Your fingers brushed against the worn spines of the books that lined the abandoned wooden bookshelves. The texture of the aged paperbacks that threatened to rip beneath your touch, brought you back to the days you spent roaming your small towns library. It was your sanctuary when home was anything but. You could disappear into those tall shelves and surround yourself with the warm company of a million words.

The light is dim in the small rec room of the CDC, a single light fixture hanging from the ceiling above you. And from that fixture, one of the four lightbulbs flickers from light to dark and back again. Straining your eyes as they scan over every faded title of book that adorns the bookshelves.

The room is empty. Sophia and Carl, who had last been in here with their mothers, had long since gone to bed. And despite the late hour, your feet guided you here. To this literature filled oasis in the middle of a death ridden desert.

Brushing a strand of hair, that had fallen from your messy bun sitting on top of your head, back behind your ear, you wrap your arms around yourself. Your palms touching the cold bare skin of your arms that remain exposed from the loose t-shirt you wear. And your legs, that remain exposed to the cool air from the black shorts hidden beneath the shirt you wear, feel the nice and long over due effects of a good clean shave. Something you had missed since the outbreak began, and something you would never take for granted again.

You're about to head back to your room down the hall somewhere, and try again to close your eyes and get some sleep before morning comes. But your eyes land on a title that draws you in instantly. One that causes a smile to slowly rise against your lips, and reaching your hands out, you pull it from its secure spot between two other novels.

The pages feel like something from a dream as your fingertips trail across the paper. And the scent, although changed with age and the different environment, still causes you to close your eyes. The smell of a book and the ink on the pages would always be one of your favorite. Nothing could replace the experiences books provided you with. A screen could never give you the experience of a fresh page or the light crack of the spine opening for the very first time.

Bringing the open book closer, you bring it to your chest. Hugging the book with a longing that people shared with loved ones. It was something so simple, yet made all the difference in the world in a time like this.

A ruckus in the doorway, causes your eyes to snap open and your mind is pulled instantly from your calming and sentimental moment.

Whirling around to see what the commotion is or rather who it is, your wide eyes slowly soften as you spot Daryl Dixon stumbling into the room. He holds a hand out that loosely touches the doorframe, in an effort to steady his steps perhaps. For he looks like he's tripping over his own feet with each small step he takes.

And you knew the moment you saw him in the doorway, that this man was clearly intoxicated.

"Hiding in here?" His voice hasn't changed though and the fact surprises you. It isn't slow or as slurred as it should be, instead it's the familiar soft yet gruff southern voice that he's always possessed. The voice that could only belong to the younger Dixon brother.

Closing the book that still lays open against your chest, you shake your head. "No. If I was hiding, you wouldn't have found me."

A smirk stretches against your lips, as you turn away from him to return the novel back to its rightful spot on the shelf behind you. And you hear a low snort escape Daryl; a slight mix between a low chuckle and a grunt.

"Touche." Daryl mumbles under his breath and you can hear his footsteps entering the room further. Your back may still be facing him, but that only makes his presence heighten your other senses more.

The hair on your arms stands straight up, and a shiver runs down your spine as you hear Daryl's deep breaths growing louder as he steps closer to you. And the scent of wind that has always belonged to him engulfs you suddenly, like a wave crashing over you.

Turning around slowly, you face Daryl. The man who hasn't worn any thing but a sweat and blood stained tank top since the day you met him, is now dressed in something clean. Even as the faint scent of soap clings to his skin, it isn't enough to take away the ruggedness and outdoors essence from him. That will forever be a part of him, no matter how clean he becomes. He will always be the rough around the edges redneck you knew and secretly loved.

"Thought you'd be in your room," Daryl says, breaking through the quiet that had begun to settle in the room.

He leans against the short table that sits inches away from you. His arms behind him as his hands take on his weight, and his ankles are casually crossed as his legs stretch forward. He looks relaxed, and you can't decide if it's from the booze that taints his bloodstream or something else.

"I was," You explain softly, and your fingers toy aimlessly with the hem of your long shirt. "But I couldn't sleep. So I ended up here."

"In the library."

Humming softly at his words, you nod your head. "It was my favorite place before all of this started, and I honestly believe it'll still be my favorite when it's all over."

Daryl lifts a brow, and you tilt your head to the side softly. "Ye think this'll all end one day?"

His question is asked with both curiosity and cynicism. His words striking a nerve deep within you, a nerve everyone had nowadays. It was something triggered instantly by all of the fear that was a constant part of daily life.

"I think," You pause as you swallow a deep breath, waiting for the words in your mind to float past your lips. "I think I have to believe that the old world will come back one day. That this isn't all it'll ever be."

Daryl's eyes are heavy as they stare intensely at you, listening to your words with a concentration you wouldn't expect from an intoxicated human. But there's something oddly sober about Daryl Dixon in this moment.

