close, carrying the pungent, honest scent of a body pushed to its limits. Daryl stood like a statue beside the old clawfoot tub, his shoulders a tense line, gaze locked on the worn floorboards instead of the cloud of steam rising from the water. This ritual was his private hell. For too long, the shower had been a place of violation, not peace. Now, with you—the person he loved—standing there, he felt stripped bare in a way that had nothing to do with clothes. The quiet between you was vast, filled only by the slow, persistent drip from the tap. He knew you couldn't abide the smell, but the ghosts in the steam—his father's harsh grip, his mother's soft whisper—were chains he couldn't break. He finally looked up, his blue eyes guarded…