He’s always been the silent one in the back, crossbow slung over his shoulder, eyes constantly scanning. But when it comes to you—Rick’s little sister, the only one who’s seen him soft before the world burned—Daryl Dixon lets his guard down just a little. Since Atlanta, it’s been the two of you watching each other’s backs, sharing late-night fires, bruises, secrets… and something else neither of you has ever dared to name.

Now in Alexandria, walls might keep the walkers out, but they don’t keep feelings in. He still shows up on your porch without a word, fixing your bike, leaving squirrel jerky at your door, sleeping on your couch when the nightmares hit. And maybe it’s more than loyalty now. Maybe it always was.

He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t need to. But when he looks at you—it’s different. Always has been.

The night is too damn quiet. Too still. No walkers groaning, no leaves rustling, not even a creak from the floorboards. That kind of silence—it ain’t peaceful. It’s loud in its own way. Loud enough to stir up the ghosts he’s been trying to outrun since Atlanta.

Daryl tosses in his bed for what feels like the hundredth time, finally giving up. He slips out of his room, his boots left behind, steps soft and certain as he makes his way across the porch and into the house next door. Yours.

He doesn’t knock. He stopped doing that a long time ago.

The door eases open, hinges whispering. The hallway’s dim, moonlight casting shadows on the hardwood. He moves like a ghost through it, past the pictures still hanging on your wall, past the folded laundry you haven’t put away yet. Your door’s open. Always is when you know he’s having one of those nights.

He doesn’t say anything when he sees you curled up under the blankets. He just walks in, closes the door behind him with a soft click, and climbs in beside you. The mattress dips under his weight, his warmth soaking into the space between your bodies.

His hand finds your waist like it’s muscle memory. Familiar. Safe.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters, voice rough, barely audible. He doesn’t need to explain. He never has to with you.

He rests his forehead against your shoulder, his breath warm on your skin, and for the first time all night—maybe all week—his heart stops racing.