Chapter Text
Trouble
The summer of 1984 came in hot — thick heat rolling in off the Georgia asphalt, clinging to your skin like honey. Everything felt slow that year, syrup-slow and sun-bleached, the kind of summer that seeps into your bones and stays there, humming like a forgotten song.
You remember the sweat behind your knees, the cicadas screaming in the trees, the clink of glass bottles against wood porches, and the smell of gasoline thick in the air.
And you remember him.
Daryl Dixon.
The first time you saw him, it was like watching a lit match fall into a field of dry grass that had been doused in gasoline. Unavoidable. Dangerous.
You already knew his name, everyone in Monroe County did. The Dixon’s were infamous: the kind of people mentioned behind hands, in whispers, in warnings. Merle had done a stint in the military and came back worse than he left — strung out and selling to the same kids you cheered beside at football games. Daryl? He kept to himself mostly, fixing up bikes in the local garage. He didn’t go looking for trouble, but it always seemed to find him anyway — in the form of messy fights, broken noses, and bruised knuckles.
But none of that mattered when he showed up at your house.
It was a Saturday, the first of Summer — late morning, the kind where the sunlight was soft and gold, slanting through the blinds of your bedroom window like a secret. You were still half-draped in sleep, tangled in sheets, your hair a mess and the scent of strawberry shampoo lingering faintly in your pillow. It could’ve been just another quiet day.
Until the sound came. Metal against metal, sharp and grating, foreign in the hazy drapes of sunlight across your lawn. Not like the usual hum of a lawn mower or the familiar creak of your neighbors’ porch swing.
Curious, you pulled yourself up, walked barefoot across your plush carpet, and peeked through your window.
There he was.
Crouched over the rusted hood of your daddy’s ‘72 Chevy, his arms slick with sweat and oil, head ducked low as he worked. A cigarette clung to his lips, forgotten, the ash nearly to the filter. His black tank top was clinging to him like a second skin, dirt streaked across his collarbone, the curve of his throat exposed and glistening under the southern sun.
Your breath caught.
You didn’t know what you expected — maybe someone rougher looking, meaner. But Daryl wasn’t just a troublemaker. And you thought that there’d be no way that he would be allowed on your property, especially not with your father being the sheriff. Yet here he was, knuckles deep in your daddy’s engine like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You were halfway through the thought when he looked up.
Just a flick of the eyes, like people do when they feel the weight of someone’s eyes on the back of their head.
Then those blue eyes met yours through the glass.
Your cheeks flushed as your eyes met his, flustered at having been caught watching.
You moved to step back, embarrassed to be caught watching, but something in his gaze held you still. He didn’t smirk, didn’t wink, didn’t give you some cocky grin like the boys from school would’ve. No, Daryl looked at you like he was seeing something he didn’t expect.
Then, just as slowly as he had looked up, he turned back to the car, flicked the ash from his cigarette, and continued with his work.
But your heart wouldn’t stop hammering.
~
You spent the rest of the morning pretending you weren’t thinking about him. Pretending like your fingers weren’t fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, like your heartbeat wasn’t faster than it should’ve been. Like you hadn’t spent the last hour by your desk beside the window, peeking through the lace curtain, catching glimpses of Daryl Dixon working beneath the hood of your father’s truck.
You tried not to think about the way his eyes had caught yours earlier, like he could read you, strip down your polished good-girl layers with just a glance. You hated how much that thought stuck in your head.
Worse still was how none of it made any damn sense. Sheriff Monroe had spent years dragging the Dixon name through the dirt, arresting Merle, even Daryl, like it was part of the weekly routine. He didn’t trust that family. Didn’t like them. So why Daryl? Why now?
But you knew your father well. Knew how practical he could be when his pride got backed into a corner. If no one else in town could get the engine running, if the local mechanic had packed up for the weekend, maybe he figured the devil he knew was better than a stalled-out truck.
Still… it didn’t sit right.
You were halfway down the stairs when your father’s voice drifted up from the front hall — clipped and casual, but with that familiar undercurrent.
“I’m headin’ into town for a few. Daryl’s workin’ on the truck — leave him be.”
There it was. That warning tone tucked inside his slow Southern drawl. The one that said: I know how curious you are, don’t even think about it.
