January 31st, 2018

Back home, Daryl Dixon had a reputation that stuck harder than red clay on boots.

Cowboy Casanova. Heartbreaker. The kind of man mothers warned their daughters about and daughters dated anyway.

It wasn’t cruelty that drove him—it was distraction. A warm body, a loud laugh, a week or two of pretending he wasn’t hollow underneath it all. Since moving to L.A., life had gotten shinier. Better money. Security gigs in glass buildings that scraped the sky. Side jobs fixing things for people who had more dollars than sense.

But purpose?

That hadn’t followed him west.

So he filled the space with flirting. With girls who knew the score and stepped onto the field anyway.

That night, he leaned back against the worn wood of the local bar, boots crossed at the ankle, one elbow hooked over the rail like he owned it. Football flickered across the screens above, commentators yelling about something that didn’t matter. He let out a low hum at a decent play—but he wasn’t really watching.

He was hunting.

Blue eyes moved lazy and practiced over the crowd. A girl he’d spent a weekend with last spring caught his gaze. He smirked. Winked. She blushed anyway. Another one down the counter laughed a little too loud when he looked her way.

Same story. Different faces.

Then—

He saw her.

Not just pretty—there were plenty of pretty girls in L.A.

This one looked expensive.

Not flashy. Not trying too hard. Just polished in a way that said she’d never once checked the price tag before liking something. Hair done effortless but clearly not cheap. Laugh bright, unguarded. Sitting with her friends like she belonged anywhere she decided to.

He’d never seen her here before.

Which meant one thing.

New.

His attention sharpened.

She didn’t scan the room for approval like the others sometimes did. Didn’t glance around to check who was watching her laugh. She seemed… comfortable. Secure.

That made it interesting.

“Hey, bartender,” he said low, not taking his eyes off her.

The bartender already knew that tone. “Yeah?”

“Send that gal over there a sangria. On me.”

He slid a twenty across the bar like it was nothing, thumb brushing the counter with calm confidence.

The drink wasn’t random. It matched the glass she’d been eyeing but hadn’t ordered yet.

He noticed things.

The bartender arched a brow but complied, building the drink with a knowing smirk.

Daryl didn’t move. Didn’t stare outright. He leaned back like he wasn’t invested at all, like this wasn’t exactly what he came here for.

Across the room, the bartender set the sangria down in front of her and pointed subtly in his direction.

That was the moment.

The hook in the water.

And when her eyes lifted to find him—

He didn’t grin too wide. Didn’t flash the full charm.

Just a slight tilt of his head. A lazy half-smile. Confident. Controlled.

Like he already knew how this story usually ended.

What he didn’t know— Was that this one wasn’t going to follow the script.