Chapter Text
“Do you think he had a mom, growing up ?” You had asked Carol when the two of you were sat on the porch of house that was assigned to your group upon your arrival to Alexandria, a few days before.
She had given you a sad smile, and subtly shaken her head. “No. Just his old man and Merle, from what I’ve gathered.” You had been watching Daryl for a while now, as he was busy helping Rick fix up a car in front of a nearby house. His hair was almost entirely covering his piercing blue eyes, and you had had vaguely thought that he should cut it.
“Hm.” You had thought that it made sense. Daryl always had unnatural reactions to you or Carol’s attention and care. Since you met him, back in Atlanta, all those years ago, you had always found him skittish, almost avoidant, every time you had tried showing him how much you cared for him. After all, he’d been your closest companion ever since the world changed. The first time you had touched his shoulder affectionately, he had flinched so hard you had gasped. His embarrassment had been visible, the flush of his cheeks a clear indicator.
But he eventually had grown used to the occasional brush of your arm against his, the soft squeeze of his shoulder accompanied by a warm smile, the feather-light touch of your palm on the small of his back when you walked past him.
The briefest hug, after he almost got bit, once. Your trembling body, pressed against his for a split second, and your breath against his ear. “Y’ scared the shit out of me.”
The care, the worry in your voice. The warmth of your touch, that he could feel lingering on his skin for hours.
It was addicting, he had realized that day, as soon as you had pulled away, and as he had fought the urge to pull you right back against him. He hated it.
You had held his hand like a lifeline at Terminus, in that dark container, while you waited for hours, while you were terrified.
You had huddled close to his body when you tried to catch a few hours of sleep, on the road. You had wrapped your arms against him in your sleep, for warmth, for comfort ?
“You’re my best friend, you know that, right?” You had whispered to him, that night in the barn, while the storm outside had been raging. You had felt like he needed to know, just how important he was to you. You had been feeling him slipping, isolating himself from the group, blaming himself for the lack of food and water. That night, in the barn, you had laced your fingers with his again, and he had squeezed your hand so hard you felt it in your bones. Your words had felt like a punch to his gut, and he had only nodded, grunted. You’re mine too. You are, you are. He wanted to say, but couldn’t. Also, knew that you didn’t need to hear his voice to understand. He hadn’t let go of your hand until morning. He had watched you sleep, an unfamiliar warmth in his gut, uncomfortable, shameful.
The warmth he also felt when you wore a tight tank top, or when you smiled with your teeth. When you laughed with Rick. When thirst made you drink messily, droplets of water making their way down your chin, your neck. Whenever you asked him if he was okay, with your words, or with a silent nod, the familiar wrinkle of worry creasing your brows.
Despite the cold morning air, the warmth in his gut was almost unbearable the day before you arrived in Alexandria, when you had caught him shivering, and you had wordlessly given him your sweater. Your baby blue, oversized sweater, that you had been wearing for days. That smelled distinctively, intoxicatedly, like you. That was just a tad too small for him, but that covered his cold skin, and made his chest feel tight. He had refused, at first, but you hadn’t given him a choice, clumsily forcing the worn fabric around him. “Come on. I have another one, and you’re basically shirtless. Not that I mind the view, of course.” You had said in a playful tone. Your words had replayed over and over in his head for the whole day. The smell of your sweater had enveloped him and made him feel almost lightheaded, and the warmth in his stomach had been impossible to ignore. For the first time, he felt cared for, he felt loved, and he couldn’t stand it, was almost nauseous. A few meters ahead, you had been talking with Tara, completely unaware of Daryl’s hammering heartbeat and racing mind. You had been smiling, your tired eyes crinkling at the seams.
He had watched the timid sparkle of hope come back to your features when you had stepped into the Alexandria safe-zone, just a few seconds before him.
-
You don’t ask for your sweater back, so he keeps it. Greedily, shamefully, he keeps it on. When no one is watching, he buries his nose in the fabric and inhales. The warmth in his gut swarms lower, lower. He keeps it on as you meet Deanna and her family, as you’re welcomed into a place that seems way too good to be true. He keeps it on when your group is shown into a house that’s big enough for privacy, for all of you. He keeps it on when everyone settles down in living room, leaving the multiple furnished bedrooms empty, for the sake of staying together.
He keeps it on when he sits down, back to the wall, ready to take watch for the night, still alert. His body is sore, but he’s used to it. The baby blue fabric clinging to his tired muscles feels soothing. You come sit next to him after a little while, the same shyly hopeful smile on your lips.
