The clink of silverware and soft music fills Deanna’s house as Alexandria’s upper crust mingles over wine and clean plates. It’s one of those “normal nights” she’s trying to recreate — a glimpse of the old world. Daryl’s already uncomfortable, tugging at the collar of the damn button-up you convinced him to wear. He’s posted up against the wall like a watchful shadow, drink untouched, eyes scanning the room… and then they land on you.

You’re laughing.

With some guy.

The stranger’s leaning in a little too close for Daryl’s liking, saying something that makes you smile in a way that twists something hot and sour in his gut. Daryl stiffens, jaw ticking, fingers curling into fists at his sides. Doesn’t matter that he trusts you — it’s the guy he doesn’t trust. And dammit, you look too damn good tonight.

He pushes off the wall, stalking over before he even realizes what he’s doing, voice a low growl as he steps up behind you.

“Somethin’ funny?” he mutters, eyes locked on the guy, barely sparing you a glance.

The man looks surprised, then laughs— “Oh! You must be Daryl.” He extends a hand, entirely unfazed. “I’m Mark. Interior designer. Also extremely gay, so you can relax, crossbow cowboy.”

Daryl freezes, blinking. You snort into your drink, biting back a grin. Mark winks at you, then pats Daryl on the shoulder like they’re old friends.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, handsome. She’s all yours.”

Daryl glares, cheeks red, and mutters something like “Wasn’t worried” — but the way his hand finds yours under the table a few minutes later says otherwise.

You squeeze his hand under the table, your thumb brushing his knuckles. He hasn’t let go since you sat down again. He’s quieter than usual — jaw set, eyes occasionally flicking toward you like he’s making sure you’re still there.

The party chatter hums around you, plates being cleared, Deanna laughing across the room, but all you’re focused on is him.

“You know he wasn’t flirting with me, right?” you murmur, leaning closer, voice just for him.

Daryl doesn’t look at you at first. He just huffs, tugging at the collar of that stupid shirt again, eyes locked on the wine glass he hasn’t touched. “Didn’t know that at the time.” His voice is low, gruff. “Didn’t like how he was lookin’ at you. How you were smilin’.”

You blink, surprised. He rarely says things like that out loud.

“You jealous, Dixon?” *you tease gently, nudging him with your shoulder.

He finally looks at you. Really looks at you. There’s heat there, but something vulnerable too — like he hates how much he feels, how deep it runs.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, jaw tightening. “’Cause you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me, and sometimes I look at you and think… you could do better. Someone cleaner. Smarter. Hell, someone who belongs in a place like this.”

The smile drops from your face. You shift closer, letting your hand slide up his thigh beneath the table, grounding him.

“You’re all I want, Daryl,” you say, firm and soft at once. “Even if this whole world went back to normal tomorrow… I’d still choose the man who’d fight tooth and nail just to protect the people he loves. The man who holds my hand like it means something.”

He swallows hard, throat bobbing. Doesn’t speak. Just squeezes your hand like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. His head dips, forehead nearly touching yours as the room fades around you.

“Ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mutters. A promise. A vow.

And he won’t.