You hesitated at the foot of the stairs, skirt brushed smooth over your thighs, the pleats pressed sharp. Your white knee socks were pulled up snug, just an inch shy of the hem. You were dressed like your father liked. Neat, sweet, proper.
“What’s he even doing here?” you asked, voice light but too interested, absentmindedly standing up on your toes to get a peek of him outside the window.
Your father paused in the doorway, narrowed his eyes.
“Fixin’ the damn thing. Ain’t like I had a whole lotta options. Don’t talk to him, Sophia. He’ll be gone by this afternoon.”
You nodded. Quietly. But you didn’t promise anything.
The screen door slammed behind him, and the silence that followed stretched through the house like a held breath.
You waited. Counted the seconds. Let the sound of his truck fade into the distance, the rumble swallowed up by heat and dust. Then you slipped out the front door, your shoes quiet on the porch steps, sunlight licking at your skin.
The air outside was heavy with the scent of cut grass and grease. The sky blazed clear blue, and the heat soaked through your clothes like a second skin.
Daryl was still crouched over the engine, his black sleeveless shirt clinging damp to his back, streaked with sweat and dirt. His jeans sagged low on his hips, loose and worn at the seams.
You cleared your throat nervously.
“I brought you some water,” you said, almost too soft to be heard.
He turned slightly, glanced over his shoulder.
No smile.
Your heart stuttered.
His eyes dropped to the glass in your hand and lingered there.
You swallowed hard, cheeks already flushing. “It’s just—hot out, and I figured maybe…”
You trailed off, embarrassed by how unsure you sounded.
Daryl stood slowly, stretching out to his full height. The sun caught in the strands of his hair, damp and curling slightly at the ends. He didn’t step forward, but he didn’t back away either.
“You meant to be out here?” he asked, voice rough and low, with the barest edge of teasing.
You gave a one-shouldered shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s my lawn.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth and he reached out, taking the glass, his fingers brushing yours and lifted it to his lips. You looked away, only to glance back too soon, gaze tracing the way the muscles in his throat shifted as he swallowed.
He set the glass down on the edge of the toolbox and wiped his hand on the side of his jeans.
“Your daddy be happy with you talkin’ to the likes of me?” he asked.
You crossed your arms, trying to look unfazed. “He said not to bother you.”
A beat. Then a smirk, faint but real.
“Well, reckon you’re doin’ a real fine job of not listenin’.”
You didn’t answer.
He turned back to the truck, then hesitated. Glanced over his shoulder.
“You ever look under a hood before?”
You blinked. “Not really.”
“C’mere,” he said, voice softer now, but with a pull to it. “I’ll show you somethin’.”
You stepped closer, and the moment stretched — long enough for you to realize what you were doing. What it would look like. What your father would say. But the thought didn’t stop you.
Daryl stepped aside, just enough to let you in next to him. You moved slowly, careful where you stood, gravel shifting beneath your shoes. The heat from the engine made the air shimmer.
“Stand here,” he said, nodding to a spot in front of the grill.
You moved — and then felt him behind you.
He leaned over, one hand braced on the edge of the open hood, the other pointing to a cluster of wires. His chest was just behind your shoulder, his breath stirring the loose strands of hair at the side of your face.
You could smell him now — soap, sweat, smoke. Clean and rough all at once.
“Starter solenoid’s right here,” he said, voice low and even. “She’s busted. Most folks’d replace the whole damn thing.”
“But not you?” you asked, not trusting yourself to look at him.
He shifted, just slightly, and you felt the warmth of his body even closer behind you. “Ain’t about what I would do. It’s about what your daddy’s willin’ to pay for.”
You glanced at the wires, trying to focus. Your skirt rustled faintly as Daryl’s hip brushed against your lower back.
“So… what do you do?” you asked, your voice quieter now.
He leaned in just enough that you could feel the heat of him against your back, the whisper of his shirt nearly grazing yours.
“You figure out how to work with what’s broke.”
He reached forward, long fingers grazing over a frayed connection, and you watched the movement more than the part itself. His arm brushed yours, a spark flying up it and to your shoulder.
“See this?” he murmured. “This one’s melted. Means you’re only gettin’ a partial circuit. That’s why the engine clicks but don’t crank.”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
He kept talking, explaining each wire, each component, his tone never shifting. Like this was normal. Like you weren’t standing there, flushed and quiet, every inch of your skin aware of his presence behind you.
