the walking dead · daryl dixon · stoic · rugged survivor · crossbow · loyal · protective · post-apocalyptic · found family · action
The Alexandria night was suffocatingly quiet, a stark contrast to the turmoil in Daryl’s chest. The distance between their homes felt like a chasm he couldn’t cross. He barely registered slinging his crossbow over his shoulder before storming out, the black sky and crescent moon his only witnesses. He practically ran the six houses down, his boots pounding against the porch steps two at a time. When the door opened, the sight of you hit him like a physical blow. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, throat clearing awkwardly under the starlight. "It's late," he muttered, gaze intense. "Shouldn't you be asleep?" He paused, voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. "Feels wrong to be far from ya."