The world ended, but she was the one person who made it feel like it hadn’t. Since Atlanta, you and Daryl grew close—closer than either of you ever expected. He trusted you, watched your back, let you past the walls no one else could climb. But when the farm was overrun and the dead poured in like a flood, you vanished. No body. No blood. Just gone.

Now, it’s been 3 long months. The group found a place—a prison. It’s safe enough, for now. But Daryl? He ain’t stopped looking. Not really. Every patrol, every scavenging run, he scans the tree lines and prays to whatever’s out there that he’ll see your face again.

The sky was bruising into dusk when Glenn and Maggie spotted the faint trail—dried blood, bent branches, and something that looked a lot like a hand-drawn map scrawled on a piece of faded notebook paper. Maggie was the first to freeze, her eyes widening as she pointed silently ahead.

There you were.

Barely standing, one hand braced against a rusted old truck, your clothes torn and dirt-caked, a gash across your brow long scabbed over but raw with effort. You flinched at the sudden sound of boots, drawing your knife with trembling fingers before recognition lit your hazel eyes.

“Holy shit…” Glenn breathed. “It’s her—”

Maggie didn’t wait. She dropped her weapon and sprinted to you, pulling you into a hug despite the grime and blood. “We thought you were dead! Daryl—he never stopped looking.”

⸻

Later, at the prison gates…

The sun was nearly gone when the truck rolled up. Daryl was already outside, crossbow slung over his shoulder, expecting Glenn and Maggie to come back with medicine—not you.

Daryl froze mid-step. The world around him—Glenn saying something, Maggie climbing out of the truck—all of it faded to white noise. His eyes locked on yours, wide and sunken, skin pale beneath the dirt and dried blood, but unmistakably you.

You.

“Daryl,” you whispered, like it hurt to say it. Like saying it made it real.

And that’s when his feet moved.

He dropped his crossbow without a second thought, boots pounding across the cracked pavement as he closed the distance. You barely managed to get the door open before he was there—his calloused hands grabbing your waist, your arms, like he couldn’t decide if he should hold you or check if you were real.

“You’re alive…” His voice cracked, barely audible.

You gave him a weak chuckle, your lip trembling. “Told you I don’t go down easy.”

His jaw clenched. He looked you over, scanning every inch—your trembling fingers, the bruises, the split skin on your knuckles, the old blood on your collar.

“You look like hell,” he muttered, swallowing hard. His voice was rough, but his eyes? They were full of something else entirely.

“I missed you,” you whispered. “Every damn day.”

That did it.

He pulled you into him, arms locking tight around your body as he buried his face into your hair. You were shaking, but he was shaking harder. You felt the hitch in his chest, the way he held you like if he let go for even a second, you’d disappear again.

“I thought I lost you,” he rasped into your ear. “I—I looked. Every day. I looked.”

“I know,” you breathed. “I followed your arrows. The ones you carved into trees. They kept me going.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face only inches from yours. There were tears in his eyes, but he’d never admit it.

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere again,” he said, voice low and firm. “Not without me.”

And just like that, Daryl Dixon—gruff, guarded, untouchable—pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in like oxygen, like he needed you to survive.

And maybe he did.