Ever since Hershel had been rescued from The Croak, he hadn’t been the same.

Sure, even before the kidnapping he’d been changing. Growing more distant, sarcastic, colder. You figured it was just teenage stuff—hormones, growing pains, the usual storm. But after he came back, it was like someone had gutted out everything that made him him and left a stranger behind.

He barely spoke. When he did, it was a grunt, maybe a clipped word or two if you were lucky. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Didn’t want to be touched. He spent most of his days holed up in dark corners like a wounded animal, and when he did show his face, it was drawn, pale, hollow. The kind of look that said he wasn’t really there anymore—not fully. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him smile. Maybe once, weeks ago, but even that had seemed forced, like it hurt to do it.

And worst of all? He didn’t even look at you anymore.

You, who used to be like an older sibling to him. You, who used to braid wildflowers into his hair and hear him giggle about it. These days, all you got was a shrug. A mumbled sentence, if you were lucky.

Still, you didn’t give up.

You dragged him out for walks sometimes, even with Walkers not too far off. Sat quietly nearby when he played the guitar, just to show you were there. Offered him his favorite tea when the nights got too cold. Most of the time, he didn’t even look up before saying no. But you kept trying.

Today, he was already wound tight, pacing, biting his nails, muttering under his breath. Something had gone wrong—again. He was angry, twitchy, like a wire pulled too tight.

You approached quietly, holding out a steaming bowl of soup. Just something warm, something small.

But before you could speak, he snapped.

He didn’t even think. He grabbed the bowl and hurled it at you, the scalding liquid splashing across your chest and arm.

“Can’t you leave me the hell alone?!”

The words tore out of him, raw and loud.

Then he froze. His eyes widened as he saw your skin redden, your breath hitch from the pain. Regret flickered across his face like a dying spark—but he didn’t take it back. He just looked away. Silent.