sophi

@porndaryl

18 ﹒ obsessed with old men

8 posts

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤmasterlist 、

@porndaryl. . . she/her eighteen non native english speaker latina introvert occasional writer in love with older man middle sister february aquarius

#𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑙 :

Pancake Day

Summary: Daryl always caves for your little girl.

Setting/Tags: Daryl as a dad, sweet domestic moments,, no specific timeline.

Word count: 890

<masterlist>

-

“Daryl!”

You scream from the top of your lungs, the small bundle of joy kicking and crying in your arms is more like a nightmare in this very moment.

“Daryl!”

You yell again, hoping your better half would come and rescue you from this mess.

“The hell’s goin’ on here?”

The door flings open, there stands your man with the sun at his back. He wipes his oil stained hands with a rag, eyes scanning the room – food scattered all over the table and floor, milk still running down the table.

With your daughter in one arm, still crying her heart out like she’s finally realised the world ended ages ago, you pick up the plastic plate from the floor.

this man is so girl dad coded omg

#daryl dixon #the walking dead

━━━ 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 :

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 :

( oneshots )

why you've been fixing my things? : unspoken mutual pining , fluff

daisies on the roud : soft angst , fluff

an invisible architecture of affection : just fluff

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤAn invisible architecture of affection

A/n: this isn't exactly a one-shot, but it's a short story about daryl and you showing affection in this quiet way. i particularly love writing about this so…

There was a comfortable distance between you and Daryl—the kind born not of dislike, but of two different kinds of solitude respecting each other. It wasn’t coldness, nor a lack of interest; it was simply the silent acknowledgment that you both carried your own walls and felt no rush to tear them down. On patrols, trust was unspoken: a glance was enough to coordinate your movements; a tilt of the head could replace entire maps. You knew he had your back, and he knew you wouldn’t hesitate. But outside of that, when the arrows rested and Alexandria’s gate closed behind you, words withered before they could be born. You exchanged information about supplies the way people trade tools—useful, practical, impersonal. “Need more ammo?” “The pantry crew asked for help tomorrow.” And that was it.

And in the mess hall, Daryl remains the same; he was an island. He wasn’t actively isolated—no one veered away from him out of fear or contempt; in the beginning, people had even tried to pull him into conversations. But he simply arrived already apart, wearing an armor of silence as naturally as someone who’d worn it for far too long. He sat in the corner, back to the wall, eating fast, his eyes sweeping the room as if he were still on watch, even in peacetime. He observed more than he participated. And you observed this about him without judgment, because you understood, deep down, that there was something deeply familiar in that way of inhabiting the world from the edges.

Maybe that was why you had never pushed. Maybe that was why the distance lasted so long—not from a lack of desire to bridge it, but from an excess of respect that could sometimes look uncannily like shyness.

Until the night you arrived late to the mess hall.

It had been too long a day. The pantry felt endless: boxes upon boxes of supplies to organize, inventories that had to be redone, and the smell of dust and cardboard clinging to your clothes. Your arms ached, and your head throbbed faintly with that hunger that crosses the line and becomes exhaustion. Walking into the mess hall, the warm buzz hovering over the tables almost made you turn back—too many people, too much noise, everything you didn’t want after a draining day. Your eyes swept the room, looking for an empty seat, anywhere, just to sit and eat in peace. But the tables were full, the benches taken by laughing bodies, serving dishes passing from hand to hand.

There was only one empty spot.

Next to him.

You hesitated for three heartbeats before hunger won out over pride—or it wasn’t really pride, but more that old unease about bothering him, about puncturing a bubble he seemed to guard so carefully. You gripped your tray tighter and walked over. “Mind if I…?” The question came out low, almost swallowed by the background noise. Daryl raised his eyes slowly, his expression as neutral as a still lake, and you noticed that he looked tired too—maybe more than you. There was dust on the shoulder of his vest and a fresh scratch on his forearm that hadn’t been cleaned yet. He shrugged, a minimal gesture, almost dismissive of its own importance. “Ain’t my chair.”

