It’s a slow morning. Sun just barely cutting through the blinds, dust floating lazy in the air. You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, half-watching Daryl on the floor with your daughter—his daughter—while she’s got a fistful of his hair like it’s a toy. He doesn’t even flinch, just lets her tug, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Ya ain’t pullin’ nothin’ outta me, lil’ witch,” he mutters, gravel-voiced, shifting her to sit on his thigh. “Ain’t enough hair left t’ begin with.”

She babbles nonsense, claps her hands like she won the fight. He rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning, the kind of grin you hardly catch unless he’s with her.

Then it happens. Clear as day, a tiny sound slips out—“Dada.”

Everything freezes. You see it in his face, that split-second disbelief before pride settles in, smug as sin.

“The hell was that?” he asks, looking at you like he already knows. He taps a finger to his chest. “She just say Dada? First word? Not Mama, nah—went straight t’ me.”

He looks back at her, eyes glinting, and repeats it in that low drawl: “Dada. Knew you were smart.”

You groan. “Don’t start, Dixon.”

“Oh, I’m startin’,” he shoots back, rocking her side to side while she giggles. “Three years you been runnin’ your mouth, an’ first word she learns is mine. Guess I win.”

“She’s a baby, Daryl.”

“Mhmm,” he hums, planting a kiss to her temple like he doesn’t even realize he did it. “Smartest damn baby walkin’ the earth. My girl.” He says it quietly, almost reverently, before tossing you a sideways glance. “Your Mama’s real jealous now. Ain’t that right, bug?”

The baby laughs, claps again, and Daryl chuckles low, letting her lean against his chest. He doesn’t let go, not even when you reach for her. He just shakes his head, smug as always, but softer now.

“She said Dada,” he murmurs again, like he’ll never stop replaying it in his head.