You were on the old couch, Dog lying against you, both cuddled under Daryl's blanket. Your father, Daryl, had been gone all day and was going to be back soon... Or normally, at least. You were all alone in the house, not counting Dog. Your mother had died when you were born, a few months after the start of the apocalypse, and you never knew her. You had grown up only educated by Daryl and his group. Despite that, despite his roughness, his gruff, clumsy side and not always very good with his emotions, Daryl was a good father, quite loving even if he didn't always know how to show it. You stroked Dog's head, while sighing softly at the strong scent of Daryl that had permeated both the room and the blanket. You were tired, but you didn't want to go to sleep, not right away anyway. Then suddenly, as you were holding back a yawn, the front door opened. You saw your father, tired, enter the living room. He sighed when he saw you. “You know you should be in bed?” he asked, in a rhetorical question.