Chapter Text
Before the world ended, your life used to be defined by lecture halls and the constant pressure of med school exams, with a career in psychiatry finally feeling like it was within reach. You didn’t know why you were so set on becoming a psychiatrist, a career path that always felt a bit out of place given that no one else in your family had even finished college, let alone worked in medicine. Once the world started eating itself, all that knowledge felt useless.
After losing your family, you spent months trying to survive on your own, barely clinging to life until you were eventually picked up and brought to Grady Memorial. You thought you were lucky at first, but you quickly realized that being "saved" by Dawn’s people just meant being kept alive so they could exploit your labor. You were too busy working your ass off just to stay in their good graces. In a weird, twisted way, working there felt like the internship you were supposed to have, just with more blood and less hope.
Then Beth arrived.
She was bright, stubborn, and completely refused to let the hospital break her. Despite the age gap, she became your best friend. She spent hours telling you about her family, her life on the farm, and especially the man she’d been with before she was taken. Beth spoke about Daryl like he was a force of nature – someone who was rough around the edges but would do anything for the people he loved.
Eventually, Beth and Noah let you in on their plan to get out. You were skeptical at first; the walls of Grady felt safer than the unknown outside, and you’d seen what the cops did to people who stepped out of line. You didn't agree to go with them, choosing the safety of the hospital over the risk of the street, but you helped them anyway. You kept watch, stole supplies, and covered their tracks.
It didn't go as planned. Noah made it out, but the officers dragged Beth back inside. Everything after that became a blur of long shifts and mounting tension, but certain moments remained permanently etched in your mind.
You still remembered the day Noah led Beth’s family to her and Carol. Standing in that hallway, you saw the group Beth had described so vividly. They looked exhausted and dangerous, but they were there for her. You remembered Beth trying to convince you to leave one last time, pulling you into a tight hug before she walked toward them. You remembered watching her hug Noah when Dawn demanded him back, a final play for power that went horribly wrong.
Then came the sound of the gun.
Beth’s body hit the floor, and the world seemed to stop spinning. Before anyone could even scream, Daryl – the man Beth had talked about every single night – stepped forward and shot Dawn without a second of hesitation. His face was a mask of pure agony.
You remembered your knees giving out. The sound of your scream as you crawled across the cold tile to Beth while the others stood watching in horror. You remembered holding her and refusing to let go, even when Rick Grimes offered to take anyone who wanted to leave.
The weeks following her death were a haze.
You helped bury her in the dirt near the hospital parking lot because you couldn’t stand the idea of leaving her there without a proper goodbye. You joined the group because there was nowhere else to go, though you barely spoke a word to anyone for the first month. You just moved when they moved, fueled by shared loss and grief.
By the time the group reached the gates of Alexandria, something had changed. You realized that these people weren't just survivors you were traveling with; they were your family.
You had once thought that the ability to form close bonds died with your family back at the start of the turn. Beth showed up at Grady and proved you were wrong about that. Then she was gone, and you were certain it was impossible to feel that connection again – until this group proved you wrong a second time.
You’d only been in Alexandria for a week when the reality of "civilization" started to sink in.
Once the group settled, Deanna – the town’s leader – began assigning everyone roles based on their lives before the fall. Given your time in med school and the brutal, hands-on experience you'd gained at Grady, you were a natural fit for the infirmary. It felt like a recurring theme: another "internship" in another walled-off world, only this time the walls weren't made of sterile hospital concrete.
That was where you met Denise. It was almost eerie how much you had in common. She’d gone to med school too, originally aiming to be a surgeon until her anxiety pushed her toward psychiatry. She was shy and constantly second-guessed her own instincts, but you saw her potential immediately. In many ways, she was the first person since Beth who actually understood the pressure of trying to keep people alive when you felt like you were still learning yourself.
For a while, you both worked under Pete. He was the kind of doctor who thrived on the title rather than the work – an arrogant asshole who only held his position because he was the only one with a "real" license. He spent more time acting like he was in charge than actually treating patients. That lasted until his public breakdown and the mess with Rick. After that, Pete practically fired himself, trading his medical responsibilities for a bottle and drinking himself into a state of total uselessness.
