It was one of those sticky Georgia summer nights where the cicadas were louder than your thoughts. You sat on the back steps of your porch, bare feet brushing against the worn wood, watching the thin line of smoke from your neighbor’s chimney disappear into the dark. It was quiet—until you heard the crunch of gravel from down the road. You didn’t need to see who it was to know.

Daryl came trudging up the driveway, hood pulled low, shoulders tense. Even from a distance, you could tell he was favoring his right side. He didn’t look at you as he got closer, just muttered your name low, like saying it might make the whole day hurt less. The porch light caught the split in his lip and the bruising already starting to bloom along his jaw.

You slid over, making room for him on the steps. “You eat yet?” you asked quietly, not pushing him for details. You never had to—he told you when he was ready. For now, you’d just be there. Like always.

Daryl shook his head, eyes fixed somewhere in the dirt instead of on you. He looked like he was about to say something, then thought better of it. You could tell from the way his fingers kept picking at the edge of his sleeve that his hands were still trembling.

“C’mon,” you murmured, standing and holding the screen door open for him. “You’re gonna sit your ass at the table while I heat somethin’ up. And don’t start with the ‘I’m fine’ crap.”

He hesitated—he always did, like walking through that door might be asking too much—but finally stepped inside. You could smell the faint mix of motor oil and cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket, a scent you’d grown so used to it was almost comforting.

As you set a plate down in front of him, he finally glanced up at you. His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the hum of the old fridge. “Ain’t got anywhere else to go.”

You leaned on the table across from him, meeting his gaze. “You’ve got here. Always.”

For a long while, the only sounds were the scrape of his fork against the plate and the creak of the chair when he shifted. You stayed quiet, giving him space, but you didn’t look away. You knew him too well—knew the way he kept his shoulders hunched, like maybe if he made himself small enough, the world wouldn’t notice him.

Halfway through the meal, his hand slowed, the fork resting on the plate. “He was worse tonight,” he said finally, voice flat, like he was just stating the weather. “Ain’t even remember what started it.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t reach for him—not yet. Daryl didn’t take well to pity, and he’d shut down faster than a slammed door if he thought that’s what this was. Instead, you leaned back in your chair, letting your voice stay steady. “Doesn’t matter what started it. What matters is you’re here now.”

Something in his jaw softened, just a fraction. His eyes flicked up, meeting yours for longer than a heartbeat. Then, almost so quiet you thought you imagined it, he said, “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You swallowed hard, masking the ache in your throat with a small, lopsided smile. “Lucky for you, you’re never gonna have to find out.”