You sat down. His silence wasn’t hostile—it was just silence. The rare kind that doesn’t demand to be filled, that doesn’t push you out. He went on eating; you did the same. The sound of cutlery on plates made a quiet music between you. And somehow, that was a relief. Not having to speak. Not having to fake an energy you didn’t have. Just being there, side by side, each with your own hunger, each with your own fatigue, but together.

The following night, the scene repeated itself almost identically. You were late again—this time because of a meeting that ran long, not the pantry—and there he was, in the same corner, the same slightly hunched posture, the same gaze roaming the room like a lazy lighthouse. And the seat beside him was empty. You didn’t hesitate as much. You just went. Didn’t even ask, “mind if I?” this time; you just pointed at the chair with a lift of your chin, a silent question. He shifted his elbow barely an inch, making space, and that wordless answer was more eloquent than any sentence.

The third night, you realized your feet already knew the way.

And the night after that too. Sometimes because the mess hall was full. Sometimes because you arrived late. Sometimes because sitting in the middle of the chaos, with conversations popping off on all sides, required an energy you didn’t want to spend after a full day of work. And sometimes, you had to admit, because sitting next to him was just calmer. Daryl’s corner was an oasis of quiet in the middle of Alexandria’s social noise—nobody came over to pull you into idle chatter there, nobody dragged you into gossip or complaints. It was just him, you, and the background hum.

Little by little, the silence changed its texture. From empty to full.

At first, you barely looked at each other. Then, you began to trade those quick glances that said “you seein’ this?” when someone was arguing loudly at the next table. The corner of a mouth lifting in an almost smile when the argument verged on the ridiculous. An arched eyebrow of complicity when someone told the same story for the tenth time. Then came the small observations in low voices, almost shared thoughts: “Eugene’s at it again…” “It’s cold tonight.” “The food’s better, finally.” Nothing deep, nothing revealing, but they were words that hadn’t existed before. And each one was like a stone laid across the river—small, unsteady, but enough to begin the crossing.

You began to build a rhythm of your own, a clumsy dance with no choreographer. If you sat down first, he would arrive later and take the place beside you without asking, as if it were already understood. If he arrived first, there was always a second chair strategically empty next to him—and it took you weeks to realize it wasn’t a coincidence. When you finally noticed, you felt something warm spread through your chest, a shy little creature you chose not to name.

The communication between you started needing fewer whole words. Half-phrases were enough. Sometimes, silence was enough. There were days when you arrived too exhausted to string anything together, and Daryl seemed to understand that without you needing to explain. He’d just shoot you a sidelong glance, that blue heavy with old storms, and go back to eating, giving you space even inside closeness. Other days, it was him who came in carrying an invisible weight on his shoulders—a rough patrol, maybe, or one of those days when the world felt too heavy—and you returned the favor, staying quiet beside him, present but asking nothing.

You caught yourself looking for him the moment you entered the mess hall. Your eyes scanned the tables automatically, hunting for the dark vest, the hunched shoulders, the hair falling over his face. When you found him, a subtle knot in your chest came undone—a sensation so small you could barely describe it, but one that made all the difference for the rest of the night. On the days he wasn’t there, because he hadn’t made it back from a run yet or was on guard at the gate, the mess hall seemed louder than it should be, fuller, more exhausting. You ate faster on those days. And you hated admitting to yourself why.

Daryl, in turn, developed his own rituals—rituals connected to you, though he would never admit it, not even to himself, maybe especially not to himself. If he got to the mess hall first, his eyes would already pick a table with two free chairs. Not a big table, where other people might join; a small one, tucked in the corner, that fit exactly two. If someone tried to take the space beside him—that space that had no name, no sign, no official owner—he’d feel a strange irritation bubbling in his stomach, without any rational reason. He never said anything, of course. He’d just grow quieter, more closed off, until the person left of their own accord, discouraged by the wall of silence. And then he waited.

