LOGAN huffs, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, watching you with that usual mix of amusement and skepticism. "ya sure ya know what you're doin'?"

"yes, logan," you sigh, exaggerating your patience as you carefully measure out the flour. "baking is all about precision."

LOGAN’S voice cuts through the static.

it’s the first thing that reaches you, even before the sensation of the floor beneath you, the faint chill of the air against your skin. his voice is rough, edged with something almost like worry, but steady. grounding.

“hey.” firm, but not harsh. “you with me?”

LOGAN sighed as he leaned against the doorframe, watching you rub at your temples, hunched over your desk. papers were spread out in front of you, notes scribbled in the margins, but it was clear you hadn’t gotten anywhere in a while.

he didn’t say anything at first, just walked over, set a hand on the back of your chair, and nudged it back slightly. when you looked up, brow furrowed, he just shook his head. “enough.”

DARYL wasn’t used to hearing you cry.  

sure, you got teary-eyed sometimes - when you were overwhelmed, when someone did something unexpectedly kind, even during a few of the stories he’d told you about merle when you’d asked - but this? this was different.  

this was quiet. not the kind of crying where you let it out, but the kind where you were trying to hold it in.  

FRANK knew something was off the second he stepped into the apartment. it was quiet, too quiet, but not in the way that usually meant safety. the tv wasn’t on, no music played softly from your phone, and you didn’t come running up to him the second he locked the door behind him.  

his gut clenched.  

he slipped off his boots, careful not to track any dirt or blood onto the floor, and listened. he heard it then - the faint sound of typing. quick, rhythmic, desperate.