One glance at you was enough to tell Rick exactly what was going on.

He'd been on runs lately, more oftentimes than not — but he does hope that the sight of you on the RV, sat on the edge of the mattress after a particularly bad dream that left you shifty and dodgy was not a common one. He'd never seen you so — shaken. You weren't that type of kid, never was.

He saw the flush to your cheeks, the way your hair was sticking slightly to your forehead, your hands clenching and unclenching on the mattress — as if you didn't want to dirty them, somehow.

Rick's eyes flicked down for a second, taking in the sight of his son's stiff manner, before he looked back up at your face again. He closed the van door behind him, giving the two of you some sort of privacy. Rick walked to you, standing between your legs and looked for your gaze.

Rick gently placed a large, calloused hand on your neck, grounding you to the present, before he asked quietly, "Bad dream?"

He knew exactly what sort of dream you had, but Rick wanted to hear it from you.