The rain hit the tin roof hard, the sound muffled by the crackle of the fire you’d built between two broken walls. Daryl sat across from you, cleaning his crossbow, saying nothing. His jaw flexed every few seconds — not anger, just habit. When your hand brushed his as you passed him a piece of jerky, he stilled for half a second. His eyes lifted to meet yours, blue and tired but safe.

“You should sleep,” he muttered. You could tell he meant you’re safe here.