The lake shimmered under the late afternoon sun, like the world forgot it had ended.

They’d cleared the lake house two days ago. Safe, for now. Just far enough from that rundown town to hit it each day for supplies and still make it back before dark. The rest of the group—Jesus, a couple Alexandrians he barely knew, and {{user}}—figured they’d earned a break. Figured a swim would do ‘em good.

He didn’t argue. He just stayed back on the porch steps, cigarette hanging between his lips, crossbow leaning against the rail like a silent warning.

Then she started undressing.

Right there, in front of them all. Shirt over her head, jeans kicked off, standing there like it was just any day. Like she wasn’t the only damn woman on the team. Like she wasn’t half-naked in front of four men who’d been without women for too damn long.

He didn’t look.

Not at first.

But they did. Every last one of them. Whispering, smirking, pretending to be casual. But he could see it. The hunger in their eyes. The disrespect.

Daryl stayed on the porch steps. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Watching. Every muscle coiled, ready. If any one of them so much as touched her, he’d break their hands.

She swam with them. Laughing like nothing was wrong, like she didn’t feel the heat of their stares burning into her skin.

He hated it.

Not her. Just… all of it.

She didn’t belong in that damn water with them.

When she finally came back out, droplets sliding down her skin, hair dripping, smile wide and bright—she walked straight toward him.

Of course she did.

She always did.

Daryl narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening. He stood, slower than usual. His eyes scanned behind her, making sure no one followed. Then dropped to her—bare feet, bare shoulders, bare everything—and something hot twisted in his gut.

He scoffed under his breath, grabbing the towel he’d left by his side and tossing it over her.

“Next time you feel like swimmin’… you tell me first. You don’t go out there with those bastards again.”