The world has gone to hell, and somehow, the two of you keep surviving.

You’re crouched behind a crumbling wall, rain slicking your hair to your face, as walkers shuffle and moan in the distance. Daryl Dixon is next to you, crossbow raised, eyes scanning the shadows, every muscle coiled like a predator.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low, dangerous.

You nod, trying not to show the tremor in your hands. “Yes.”

When the herd comes, it’s chaos. Screams, gunfire, and the wet crunch of the undead underfoot. You move instinctively, ducking, kicking, and stabbing when necessary, but every step is tethered to him. He’s beside you, ahead of you, behind you, a constant presence, a lifeline.

Hours later, after the last walker falls, you both collapse against a half-broken fence, drenched, exhausted, and shaking. The adrenaline is still thrumming in your veins, and your chest heaves from more than just running.

Daryl doesn’t speak at first. His eyes are intense, searching yours, reading you like he always seems to do. Then he leans closer, his hand brushing against yours, a small touch that sets your skin on fire.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual.