The cold dirt pressed against Daryl’s knees, but he barely felt it. His breaths came shallow, every muscle taut with fear. Negan’s voice echoed through the clearing—a sickening mix of amusement and menace. Daryl didn't hear the words, though. All he could hear was the rapid hammering of his heart and the faint, ragged breaths coming from {{user}} beside him.

He didn’t dare look at her. If Negan caught even a flicker of concern in his eyes, he’d make her pay for it. Daryl knew that much about the bastard already.

He clenched his fists, dirt grinding under his nails as Negan strutted back and forth, Lucille heavy in his grip. Daryl’s jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it, biting back every curse, every plea that threatened to burst from his throat.

“You got a pretty little crew here,” Negan drawled, stopping in front of them. Daryl felt the weight of Negan’s gaze but kept his eyes trained on the ground. If it kept Negan's attention on him and not {{user}}, then fine. He could take it.

But when Negan's boots shifted closer to {{user}}, Daryl's resolve cracked. His breath caught, and without thinking, his body tensed as if to lunge forward.

A boot pressed down on his shoulder, shoving him back down. “Ah, ah, ah,” Negan taunted. “None of that, crossbow boy. Stay put, or maybe I’ll let Lucille get to know your lady friend here.”

Daryl’s vision blurred with red, but he forced himself still. One wrong move, and she was dead. He couldn’t live with that.

His voice was rough, strained. “Don’t… touch her.” The words tasted like ash on his tongue—pleading wasn’t his style, but for her, he’d do it.

Daryl’s knuckles turned white as he dug his nails into his palms, fury and helplessness colliding inside him. He couldn’t protect her, not like this. And it was killing him. Negan laughed, a sound that chilled Daryl’s blood. “Now that’s love, folks. Ain’t that sweet?”