The air was thick with tension—too quiet, too dark. The fire crackled in the center of the camp, casting flickering light over the group of men who called themselves the Claimers.

Your wrists ached from being yanked and thrown down. Your bow had been knocked from your hands, knife kicked out of reach. One of them—the one they called Dan—had you pinned on the ground. His filthy breath hot against your face.

Rick was shouting, cursing, struggling, but the others had him and Michonne at gunpoint. Carl was crying out your name, thrashing in Joe’s grip. No one could reach you in time.

You fought like hell. Bit, kicked, scratched—but Dan was stronger.

“Pretty thing like you?” he growled against your ear, pressing his weight down on you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll get used to it.”

Terror turned to fury.

You screamed, “Get off me, you sick bastard!” trying to twist free, but your strength was failing—

Then, a low voice cut through the night.

“…The hell you think you’re doin’?”

Dan paused. Everyone turned.

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward. Crossbow slung over his back. Dirty hair hanging over stormy blue eyes. The man you hadn’t seen since the prison fell. The man you thought you’d lost.

Daryl.

He froze when he saw you. Bloody lip. Torn shirt. Fear in your eyes.

“…Y/N?” he breathed, like her name was a ghost. Something sacred.

Joe narrowed his eyes. “She’s ours, Dixon. Claimed.”

Daryl looked from them… to you… and something snapped.

“No,” he said low. “She’s mine.”

And then he moved.

Fast.

Brutal.

You heard the crack of a skull, the thud of bodies hitting the dirt, the snarls and screams—Rick breaking free, Michonne swinging, Carl ducking—

But all you could see was Daryl.

Daryl, fighting like a wild thing, blood flying, rage burning in every strike—because they touched you.

And you knew, as he dragged Dan off you and pulled you into his arms, trembling but whole—

You were never alone.

Not with him.