Then, after a beat, he paused.
“You ain’t listenin’.”
You blinked, startled. “What?”
He was smirking.
“You’re starin’. Not listenin’.”
You turned, just enough to glance up at him, only to realize how close he really was. His gaze was steady, a little sharp around the edges, but not unkind. Like he could tell exactly what you were thinking.
You opened your mouth to say something, maybe to deny it, maybe not, when the rumble of your father’s truck pulling onto the driveway cut the moment clean in half.
You both turned at the same time.
Your father slammed his truck door closed and stepped out, arms crossed, face stern.
“I thought I told you to leave him be.”
Daryl let out a small breath of air and stepped backwards, rubbing his hands on his jeans.
You looked away, gaze fixed on the floor, your cheeks tinted red with embarrassment.
When your father’s eyes finally found yours, he spoke, his voice sharp. Cold. “Inside. Now.”
“Daddy—”
“Don’t make me say it again, Sophia.”
You stepped back. Heart thudding. You didn’t look at Daryl — couldn’t. But you felt him watching, even as you walked back across the lawn, even as the door clicked shut behind you.
Inside, the air felt too cool. Too still. You stood in the kitchen, back straight, hands clenched.
Your father followed you inside, slamming the screen door shut behind the both of you.
“You don’t get it,” your father said, voice low and angry. “He’s trouble. That family — they ain’t good people, and you damn well know it.”
You stared at the floor.
“No daughter of mine’s gonna go throwin’ herself at some Dixon boy, you hear me? People see you out there, talk’s gonna start. And I won’t have that.”
You nodded. Quiet. Obedient.
But inside, your chest burned.
You weren’t a child anymore. And you weren’t “throwing” yourself at anyone. But you also weren’t about to say that to your father — not when his jaw was clenched that tight, not when the veins in his neck looked ready to snap.
You stayed silent. That was for the best. You’d learned that young.
Your father exhaled sharply and scrubbed a hand over his face. The anger shifted, folded into something heavier — weariness, maybe. Frustration. A quiet fear he’d never admit to.
He sighed again. Softer now.
“You’re a good girl, Sophia. Don’t forget that.”
And just like that, he turned and walked out of the kitchen, boots heavy against the floorboards. Left you standing there in silence, the screen door creaking gently in the breeze.
You didn’t move right away.
Your hands loosened slowly, nails unpeeling from your palms.
Maybe you were a good girl.
But that didn’t mean you had to stay that way.
Chapter 2: Fists
Chapter Text
The rest of the day dragged by painfully, especially after you had holed yourself up in your room to avoid your father’s glare heated with disapproval, and even worse – disappointment. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t drag your mind away from Daryl Dixon and his hands.. His arms, how the muscles of his bicep jumped as he worked under the hood, his skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat and–
The shrill, sudden brrrrring of the house phone sliced through your thoughts like a knife. You jumped, still tense from the kitchen standoff, and drooling over Daryl, and stepped toward the receiver mounted on the wall by the pantry. The cord curled like a snake, yellowed from age, and you pressed it to your ear with a practiced motion.
“Hello?”
“Soph?” came the voice on the other end, bright and insistent, laced with excitement. “Tell me you’re not holed up at home.”
It was Jess — your best friend since fourth grade, the one person who could always sniff out the truth under your good-girl surface.
“I’m on house arrest,” you sighed, trying to keep your voice steady, even light.
She didn’t sound surprised. “What happened?”
You exhaled slowly and leaned against the counter, coiling the cord around your finger. “My dad lost his mind. Came home early, caught me talkin’ to Daryl Dixon.”
The line crackled.
Then, “You what?”
“He was just showin’ me somethin’ under the hood. The engine he was fixing,” you added quickly, as if justifying your own actions.
“Oh, girl.” Jess’s voice dropped into that half-mocking, half-serious tone she used when you’d done something she wasn’t sure if she should be impressed or worried about. “You really got a death wish, huh?”
“I wasn’t tryin’ to — I just went out to give him some water..,” you mumbled, cheeks hot again even though there was no one around to see it.
Jess sighed dramatically. “Well, whatever he was showin’ you under that hood, it’s done now. You need to come out tonight.”
“I can’t. My dad will be watching’ me like a hawk.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” Jess said, sing-song. “Besides, Shane’s throwin’ something at his place by the lake. Real party this time. I heard Rick Grime’s bringin’ fireworks.”
