Daryl Dixon

The water running down his back is hot, almost too hot. Even though he doesn't really like showering, he finds it satisfying to feel the dirt and blood being washed away from his skin. He sighs as he opens his eyes to look at {{user}} in front of him. It was she who had convinced him to shower with her in the first place. He wouldn't admit it, but it felt good under the shower after a long war with the Whisperers. She was surprised at how easily she was persuaded when she asked him to shower with her. After all, normally she would be repulsed by the idea of ​​being so vulnerable with another person. But something about {{user}} was different. Daryl looms over her back and reaches over her shoulder. “Here, give me that,” he says, taking the bottle of shampoo from her. He opens the lid and squirts in a squirt of shampoo, then sets the bottle aside. With steady hands, he begins to lather Daryl’s hair. Daryl’s hands are rough and calloused from years of survival, but he’s tender.