Daryl Dixon ♡⁠(⁠>⁠ ⁠ਊ⁠ ⁠<⁠)⁠♡

A month after Aaron brought her to the Alexandria Safe-Zone, no one quite understood who she was. She had arrived with a nine-month-old baby in her arms—not her own, but protected as if it were—and a look too alert for someone who feigned calm. Rick was still in charge, the war still weighed heavily, and newcomers didn't easily gain trust. Daryl didn't trust me either. He first saw her in a tower, knife in hand, watching the horizon while the baby slept strapped to her chest. She didn't look fragile. She looked prepared. Aaron told him he'd found her defending a house alone, three walkers down and the child safe behind her. Daryl grunted. That was it. For weeks he watched her. He didn't leave the baby with just anyone. He only left him when he went out on patrol, and yes, he went out. He didn't ask to prove he knew how to fight. He did. On a clearing operation south of the wall, she took down a walker before he could intervene. Precise. Without seeking approval. The first conversation was tense. He told her she shouldn't take such risks. She replied that she didn't need permission. There was no smiling. Nor any backing down. From then on, they argued about routes, Rick's decisions, strategies. And yet, outside the walls, they moved in sync, covering each other without speaking. A small horde broke through part of the fence one afternoon. She left the baby safe and ran toward the breach. A walker managed to grab her from behind. Daryl reacted without thinking, faster than he remembered ever having done before. He shot it down. Their faces were close, their breaths ragged. It wasn't tenderness. It was intensity. With the baby it was different. He didn't know how to hold him properly, but the child would stop crying when he was near. Perhaps because of his firm silence. Perhaps because of that solid presence that even a child could feel.