“This could be nice, huh?” You whisper, shuffling closer so your side presses against his. Daryl only makes a noncommittal noise.
“Come on.” You nudge his shoulder. “You have to admit it, this place is fucking fancy.” You laugh, close to his ear, and he suppresses a shiver. He smiles weakly. “Yeah. ‘T’s even a bit too nice for me, I think. Feels weird.”
A comfortable silence settles between the two of you. The rest of your group are getting ready for the night, laying down sleeping bags, blankets, and spare jackets. The air is warm, and the low chatter of your friends is a comforting background noise. Even Rick looks like he’s tempted to let his guard down in favour of a good night of sleep in an actual house.
Daryl feels your hand settle on top of his before he hears you speak. “Thank you. For getting us there. We wouldn’t have made it without you, Daryl.” Your shaky tone betrays your bone-deep tiredness, and your raw honesty. He’s about to protest, but the shine of fresh tears in your eyes makes him change his mind immediately. Hesitantly, he links your fingers together, like at Terminus, like at the barn. Your hand feels small in his. He wants to hold on as long as he can, wants you to lead him around, to show him the way, to never leave him alone. He thinks that you have no idea how you make him feel. You don’t know how deeply it affects him when you ask him how he’s feeling, if he drank any water, if he needs anything. How the care in your voice, the fucking crease of worry between your brows, make him feel things he’s never, ever, felt before.
Your thumb rubs tiny little circles on the rough skin of his hand, and oh, how soft your skin always is. The contrast between his big, calloused hands, and yours, smooth and soft, is almost comical. It drives him insane. Daryl focuses on slowing his breathing. He feels like a dam ready to break, the pressure of your care and attention threatening to release something buried deep, deep inside him, something scary and unfamiliar. His palms are starting to sweat. Fuck. The warmth in his stomach is steady, licking up at his insides, bleeding lower, lower. The distant humming of arousal is also there, somewhere, buried under the guilt, the shame. You’re his friend. You’re so much younger than him too, fuck, you could almost be his daughter, you-
“Do you want to sleep a little?”
Your question startles him. Of course, his body is begging for proper rest. But his mind is still racing, still evaluating the possible dangers of this new place, calculating the way outs, the most efficient ways to fight, to survive. “Don’t think I can sleep yet, miss.” He tries to give you a reassuring smile. “You sleep, I’ll keep watch. Don’t worry about me.” Please, worry about me. Keep worrying about me, the twisted part of his brain screams.
You blink slowly, exhaustion visible on your features. “Michonne and Rick are taking the first watch.”
“I’ll help.”
“I don’t think there’s a need for all three of you to keep the first watch, Daryl.” Your thumb doesn’t stop brushing his hand.
“I don’t-“
“Come on. Sleep with me. Just a few hours.”
He blinks. You’re so tired, you don’t even notice the way your words came out. Or maybe, he’s just a pervert for even thinking about it.
For once, he doesn’t know what to answer. He opens his mouth to say something, to protest, but all that comes out if a half-hearted grunt. You’re looking at him with pleading eyes, and fuck, he can’t resist you. So, he nods, and lets himself be guided to the blanket you had laid down on the floor. You never let go of his hand as you gently make him lay down next to you, folding the bottom part of the fabric over both of your bodies. It’s not that comfortable, the blanket doesn’t offer much padding over the floor, and only covers your legs and hips, but it’s enough. It’s so, so much better than the very little rest you’d known for the last few weeks. You let out a content little sigh, and Daryl distantly thinks that he would do anything to hear that again, and again.
Both of you are laying down on your backs, fingers intertwined under the blanket, and he can barely hear you when you turn your head slightly in his direction and murmur, “Get some rest, Daryl, I’ve got you.”
He feels like he can’t breathe. Your tone is syrupy-sweet, laced with reassurance, with something akin to adoration. He can’t get enough of it. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he only squeezes your hand tighter. Your words replay again and again in his head, as he finally¸ finally, falls asleep.
-
The group’s level of comfort in Alexandria grows proportionally to Rick’s trust in Deanna. Progressively, Daryl notices some of his people starting to talk to Deanna’s people, exchanging small smiles and heartfelt laughs. Carol bakes cookies. Rosita and Abraham start to sleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms, then Rick and Michonne follow. It’s only a matter of days before no one sleeps in the living room anymore. Daryl watches you move your few belongings into a small room on the first floor of the house, that you’re sharing with Tara. It’s the most modest room of them all, with only a full-sized bed and a creaky dresser. He feels a pang of hurt at your decision to move upstairs with the rest of the group, leaving him to sleep alone on the couch, which, of course, is much more comfortable than the floor. But. You ain’t there to sleep close to him anymore, and he’d take that over any mattress.
