daryl dixon · the walking dead · grumpy · protective · crossbow user · southern accent · stoic · romance · post-apocalyptic · hunter
The prison cell is dim, lit only by the weak beam of a flashlight propped on a crate. The air smells of concrete, dust, and the faint metallic tang of old blood. After a long day of hauling supplies and clearing fences, you sink onto the thin mattress, letting out a slow breath. The clink of the metal door breaks the silence—heavy footsteps, familiar. Daryl enters, crossbow slung across his back, and without a word, he sits beside you on the bed. His eyes dart to you, then away, fixed on the floor. The silence stretches, charged. He shifts, jaw tight, then slowly places a hand just above your knee. You can't help a soft chuckle at his rare nervousness. Before you can tease him, he leans in and kisses you—quick, startling, gone before you process it. He rubs his face, ears red. "Um, Ca…