Dixon Lover

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[ruinsandreveries]

you watchin' me or somethin', sunshine?

summary; daryl doesn’t sit in the back anymore. he sits next to you, stays close, and lets people see it.

warnings; slow burn, mutual pining, canon-typical setting, quiet intimacy

The meeting had already started to fill by the time you arrived, the low hum of conversation settling into the room like a steady current, voices overlapping in that easy, familiar way that came with people who had learned how to exist together in close quarters, how to build something like normal out of whatever pieces they had left. 

You hadn’t meant to come early. 

It had just… happened. 

Tara had been talking, Denise half-listening and half-correcting her on something that didn’t really matter, and you’d followed along with them without thinking too hard about it, letting yourself be pulled into the rhythm of it rather than questioning why your steps had picked up a little when you got closer to the building, why your eyes had flicked once—just once—toward the path that led from the gates. 

That you weren’t looking for anyone. 

And still, when you took your seat, you shifted just slightly to one side without really noticing it at first, leaving space where there didn’t need to be any, your body adjusting on instinct more than decision, like it was making room for something it expected even if your mind hadn’t caught up yet. 

Tara dropped down beside you with a soft exhale, stretching her legs out in front of her like she planned on staying a while, Denise was called away by someone near the front before she could settle, leaving you with the open stretch of bench that should’ve been filled by now and somehow… wasn’t. 

You didn’t think about it. 

Not really. 

Not until the door opened. 

It wasn’t loud, not enough to draw the whole room’s attention, just the faint shift of air and movement that came with someone arriving late, but your head turned anyway before you could stop it, your gaze lifting like it had been waiting for the excuse. 

And there he was. 

Daryl stepped inside like he always did—unbothered by the fact that people had already gathered, by the fact that the meeting had started without him, like none of it applied in quite the same way it did to everyone else—and for a second he just stood there, eyes adjusting, taking in the room without rushing it. 

Then his gaze found you. 

Not searching. 

Not surprised. 

Just… landing there. 

Like it had always been the destination. 

Your shoulders dropped before you noticed they’d been tight, before you could pretend it didn’t, your mouth curved without permission, not wide, not obvious, but enough that it was there, enough that it didn’t need to be anything more. 

He didn’t hesitate. 

Didn’t even glance toward the back corner where he usually sat, where the shadows were thicker and the distance from everyone else gave him something closer to comfort. 

Instead, he moved straight toward you. 

Like it wasn’t a choice. 

Like it hadn’t been for a while. 

Tara noticed first. 

Of course she did. 

Her elbow nudged lightly into your side, subtle enough that no one else would’ve clocked it, but deliberate enough that you felt it immediately, her voice low under her breath as she leaned just slightly closer. 

“Oh,” she murmured, amusement already threading through the single syllable, “well, that’s new.” 

You didn’t respond. 

Didn’t give her the satisfaction. 

Your attention already shifting back before she could say anything else, because Daryl was closer now, close enough that the space you hadn’t meant to leave suddenly didn’t feel accidental at all. 

He reached the bench and, without breaking stride, dropped into the seat beside you like it had always been his, like it had been waiting for him just as much as you hadn’t meant it to, his weight settling in a way that shifted the wood beneath you both. 

His arm came up as he leaned back. 

Easy. 

Automatic. 

Draping along the back of the bench behind you like it belonged there, like it belonged with you, and the movement should’ve been casual, should’ve been nothing, except his fingers didn’t quite stop where they should have. 

They brushed. 

Light. 

Barely there. 

Against your far shoulder. 

And stayed. 

Not gripping. 

Not pulling. 

Just resting there in that almost-touch that somehow felt more deliberate than anything else he could’ve done, the heat of it seeping through fabric in a way that made your breath catch just slightly before you could stop it. 

You turned your head toward him just enough, leaning in the smallest fraction so your voice wouldn’t carry. 

“You’re late,” you whispered. 

It wasn’t sharp. 

Wasn’t annoyed. 

Just… noted. 

Daryl tilted his head a fraction, his gaze shifting down toward you, and there was something different in it now—something quieter than teasing but not far off, something that had learned the shape of your reactions and wasn’t afraid to test them. 

“Yeah?” he murmured back, voice low, rough in that way that always seemed to settle somewhere under your skin whether you wanted it to or not. 

He leaned in. 

Closer. 

Close enough that his shoulder pressed lightly into yours, close enough that his breath brushed warm against the shell of your ear when he spoke again. 