He doesn’t say anything. Privacy is a luxury that you’ve been deprived of for so long, he understands.
And he still has your sweater.
-
He doesn’t take it off when one of Deanna’s friends shows everyone where to do their laundry. He doesn’t want it to lose your smell, lately, it’s the only thing that brings him comfort. Recently, the weather has been too warm for him to be able to wear it comfortably, so he keeps it under his pillow, treasures it. Wraps it around himself at night, wears it, or just holds it against him when the air is too sticky for an extra layer of clothing. Every night, guilt creeps under his skin when he thinks about anyone finding him like this. Alone on the couch, your sweater against his face, pressed under his nose, rubbing his cheek. His half-hard dick. Your smell making him dizzy. The pang of panic when the scent is a bit less there than the day before, when he has to focus to find your presence. Inevitably, the sweater will lose its smell soon, and Daryl is upset just thinking about it. He rarely sleeps more than a few hours at night, mind racing and body used to being alert at all times, but your smell, and the knowledge that you’re just upstairs, are making it easier for him lately. During the day, he pays extra attention to your reassuring smiles, your kind words and your fleeting touches, and he replays it all in his head when he’s lying down in the dark.
From the porch of the house, where he’s cleaning his crossbow, he watches you. You make friends with Alexandrians easily, with your genuine smile, and your enthusiasm to participate in everyday tasks. On a warm evening, he watches the sunset reflecting on your hair as you laugh with Deanna’s oldest son, who appears to be walking you back to your house. The warm air of the early summer has started to get to everyone, and you’re wearing a short sundress that he hasn’t seen before. It’s a dark shade of purple, and the neck is low enough to subtly reveal the curve of your chest. The fabric around your hips sway with every step you take. Daryl doesn’t realize he’s staring until you touch Deanna’s son’s arm playfully as you say goodbye, and he shivers. Nausea overwhelms him. You’re only a few meters away from the porch, from him, and you’re laughing with someone else, wearing this pretty dress, you’re touching someone else, and he can’t stand it, he wants to punch something, or to lock himself in a room and cry until his lungs hurt. Fuck. He doesn’t understand his own extreme reactions, he’s confused. He’s starting to struggle to breathe, his vision blurring, and he feels like time has slowed down when he rises to his feet and grabs his crossbow, ready to get as far as possible from this place, to run, to-
“Hi ?”
He startles. Shit. He swallows down the lump in his throat, and focuses on your face, suddenly very close to him. The other man is walking away in the distance. A slight look of concern crosses your face when Daryl doesn’t answer, staring at you with wide eyes.
“You okay, big boy?”
He gives a half-hearted smile at the nickname, that you’ve called him on a few occasions before. He would never admit that it makes his heart race in his chest, makes a faint blush tint his cheeks. He nods.
Your brows furrow, but you don’t press the matter further. Instead, you do something that makes him stop breathing entirely. You reach for a strand of hair that fell in front of his eyes, and gently tuck his behind his ear. Daryl has to physically hold back a whimper.
“Y’r hair’s getting so long…” You murmur as if you’re lost in your own thoughts, brushing a couple more strands away from his face. “You don’t wanna cut it, do you?”
He exhales shakily. “Nah. I like it like that.”
You seem to think for a second. You lick your lips, and he can’t help but stare.
“Can I braid it?”
“What ?”
You giggle. “Come on, just a little braid, to keep it out of your face?”
His first instinct is to say fuck no, I ain’t letting you braid my fucking hair. Then, he thinks about you touching his hair, his scalp, being close to him, and he craves it so much his mouth speaks before his brain even registers it. “Sure, ‘f you want.”
Your smile widens, and you take his hand, guiding him into the house.
It’s mostly empty, the biggest part of your group still outside, working or enjoying the weather. You lead him to you and Tara’s room, which you have slowly started to decorate, with a few dried flowers, a small mirror, and a picture of the two of you, taken with an Alexandrian’s polaroid camera. Daryl’s gaze lingers on the picture, on your arms wrapped tightly around Tara’s shoulders, your wide smile. God, your smile.
