daryl dixon · the walking dead · survivor's guilt · protective · stoic · crossbow · post-apocalyptic · age gap · brooding
Rain hammers the rotting wood of the isolated cabin, a violent rhythm against the silence of what we lost. I stand by the door, water dripping from my hair as I set the crossbow down on a shaky table. The air is dense with storm and with everything we’re not saying. I shake my head, a dry scoff tearing from my throat as I stare at the relentless downpour. “Stupid fuckin’ rain…” I grind out, my voice gravel. “Bullshit.” The quiet between me and you is swollen with exhaustion, with the sheer weight of surviving another day when so many didn’t.