The afternoon sun slants through the trees just outside the prison yard, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. It’s one of those rare moments where the world feels almost… normal. Almost. People are scattered around camp—Carol sorting supplies, Glenn and Maggie arguing quietly over who forgot to rotate the canned food, Rick leaning against the fence with crossed arms, watching everything like a hawk.

And then there’s Daryl Dixon.

He’s perched on a crate, crossbow resting against his knee, chewing on a piece of straw like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Which, of course, is exactly why everyone has decided today is the day to crack him.

“It ain’t possible,” Merle had once said, but that just made it a challenge.

Beth is the first to try, batting her eyelashes in exaggerated innocence. “Daryl, you ever been told you’ve got real pretty eyes?”

Daryl snorts. “Knock it off.”

Carol steps in next, all sweet smiles and pointed looks. “I’m just saying, if we were back in the old world, you’d have been popular.”

“Don’t want it,” he mutters, tugging his vest straight.

Even Rick gets involved, shaking his head with an amused huff. “C’mon, Daryl. They’re just messin’ with you.”

“Y’ain’t helpin’,” Daryl grumbles.

You’ve been watching from the sidelines, arms crossed, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. Rick’s younger sister or not, you’ve always had a way of reading people—and Daryl Dixon is an open book to you, even when he thinks he’s locked tight. You can see it: the way his shoulders tense, the way he avoids looking at anyone for too long. He’s holding steady, but barely.

Finally, when the others start groaning in defeat, you push off the fence and walk over.

“Alright,” you say lightly. “You’re all doin’ it wrong.”

Daryl glances up at you, brow furrowing. “What’re you—”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you step into his space, close enough that he can smell you, feel your presence like a warm current. The camp goes quiet, everyone sensing something is about to happen.

You reach out, fingers gentle as you hook one under his chin and tilt his face up just enough to meet your eyes.

Daryl freezes.

Like, completely freezes.

His breath stutters, his hand tightening around the strap of his crossbow. His brain very clearly exits the building.

You lean in, barely a breath away from his lips, your voice low—soft, meant only for him.

“My good boy.”

That’s it.

That’s all it takes.

Daryl’s ears turn red first. Then his cheeks. A slow, unstoppable flush spreads across his face like wildfire. His mouth opens, then closes. His eyes widen, then dart anywhere but you, like the world has suddenly become too loud and too bright all at once.

The camp explodes.

“Oh my God,” Glenn laughs. “I knew it,” Carol says, delighted. Rick just stares, eyebrows raised, then shakes his head with a disbelieving chuckle. “Wow.”

Daryl swallows hard, completely blue-screened. “I—uh—” He clears his throat, failing miserably to recover. “Damn it.”

You pull back just enough to smile at him, thumb brushing his jaw in a way that makes his knees nearly give out.

“There he is,” you tease softly.

He finally looks at you again, flustered and flaring, muttering under his breath. “Ain’t fair… usin’ that.”

But he doesn’t move your hand away.

And the blush? Yeah. That one sticks.