You sit him down on your bed, his feet on the floor, and you let go of his hand to fetch a small comb from the dresser. He watches your hips in that dress, your cleavage when you bend down a little bit. The guilt, the shame. He can’t stop looking, it’s the first time he’s ever seen you wear a dress, he can’t get enough. There are distant, dirty thoughts, in the part of his mind that he desperately represses. Thoughts of his big hands on your hips, holding you close. Vulgar thoughts. Your tits spilling out of your dress, his lips wrapping around your nipples, sucking-
He's stiffening in his jeans. Fuck. It’s been so long since he got off, and while he doesn’t usually think about sex at all, his body definitely feels pent up, and it shows. A self-deprecating smile forms on his lips. How pathetic. Getting hard from simply seeing you in a little dress. Like a fucking teenager.
He feels the bed dip, as you kneel on the mattress behind him, unaware of the discomfort in his pants. You sit back on your heels and smooth your hands over his shoulders. “Are you comfortable ?”
“Fuckin’ peachy.”
“Good. ‘T’s not gonna take long, don’t worry.”
You thread your fingers through his hair lightly, separating strands, and the slight pull on his scalp sends an almost violent shiver down his spine. You chuckle. “Ticklish?”
He grunts, his eyelids suddenly heavy. Your touch feels heavenly. Then, you bring the comb to the ends of his hair, using small movements to untangle the few knots. You’re gentle, and he can picture your face of concentration, a slight squint in your eyes, and your bottom lip between your teeth. When all the knots are taken care of, you can brush his hair from roots to ends in swift movements, letting the comb linger on the nape of his neck. Daryl sighs in pleasure. His eyes are fully closed now, head lolling a little bit at the cadence of your movements. When you put down the comb and use your fingers to pull out three strands of hair, he can’t hold back a blissed-out groan.
(And he has no idea just how hot that gets you. Behind him, you’re shifting on your heels, trying to rub your thighs together a little bit, the man’s sounds making your core throb.)
He's so lost in the delicious feeling of your fingers in his hair, lightly pulling at his scalp when you start a loose braid. He’s almost panting, completely at your mercy. Your fingers work rapidly, like muscle memory, and before Daryl knows it, you’re tying a small transparent hair band at the ends of his hair. He wants to whine like a capricious child when you remove your hands from him entirely and exhale a proud “Done!”. His skin is still tingling, his cock straining uncomfortably against the zipper of his pants. As discreetly as he can, he smoothes the loose fabric of his shirt on top of his groin, hiding his bulge.
But he doesn’t move from his position on your bed. He feels almost numb, though his heart is beating fast against his ribcage. A beat of silence passes, and you tentatively lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright ?”
He wants to laugh. Yeah, I was just about to cream my pants because you played with my hair for two minutes. “’M fine. It, huh. Felt nice.” He’s blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off his face.
There’s another moment of silence. He feels your hand open around his shoulder, your fingers splaying across the muscle there. Your index finger catches on the tissue of the biggest scar of his back, the one that goes up to the bottom of his nape, the only one that’s still visible with a shirt on. The one he hates the most. He shivers again when you follow the line of the scar with the pad of your finger, slowly, until the fabric of his shirt stops you from going lower. His dick gives a little throb in his pants.
You don’t say anything for a while. Daryl’s head is drooping a little bit between his shoulders. He doesn’t want this moment to end. The intimacy is intoxicating.
He feels the mattress shift again when you reach for the small mirror, and you hold it in front of you, past Daryl’s shoulder, so he can look at himself.
The flush on his cheeks is visible, and most of his hair is out of his face, except for a few rebellious strands that still frame his forehead and cheekbones. His mouth is parted slightly, his eyelids low. He vaguely thinks that he looks debauched.
“Handsome.” You whisper, close to his ear.
His cock pulses. There’s white-hot pleasure coiling in his stomach at the praise. He holds back a whimper, almost can’t help himself. In the corner of the mirror, he can see your dark eyes meeting his, your proximity evident. Your free hand moves from his shoulder to his bicep, then his forearm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
There’s something in your gaze, something he can’t pinpoint. He’s panting again, fuck. Your hand finally settles on top of his, which is clenched in a nervous fist over his thigh. You put the mirror back down on the bed, and the side of your face brushes against his.
“Daryl…”
The door to your room opens.
Instinctively, Daryl is up on his feet, adrenaline kicking in, ready to fight, or to flee, or-
It’s Tara.
She raises her eyebrows at the sight of you, still kneeling on your bed, while Daryl just bolted up. “Hi, Daryl.”
