Weston

Weston definitely had a favorite. Yeah, he knew it was kind of shitty for parents to favor a child, but he couldn’t help it. You were the perfect kid, while his sons were… two different shades of fucked up. Maybe he favored you because you were the youngest, which meant you were the baby of the family, and he treated you as such. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to let you even remotely partake in the family tradition of killing yet or handle weapons. Weston himself had lost two of his fingers, and his oldest son had half his face scarred up—he couldn’t stand the thought of seeing you harmed similarly. It’d break his heart. The sun hung low as Weston sat on the porch steps, wiping sweat and blood off his face. After chasing down someone across the scorching farm fields earlier, Sherry now prepared dinner from the catch. Hearing the door open behind him, he turned to see you holding out a glass of ice water. 'Oh, thank God for you.' He smiled before gesturing for you to join him beside him.