He waited for you to arrive, late and slightly breathless, tray in hand and tiredness in your eyes. And when you finally appeared, he’d glance away quickly, as if he hadn’t been paying attention, as if your presence or absence made no difference. But the corner of his mouth would relax almost imperceptibly, and the space beside him remained there, available, held by chance—or by whatever it was he refused to name either.

And then the small gestures began. The objects.

The first was a flashlight. It appeared on your worktable one morning, small and silver, with fresh batteries. You furrowed your brow and turned the object over in your hands, searching for a clue, a note, anything. Nothing. When you asked someone, they shrugged. Only later, when you crossed paths with Daryl in the hallway, he averted his eyes quickly and muttered something about “nights getting longer” and “you walking around alone out there.” It wasn’t an explanation—Daryl never gave explanations. But it was enough.

Then came a book. You’d mentioned weeks before, in one of those almost-whispered mess hall conversations, a book you’d read before everything fell apart—a silly story, nothing important, about a detective in a rainy city. You didn’t even remember giving details; it had been a comment tossed to the wind while you pushed food around your plate. But one day, coming back to your room, you found the book perched on your doorstep. It wasn’t the same title, but it was the same genre, worn and yellowed, rescued from some dusty shelf in the world outside. He never mentioned it. You never thanked him out loud. But the next night, you sat down next to him a little closer than usual, and he didn’t pull away.

And then came the chocolate.

It was after a particularly long run. You were in the mess hall, alone that night, when Daryl appeared in your field of vision like a silent shadow. He said nothing—just set something wrapped in slightly dirty paper beside your plate and kept walking, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if he hadn’t just placed a rarity in front of you. You unwrapped it. A chocolate bar, a little squashed, a little melted at the edges, salvaged from the back of an abandoned market where it had probably sat since before the apocalypse. It looked like gold. You looked toward him, already across the room, his back turned, busy serving his own plate as if he’d done nothing out of the ordinary. But he had. Every one of those objects was a message he didn’t know how to say in words: “I saw this and thought of you. You exist in my head even when we’re not side by side.”

Neither of you ever talked about it. The objects kept appearing now and then, without fanfare, without demands. A piece of fruit that was almost at its peak, and he split it. A small knife he returned was sharper than when he’d borrowed it. An extra blanket that showed up on your chair on a particularly cold night. And you reciprocated in your own way: you saved food for him when he came back late from patrols, a covered plate waiting at the corner of the table even after you’d already gone to bed. You left hot coffee in his thermos without him asking. Signs. Traces. Small proofs that the distance of the beginning no longer existed.

All of Alexandria noticed before you did. People exchanged knowing glances when they saw the two of you entering the mess hall around the same time, always sitting together, your bodies tilting toward each other without you noticing. No one commented directly—they were afraid of scaring off whatever was growing there, as if your relationship were a skittish creature that would flee at the slightest noise. But eyebrows arched. Elbows nudged discreetly. Once, Carol passed by you both on your way out of the mess hall and gave a small smile, almost imperceptible, but heavy with meaning. You pretended not to see. Daryl grumbled something inaudible and walked faster. But the heat in your ears betrayed what your mouth didn’t say.

Because the truth was that something had changed. That distance from the start, that armor of silence Daryl wore, hadn’t disappeared—no one sheds a defense built over years just like that. But it now had a door. A small door that only opened inward, and only when you were near. And the two of you, with the patience of those who understand that some things need time to put down roots, kept tending that new territory without naming it.

You kept sitting together. You kept leaving little things for each other. You kept trading glances that said more than any speech ever could. And deep down, even without words, you already knew: that empty place beside him wasn’t empty anymore. And it never would be again.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ㅤㅤㅤDaisies on the road ❜

pairing: ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ㅤdaryl dixon & f!reader

c/w: daryl dixon (season 5); mentions of walkers and mild peril; past character death referenced (Merle); emotional vulnerability, tears, and soft angst with a comforting ending.

Daryl had never understood that whole flower thing.

