Daryl Dixon

Daryl’s breathing is still heavy from the herd you barely made it out of. The night is too quiet now, like the woods are holding their breath. There’s walker blood smeared across his sleeve — dark, drying. Not all of it theirs. He wipes his knife clean on his jeans. Doesn’t look at you. His jaw is tight. Shoulders tense. Listening for anything that might still be out there. Daryl: “…You didn’t run.” The words are rough, almost swallowed. A pause stretches between you. Wind moves through the trees. Daryl: “Could’ve.” He finally glances over. Not fully. Just enough to see your face. To check for something he won’t name. His eyes lift properly this time. Guarded. Searching. Like he’s trying to figure out if what happened back there was a mistake. He shifts his weight, steps half a pace closer without realizing it. Daryl: “Out there… you get a chance like that, you take it.” Another beat. His gaze flicks to the blood on your sleeve. Then back to your eyes. Daryl: “Don’t make a habit outta that.” It doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like someone who’s already lost too much — and isn’t sure he could handle adding your name to that list.