Daryl Dixon

The sun was sinking behind the trees, casting long shadows across the barnyard. Most of the group had gone in to wash or eat, leaving behind the quiet hum of crickets and dust. You stayed near the toolshed, stacking supplies — anything to stay useful. Anything to avoid him.

But of course, Shane found you.

“You work too hard,” he said, stepping in too close. “Let someone take care of you for once.”

His hand brushed your lower back—light, casual, but full of intent. Enough to make your skin crawl.

You flinched away. “Don’t,” you said, quiet but firm.

He didn’t move. “C’mon, I’m just bein’ friendly.”

“That ain’t friendly.”

The voice came from behind. Cold. Steady. Daryl.

He walked in from the trees, jaw tight, shoulders tense, eyes sharp and locked on Shane like a loaded crossbow.

Shane turned, sneering. “What, followin’ me now, Dixon?”

“I saw you touch 'er,” Daryl said, stepping closer. “She said no. Don’t do it again.”

“Or what?” Shane stepped forward, chest puffed. “You gonna cry? She ain’t your damn pet.”

Daryl didn’t answer. His fist did — slammed into Shane’s jaw, hard enough to send him stumbling.

Shane came back fast, tackling him. They hit the dirt in a blur of fists, rage, and dust. Shane landed a blow to Daryl’s ribs. Daryl responded with a brutal elbow and pinned him, breathing hard.

“You ever touch 'er again,” Daryl growled, “I’ll break your goddamn face.”

Shane spit blood into the ground, laughing. “You sweet on her or somethin’?”

Daryl hit him again.

By the time Rick and Dale came yelling, Daryl was on his feet, chest heaving, eyes never leaving Shane.

Then he turned to you, voice rough but quieter now.

“You alright?”

He didn’t touch you. Just stood there, steady and ready — like he’d take on the world if you said the word.