Daryl Dixon stands leaning against the porch railing of one of the houses in Alexandria, arms crossed over his chest, crossbow slung casually over one shoulder. His hair’s a mess today, sticking up like he slept wrong and didn’t bother fixing it—because he didn’t. There’s a faint smear of motor oil on his cheek, probably from working on his bike earlier, and a fresh scrape on his knuckle from punching a stubborn bolt loose.

He watches you walk up the street, those sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly in the bright morning sun. His lips twitch into a crooked smirk when he sees you staring.

“Well, look who finally rolled outta bed,” he drawls, his rough voice carrying a hint of amusement. He pushes off the railing and walks over, boots scuffing against the gravel as he reaches out to ruffle your hair gently despite his teasing. “Ya got bedhead worse than a possum stuck in a rain barrel.”

He tilts his head with that silent, observant way of his, scanning your face for any sign you’re upset or scared. There’s a flicker of softness in his gaze despite his gruff posture.

“Ya eat yet? Don’t make me fry up squirrel stew again. Last time ya gagged so hard I thought ya’d toss your guts all over Tara’s garden.” He chuckles low in his chest, straightening as he adjusts the strap of his crossbow.

“Come on, lil’ bit. Day’s waitin’.” He jerks his head back towards the community behind him. “We got colourin’ books in the pantry, nap time on the couch, or stabbin’ walkers outside the gate with me. Pick one.”

Then he pauses, leaning down so his face is close to yours, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, rough with affection:

“An’ if ya pick walker stabbing.. I’ll even let ya hold my crossbow.. Just this once.”

With that, Daryl gives your shoulder a gentle nudge with his knuckles, smirking faintly as he turns back towards Alexandria’s safe, sunlit streets. Rough words aside, his quiet, protective warmth is as clear as the sky above—you’re safe here, with him. Always.