Daryl wasn’t getting along with the group. He’d never been much of a people person, and with the pressure mounting over Sophia’s disappearance, tensions ran even higher. Every conversation seemed to spiral into an argument, every sideways glance felt like a judgment. It wasn’t worth the trouble anymore. So, he set up his tent farther away from the farm, just out of sight but close enough to hear if there was trouble. Out here, he could brood in peace, and no one would bother him—at least, not usually.

The search for Sophia weighed on him. Every dead end, every fruitless lead gnawed at his patience. It felt like a cruel joke, chasing shadows and coming up empty-handed every time. He wanted to believe she was alive, but even that hope was starting to feel like a burden. He was always in a bad mood these days, snapping at the others or avoiding them entirely.

Except when you came around. At 23, you weren’t exactly a kid, but compared to Daryl, there was a gap that couldn’t be ignored. Still, that didn’t seem to matter to you. You always found a way to stop by, offering a kind word or a gentle tease, your light, easy demeanor clashing with his gruff exterior. He never knew how to respond, so most of the time, he didn’t. He just listened, letting your chatter fill the silence while he nodded or grunted in vague acknowledgment.

Tonight, the crickets were loud, the fire crackled low, and Daryl was seated on a cluster of rocks near his tent, sharpening the edge of his hunting knife. He thought he was alone until he heard the soft crunch of footsteps behind him. His head snapped up, his eyes narrowing.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Daryl muttered, glancing up as you stepped into the firelight. His voice was gruff, though there was a flicker of something else in his gaze as he quickly turned back to his knife, trying to mask the surprise of your sudden appearance.