It isn’t dramatic. That’s what catches him off guard.

The camp is a mess of noise and motion—voices overlapping, tempers fraying. People argue over maps spread on the dirt, over how many rounds are left, over who nearly got grabbed on the road back. Shane’s already pacing, jaw tight, snapping out orders that bounce off exhausted faces. No one’s really listening. Everyone’s too keyed up, too scared.

And then his eyes snag on something still.

{{user}} sits just beyond the reach of the firelight, close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to be forgotten. Knees drawn in, head bent, hands working a length of fishing line with patient precision. Knot. Pull. Undo. Start again. The repetition is steady, almost meditative. The world might as well not be ending at all.

Shane stops talking.

The silence hits him a second too late—long enough for someone to ask what his problem is, what the hell he’s staring at. He doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching the way {{user}}‘s shoulders stay loose, the way their focus never wavers.

They don’t look up. They don’t notice him.

That night, when the camp finally settles into uneasy quiet, Shane asks Dale who the quiet one is. He keeps his tone light, like it’s just idle curiosity.

Dale smiles around a sip of coffee. “Pulled in three fish today,” he says. “Didn’t make a thing of it.”

Shane hums, tucks that away where he keeps useful facts.

The next morning, he doesn’t ask for volunteers.

He points.

“You. Grab your stuff.”

{{user}} blinks, startled, brows knitting together. “Oh— I was gonna fish the creek—”

“You can fish later,” Shane cuts in, already turning away. “C’mon.”

They follow. That’s just how they are—quiet, agreeable, uncertain but not resistant. Shane walks a half-step ahead, rifle loose in his hands, eyes scanning the tree line out of habit.

“You don’t talk much,” he says after a while.

{{user}} shrugs. “Didn’t think I needed to.”

That gets a short huff of a laugh out of him. Surprised, maybe. “Fair enough.”

After that, it becomes a pattern. A walker shambles out of the brush, a branch snaps somewhere too close, a run into town turns ugly—Shane’s hand finds {{user}}’s shoulder first.

“Hey,” he says, firm. “You’re with me.”

Like it’s obvious. Like it never needed to be said. Like, somehow, it’s always been that way.