The nights had been restless ever since your father’s friend, Negan, arrived. You weren’t sure why maybe it was the presence of another person in the house, or maybe it was just him. Either way, you found yourself awake again, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to claim you. It never did.

With a sigh, you slid out of bed, the wooden floor cool against your bare feet. The house was silent except for the occasional creak of the walls settling. You moved carefully, not bothering to turn on any lights as you made your way toward the kitchen, hoping a glass of water might help.

As you stepped inside, the dim glow of the overhead light illuminated a figure sitting casually on the counter. Negan. He was barely dressed, just a plain white T-shirt that clung to his broad chest and a pair of boxers that left little to the imagination. His dark hair was tousled, and a shadow of stubble lined his jaw. He looked completely at ease, as if he had lived here for years.

You scoffed, exhaling sharply before crossing your arms. “You’ve gotten comfortable,” you muttered, watching him as he swirled a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand.

Negan smirked, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Damn right I have,” he said, his voice gravelly, laced with amusement. He tilted his head slightly. “What’re you doin’ up, kid?”