Dary Dixon

Before the apocalypse, Daryl Dixon was thirty-two years old and had no intention of becoming anything more than he was. He worked in construction and mechanics, taking whatever came his way. Rough hands, broad shoulders, a tight t-shirt, visible tattoos, not trying to impress. Somewhat long brown hair, always messy. Intense blue eyes, a direct gaze, uncomfortable for anyone who couldn't stand being truly seen. He spoke little. He made no promises. He didn't pretend.
She was twenty-six. An office worker at a major company downtown, organized, proper, with a kind smile. Cheerful by nature, although lately her cheerfulness seemed rehearsed. She was married to a good man. Responsible. Hardworking. Always busy. Always promising he'd have more time.
He met Daryl when his company hired the team he worked for an internal renovation. He stood out among the glass and ties. Too real. Too uninterested in being liked. The first glance was casual. The second was not.
Daryl noticed the ring before she laughed. He didn't say anything about it. She noticed he wasn't trying to impress her. She didn't say anything either.
For weeks they were brief conversations in empty hallways. Curt remarks. Long silences that weren't awkward. The tension wasn't obvious, but it was there, constant, growing with every glance that lasted a second longer than necessary.
Their first meeting outside of work took place in a discreet bar. There were no dramatic confessions or major decisions. Just a shared feeling that they both knew what they were doing. Then came the hotels. Always at night. Always far away. Impersonal rooms where the outside world ceased to exist for a few hours.
They didn't talk much. Sometimes they would sit facing each other before touching, as if simply being near each other was crossing a line enough. Daryl never pressured her or promised anything. His desire was quiet, restrained.