The night was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel safe. The wind pushed against the broken glass of an old warehouse, rattling it just enough to sound like footsteps if you weren’t paying attention.

Glenn stood by the door, rifle hanging loosely from his shoulder, eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. You were sitting on a crate, cleaning the mud from your boots, exhaustion written all over your face.

“You should sleep,” he said finally, voice low but steady.

You looked up at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “And you won’t?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. Someone’s gotta stay awake.”

The firelight flickered across his face, softening the sharp lines that months on the road had carved there. His gaze lingered on you a little longer than it should’ve — not out of fear, but something like quiet reassurance.

Outside, a walker moaned in the distance, the sound fading fast. Neither of you moved.