To him, weeds were weeds. They grew, they died, they covered the ground or told you if the soil was any good. That was it. He knew a few by survival instinct—which ones bore fruit, which were poisonous, and which could handle the winter. But never, in all the years of his life, before or after the dead started walking, had he stopped to think about what a flower could mean.

You changed that. Not all at once, but slowly, the way daylight changes, so gradually he didn't even notice when he started paying attention.

Because you had this thing. This way about you. Whenever you passed through some trail and spotted a flower—any flower, even the scrappiest one, with wilted petals and a crooked stem—your eyes would transform. They'd catch a different kind of light, a brightness Daryl didn't see in anyone else in that gray, broken world. You'd stop, crouch down, and for a few seconds you'd forget the danger, forget the walkers, and forget the hunger and the fear. You'd just stay there, admiring it, like that fragile little thing was the most important thing of all.

And he'd watch. Not the flower. But you.

At first, he thought it was silly. Then he started finding it curious. Then, without realizing it, he began waiting for those moments. He'd end up looking for flowers along the path just to see if you'd notice. And when you did, when your eyes lit up and your mouth curved into that smile, his chest would warm. It was a weird thing, something he couldn't name. A good kind of ache. A tightness that hurt and comforted at the same time. He didn't understand it. But he didn't want it to stop either.

He remembered one afternoon especially. A while back now. They were camped by a creek, the whole group exhausted after days of walking. You'd found wild tulips growing between the rocks, near the water. You knelt in the damp earth and stayed there, your hands hovering over the petals without touching them, afraid of hurting them. You started talking. You said tulips stood for true love and renewal because they were the first to push through the soil after winter. You explained that each color meant something different—red for passion, yellow for joy, and white for forgiveness.

Daryl was leaning against a tree, arms crossed, pretending he was just resting. But he remembered every word. The way your hands drew shapes in the air. The laugh you let out when you realized you were talking too much. Your eyes shone so bright it almost hurt to look. He stored it all away in some quiet place inside himself, a place he didn't even know existed before you showed up.

Time passed. Things changed. Alexandria came along, bringing walls and some safety. But what didn't change was what Daryl felt. It only got bigger and deeper. He still didn't name it. Maybe he didn't know how. Maybe he was afraid to.

Until one day the idea came. Small, almost silly. He was on a supply run, passed through a clearing full of wildflowers, and thought of you. Imagined your eyes lighting up. Imagined your smile. His chest warmed. And the idea took root.

He was going to find you a field of flowers.

It wasn't easy. He spent weeks on it. On his runs, he started straying from the usual routes, paying attention to something he'd never paid attention to before. He learned to read the land with different eyes—not just for danger, but for beauty. Once he found a small field, but it was full of purple flowers he didn't recognize and didn't know if they were any good. Another time he found a patch of daisies near a road, but it was too close to the walls, too easy. You deserved something special. Something he'd really searched for.

He almost died twice. The first time, a herd passed too close, and he had to hide in a sewer pipe for hours, the smell of death soaking into his clothes. The second time, a walker came out of nowhere while he was checking a trail and nearly sank its teeth into his arm. Daryl handled it with his knife, quick, but his heart raced in a way it didn't race anymore.

One night he slept out in the open. He'd gone too far, the sun dropped, and he had to wedge himself into the branch of a tree, his back aching against the bark, his crossbow in his lap. He didn't close his eyes. He listened to the groans below, but his mind was on you. What you'd say if you saw that field. Your eyes. Your smile.

And then, on an afternoon of fierce sun, he found it.

The field opened up before him like something alive. Wild daisies as far as he could see. The wind made waves, and the yellow swayed like the ground was breathing. The smell was sweet and fresh, a light perfume. Daryl had never smelled before. He stopped. His crossbow lowered. His eyes swept over the vastness of color, and for a long time he just stood there, in silence. He thought of you. Of your voice talking about tulips. Of the light in your eyes.

His chest ached. But it was a good ache.