“You watchin’ me or somethin’, sunshine?”

It shouldn’t have done anything. 

It did. 

Your spine straightened before you could stop it, a subtle, involuntary reaction that you felt more than saw, your breath catching just enough to give you away, and for a second you forgot entirely what you’d been about to say in response because your body had decided to react first and think later. 

Daryl noticed. 

Of course he did. 

You felt it in the way his fingers shifted slightly against your shoulder, not pulling away, not correcting the contact, just… lingering a little more deliberately now, like he’d clocked the effect and wasn’t about to waste it. 

There was the faintest hint of something like a smirk at the corner of his mouth when he leaned back again, settling into the space like he’d just confirmed something he hadn’t been entirely sure of before. 

“Thought so,” he added under his breath. 

You shot him a look then, something caught between warning and something far less steady, but it didn’t land the way it should’ve, not when he was already sitting there like that, already too close, already too comfortable. 

Next to you, Tara shifted slightly, Denise on her other side. The meeting carried on up front, voices blending into something steady and easy to ignore.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Tara’s attention drifted once—brief, almost absent—before she looked forward again like it hadn’t meant anything.

Denise noticed.

A small glance. Then away.

A pause settled between them, quiet but not empty.

“…Mm,” Denise murmured under her breath.

Tara’s mouth twitched faintly. “Don’t.”

Denise didn’t look at her. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

That got the smallest reaction—a shift of Denise’s shoulder, almost a shrug.

“Was I?”

Tara huffed softly through her nose, something amused in it despite herself. “Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—like she couldn’t quite help it—

“…subtle.”

Denise’s gaze flicked sideways for half a second before returning forward. “You’re one to talk.”

Tara leaned back slightly, conceding that with a faint, crooked smile.

Neither of them looked again.

Not obviously, anyway.

The meeting carried on, filling the space before either of them could say anything else.

Up front, someone started speaking—something about supply counts, about planning ahead, about trying to organise something resembling a summer gathering to keep morale up—but the words blurred together at the edges, harder to focus on than they should’ve been when Daryl shifted beside you again. 

Not away. 

Closer. 

His thigh pressed lightly against yours.

Firm. Unavoidable.

Like he wasn't testing anymore.

When you didn’t move, didn’t pull away, his fingers adjusted slightly where they rested behind you. 

Then they moved. 

Slow. 

Absent-minded on the surface. 

Deliberate underneath. 

Tracing the faintest pattern along the curve of your shoulder, back and forth in a way that had no purpose other than the fact that he could, the motion steady enough that it became impossible to ignore after a few seconds, impossible to pretend it wasn’t happening. 

Your breath hitched again, quieter this time. 

You kept your eyes forward. 

“You ever gonna listen,” you murmured under your breath, just enough for him to hear, “or are you just here to be a problem?” 

Daryl huffed softly beside you, something low and almost amused. 

“Multitaskin’,” he muttered. 

Your lips pressed together, fighting something that wanted to show a little too clearly. 

“Right.” 

His fingers didn’t stop. 

Didn’t even slow. 

And when the meeting carried on around you, voices rising and falling, plans being made that you only half registered, Daryl stayed exactly where he was, close and steady and entirely unbothered by who might notice like sitting beside you—like touching you—wasn’t something new anymore. 

Just something he did now.

[possumofalexandria]

I love this version of daryl sm😭😍😍

[dilfdecimator]

when he’s thrice my age, smoking and covered in blood

i am very normal about this man

[possumofalexandria]

Smoke & blood

Tears hit harder than bullets

pairing: daryl dixon x fem!reader

era: alexandria, pre-negan

genre: heavy angst - hurt/comfort - protective daryl

summary: stray bullet during herd breach catches you instead of a walker. daryl carries you back soaked in your blood, both of you crying while denise works. he stays through fever, breaks when you wake.

warnings: gunshot wound/blood, daryl crying (heavy), reader tears/panic, breakdown, hurt/comfort, light swearing, accent thick with emotion.

-----------------------------------------

Herd smashed the east wall like a fist through glass. Walkers flooded the gap—rotting hands clawing concrete, teeth snapping air. You ran flank with Daryl, knife flashing, breath burning lungs.

A shooter on the broken walkway above fired wild into the mass. Bullet cracked past Daryl's head—meant for a walker behind him. You saw it spin, glint silver in chaos.

No time to think. You grabbed his arm, yanked hard.

Gunshot punched your side. High through muscle, just under ribs. Fabric tore. Blood bloomed instant and hot. Your knees buckled. Knife clattered dirt. Tears welled fast—shock, pain, fear crashing together.