With Pete out of the picture, the infirmary finally felt like yours. You and Denise took over, scrapped his ego-driven methods, and set up actual rules that made the place functional. You split the shifts and organized the supplies, finally creating a rhythm that worked. For the first time in a long time, the days felt manageable, centered around the focused work of helping people.
Two months had passed since you’d officially stepped into the role of the community’s doctor.
By now, you were familiar with almost everyone in Alexandria, but surprisingly, it was Daryl Dixon you’d grown closest to. Part of it was Beth’s influence; her constant stories about him had acted like a nudge, making it easier for you to open up. But beyond that, just from observing him, you’d realized he was more than just a survivor. Under the grease and the grit, he was a good man.
You hadn’t realized just how deep the connection had gone until you noticed him hovering. It started small, but lately, he seemed to be a permanent fixture in your periphery.
You were finishing up with an Alexandrian patient when you saw Daryl duck into the infirmary, moving with that familiar, restless energy. Once the patient left, you kept yourself busy – wiping down the exam table and rearranging suture kits while chatting with him about nothing in particular. You’d spent so much time together by now that the easy silence was just as comfortable as the conversation.
Eventually, the talk drifted toward the past. You’d shared snippets of your life before the fall, but you never got very far, as Daryl always seemed to go tense whenever the subject came up – his posture stiffening as if he wasn't sure what to do with the information.
After a stretch of quiet, he finally broke the silence. “So, ya were a shrink or somethin’?”
“Psychiatrist. Or studying to be one, anyway,” you said with a light shrug, not looking up from the supplies.
Daryl grunted, his eyes darting toward the floor. The topic made him uneasy in a way he couldn't quite name. He hadn't gone to college; he’d barely scraped through high school. He’d never cared about those "labels" before, but sitting there beside you, hearing about the world you used to inhabit, he felt the gap between you both. It wasn’t exactly shame – it was just a sudden awareness of the difference.
Still, he’d learned that you weren’t the judging type. In fact, you were probably the least judgmental person he’d ever met. Maybe that was why he kept finding himself in your space without meaning to. He didn’t know much about what a psychiatrist actually did – he’d once thought it was just a fancy scam for people with too much money – but looking at you, he figured you’d have been a damn good one. Even without the degree.
It wasn't until you gave him a pointed look that he realized he’d been mindlessly fiddling with one of your medical bags.
“Sorry,” he muttered, dropping the strap like it had burned him.
Daryl slid off the patient bed – a spot he’d claimed so often it might as well have had his name on it – and wandered over to a corner, pretending to inspect a stack of crates. It was the same routine every time. He’d show up with no injuries in sight and just stay.
You crossed your arms, watching him with a raised brow. He must have felt the heat of your stare because he finally turned around, catching that familiar, knowing look on your face.
“What are you doing here, Daryl?” you asked, a small, teasing smile tugging at your lips. By now, you enjoyed his company too much to be annoyed, even if his constant visits made zero sense.
Daryl wasn’t sure when it had started – the habit of ending up in the infirmary for no reason. A small cut, a splinter, or sometimes nothing at all. He’d tell himself he was just checking the perimeter or that you were simply better at patching people up than Denise, but his excuses were wearing thin.
He looked at you, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to say something real, then giving up when he caught your eager gaze. His eyes flicked around the room, finally landing on the medicine cabinet.
“Aspirin. Somebody needs it,” he muttered, nodding as if that settled it. It was a blatant excuse, probably to convince himself because it sure as hell didn’t convince you.
“Okay. Take it and go. I’ve got to finish cleaning before Denise gets back. She hates a mess,” you said, brushing past him with a smirk.
He had almost reached the front door when you called out, your voice laced with amusement. “The aspirin, Daryl.”
The man spun back, grabbed the bottle like it was a lifeline, and practically speed-walked out the door before you could say another word. You laughed to yourself, shaking your head as you went back to work.
It had been three days since you’d last seen Daryl, and you were finally enjoying a rare break from the infirmary.
Denise had practically chased you out the door, demanding you take a day off before you collapsed. She’d even shoved a stack of her homemade, slightly-too-healthy oatcakes into your hands as a parting gift. You were just starting to settle into the quiet luxury of doing absolutely nothing when a series of impatient knocks echoed through the house.
You opened the door to find Daryl standing on your porch. It wasn’t exactly a shock to see him, but he’d never actually shown up at your front door before. You were half a second away from asking what he wanted when you saw the blood soaking through his sleeve and dripping down his arm.