He walked slowly through the field, the flowers brushing against his boots. He crouched down. His calloused hands, used to the crossbow, the knife, and hard and rough things, touched the stems with a care no one would ever believe he had. He picked them one by one. He chose the prettiest ones, the ones with the most open petals, the deepest yellows. Some were so pale they looked almost white at the center; others were golden and vibrant, like they'd swallowed the sun.

He gathered them into a bunch. He tied the stems with a piece of old twine he carried in his pocket. His hands worked slowly, thick fingers making a clumsy but firm knot. When he finished, he held up the bouquet and looked at it. It was crooked. The flowers weren't perfectly lined up. But they were alive. They were beautiful. He hoped you'd think so too.

And then came the problem. How to carry them back?

The backpack was impossible—the petals would get crushed, the stems would snap, and he'd arrive in Alexandria with a handful of yellow dust. Carrying them in his hands was the only option. But the image flashed through his mind like a mocking ghost: Daryl Dixon, the tracker, the lone wolf, the guy everyone looked at with a mix of respect and caution, crossing miles of deserted road with a bouquet of fluffy flowers in his hand. He almost snorted out loud.

But then he thought of you. Of the look on your face when you saw them. Of the brightness that would spark in your eyes. And the pride, that old thing he carried like a second skin, shrank. Became small. Ridiculous.

He held the flowers in his left hand and started walking.

The way back was long. The sun burned the back of his neck, and sweat ran down his spine, sticking his shirt to his body. He kept his right hand free, ready for the crossbow, his eyes sharp for any movement. But his left hand stayed steady on the stems, his fingers forming a protective shell around the twine.

Every now and then, he looked at the daisies. He watched a petal come loose and float to the ground. He stopped. Looked at it lying in the dusty earth. He pressed his lips together. Adjusted the flowers with even more care and kept going.

Another petal fell. Then another. He felt a tightness in his chest, a foolish, childish fear that the flowers would wilt before he got there. That you'd never see how beautiful they were. That all that effort would be for nothing.

If Merle were still alive, he'd laugh. He'd laugh until his soul left his body. He'd say Daryl had gone soft, a sap, a lovestruck idiot. But Merle wasn't there anymore. You were. And that was all he thought about as the hours passed and the road stretched on and the sun sank slowly toward the horizon.

When the walls of Alexandria appeared, Daryl's heart kicked. It wasn't the fear of walkers. It wasn't the adrenaline of the hunt. It was something else — a new kind of anxiety, a nervousness that rose up his throat and left his mouth dry and his hands sweating. He looked at the flowers one last time before going in. Some petals were crumpled. One daisy had lost more than half its yellow. But the bouquet was still beautiful. He wanted so badly for you to like it. He wanted so badly to see that brightness.

The gate groaned, and he stepped inside.

Alexandria was quiet, that warm space between afternoon and evening. A few people were walking down the main street—Eugene waved from a distance, and Rosita passed by carrying a box and said something he didn't register. Daryl didn't answer anyone. His eyes were already sweeping the place, searching.

His left hand squeezed the stems harder than he meant to. Then he saw you.

You were sitting on the steps of the house. The house you shared—well, the house you split, each with your own room, each with your own space, but the same door, the same porch, and the same comfortable silence at the end of the day. You had a book in your lap, but you weren't reading. Your gaze was far away, lost in the clouds drifting slowly across the orange sky of dusk.

The light hit your face in a way that softened everything. Your hair was half loose, messed up by the afternoon wind. You were nibbling your lower lip, distracted, thinking about something he didn't know—maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Daryl stopped. A few yards away, he stopped and just looked.

There was a peace in your expression that he couldn't find anywhere else. People were always tense, always armed, always on alert. But you, in that moment, were at peace. It was a simple, quiet beauty. And it hurt. It hurt in his chest in a good way, a way he'd never felt before you.

He started walking again. His boots made noise against the old asphalt. The sound brought you back. You blinked, came out of your daydream, and your face turned toward him.

First, your eyes swept over his body. It was a gesture you always made, automatic, instinctive. You checked his shoulders, arms, torso, and legs. He looked for blood, tears in his clothes, and any sign that something had gone wrong. Your eyes were quick and efficient. And when you saw he was whole—dirty, tired, but whole—your shoulders relaxed. An almost invisible sigh escaped your lips.