Daryl spun, eyes wild. *"NO—"*

Pain hit late—white-hot fire ripping sideways. You gasped wet, hand clamped over the hole. *"Daryl—it hurts—"* Sobs broke free, tears streaming hot down cheeks.

He caught you before you fell, arm hooked under yours. *"C'mon—MOVE!"* Voice broke raw through the drawl. Killed two walkers one-handed. Blood poured between your fingers, soaking his vest. Your free hand fisted his shirt, tears soaking his collar. *"Don't you—"*

***

Denise was waiting when he kicked the infirmary door open. *"Cot—now."* She moved fast, hands steady despite the blood.

Daryl eased you down shaking. Your hand stayed locked on his shirt. *"Daryl..."* Voice slurred, tears spilling free.

*"Right here. Eyes on me."* Thumb jammed your pulse, slick with blood. His own tears broke then—silent at first, then harder. *"Why'd ya do that? Fuckin' stupid—"* Voice cracked apart.

*"Couldn't let it hit you..."* Hiccupped sob. *"Scared... hurts so bad..."*

His face crumpled. Free hand cupped your cheek, thumb swiping tears even as his fell faster. *"I know darlin', I know. You're safe now. Denise got it. Just breathe f'me."* Shoulders heaved. Stubble scraped wet skin as he pressed blood-slick knuckles to his mouth. *"Ain't lettin' ya go."*

You blacked out sobbing. Woke once to his voice—choked, desperate: *"Stay with me stay—"*

***

Fever burned hours away. World blurred to heat, pain, his hand never leaving yours.

Dawn cracked the blinds. Fever broke slow. You stirred, breath shallow. Daryl's head jerked up, eyes raw red, face streaked with dried tears and blood.

He leaned close, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaky. *"There ya are."* Voice wrecked gravel. *"How you feelin'? Talk to me."*

*"Hurts..."* Faint whisper. Fresh tears pricked your eyes.

*"Yeah. Yeah it does."* Rough thumb brushed them away. *"You scared the hell outta me. Thought I was watchin' ya bleed out right there in the dirt. Couldn't—"* His voice broke again, fresh tears spilling. *"Never wanna feel that again. Heart stopped when I saw ya go down."*

You nodded weak, tears slipping sideways. He exhaled ragged, thumb still tracing your cheekbone. *"Listen close now. I take the hits from here. Not you. Me. We watch each other. Yeah?"* Rough fingers squeezed yours, flaking dried blood. *"Ain't losin' ya to no stray bullet. Swear it on my life."*

Your fingers curled weak in his. He pressed his lips to your knuckles—soft, lingering, blood and salt and him. *"Sleep now. I ain't movin'."*

You did. His hand stayed. Blood dried together on his shirt. Tears dried together on your skin.

World still burned outside. Here? His breathing synced with yours. His thumb traced endless circles on your wrist. Door stayed closed. Just you. Him. Alive.

[possumofalexandria]

Starlight Stops

Your panic meets his patience, every time.

pairing: daryl dixon x fem!reader

era: alexandria, pre‑negan

genre: soft angst - comfort - established-ish relationship

summary: things get heated, your brain flips, and you use the safe word you and daryl picked on a quiet night on the wall. he doesn’t pull away—he just listens, slows down, and holds you through the comedown.

warnings: emotional intimacy, implied sexual content (non‑explicit), anxiety/overstimulation, safe word use (“starlight”), past trauma implied, reassurance and grounding, light swearing.

-----------------------------------------The lights in Alexandria were out again.

Someone said it was the grid, someone else blamed a blown fuse, but you didn’t really care. The dark made the room feel smaller, safer, lit only by a couple of candles you’d shoved onto the dresser. Outside, you could hear a few distant voices on the street and the faint creak of the wall. Inside, it was just you and Daryl.

He sat on the edge of your bed at first, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to take up space there. Vest off, hair a little messy, hands twisting together in his lap. That alone tugged at your chest—Daryl Dixon, deadliest man you knew, nervous in a dim little bedroom because of you.

“You don’t gotta look so tense,” you teased gently, nudging his knee with yours. “I’m not gonna bite.”

He snorted, eyes flicking to you with the quickest of smirks. “Yeah, well. Can’t say the same ‘bout you a few days ago. You nearly took my head off for stealin’ your coffee.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was justified.”

