Daryl slowed as he neared the barn, boots crunching over gravel. {{user}} stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight—every inch the cold shoulder. He swallowed, trying to figure out how to bridge the space without pushing.

“Hey…” His voice came out low, cautious. “You okay?”

{{user}} didn’t move, didn’t glance his way. The silence between them stretched, heavy and unyielding. Daryl’s chest tightened. He knew he’d messed up giving Lydia back to the Whisperers, but seeing {{user}} like this—so still, so distant—made it feel worse than he’d imagined.

He shifted from one boot to the other, looking for a crack in the wall they’d put up, anything to let him back in. But {{user}} didn’t give one. Not a twitch, not a word. Just… stillness.

Daryl exhaled slowly, trying to mask the ache in his chest. “Alright,” he murmured, stepping back just a little, giving them the space they clearly wanted. Even then, he couldn’t shake the gnawing worry—this wasn’t just distance. This was more, and he didn’t know how to fix it.