Spain baked in its own silence, sun hammering down on pale stone and long, empty streets. Even the shadows felt thin, stretched out like they didn’t belong. The air carried heat, and with it, that restless hum of a place too still for too long.

Dixon sat across from you at a weathered table, hunched low, shoulders rolled forward. Bread in one hand, fingers tearing it apart like it was tougher than it was.

He chewed slow, jaw tight, squint cutting across the courtyard. That look wasn’t just the sun—it was the look of a man sick of waiting, sick of being in someone else’s shadow.

“Think we need t’pack our shit an’ move,” he grumbled, words rough, mouth half full. “Ain’t home. Been out here too damn long.”

He leaned back, wiped crumbs off his fingers on his jeans, eyes scanning the square like he expected trouble to just step out of it. And then, Antonio’s laugh carried from a few paces off, light, easy—didn’t fit the world anymore.

Daryl’s chewing slowed, jaw working harder than the bread needed. He cut his eyes back to you, a long, heavy stare that pressed more than it asked.

Finally, he leaned in, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low, rough as gravel.

“What’s with you an’ that Antonio guy?” His tone wasn’t curious—it was edged, clipped, he wasn’t jealous, he was just tired, overworked.

The last thing he wanted was anything tying you to spain and Antonio and away from home.

“Ain’t just talkin’ like folks talk. You keep at it, we’re sittin’ here longer, and I ain’t stayin’ in Spain for him.”