He grunts. His cheeks feel hot. He feels like he’s been caught in a vulnerable position, he hates it, wants to run away, to punch something.
She motions in his direction. “Your hair is nice like that.”
Without giving him time to respond, she moves her attention to you. “Michonne is looking for you. Something about a change of plans for tonight’s watch in the tower.”
You nod, also standing up. Daryl doesn’t notice your wobbly legs, nor the nervous exhale you let out. “I’ll go see her. Thanks, Tara.”
Your friend gives you a warm smile as she starts to empty her backpack onto your shared dresser. You take that as your cue to leave, and you motion for Daryl to follow you, a reassuring look on your face. He grumbles something that resembles a “See you later” in the vague direction of your friend and follows you hastily.
Down the stairs, you turn back to tell him you’re going to find Michonne. He can almost swear that your cheeks are tinted a deep shade of pink, just like his. There’s a greedy hint of hope in his mind. Did you feel it too ? Did you want-
“I’ll see you at dinner, okay?”
He nods, a lump in his throat. You give him a little smile, and he watches you close the door behind you, the fabric of your dress rippling a little with your movements.
He’s still hard. Fortunately, the fabric of his shirt is doing a pretty good job at hiding it.
He decides to go for a long ride on his bike, pretending to be going on a quick run for supplies he’d forgotten on his last expedition.
He drives fast, far, only stops to take out a few walkers blocking his way.
-
When he comes back, it’s dark, the air is cold, and most of Alexandria is asleep. His head feels clearer now, and he’s calm, except for the little bit of guilt nagging at his conscience. He had left without a word to you, and you had probably looked for him at dinner, worry tainting your features.
He stops by the tower, giving a nod to Abraham, already a few hours into his night watch.
He’s extra careful not to make noise when he steps into your shared house, toeing off his boots at the door. His body is tired, yet he still drags himself to the downstairs bathroom for a quick clean-up, before lying down on the couch and letting out a long sigh. He half-heartedly drags his thin blanket up his body. The house is quiet.
He can’t get you off his mind.
Blindly, he reaches for your sweater, folded under his pillow. Relief washes over him when he brings it to his nose and your smell is still faintly there. He inhales deeply and rubs the fabric over his cheek, seeking comfort. He feels himself start to harden in his pants.
Usually, he doesn’t let himself think of you that way for too long. The guilt overpowers the desire. You’re often in his dreams, though. Sometimes, in the form of a familiar face, and sometimes, as a warm body writhing against his, leaving him a sweaty, aching mess in the early hours of the morning, when the first rays of sunlight filter through the windows of the living room.
But tonight, tonight is different. He can’t stop thinking of your fingers in his hair, your breath against his ear when you called him handsome. He muffles a moan in your sweater. Your hand caressing down his arm. His hips buck up involuntarily.
Fuck. This is bad. He’s so stiff already, the pressure in his groin burning and urgent. “Mmm.” He inhales again, and his eyes almost roll back in his head. He needs you so bad. He shouldn’t, should never think of you this way, not…
He thinks of your little sundress again, and he’s done for. He whines, long and low, as he bucks his hips again, seeking any kind of friction. He recalls the delicate fabric around your cleavage, the sway of your hips. Hi, big boy. He wonders, briefly, if you would think he’s big down there too. Fuck, he wants you to. He’s throbbing between his legs, and the pressure against his jeans in almost painful. Slowly, as if he might still have the willpower to stop himself, he lets the hand that’s not holding your sweater travel down his body, until he reaches his prominent bulge.
The pleasure that shoots through him when he first palms himself is almost too much. It’s been so, so long. He’s panting against the baby blue fabric, his dark gaze watching intently as he frees himself from his clothing. He knows that he’s bigger than most guys, thicker too. He wonders if your eyes would widen at the sight, if you would be impressed. If you would be proud of him.
“Aah- m-…”
There’s a dirty, shameful side of him, deeply buried, that’s threatening to crawl closer to the surface. He should be careful, shouldn’t-
But you’re right there, in his mind, you’re wearing that sundress again, your hair is down. He drags a trembling finger through the beads of precum at the engorged tip of his dick. He’s so sensitive it almost hurts.
In his mind, you just came down from your room, to find him lying on his back, with his cock out and your sweater against his face. Your face bears a look of confusion, at first, and then, of understanding.
He wraps his palm around himself, finally, and starts with slow, torturous strokes, letting the precum coat his whole shaft. It’s so good. He imagines your eyes, not leaving his body, as you would step closer, a playful smile on your lips.