The small talk calmed you both. Eventually his hand found its way to yours, fingers brushing your knuckles, rough skin dragging over softer. When you didn’t pull away, he laced your fingers together, looking down at the way your hands fit like he was memorizing it.

“Still sure ‘bout this?” he asked, voice low, accent thicker in the quiet. “Ain’t in no hurry if you ain’t.”

You nodded, heart skipping. “I’m sure, Daryl.”

He swallowed, nodded once, then leaned in.

The first kiss was soft—softer than you expected from a man who spent most of his days covered in mud and blood. He tasted like cigarette smoke, his hands moving up to cradle your jaw with surprising care. He kissed you like he was trying not to scare you off.

You leaned closer, fingers sliding up into his hair. He made a sound low in his throat, almost surprised, and the kiss deepened. Slowly, carefully, he let the tension bleed out of his shoulders.

Minutes passed like that—slow kisses, quiet breaths, both of you finding your rhythm. When he shifted to guide you back onto the bed, he paused halfway, eyes checking in.

“Still good?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still green.”

He huffed a little laugh at the word, remembering the conversation. “Alright then.”

You lay back, and he followed, bracing one arm beside your head so his weight didn’t crush you. His other hand roamed—over your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hip—always broad, always warm, but never grabbing. Each touch gave you time to feel it, recognize it, decide if you wanted more.

You did.

He kissed down your neck, slow and reverent, drawing out a shiver. “You’re shakin’,” he murmured against your skin. “Cold?”

“Not cold,” you admitted, cheeks burning.

“Good.” There was a smile in his voice now. “’Cause I ain’t bringin’ no damn blanket.”

You laughed, and the sound loosened something in him. His mouth wandered, his hand slipping under your shirt to rest flat against your stomach. His thumb traced mindless shapes there, the touch sending little sparks through your nerves, but nothing overwhelming yet.

Time blurred.

He explored in inches, not miles—up your spine, down your side, pausing every so often to ask, “Here okay?” or “This alright?” Each time, you answered yes. Each time, you meant it. The slow build made you feel safe, anchored, wanted.

You almost forgot there was a world outside that room.

Eventually, though, the heat crept higher. The kisses grew a little hungrier, his breathing rougher against your cheek. His leg slid between yours as he shifted his weight, pressing you more firmly into the mattress.

At first, the pressure felt good—solid, grounding. You curled your hands into his shirt, pulling him closer, chasing the warmth of him. He went willingly, a soft curse caught in his throat.

“Damn,” he rasped, nose brushing your jaw. “You’re gonna kill me, girl.”

You smiled, dizzy in a good way. “You’re the one on top of me.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and fond. “Lucky me.”

He trailed kisses down to your collarbone, his hand sliding higher under your shirt, fingers splaying over your ribs. The sensation made your breath hitch—but still okay. Still wanted.

Then his grip tightened without meaning to, his fingers pressing into old bruises and old memories. The combination—his weight, the trapped feeling, the way your lungs suddenly felt too small—sent a flicker of static through your brain.

It wasn’t a hard shift. It wasn’t a violent snap. It was more like the volume in your head turning up one notch too far.

Your chest started to feel tight.

You tried to focus on him—the warmth of his breath, the familiar scent of sweat and leather and smoke. But your heart was beating too fast now, and your body was sending mixed signals. Half of you was still here, wanting him; the other half was somewhere else, pinned down by hands that didn’t listen, years ago.

“Daryl,” you tried, voice thin. He hummed against your skin, not quite catching it.

The pressure didn’t increase, but your awareness of it did. His forearm bracketed your head, his thigh between yours, hand spread under your ribs. You could move if you needed to—you knew that—but your body didn’t fully believe it.

The air felt thicker. Thoughts started jumbling.

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowed, and reached for the one thing that cut through it: the word you’d chosen together, sitting on the wall with his boots kicked up and his eyes on the trees.

“If you ever say it,” he’d told you, “I ain’t gonna argue. I ain’t gonna sulk. We just… stop. Reset. That’s it. No shame, no nothin’. Just means we listen.”

Now, you listened to that promise.

“Starlight,” you said, clearer this time. “Starlight.”

Everything slowed, like someone eased off the gas instead of slamming the brakes.

He stopped moving immediately. His hand went still, his mouth lifting from your skin. He didn’t vault away or make a scene; he just shifted his weight off your chest, moving his knee so you had more room.

“A’right,” he said quietly, breathing hard but steady. “Okay. We’re pausn’. You good to sit up? Or want me to roll off first?”

