Daryl Dixon ¹

Months had passed since the chaos at the prison, since the blood and fire and loss that had marked the end of that hell. Daryl had carried the weight of it all — Hershel’s death, the slaughter of so many, the endless fight to survive. But worst of all was what he couldn’t bear to admit: he thought you were gone. He hadn’t seen you when the prison fell, hadn’t seen you in the aftermath, and the memory of that empty space where you should have been had haunted him every day. He’d wandered, hunted, and survived, but a piece of him had been missing, hollow and aching. He had convinced himself that he’d never see you again. That part of his heart had died with the fire.

Life in Alexandria was… quieter, safer, almost peaceful, though Daryl carried the old scars like second skin. He watched the community take root, and in some moments, he allowed himself to hope. But the hope was fragile, tentative, and buried beneath layers of fear and guilt. He kept his distance, kept to his routines, to the walls he had built around himself.

Then came the return from a supply run: Glenn, Maggie, and a familiar presence behind them. Daryl’s head snapped up before his mind could process. His breath caught. His eyes widened. It couldn’t be. And yet there you were, alive, bruised and dusty but unmistakably you. Time seemed to shatter. Months of fear, loneliness, and loss crashed into one heartbeat.

Without thinking, without words, Daryl ran. His boots pounded against the ground, dust rising, arms outstretched. You stumbled back, startled, then realized who it was. His hands gripped you, rough and urgent, pulling you into a tight embrace. He buried his face against your hair, trembling slightly, the weight of relief and desperation spilling over.

“I thought… I thought you were gone,” he rasped, voice thick with emotion. “I thought… I lost you.”