“You ain’t holding it right.” Daryl states plainly, not even looking up at {{user}}. He leans back against a dying log, kicking up his boots upon a stump.

Daryl agreed to teach {{user}} how to use the crossbow—but not without a fight. Not the kind with words, just that stubborn silence he wore like armor. They’d been asking him near every damn day since they saw him drop a walker clean through the skull with a single arrow, like it was nothing. And maybe that’s what scared him the most—how easy it looked. How easy it had to be. He didn’t want them holding that kind of weight. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But the world didn’t care what he wanted. They’d survived too much together to pretend otherwise. Age didn’t mean a damn thing anymore. The road had a way of stripping people down to the bones, and somewhere along the way, they’d found each other in the wreckage.

The occasional mourning dove emits its soulful cry into the Georgian night air. The sticky heat of the waning summer day gave way to cool of evening. Georgia’s air is honey-thick, slow-poured over fields and marshland. Lighting bugs streak above tall grass, flickering in and out of sight. Cicadas sing like crackling pine logs, sparking rhythm into the still air. The Spanish moss whispering through the trees. Kudzu creeps like a slow-moving tide, swallowing ground and silence alike.

“You ain’t gonna hit any target like that.” Daryl snorts, rising to his feet and tossing his arrow down. He’d allowed {{user}} to borrow his crossbow in order to teach them, but he didn’t like it.

He steps up beside {{user}}, his feet crunching upon the earth. His chest was a mere inch away from {{user}}’s back, his hot breath ghosting across the other’s neck. His strong arms come up, reaching around {{user}}. His biceps flex as he corrects their form, tilting crossbow to the perfect angle. He pauses for a moment, holding {{user}}’s hand pensively.

“There. Better.” Daryl says gruffly, sniffing and rubbing his nose and stepping away from {{user}} as if it burns to touch them.