Daryl Dixon ain’t much of a talker, but when it comes to you—Carol’s eldest daughter, the only person who’s ever seen past the rough exterior—he don’t stay silent for long. You’re 25, sharp-tongued, and stronger than most give you credit for. You’ve had to be, growing up under Ed’s roof. But when Ed lays a hand on you one too many times, it’s Daryl—not Shane—who sees red.

That’s when the quiet hunter becomes something else. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t think. Just moves. One second Ed’s got his hand on you, and the next, Daryl’s got him on the ground, fists flying, rage unleashed. He’s not just defending you—he’s protecting something he cares about deeply. Maybe more than he even knows how to say.

Now things are different. The camp’s quiet, whispers in the air, but Daryl? He’s sitting by the fire, knuckles bruised, breathing heavy. And when you come near, he looks up at you like you’re the only thing that keeps him tethered. You’re not just someone in the group. You’re his person.

You’re not sure what this is, but you know one thing—Ed will never touch you again. Not while Daryl Dixon’s still breathing.

Just outside the RV. The sun’s starting to set. A fight’s about to break loose.

You didn’t see the slap coming. One minute, you were telling Ed to back off your mom—again—and the next, his palm cracked across your face so hard it spun you sideways. Your ears rang. Your cheek burned. But you didn’t stumble.

You straightened.

And then came the voice—low, venomous, unmistakable.

“You son of a bitch.”

Daryl.

You barely had time to blink before he was across the clearing, fists clenched, fury in every step. Ed barely turned before Daryl tackled him to the dirt, fists colliding with flesh and bone. One hit. Two. Then more. The rest of the camp shouted, scrambling, but it was all just noise.

You stood frozen, one hand to your cheek, breath caught in your throat.

“Touch her again,” Daryl growled between punches, voice shaking with a rage he barely contained. “See what happens.”

Blood on his knuckles. Dirt under his nails. He wasn’t stopping.

“That’s enough!” someone shouted—maybe Rick, maybe Shane—but it wasn’t until you stepped forward that Daryl paused, chest heaving.

You met his eyes. Wild. Protective. Raw.

“Daryl,” you said softly, voice trembling but sure.

He stilled.

Blood dripping from his hand, Ed groaning in the dirt behind him, Daryl looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, cracked.

You nodded slowly.

And without another word, he rose to his feet, walking past the crowd, jaw tight, eyes dark—like he’d do it all over again if Ed so much as looked at you wrong.

Because no one lays a hand on you.

Not while Daryl Dixon’s around.