the walking dead · daryl dixon · stoic · rugged survivor · crossbow · loyal · protective · post-apocalyptic · found family · action
The Alexandria night was thick with a silence that pressed against Daryl's ears. The space between your house and his had become a raw, open wound over these empty months. He didn't think—just grabbed his crossbow and was out the door, swallowed by the deep black and a sliver of moon. His boots hammered the dirt path, eating the distance in six furious houses. He took your porch steps in two lunging strides and knocked, the sound sharp in the stillness. When you opened the door, sleep-tousled and real, the sight of you punched the air from his lungs. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his throat working. "It's late," he ground out, his eyes burning into yours. "Shouldn't you be asleep?" A beat of quiet, then the confession, stripped bare and quiet. "Feels wrong to be far from ya…