"You're hairs pulled up." His sudden comment breaks through the dense cloud of conversation and with a raised eyebrow, just like that the random mind of a drunk is back.

Releasing a breathless laugh, you wrap your arms around yourself. "Yeah, I guess it is."

You can't help but smile at the man who looks so serious as he stares at the messy bun of hair on top your head, and his random observation still makes you laugh to yourself.

"I like it better down."

Humming softly, you take a small step closer to him. "Do you now?"

Daryl studies your hair as if it'll reveal to him some secret to life he's been searching for. But there's a softness to his blue eyes that didn't come across very often, and you enjoyed the sight.

"Mhm." Daryl confirms softly. "Got the prettiest hair I ever seen. Almost as pretty as my ma's was."

And it's that simple yet stunning statement that takes the laughter from your lungs and the smile from your pale lips. Here Daryl was, drunk before you in the library in the dead of night, appearing anything but drunk. His words ached with a truth so deep it threatened to consume him whole. Yet he shared them, possibly unknowingly, with you.

You had never heard Daryl speak of his past. Never had he referenced the life he had before all of this. You knew it held a harshness by the way he presented himself, but this was the first time something escaped him that had to do with his past. Merle had made snide comments on occasion back at the quarry, but Daryl had stayed mute about his past. Until this moment in time.

Shock floods your body so much so, that it isn't until Daryl's warm knuckle brushes against your ear that you are pulled away from your thoughts and brought back to the present. Your eyes refocus on Daryl Dixon who stands mere centimetres from you now, as he pushes a strand of hair that had fallen to the side of your face, back behind your ear. And in doing so, his knuckle skims the very top of your ear. Sending a chill down your spine at the soft touch of his flesh against your own.

"I think you're the most beautiful person I ever met."

His words cause a lump to grow in your throat. But swallowing best you can, you clear your throat before speaking up softly.

"And I think you're drunk."

Despite clearing your throat before speaking, your voice comes out hoarse and in that of a timid whisper. The proximity in which Daryl stands throwing your mind and your body into an anxious landscape.

Daryl grunts lowly, and his eyes that were steady on your own eyes drop. And it isn't till he takes the last step forward, causing your body to instinctively take a step back, that he looks at you again. Now that your back has hit the wood of the bookshelf, and his broad body cages you in with his heavy shadow.

"I might be drunk, but I ain't no liar."

Daryl's voice is low and calm, yet it radiates through you with a force harsh enough to make you crumble. But his eyes that are locked with yours are the only thing keeping you standing.

"And I ain't lying when I say you're the prettiest woman I ever met."

Your mouth has long gone dry and your lungs ache for air. But you fear even the smallest breath will break this moment, as if he stands before you in some sort of trance.

"I ain't lying when I say I think you're also the smartest person I ever met."

"Or when I say that I think people underestimate you. All they see is some girl with her nose in a book, or her head in the clouds. But you ain't like the others and that scares them. You're real, and you don't try to hide who ye are."

Tears burn in the corners of your eyes as Daryl speaks in a soft tone. And as you watch the man continue to speak, you see a side to him you never knew was there. Underneath the persona and walls he built up to keep others out and away, was a man who craved companionship just like everyone else. Gone was the man who screamed profanities and threatened others with a heavy crossbow, and who took his place was someone who spoke his mind and his heart without fear.

"I may be drunk right now, but I ain't a liar," Daryl tells you again.

And you believed him.

You want to say something, but after everything he just confessed and revealed, nothing seems like enough. But Daryl solves the void for you, as he closes the space left between you and presses his lips against your own.

His kiss isn't sloppy like some drunks you'd kissed in the past. But it wasn't gentle either. It was passionate and with a purpose. Everything inside of him that he couldn't say through the fog of liquor was expressed by the way his lips danced with your own.

And as the soft scent of him swirled around you, questions of his state of mind entered your thoughts. He was drunk. As you could still taste the faint fruitiness of the wine on his lips. And you questioned if he would even remember this in the morning. This moment, his words, or this kiss. Or perhaps, would he remember it all and shy away in regret?

But as his hands move to cup your face, cradling your cheeks with a caution that warmed your heart, you realized you didn't care. Maybe he wouldn't remember and maybe this would always be a memory only you held. But in the back of your mind, you knew that liquor made those who took it, truthful in a way they weren't during the day.

Maybe the liquid courage was all he needed to speak what words he already had. For you believed his words. Every single one of them.

He was drunk but Daryl Dixon had never been more sober.

A/N: I really loved this idea and was excited to write it. What do you think? I wanted to do a confession type one shot with Daryl, but I knew he wouldn't be that truthful on his own. It isn't in his character, but I think I was able to find a way to make it believable enough. Let me know what you thought!🧡