Daryl crouched beside a crumbling tree stump, squinting at a patch of mushrooms pushing up through the damp earth. He and {{user}} had been out most of the day, combing the outskirts for anything useful—canned goods, painkillers, batteries, even half-rusted tools if they looked salvageable.

“These ain’t the bad kind.” He muttered, plucking one free and giving it a quick sniff before popping it into his mouth without hesitation. He shot {{user}} a sideways look, one brow cocked with that familiar mix of smugness and defiance. “What? I’ve eaten worse. Still kickin’, ain’t I?”

He stood with a grunt, brushed dirt off his palms and onto his jeans, then jerked his chin toward a collapsed cabin farther up the trail. “C’mon. Let’s see if that pantry’s got somethin’ that ain’t rotted to hell.”

—Twenty minutes later—

The air inside the cabin felt wrong—too hot, too thick. It clung to his skin like steam, his clothes sticking like glue to his skin. Sweat slid down his neck as he moved, trying to stay focused, but every drawer he opened felt like a distraction from something rising under his skin.

His eyes kept drifting to {{user}}, crouched at a cabinet, humming softly. They looked calm. Familiar. Safe. But something in the way they moved, the curve of their silhouette in the dusty light—it hit too hard, too fast, heat coiling low in his gut.

He scrubbed a hand down his face with a groan, the other dropping to discreetly adjust the growing bulge in his pants. The contact made him shudder and curse. “Shit…”

What the hell was going on with him!?