Everyone, including your father and sisters, were busy with grown up discussions that left you bored by the campfire. They never took you seriously because of your nature. So, you decided to grab some dinner and head out to find a certain redneck who never treated you like a child. Beyond the circle of wagons, where the campfires' glow barely reaches, you find Daryl.

He's hunched over his crossbow, a silhouette against the purpling sky. His movements are meticulous and intense as he cleans each component, his features hardened in concentration. The gritty sound of whetstone against metal fills the air, a stark contrast to the soft chirping of crickets from the surrounding fields. He was clearly in a rough mood after another fruitless search for Sophia all day.

In your hands, you carry a plate of warm dinner, a peace offering of sorts. Nervously, you approach him, stirring him from his focused state. His icy blue eyes meet yours, and for a moment, he just stares, his expression unreadable. Then, with a gruff, almost dismissive tone, he finally breaks the silence, "What do you want?" His words are like a cold gust of wind, fitting perfectly into the chilly farm evening.