You frowned. “Shane?”
“Yeah,” she said. “He asked if you were comin’. Like, specifically.”
Of course he did.
You felt your stomach twist. Shane Walsh. Monroe High’s golden boy, god, your dad loved him, especially last summer when he was all over you.
But Shane was trouble too, not that your daddy cared, the kind that wore a clean button-down and came from a family with old money. You’d kissed him once the summer before, caught up in a late-night moment under the stars and cheap beer haze, but it hadn’t meant much. Not to you, anyway. He’d kept calling after, showing up, brushing too close in the school hallways.
“I dunno,” you said, voice low. “Shane’s… persistent.”
“He’s an idiot, but he throws good parties. And look — you need to get out of that house. I’ll swing by around eight. Wear somethin’ cute. I’ll climb in through the back if I have to.”
You hesitated, chewing your bottom lip.
Jess wasn’t wrong. You couldn’t sit around the house all night replaying the sound of your father’s voice or the way Daryl had looked at you, biting your lip over his flexing biceps..
And Shane’s party wasn’t exactly dangerous. Not the way talking to Daryl was. Not the kind of trouble that would stick to your skin and shift the air around you.
Still… it didn’t sit right. Something about Shane always felt like a performance, all slick smiles and practiced hands.
“Alright,” you said finally, against your better judgment. “But just for a little while.”
Jess squealed in your ear. “That’s my girl. You’ll thank me. Trust me.”
You weren’t so sure.
When you hung up, you stood in the kitchen for a minute longer, the soft buzz of the disconnected line humming in your ears as you leaned over the counter.
Outside, the sky was already beginning to blush into evening, streaks of gold and rose bleeding into a velvet horizon. Fireflies blinked lazily in the tall grass out by the fence, and the world felt slow again, warm and waiting.
You slipped upstairs quietly, careful not to draw attention. Your daddy was in the living room, the TV turned low, a beer bottle clutched loose in one hand. You knew the rules. You’d learned how to walk past him without stirring the air.
In your room, you hesitated in front of the mirror. Your fingers hovered over the hangers in your closet before settling on something simple — a sundress, soft yellow with white lace. It was a little shorter than you were used to, a little tighter too, but it flattered you. You left your hair down, let it fall over your shoulders in loose waves, and added a hint of peach gloss to your lips.
By the time Jess rolled up in her beat-up car, the sky had deepened into twilight. You slipped out the back door while your father snored lightly in his recliner, unlikely to wake up until the morning.
“Damn,” Jess said, eyeing you from the driver’s seat with a grin. “If Shane doesn’t fall at your feet tonight, he’s more brain-dead than I thought.”
“Don’t,” you said dryly, climbing in, “I’d much rather he didn’t.”
She chuckled and the radio crackled to life as she pulled out onto the road, the roads twisted out past town, past the lights and the noise, out into the dark edges where the woods started thick and wild. Shane’s place wasn’t far, but it sat back behind a stretch of trees, overlooking Lake Wren, with a long gravel driveway that kicked up dust in thick clouds behind Jess’s tires.
By the time you arrived, the air was thick with bonfire smoke, and bodies moved around the firelight, music thumping low through busted speakers propped up on truck beds.
But what you didn’t see was that he was there, tucked into the shadows, leaning against the hood of a beaten up truck, cigarette tucked between his fingers. His shirt was half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing the same sun-warmed skin and oil-smudged forearms you’d seen in your driveway.
Daryl Dixon.
You jumped down from Jess’s truck and headed towards the yard, quickly finding the drinks table.
You turned to Jess, ready to offer her a drink, but she was already halfway across the yard, shouting something to Rick and a couple others from school. You hesitated, stomach in knots, unsure whether coming really was such a good idea.
You hesitated, stomach in knots, unsure whether coming really was such a good idea.
But before you could turn back toward Jess, a voice slithered in behind you, slick and familiar.
“Well, well,” Shane drawled, that signature smirk curling his lips. “Didn’t think I’d actually see you here tonight.”
You stiffened before turning to face him. He was standing too close, the red-and-gold light of the bonfire flickering across his face, shadows dancing in the hollows of his cheeks. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows, his collar open just enough to look like an accident—but you knew better. Everything about Shane Walsh was practiced, posed, polished for effect.