Daryl opened his mouth, likely prepared to offer one of his usual half-baked excuses for stopping by, but the look on your face seemed to make him forget his script entirely.
Before he could utter a word, you grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him inside. You didn't give him a choice, plopping him down on the couch with a firmness that left him blinking in surprise. Technically, it was the first time he’d ever set foot in your house, and he hadn’t even been invited – unless you counted being physically dragged over the threshold as an invitation.
“What the hell, Daryl? Why didn’t you go to the infirmary?” you asked, dropping onto the cushion beside him to inspect the damage.
“Nah,” he replied, his eyes wandering over your living room. “Ya can just do it here.”
You stared at him, closed your eyes, and let out a long, weary sigh. There was no arguing with his particular brand of stubbornness, and luckily, you kept enough supplies at home to handle a field hospital.
Resigned, you set to work, cleaning the wound with practiced efficiency.
Daryl watched you.
It was a habit he’d picked up without realizing it – noting the way your brows furrowed until that tiny dimple appeared between them, and the way your lips pressed together whenever you reached a tricky part of the stitching.
Daryl told himself it was just a distraction. If he focused on the way the light hit the stray hairs falling out of your ponytail, or the steady movement of your hands, he didn't have to focus on the sting of the antiseptic. It was a survival tactic, he reasoned. He was just picking a point on the wall to stare at, and you just happened to be standing in front of it. But as the seconds ticked by and his gaze remained anchored to the bridge of your nose, the excuse felt thinner than the gauze you were holding.
“What happened?” you asked, moving to grab a fresh roll.
Daryl didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked to yours for a split second before dropping back to his injured arm. He finally explained how he and Aaron had been out on a recruiting run and ended up cornered in an alley. They’d been forced to scramble over a fence to escape a herd, and he’d sliced his forearm open on the metal in the process.
You winced instinctively, imagining the frantic scramble and the bite of the steel. “And Aaron? Is he okay?”
“Had a few scrapes. He’s fine. Denise is fixin’ him up.”
You froze, your eyes narrowing as you processed that. “So you did go to the infirmary. Why are you here then?”
“Ya weren’t there,” Daryl blurted out.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them. You opened your mouth to argue, but your brain stalled. Your jaw just kind of hung there for a second until you found your voice again. “I’m sure Denise told you I’m… off duty right now.”
Daryl’s mind scrambled for a backup excuse. He couldn’t exactly tell you the truth: that he just wanted to see you. He couldn't say that he liked your company because you were one of the few people who could ramble all day while he actually enjoyed listening. He couldn't admit that while he told himself he preferred your medical handiwork because you didn't "fuss," he’d actually grown to love the fussing. The scolding. The scrunched-up eyebrows. The way your eyes bore into his–
Daryl couldn’t say any of that, so he just gave a non-committal hum and went back to inspecting your wallpaper.
You sighed, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. “Like the view?”
“Why’d ya choose this one?” Daryl asked suddenly, gesturing to the house.
“The house? Oh. Um… because it’s messy and full of stuff? Reminds me of the inside of my head.”
That actually pulled a genuine smile out of him.
You wrapped the gauze around his arm one last time, pinning it in place. “I grew up in a big family. There was always stuff everywhere. It was chaotic, but it was home. So this,” you waved a hand at the cluttered room, “this feels right.”
After a beat, you added a bit more pointedly, “That, and the fact that it’s the furthest house from everyone else. But somehow, people still manage to find me when I'm clearly off the clock.” You leveled an accusing look at him.
Daryl actually looked a little guilty for a second before letting out a short huff, his eyes darting away to avoid yours.
“What about you? Did you grow up in a big family?” The question made him tense, his shoulders straightening like he’d been caught off guard. You realized then that he’d never really talked about his past, not in detail. You tried to backtrack. “You don’t have to-”
“Not a big one,” he cut in quietly, “but it sure was a damn mess.” His voice was serious, his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. A part of him still recoiled at the thought of digging up old memories. He’d mentioned Merle before, but only in passing – enough for you to know his brother was trouble, not enough to know what that meant for him.