Oh god. You would stand there, next to the couch, and you would tower over him. He would feel so small, the way he feels when you talk to him so sweet, when you take his hand to lead him somewhere, when you look at him with worried eyes.
His strokes start to get faster. You would look at him in earnest, take his whole body in, and your gaze would stay on his cock a little longer. Such a big boy, Daryl, he imagines you would say in that syrupy voice. You feeling good, baby ?
He nods feverishly. “Yeah, fuck. S’too good, ah-“
He needs to be quieter, he knows, but his fantasy, and the hand on his dick, it all feels too good, he doesn’t want to stop, he can’t, he needs to-
In his mind, you sit down next to him on the little space left on the couch, and he doesn’t stop stroking, because you don’t want him to stop. You want him to keep making himself feel good for you. You reach for the few loose strands that escaped the braid, and you tuck them behind his ears. Your eyes are glimmering with affection, with pride.
“Mmm. ‘M close, ah-“
Yeah ? You would coo. Maybe, just maybe, you would pull down the cleavage of your dress, just enough to let your tits out, to let him stare, his mouth watering.
Daryl’s writhing against the rough material of the couch. He’s too sensitive, too hard, he needs to- “Aah, momm-“
He bites back a sob. Fuck. He almost said it. He’s a fucking pervert, disgusting. He’s so, so hard. He needs-
Reluctantly, he lets go of your sweater, letting it rest on the couch, close to his face, so your smell still lingers. He moves his other hand hastily, at the same time as he spreads his legs as wide as he can with his pants only pulled down to his thighs. He needs-
Daryl reaches for his balls, then a tiny bit lower, right where the skin of his perineum starts. Fuck. He rubs lightly with the pad of his finger, and he sees stars. Almost. There’s a prickling sensation in his eyes, tears of frustration and shame forming quickly.
“Need t’cum, mommy, please, ‘t hurts-“
And in his mind, your delicate fingers replace his own rough ones, caressing the spot below his balls that makes him cry out in pleasure. Your smile is reassuring, and your other hand caresses his cheek, as you tell him to Cum for mommy, sweet boy. Make a mess.
He comes so hard his back arches off the couch. He covers his fist in pearly white, stroking himself through it, until every last drop is milked out of him, and he’s shuddering from sensitivity. His thighs are trembling, his forehead is covered in a sheen layer of sweat, and he has to take a few minutes to catch his breath. His body feels so good, waves of pleasure lazily coursing through him. Your name escapes his lips when he rubs the red tip of his cock with his fingertip, just to coax one more shiver out of himself. He’s absolutely spent, and while he expected to feel nothing but shame after, Daryl finds himself at peace. Satiated. He cleans himself up slowly, enjoying the sensitivity. He feels like every single one of his nerve endings are on fire.
When the evidence of what he’s just done is reduced to a crumbled-up t-shirt that he will throw in the wash tomorrow, he curls up on his side and hugs your sweater close to his chest. He imagines your arms wrapping around him, and there’s a pang of loneliness deep in his ribcage. He wishes you would hug him, after. That you would hold him close, kiss him goodnight and stay pressed against him for the whole night.
He whimpers, blinking away the humidity clouding his vision. He doesn’t cry. He just hugs your sweater tighter, bringing the neck of it to his nose once again. He feels small and vulnerable, and usually, he would hate that. But his body is still humming with pleasure, your smell is comforting him, and he feels sleepiness pulling at his eyelids.
-
The next day, the nape of his neck feels a bit too hot when you greet him with an enthusiastic smile, and you ask how his run went. He feels like a creep, like he doesn’t deserve your friendship. If you knew-
But everything’s still the same between the two of you. You offer him breakfast, and you go on about your day as usual, unaware of the fantasy that won over his willpower last night. You give his shoulder a squeeze when you walk past him to join Tara on her way to assist with the reinforcement of Alexandria’s walls, and you even turn back around to give him a little smile.
He watches you walk away, his heart beating loud in his chest. He wants to follow you, to be around you all day. And he probably would, he’d find an excuse to work on the same thing as you, to stay in your vicinity, he would if he didn’t have to help Rick plan the attack on the outpost.
While he’s making his way to where Rick, Michonne and Abraham are already gathered, Daryl takes a moment to look around. The early morning sun is warming the streets of Alexandria, his people are healthy and fed, and they’re the safest they’ve been in months. A rare smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. He’s getting used to this.