You gave a polite smile, just tight enough to warn him off. “Jess convinced me.”
“She’s a damn miracle worker,” he said, stepping even closer. His eyes dipped down for just a second too long, skating over the curve of your dress, the way it clung at your waist. “You look…” He whistled low, his eyes dropping even lower. “Damn, Soph.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, shifting a half-step back.
He noticed. “Aw, come on,” Shane laughed, soft and coaxing, “don’t be like that. We’re just talkin’. It’s a party. Relax.”
He held out a red Solo cup, already full, and you hesitated.
“It’s just beer,” he said, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
You took the cup, if only to avoid drawing attention, but didn’t drink from it right away. Shane clinked his own cup to yours and took a long swig, watching you over the rim.
“I know your dad’s probably got you locked up like Rapunzel or some shit,” he went on, voice lowering just slightly, “but tonight, you’re free. Ain’t nobody out here but us. You can let loose.”
“I’m just here to hang with Jess,” you said firmly.
He grinned like that was the funniest thing he’d heard all night. “Sure, sure. But you and me, we go way back, don’t we? I mean… I was your first kiss, wasn’t I? Last summer..”
Your skin crawled.
“That was a long time ago,” you said coolly, bringing the cup to your lips just to keep from saying something harsher. The beer was lukewarm and sour, and you grimaced slightly.
But Shane’s grin only widened. “Still counts. You didn’t seem to mind it then.”
“It was a mistake.. We had been drinking,” you muttered, half to yourself.
He leaned in, too close now, the smell of beer and cologne thick on his breath. His hand brushed against your bare arm, too slow to be accidental.
You stiffened, stepping back again, but he reached for you — fingertips grazing your waist, lingering a moment too long.
“Don’t,” you said, voice low, firm. “Shane.”
“Come on, Soph,” he said, half-laughing, like you were being unreasonable. “I’m just playin’.”
“You’re not.”
But Shane only chuckled, backing off half a step, hands raised in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Let’s just chill, huh? I brought the good stuff.”
He held out another cup. The liquid inside was darker — probably whiskey and Coke, or something stronger. You didn’t want it. You really didn’t. But people were starting to look your way, and Shane was still watching you with that smug smile, like he knew he’d get his way eventually.
You took it, scared of being labelled a prude by not drinking.
It’d just be one drink anyway, you’d told yourself.
Except it wasn’t just one. Shane kept them coming, always managing to slip another into your hand before you could think to say no. And your head was spinning now, your cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire and the liquor warming your throat. You’d lost track of Jess, still hadn’t noticed Daryl and the weight of his gaze on your shoulders, and the world had softened around the edges, laughter and music warping like ripples in a pond.
“Let’s go someplace else,” Shane murmured close to your ear. “It’s loud out here.”
He guided you, hand uncomfortably low on your lower back, toward the treeline, just far away enough to be out of reach from the light of the bonfire. You tried to protest, but your tongue felt heavy, and the liquor in your system clouded your better judgement.
“I should find Jess,” you said, voice slurred and weaker than you’d hoped.
“She’s fine,” Shane said easily, settling down beside you and tugging you gently to sit. “Relax.”
He was closer now. His hands on your waist, steadying you. He smirked down at you as he let his grip slip downwards, his fingertips tracing circles across your lower back.
“Shane,” you murmured. “No...”
He leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek. “You used to like it when I touched you.”
“I said no,” you said, louder this time. You turned your head away, but his hand reached up to cup your chin, squeezing a little too hard.
“Don’t be like that,” he muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. “You’re actin’ all high and mighty, but I know you, Soph. I know what you want.”
He let his other hand wander downwards to your ass, but you pushed it away, the motion sloppy from the alcohol, but determined.
“I said stop,” you slurred, heart racing.
Shane frowned, his brow furrowed in anger as his grip on your chin tightened further, making you whimper in pain. He shoved you backwards, hard.
You stumbled back onto the grass, your hands scraping against the dirt as you caught yourself, your drink spilling beside you, your face a picture of shock.
For a split second, you froze, cheeks heated with embarrassment, the interaction had earned an audience now and it seemed like everyone was watching, covering their mouths as they gasped and whispered.
Shane seemed to enjoy the attention, he smirked down at you, “You’re a real stuck up slut, Bennet–”
But he didn't get to finish.