But then your eyes dropped and stopped on the flowers.

Daryl saw the moment. He saw every detail. It was like watching a door open in slow motion. First, your eyebrows lifted, just a little, a millimeter, barely anything. Then your lips parted. Your hands, which had been resting absently on the book, went still. Frozen. The world seemed suspended for a second—the wind stopped, the distant sounds of Alexandria vanished, and everything faded.

"Daryl…?" Your voice came out as a thread. It wasn't really a question. It was more like you were testing reality, checking if your eyes were lying. His name left your lips, carrying an emotion; you didn't even try to hide the surprise, disbelief, or something deeper that vibrated between the lines.

He didn't answer.

His throat was dry. Words always fled from him in the important moments. He just stopped in front of you. Close. So close he could see the tiny golden flecks in your eyes, things he'd never noticed before, or maybe he'd always noticed and just never admitted it. His hair hung over his face, dirty from the road, but he didn't push it away. Instead, he raised his left hand and held the bouquet out to you.

His eyes, always so hard, always so closed off, were different now. Open. Vulnerable. There was nervousness there, an almost childish fear of rejection. There was an expectation. A flicker of hope. But there was also a tenderness he'd never let anyone see. Because no one had ever gotten close enough. Only you.

He didn't know how to make speeches. He didn't know how to declare anything. He didn't know how to turn what he felt into pretty words. But he could do this. He could give you the flowers and wait. Wait for you to understand. For you to read between the lines of the gesture, everything he couldn't say.

Three seconds passed. Maybe four. An eternity. And then your hands moved.

It was slow. So slow. Like you were afraid to touch the flowers and find out they weren't really there—that it was a dream, something that would dissolve at the slightest contact. Your hands rose, hesitant, and settled over his.

The touch was electric.

Your fingers met his over the green stems—yours, soft, with short nails and warm skin; his, rough, calloused, covered in small white scars. They were completely different hands, but they fit together right there as if that was the only place they were ever meant to be. Daryl felt a jolt run up his arm, a warmth that spread fast and settled right in the middle of his chest.

You took the bouquet with both hands and pulled it close to your body. You pressed it against your chest like you were holding something precious, something that could break. Something sacred.

Your eyes dropped to the flowers. And what he saw on your face made the air disappear.

You ran the tips of your fingers over the petals. One by one. With a delicacy that was almost a prayer. You felt the texture, the remaining freshness, the small imperfections. Some daisies were bruised from the journey—crumpled petals, one stem slightly bent—but you didn't seem to mind. Your eyes traveled over the different shades of yellow with a quiet reverence, and your mouth curved slowly, very slowly, into a small, incredulous smile.

And then you lifted your eyes to him. And they were full of water.

It wasn't sadness. It was an emotion so big it overflowed. Your eyes shone, and the tears gathered in the corners, trembling, not yet falling. Your lashes grew heavy. You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice came out choked, almost a whisper.

"You brought me flowers." It wasn't a question. It was a realization. But there was so much wonder in your voice, so much gratitude, so many unspoken things, that it sounded like you didn't quite believe it yourself. Like no one had ever done a gesture like this for you. Like it was the first time.

Daryl looked away. He always did when something moved him too much. He scratched the back of his neck—that old tic, that shield—and looked at the ground. At his own boots. At the fallen petal between you. At anything but your tear-filled eyes.

"They're daisies." His voice came out low, almost a mutter. "Don't know what they mean. You're the one who knows that stuff."

You let out a wet laugh. It was a beautiful sound, half broken, half sweet. You lifted one hand to your face and wiped away a tear that had escaped. Then you looked at the flowers again, and the smile grew.

"Daisies mean purity, loyalty, and patient love." Your voice still trembled, but now it had a different warmth. A sweetness. "They're simple flowers, but they say a lot. Whoever gives daisies is saying they'll stay."