The only person he’d ever truly opened up to was Beth. And she was gone. Maybe that was why he was still sitting here; maybe you reminded him of her. Not because you knew her, but because of the way you made him soften, the way you unknowingly taught him how to feel things that weren't just anger or survival.
Daryl glanced at you and caught that look again – the one you always gave people when they spoke to you, like you could see straight through them and still choose to understand. It made him keep talking. He gave you just enough to understand that his childhood hadn't been a home so much as a battlefield, but he stopped before he had to dig too deep. Still, by the time he stopped, he felt lighter somehow. Was this what therapy felt like?
Did therapists hold their patients’ hands when things got heavy?
Daryl tried not to focus on the fact that your hand was currently resting on his. He tried not to notice how small it felt compared to his own, or how steady your grip was. Despite the weight of the conversation, he was fighting a losing battle against the heat creeping up his neck, desperately pretending he wasn't hyper-aware of the warmth spreading from your palm to his skin.
You didn’t realize how long you’d been sitting there until he gently, almost hesitantly, slipped his hand away. You blinked, the sudden absence of warmth acting like a splash of cold water. Only then did it click that you’d been holding onto him at some point during the conversation.
“Thanks for–” Daryl started, nodding awkwardly toward his bandaged arm.
“Yeah, no problem,” you said quickly, your face flush as you turned to shove the medical supplies back into their kit. “Just... go to the infirmary next time, okay? Save me the heart attack.”
He gave a short nod. Then, after a pause, he pushed himself off the couch and headed for the door without another word.
True to form, Daryl started showing up again and again. He appeared at the infirmary, on your porch, and sometimes even at your window in the middle of the night just to "check the perimeter." He was a persistent, stubborn pain in the ass – but as you watched him disappear into the shadows of Alexandria, you realized you didn't mind. Not one bit.
It had been a week since Daryl first showed up at your door.
Daryl had taken his time adjusting to this picket-fence dream of a town. He knew the people well enough to walk around and lend a hand with whatever needed fixing, but apparently not well enough to actually go to that damn party Deanna was throwing. He’d gone, though, at least to the edge of the house, standing outside and hiding his unease under the moonlight. He’d never been good at this – the fake smiles, the hollow chatter, the smell of expensive gin masking the stench of the world outside.
Daryl was seconds away from retreating into the dark when a familiar, teasing voice called his name.
“I knew you’d be out here,” you said, stepping from the shadowy footpath into the pool of a streetlight.
Heat flared in his face. He felt a sudden spike of embarrassment, like a kid caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. And the fact that you weren’t in your usual attire didn’t help at all. The dress you were wearing was doing things to his heart rate that he wasn't prepared to handle.
“Didn’t wanna go in either,” you admitted, holding up an empty glass with a lopsided grin. “I mean, I did go in, but only for the supplies. I promised Denise I’d make an appearance, but… I’m really not in the mood for the small talk.” You sighed, swaying slightly on your feet.
Daryl’s eyes narrowed, noticing the flush on your cheeks and the slight slur in your words. He instinctively reached out, his hand hovering near your elbow to steady you as you wobbled. “How much did ya drink?”
“Hell if I know. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
You grabbed his arm, your grip firm and warm, and practically dragged him away from the noise. You let your feet lead the way, rambling nonsense the whole walk back to your place. Daryl just followed, listening. He realized then that you only showed this side of yourself – this unfiltered, talkative version – to people you actually trusted. Apparently, he was on that list.
Eventually, you ended up back on your porch. You perched yourself on the railing while Daryl leaned against the house, arms crossed over his chest.
“Let’s get inside,” he muttered, his voice gravelly. “‘S getting cold.”
“Fuck you,” you shot back with a giggle. “You’re not the one wearing a dress.”
The comment forced his eyes back to the navy blue fabric. He hadn't noticed the color under the dim streetlights, but here, under the soft glow of your porch light, it was striking. It was a simple dress, but on you, it looked like anything but. He didn't buy your story about borrowing it from some woman whose name he couldn’t care enough to remember; it fit you too well for that.
Fuck. He was so incredibly fucked.
It was a blessing that you kept talking, because he was too flustered to form a coherent sentence. He hadn’t had a drop to drink, yet he was wishing he had – just so he could blame his racing heart on the alcohol instead of the way you looked in the moonlight. He was barely tracking your words until the tone of your voice shifted, the playfulness dropping away.