There was commotion, people gasping and yelling, someone pushing through the crowd that had gathered.
You blinked, your vision swimming. Shane was suddenly gone from your sightline, ripped backward as though he weighed nothing.
Daryl.
He had Shane by the collar, dragging him up off the ground roughly.
“What the hell?” Shane shouted, arms flailing.
“You outta your goddamn mind?” Daryl snarled, voice deep and raw with rage, his fist flying right to Shane’s jaw.
Shane staggered sideways, colliding with the side of a pickup truck with a metallic clang, the impact brutal. He groaned, dazed, but it didn’t stop him from trying to stand, from making things worse for himself.
“She’s a damn tease,” Shane spat, blood already slicking the corner of his mouth. “Actin’ like she’s better than me—”
The second hit came faster. Daryl’s knuckles split against Shane’s cheekbone, sending him stumbling back down into the dirt.
“Daryl—” you breathed, heart hammering, vision swimming from alcohol. But he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
Daryl continued, relentless, grabbing Shane by the front of his shirt and hauling him up just enough to drive a fist into his stomach. The air was forced out of Shane in a wheeze, and he collapsed again, coughing hard.
There was another hit, clean across Shane’s jaw, something popped and Shane dropped like a stone.
“You ever touch her again,” Daryl growled, looming over Shane’s crumpled body, “you won’t be so lucky.”
Shane spat blood and laughed, broken and cocky. He looked past Daryl, straight at you.
“This your new thing, Bennett?” he croaked. “You foolin’ around with trailer trash now? Jesus. Didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”
You shook your head in objection, about to deny it when Daryl’s entire body tensed. His eyes darkened.
And then he lunged.
He tackled Shane straight to the ground, the two of them collapsing into a tangle of limbs and fists. Daryl was on top in an instant, fists raining down in a flurry, sick, wet sounds filled the air as knuckle met bone and Shane cried out beneath him.
You scrambled up to your feet, heart racing, hands shaking. You stumbled as you raced toward them, voice tearing out of your throat, slurred and unsure.
“D-daryl! Stop, please, he’s had enough!”
Someone grabbed you.
“Soph!”
Jess. Her eyes were huge, breath ragged, face pale under the firelight. She yanked you back, away from the chaos.
“You need to leave. Right now.”
You blinked, dazed. “Jess, what..?
“Your dad’s on his way. Someone called the cops, they said your name. Soph, he knows.”
Your blood turned to ice.
“No, no! I can explain, I’ll tell him what happened..”
“No, you can’t,” Jess hissed. “You want him to find you here, at a party, drinking, anywhere near Daryl? He’ll lose it. Come on.”
You turned, eyes wide, just in time to hear the crunch of tires on gravel.
A cruiser’s headlights cut through the trees like lightning. Blue and red strobes flashed across the clearing, casting across faces in sharp, disorienting bursts.
Your dad’s voice rang out, loud and furious. “Everybody back up! Now!”
You froze.
There he was, stepping out from the car, the fire reflecting in the cold steel of the badge on his chest. His gun was unholstered, hand resting on the grip as he took in the scene.
Daryl had frozen too. He was panting, bloodied, a split at his brow leaking down his temple. Shane groaned in the dirt beneath him, unmoving. Daryl raised his hands slowly, chest heaving, eyes darting to you by the treeline.
Your father stormed forward, shoving past the circle of onlookers. “You wanna tell me why you’re throwin’ punches, Dixon?!”
Daryl didn’t answer.
Sheriff Bennett didn’t wait. He grabbed Daryl by the arm, spun him roughly around. A second officer followed, already pulling cuffs from his belt.
Daryl didn’t fight. Didn’t flinch. He just let it happen, jaw clenched tight.
“You’re lucky I’m only arresting you,” your father growled, slamming Daryl’s chest against the hood of the cruiser. “You think I don’t know my daughter’s involved in this? That she was here tonight?”
The cuffs clicked into place. Daryl still didn’t speak.
“If I ever find you near her again, if I ever find out you’ve so much as breathed near her” your father continued, voice like gravel, “you’ll wish it was just jail time I gave you.”
Jess was already pulling you backward, toward the trees, her grip iron-tight around your wrist.
You didn’t fight either.
mcalypsia on Chapter 1 Sun 18 May 2025 09:39PM UTC
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