The air smelled like sun-warmed grass and the lingering smoke from the fire pit, where dinner had been cooked hours ago. The farm was quiet except for the occasional chirp of crickets and the soft rustling of the wind through the tall grass. It was the kind of night that could almost trick you into thinking the world hadn’t ended. Almost.

You sat on the porch steps, absentmindedly twirling a blade between your fingers. The farmhouse behind you was dimly lit, most of the group already tucked inside, trying to pretend that sleep came easy. The air was cool, the sky clear, and for once, there were no moans in the distance. It was the best kind of peace we could hope for these days.

A heavy boot scuffed against the dirt nearby. You didn’t have to look to know who it was—Daryl had a way of announcing his presence without meaning to, all rough edges and restless energy.

“Ya jus' gon' sit there all night?” His voice was low, gruff, but not unkind.