Your smile began to falter. “Almost lost a patient today,” you mumbled, tracing the rim of your empty glass with your finger. “Pete swooped in like some goddamn hero.”
Daryl glanced at you, straightening up. He normally didn’t care to remember people’s names, but Pete’s had come up one too many times. Not to mention that whole meltdown with Rick. He hadn’t been there to see it, being out recruiting with Aaron and all, and a part of him deeply regretted not being there to see Michonne level the guy.
You gave a small, humorless laugh as you told him the rest. How the asshole had been gloating about barely being sober and still managing to “save the day.” How he went on about Deanna making poor decisions by putting you and Denise in charge, even though he was the one who’d ruined his own damn life. He hadn’t stopped there, of course, he started rambling about how immature you and Denise were, saying you weren’t good enough to handle serious cases.
He’d only stopped his tirade when Abraham had stepped in and told him off. Properly told him off. You smiled at the thought.
“I can’t help but think...” your voice trailed off into a whisper, “maybe he’s right. What if I’m not good enough? What if–”
“Hey.” Daryl’s voice cut through the spiral, sharp and steady. He stepped closer, noticing the way the light caught the tears gathering in your eyes. “Ain’t your fault.”
You sniffled, looking away toward the dark. “Feels like it.”
“It ain’t.” He said it firmer this time, his jaw tight as he made a mental note to find the prick and beat him into the dirt.
You wiped your face with the back of your hand, trying to laugh the heaviness off. Suddenly, the laugh turned into a real one, genuine and soft. “Déjà vu.”
“What?”
“Don’t you remember? We’ve had this conversation before.” You looked up at him, a tired but warm smile tugging at your lips. “You were still kind of a dick to me back then, but I get it now.”
Daryl blinked, his confusion written clearly across his face. You saw the blank look and realized he’d truly forgotten, so you started to remind him of the very first day you’d ever interacted with him.
It had happened somewhere between the hopeless trip to Noah’s hometown and the towering walls of Alexandria.
The group was a collective of ghosts then, dragging their feet down an endless, shimmering stretch of asphalt. You were all starving, parched, and half-dead, the kind of tired that settles deep in your marrow and refuses to leave.
During one of the rare moments the group stopped to catch their breath, you watched Daryl murmur something to Rick about hunting before disappearing into the dense tree line.
You didn't know what possessed you to follow him. Maybe it was the medical student in you sensing a wound that couldn't be stitched, or maybe it was just a desperate need to be away from the suffocating silence of the group. Either way, you slipped into the woods after him.
It took longer than you expected to find him. Even exhausted and grieving, Daryl moved like a shadow. By the time you caught sight of his vest through the brush, your lungs were burning and your legs were trembling.
The sight you stumbled upon was not the stoic hunter you’d grown used to.
Daryl was sitting at the base of a massive tree, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly over them. He was staring blankly at nothing, a forgotten cigarette smoldering between his fingers. You froze, your breath hitching in your throat when you saw his shoulders hitch. You didn’t realize he was crying until the sound reached you – a strangled sob that he was trying, and failing, to swallow.
You stepped back, realizing you’d intruded on something private. But your boots weren't light enough for the dried leaves underfoot. The snap of a twig cut through the woods like a gunshot.
Daryl was on his feet in a heartbeat. He spun around, his crossbow leveled at your chest, his eyes bloodshot and lethal. When he realized it was you and not a walker, he lowered the bow with a violent motion. He turned his head away immediately, his hand flying up to wipe his face in a desperate bid for dignity.
Silence stretched between you. The man looked pissed, embarrassed, and completely shattered all at the same time.
“I– I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” you started, your voice thin and wavering in the humid air.
Daryl didn’t look at you. “By stalkin’ me?” he spat, the words laced with a defensive bite.
“No. Just–” You took a deep breath, forcing your analytical mind to steady your racing heart. You knew the risks of cornering a wounded animal, but you couldn't let him bleed out like this. “I know Beth meant a lot to you.”
“Don’t,” he warned, his voice a low growl. He turned his back to you, his posture rigid.
“She did,” you pushed, standing your ground even as your knees threatened to buckle. “She meant everything to you. And to me. And you meant a hell of a lot to her too.”
Daryl didn't move, but you could see the tension vibrating through his frame.
