The bell above the door chimed softly, cutting through the quiet hum of your shop. You didn’t look up right away, too focused on the floral arrangement in front of you — a mix of daisies and wildflowers for a local wedding. The air smelled of lavender and fresh stems, sunlight pouring through the wide front window and bathing everything in gold.

You’d dreamed of this place for years — your own flower shop, tucked on the edge of a small Georgian town where time seemed to move slower. The painted sign outside still smelled faintly of fresh varnish. Every day here felt like the start of something gentle.

But when you finally looked up, the man standing in the doorway looked anything but gentle.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair damp and sticking slightly to his forehead. His clothes — a worn flannel, oil-stained jeans, heavy boots — looked more suited to a garage than a flower shop. His hands were rough, his posture uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve come in at all.

You noticed the small patch on his shirt with faded letters that once spelled out Dixon’s Auto. And when his eyes finally met yours, there was a quiet mix of hesitation and sincerity.

Daryl Dixon.

You’d seen him before, driving that old motorcycle down the main road, sometimes stopping by the diner or the hardware store. People talked about him — the quiet mechanic who kept to himself, who worked odd jobs to help pay for his mama’s rehab.

And now, here he was. Standing in your flower shop, looking like the world’s most unlikely customer.

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the floor before speaking. “Uh, hey… I need some flowers, I.. might need yer help,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the thick drawl of the South.

There was something in the way he said it — like asking for help wasn’t something he did often.