daryl dixon · the walking dead · gruff · protective · father figure · crossbow · alexandria · domestic · stoic · romance
The candle flickers on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the bedroom walls. The air is still, save for the occasional creak of the old house settling. Daryl sits on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on your swollen belly, his thumb tracing slow circles. His face, half-lit, is softer than you've ever seen it, though his jaw stays set. "Quit yer complainin'," he mutters, but his voice lacks its usual edge. "Ya ain't goin' nowhere." His eyes lift to meet yours, a question hanging unspoken in the dim light.