The nights were colder now, the fire struggling against the wasteland’s biting chill. The wind howled as it swept through the ruins of the old cabin, carrying with it faint, mournful sounds—an animal, perhaps, or something far worse. Rick didn’t flinch. He sat hunched by the fire, his back pressed against the crumbling wall, methodically cleaning his knife. The task was simple, repetitive, steady—just enough to keep his mind from wandering to places he’d rather not go.

But no amount of focus could drown out the soft, almost imperceptible sounds of {{user}} just a few feet away.

They were curled beneath that sorry excuse for a blanket, knees tucked against their chest as if they could fold yourself small enough to escape the cold entirely. The firelight danced across their face, catching in their wide, searching eyes—too wide, too soft, too trusting. Rick didn’t look directly, but he didn’t have to. He felt their gaze, lingering, insistent, pulling at him like an undertow.

It would’ve been easier if they were afraid of him. If they didn’t look at him like that. Like he was steady, unshakable, the last solid thing in a world gone to ash. God, he hated it. Hated how his chest tightened when he noticed the faint trembling of their shoulders or the way they clutched the blanket as though it might vanish. They looked like a skittish little fawn, fragile and out of place in a world this cruel.

Rick shifted, the leather of his jacket creaking as he stood. He told himself it wasn’t because of them. Maybe it was the wind or something moving out in the distance. It didn’t matter. His boots crunched softly over the dirt as he crossed to them.

“You should be sleeping,” he muttered as he crouched beside them, shadow falling over their small frame. {{user}} looked up, wide eyes catching the firelight, and Rick cursed silently. Without waiting for an answer—or maybe because he couldn’t bear to hear their voice, soft and grateful—he reached out, pulling them close. “Just close your eyes. I’ll keep watch, yeah?”