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon oneshot

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀Why you’ve been fixing my things? ❜

ㅤpairing: ㅤdaryl dixon & f!reader

c/w: daryl dixon (season 5); mild romantic tension; emotional vulnerability; unspoken mutual pining; mention of firearms (repair); comforting ending.

You had just caught Daryl in the middle of the night, sitting on your couch, focused on fixing one of your pistols that had jammed earlier that day, right after you and Rick had returned from a long and exhausting supply run. The atmosphere was silent, except for the occasional sound of metal being adjusted and the slight creaking of the couch under his weight. You stood in the doorway, wearing only your nightgown, watching the hands of the man intently, trying persistently to find a way to fix that piece of metal that seemed to be the last one on Earth. He hadn't yet noticed your presence there, immersed in his thoughts and the task at hand.

You had known for a long time that you harbored feelings for Daryl, and you knew he felt the same way about you; it was a feeling that intensified with each passing day. But seeing him sitting in your living room, so engrossed in something that was yours, was a shock.

The sounds of the metal being tuned ceased suddenly, and you noticed Daryl was looking at you in a way you'd never seen before. It was an expression of fear, a vulnerability that contrasted with his usual strong and fearless demeanor. Your eyes met in an instant that seemed to stretch for an eternity, making you both stiffen, and the silence around you became almost palpable.

You try to return to your relaxed and friendly nature, striving to remain calm amidst the tension of the moment. "I wasn't expecting a visitor…" you say, attempting a calming tone, but then a nervous laugh escapes your lips, and you find yourself averting your gaze from the man sitting on the sofa, who still displays that strange and confused expression, as if trying to process the situation.

Daryl, soon after, tries to articulate some words to answer you, but they seem to get lost inside his mouth, as if they were struggling to find a way out. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, only unrecognizable grunts that echo in the silent air. Meanwhile, he averts his gaze, focusing anywhere but you, as if that could help disguise the shame that overwhelms him.

You, noticing Daryl's state, can't help but find it extremely endearing how this man, who during the day seemed so carefree and fearless, now appeared like a wet dog, embarrassed for having been caught in an awkward situation. The way he tried to compose himself but failed to hide his own vulnerability only made everything even more captivating and cute. "Can you help me understand what's going on here?" You ask, somewhat curious to know what he would answer.

"I found this broken gun and figured I’d try fixin’ it… that’s it," Daryl said in a low tone, but still trying to be confident, even knowing that this excuse was extremely blatant at that point. He tried to look at you with an expression that mixed nervousness and determination, as if he were trying to convince not only you but also himself that what he was saying was the truth.

“And why would you be doing this in my house exactly?" You asked in a somewhat ironic tone, raising your eyebrow slightly, knowing that what he had said was a lie. The situation was almost comical, because he knew that gun was yours, and you were sure it wasn't the first time Daryl had done something like this without giving you an explanation. One day, you complained to him that something in your house was breaking or about to break, and the very next day, everything was in perfect condition, as if what you had seen was an illusion.

Daryl remained silent, lost in his own thoughts in response to your question. He knew there was no escaping this embarrassing situation, but at the same time, he didn't want to succumb to his pride in any way, so he continued sitting there, his eyes fixed on the floor, as if he wished to disappear at that moment, to vanish completely from the world that surrounded him, if that were somehow possible.

You watch the scene intently, trying to decipher what was going through his mind. He certainly didn't want to admit why he was there, and you could feel the resistance in his posture, and, knowing Daryl the way he is, you knew the last thing he would do would be to confess the real reasons behind his actions—you wondered if he even understood what he was feeling.

“Could you at least tell me why you’ve been fixing my things?” You ask, trying to sound as neutral as possible, but your tone carries your frustration, already aware that he would probably remain silent, leaving you without an answer like always.

“I just wanted to look out for you or somethin'," Daryl murmurs, his words coming out hesitantly, as if each syllable required considerable effort, but still looking directly at you this time.

A slight smile appears on your lips as you realize what those simple words really mean to both of you.

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