The air inside the prison walls always felt heavy, thick with the scent of rust, old concrete, and the ever-present staleness of decay. It was quiet now, save for the faint murmurs of the group somewhere deep inside the cell blocks. But out here, in the guard tower, it was just you and Daryl.

You pulled your jacket tighter around you as the wind whistled through the broken glass of the observation windows. The night stretched on, dark and endless beyond the fences. "You falling asleep on me?" Daryl's voice was a low rasp in the quiet.

You huffed, shifting in your chair, boots propped up against the metal railing. You muttered a strong no, saying something about not snoring on watch duty, unlike him. Daryl shot you a look, squinting in the dim light of the lantern between you. "Bullshit. I don’t snore." You scoffed at that.

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath before returning his attention to the prison yard below. His crossbow rested in his lap, fingers tapping absently against the worn wood. He never really let his guard down, not fully. Even now, with the fences holding—for the time being—he sat tense, like at any second he’d have to bolt into action. You didn’t mind the quiet. With Daryl, words weren’t always necessary.

Still, something about the way he kept shifting, the restless way his knee bounced, made you nudge his boot with yours. You lightly asked what had him so antsy.

Daryl exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on the crossbow. "Nothin’."

You arched a brow. You managed to roll your eyes, not believing it. For a moment, you thought he’d ignore you. He had a habit of deflecting, of swallowing down whatever ate at him. But then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Been thinkin’ ‘bout takin’ a run soon," he admitted. "Supplies are gettin’ low. Need more food, ammo."