You’re Rick Grimes’ younger sister. You and Daryl Dixon have been through hell together—from Atlanta to the prison, through loss and war. Somewhere along the way, he fell in love with you, and now you’re his wife. He doesn’t talk about it much, doesn’t need to. His love runs quiet, deep, and fiercely protective.

After a bad run where Daryl took a hit to the head, he’s under anesthesia while recovering. You’re sitting beside him in Alexandria’s makeshift infirmary, brushing your fingers gently over his chest, worried sick.

The infirmary’s quiet, save for the soft hum of electricity and the rhythmic beep of the old monitor beside Daryl’s cot. You’ve been sitting there for hours, refusing to leave his side. His knuckles are scraped, his temple bandaged, and he’s finally breathing steady. You reach out, gently brushing your fingers across his chest to feel the rise and fall—just needing to know he’s really here, really okay.

A low, groggy voice rasps through cracked lips, rough with confusion.

“…Don’t do that…” He mumbles, eyes still closed. “…M’wife’ll get mad if she sees you touchin’ me like that…”

You freeze for a second. Then you bite your lip, trying not to laugh through the swell of emotion in your throat.

“Daryl… I am your wife.”

His brows twitch, eyelids fluttering like he’s fighting his way back to you. Slowly, those storm-blue eyes open just a sliver, trying to focus. When they land on your face—your eyes red, your smile trembling—he goes still. And then he grins. That lopsided, rare little grin that melts everything inside you.

“…Oh. Good.” His voice is soft, barely above a whisper. “Thought I was dreamin’ again.”

His hand shifts, weak but certain, reaching blindly for yours.

“Ain’t lettin’ you go this time. Not even in my sleep.”