The calm in his voice grounded you more than anything else.

“Roll off?” you managed.

“Gotcha.”

He eased himself to the side, careful and deliberate, leaving one hand resting light on your forearm—there but not heavy. Once he was on his back beside you, he tilted his head, watching you with those searching eyes.

You drew in a few deeper breaths, feeling the room widen out again. The ceiling came back into focus. Your heart started to slow.

“There she is,” he murmured, a little relief coloring his tone. “Talk to me. Head too loud?”

You nodded, wiping at your face before you even realized you’d gotten teary. “It was good and then it just… flipped. Didn’t wanna ruin it.”

He shook his head faintly. “You didn’t ruin nothin’.” The drawl wrapped around the words, warm and sure. “You said starlight. I stop. That’s how this works.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You make it sound easy.”

“Ain’t easy,” he said. “But it *is* simple.” He tapped the mattress between you. “This is the deal: you listen to your head and your gut; I listen to you. If that means we stop, we stop. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you. Doesn’t mean I’m mad. Just means we’re smart.”

You turned your head toward him, searching his face for any hint of frustration. All you found was concern and a gentleness he probably didn’t even know he was showing.

“You okay?” he asked. “Like… do you need space, or you want me closer?”

“Closer,” you said immediately, surprising yourself.

His mouth twitched into a tiny smirk. “Yeah? Thought so.” He scooted just enough that your shoulders touched, then slowly—very slowly—lifted his arm in silent invitation. “You wanna…?”

You moved into him before he finished, tucking yourself against his side, head on his chest. His arm came around you, resting easy at your back. No pressure. Just warmth and steady weight.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, feeling his heart still thumping fast under your ear. “You’re still… um,” you said, flushing even in the dark.

“Worked up?” he supplied, a low chuckle rumbling under your cheek. “Yeah. Ain’t gonna lie. But that’s my problem, not yours. I can walk it off. Or think ‘bout Merle singin’—that usually kills the mood.”

You snorted, the mental image ridiculous enough to break the last of the tension. “That’s evil.”

“Effective, though,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “Point is, you ain’t gotta carry that. You ain’t responsible for every feelin’ flyin’ ‘round my dumb ass.”

You relaxed fully then, the guilt easing out of your muscles. “I’m glad we have starlight,” you admitted quietly. “I’m glad you… meant it.”

He pressed his chin lightly against the top of your head. “’Course I meant it,” he muttered. “Ain’t say things I don’t mean. ‘Specially not to you.”

The room settled into a softer silence. His thumb started tracing lazy circles where his hand rested at your side—a comforting touch, nothing more.

After a while, he asked, “You think maybe, sometime, we try again? Slower, or different. Only if you want.”

“Yeah,” you said, surprising yourself with how sure it sounded. “I do. I just… might need starlight now and then.”

“That’s what it’s there for,” he replied. “Hell, I might use it one day. You get me all twisted up, I might need a breather, too.”

You smiled against his chest. “Deal.”

His breathing evened out, syncing with yours. The candles burned lower, shadows crawling across the ceiling. Outside, the world was still harsh and unforgiving. Inside, wrapped in Daryl’s arms with your safe word honored and your voice heard, everything felt… survivable.

You didn’t feel guilty for saying it.

You felt trusted.

And in this world, that kind of safety was rarer than anything.

[possumofalexandria]

Ashes in the Pines

pairing: daryl dixon x fem!reader

era: pre‑negan (alexandria)

genre: angst - found family - hurt/comfort - romance

Summary: A walker’s bite should’ve ended your story, but it didn’t. so you ran — from alexandria, from the truth, and from the man who would’ve burned the world to bring you home.

warnings: references to blood & injury, survivor’s guilt, panic, crying (a lot of it), language

word count: 7k

a/n: this is soft apocalypse tragedy. rain in the woods, silence instead of closure, and the kind of love that never asks for permission.

----------------------------

The sky bled gray as you slipped out of Alexandria.

Rain hung low in the air, soft as smoke, and everything smelled like iron and pine.

You didn’t take much — just your knife, a canteen, a pack of bandages. You couldn’t risk them coming after you, and you couldn’t stand to see Daryl’s face if you stayed.

You’d been bitten.

The walker had caught you on the shoulder before he could reach you. His knife dropped it instantly, but not before the damage was done.

The pain was white‑hot for a second, then numb. Daryl’s voice was the only sound you could hear.

“Where?” he’d breathed, already shaking.

You pulled your sleeve tight over the mark. “It’s okay.”