“She told me about you,” you continued, your own voice beginning to shake. “She said you were like family. Like a brother. And from everything I’ve seen of you since we left Atlanta, I know you’re probably sitting here blaming yourself for what happened. Again.”
His shoulders went rock-solid, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists. He looked like he was one word away from snapping or falling apart entirely.
“It’s not your fault, Daryl. None of it. I think that’s exactly what Beth would say if she were standing here right now.”
You didn't wait for a response. You knew there wouldn't be one. So you stared at his back for a moment longer, watching the way he seemed to shrink under the weight of his own grief, before you turned and walked back toward the road.
“I told you it wasn’t your fault then too,” you continued, your tone light but your smile wistful. “Guess we’ve come full circle.”
Realization flickered across Daryl’s face, his eyes softened, and his shoulders dropped a little.
“You were crying then, and I thought- god, I thought you were gonna shoot me for even being there.” You laughed softly, shaking your head.
“Was thinkin’ about it,” he muttered.
The two of you laughed quietly, the kind of laughter that came easy after a heavy conversation.
“Come on.” Daryl gestured for you to finally get inside when you were leaning your head against the porch pole, eyes closed, a sleepy smile on your face.
“I think you–” you slurred something he couldn’t quite make out. He gently lifted your arm and looped it around his shoulder, steadying your wobbly self as he guided you inside. He plopped you down on the same couch where you’d tended to his wounds, the same couch where he’d spent time half-listening to your rants. It was wild to think how much closer you’d grown over the past week, just sitting here in this living room, which had slowly started to feel familiar to him.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been in your house, but it was the first time he hadn’t been invited and just let himself in.
Shit. He had to leave.
You got comfortable the moment your head hit the pillow. You felt a warm blanket being tucked around your shoulders, and while you were conscious enough to remember Daryl was there, you weren't sober enough to question the blurry figure leaning over you. If this was real, why would he be tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear so gently? Why would he be treating you like you were something delicate?
Sleepily, you reached out and snagged his hand. He almost jerked it back in a reflex of pure panic before he realized your fingers were laced with his.
“I think you just made my heart flutter there, Dixon,” you slurred into the pillow.
Daryl silently thanked every god he didn’t believe in that you were too drunk to see the dark flush creeping up his neck. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He’d barely processed your words before you mindlessly tucked his hand under your cheek, shifting your weight until your face was resting right on his palm.
Fuck. He really had to leave. Now.
But you shifted again and hugged his arm to your chest, holding tight. Daryl could have pulled away. He was stronger, faster, he could have been out the door in seconds. But he didn't. He stayed frozen as he watched the tension finally bleed out of your expression. Your brows relaxed, your breathing evened out into the slow rhythm of sleep, and his eyes drifted, inevitably, to your lips.
What the hell? Why am I lookin' there?
The thought snapped something inside him. He jerked his arm away, just a little too hard, stirring you enough to make your brows scrunch in your sleep. He stood abruptly, cursing under his breath and praying you wouldn't wake up to see the absolute mess he was in.
You didn't. You just let out a soft sigh and settled back into the cushions.
Daryl looked at you just a moment longer and slipped out the front door into the cool night air, moving toward his own house with the silence of a man who’d just escaped a crime scene.
All the way home, he struggled to steady his breathing, trying to calm the storm in his chest. But no matter how hard he focused on the gravel under his boots, his mind kept replaying the warmth of your skin and the way your presence seemed to settle a part of him that had been raw for years.
Daryl realized, quite suddenly, that all this time, it wasn't just the stitches or the bandages that kept pulling his feet towards your direction. It was the way you looked at him, the steady hum of your voice, and the way the world didn't feel like such a goddamn wreck when he was sitting on your couch. His chest felt tight, like he’d taken a hit to the ribs, and another realization he wasn't ready to name began to take root.
Daryl was in love with you.
And he had no damn clue what to do about it.
So, like every other time he felt cornered, Daryl did the only thing he knew how to do: he shoved it down. He’d deny it until the sun stopped coming up if he had to. He was a hunter, a survivor, not some guy who knew how to handle whatever this was. He was too stubborn to admit it and too much of a coward to try.
For now, he’d keep showing up. He’d let you patch him up and let your warmth pull him in, over and over, until he either found the nerve to face it or the world finally finished what it started.