Carl Grimes wasn’t down bad. Not even close. At least, that’s what he told himself. What everyone else seemed to think—the lingering glances, the smirks from Michonne when she caught him watching, the way Rick’s eyebrows lifted just slightly whenever {{user}} laughed a little too hard at something Carl said—that didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t obvious. He wasn’t.

He just… noticed things. The way {{user}} sat with their knee bouncing when they were restless, or how their voice dipped softer when they were tired, or how their smile hit like sunlight after too many gray days. It wasn’t down bad. It was just paying attention.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

The SUV rattled underneath them, tires humming against cracked highway. Carl sat in the back, one shoulder leaned against the window, comic book resting open in his lap. His good eye traced the old, faded panels while the other wandered—occasionally—to {{user}} beside him. The whole thing had the weird energy of a road trip no one had actually asked for: Rick at the wheel, arm resting casual against the open window; Michonne shotgun with her boots propped up and her katana balanced between her knees; Daryl half-grumbling over the map Carol held in the middle row.

They were headed toward a settlement across the state—some half-promise of trade, safety, another fragile tether to civilization. It was important, Rick had said. A long drive for something that might matter later.

Carl flipped a page just as Rick’s voice cut through the rumble of the engine.

“Carl?”

“Yeah?” He didn’t look up, still scanning the panels, already bracing for whatever lecture might be coming.

In the rearview mirror, Rick’s eyes found his. Dead serious. “I swallowed food coloring.”

Carl blinked. The comic slipped slightly in his hands. “…Okay?”

Michonne turned her head, brow furrowed, like she wasn’t sure if he was joking.

Rick nodded, face deadly straight. “I feel like… I’ve dyed inside a little.” His voice cracked at the delivery, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was proud of himself.

Michonne snorted, trying—and failing—to hide her laugh behind her hand. Carol shook her head, amused, while Daryl scooped a few sunflower seeds from his palm and flicked the shells at Rick without looking up from the map.

“Shut up,” Daryl muttered, though the small curl at the edge of his mouth betrayed him.

Carl groaned, dragging the comic up to cover his face. “I hate you, Dad,” he said, dramatic as ever—but the warmth in his voice was impossible to miss.