“It ain’t!” His hand was already reaching for your shoulder.

You stepped back. *“Don’t… please.”*

He caught your wrist, eyes glassy. “You tell me right now.”

You said the thing that would hurt the least, even if it was a lie.

“It barely broke skin.”

The desperate belief in his face gutted you. You knew he’d go to war with anyone who tried to touch you. And Rick—Rick would hate himself for doing what he had to do.

So before sunrise, you were gone.

You ran until you couldn’t anymore. The pain faded to an ache, and the wound never changed. No fever. No death. No hunger. It was the second bite you’d lived through, but no miracle ever felt so cruel.

You told yourself this exile was mercy — for them, not you. They’d move on, rebuild, survive without wondering if you’d turn on them in the dark.

At least, that was the lie you repeated every night when you talked to yourself in the dark cabin you found ten miles north of the wall.

But every time the wind rustled through the trees, you swore you heard the rumble of Daryl’s bike, somewhere miles away.

He *did* go looking.

Every dawn, the sound of his engine left Alexandria at first light and didn’t return until stars filled the sky. Rick didn’t order him to stop—he couldn’t. The quiet heartbreak Daryl carried was too heavy for anyone to bear twice.

“She’s gone, man,” Glenn said once, softly.

Daryl shook his head. “Then why can’t I stop seein’ her every time I close my damn eyes?”

Rick sighed, sadness hollowing out his voice. “If she’s still out there, Daryl, bring her home. No matter what she’s become.”

Daryl’s jaw clenched. “She *ain’t* one of ’em. I’ll know if she is.”

It happened on an evening heavy with rain, the air bright with thunder. The group had been clearing an old highway stop, restocking fuel and medicine.

Carol was the one who noticed first — a lone figure at the treeline, crossbow raised in no man’s land.

When Daryl turned, time split.

You stood there, soaked to the bone, staring back at the community you thought you’d never see again. Their voices rose in disbelief—Carol’s hand over her mouth, Glenn stepping forward, Rick frozen.

Daryl didn’t move. For a heartbeat, he looked afraid to. His voice broke when he said your name.

“Y/N?”

Your throat closed. “Hey.”

Maggie’s eyes darted to your shoulder, to the faded scar you hadn’t bothered to hide. Around you, silence fell so hard you could hear the rain hitting the dirt.

Rick took a step closer, slow and cautious.

He stopped short. The truth hung there.

You should’ve turned days ago.

Rick’s hand twitched like he might reach for his gun, but he didn’t. His tone gentled instead — that same pained softness he’d used before. “You didn’t turn.”

You shook your head, voice breaking. “I never do. I just— I didn’t know how to tell you.”

No one spoke for a long time. Then Carol breathed out, tears catching in her eyes. “Oh, honey…”

Rick’s gaze softened, sadness mixing with awe. “You thought we’d put you down.”

You nodded once, tears sliding down your cheeks. “I couldn’t make you do that. Or him.”

You glanced toward Daryl. He looked wrecked — anger, relief, love twisting through him all at once.

“You let me think you were dead” he said hoarsely.

“I thought it was better.”

He shook his head, voice cracking open. “Better for who? You think I been sleepin’, eatin’, doin’ anythin’ but losin’ my mind every damn night wonderin’ if you—” He stopped himself, eyes glistening. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

You stepped forward, trembling. “I didn’t want you to see me as somethin’ to save.”

He swallowed hard, eyes never leaving you. “Ain’t about savin’. It’s about you.”

You blinked, rain and tears blurring everything. “Daryl…”

He stepped the last few feet, close enough that the group instinctively backed up, understanding. His hands hovered, not quite touching you, like if he blinked, you might vanish again.

When he finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “You’re home.”

That broke you. You fell into his arms. His hands gripped the back of your jacket, pulling you tight against him like he was anchoring himself to reality.

Rick turned away, brushing at his face. “Let them be,” he murmured to the others.

The world kept raining, but for the first time in weeks, it felt clean.

Daryl held you long after words stopped meaning anything. When you finally pulled back, his breath trembled against your hair.

“Don’t run again,” he said softly.

“I won’t,” you whispered. “Not if you still want me here.”

He looked at you with something fierce and steady — the kind of love he never had words for. “Ain’t want anyone else ever since I met you.”

And with the group watching quietly from the tree line, the two of you walked back through the rain toward home.

[serenelotus]

i'd never ask for anything else🙏🏻

[possumofalexandria]

😭😭