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By the time the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, you had developed a reluctant rhythm.

The herd moved.

You followed.

Part of it was practical. The walkers moved with surprising consistency, and keeping track of them was easier when you weren’t constantly lagging behind. The other part was something that you were considerably less eager to acknowledge.

Curiosity.

You were terrified of the walkers— that much hadn’t changed.

Every instinct still recoiled at the sight of them. Years of consuming zombie-based media and basic common sense had thoroughly convinced you that standing anywhere near the undead was a bad idea.

However, the longer they ignored you, the more difficult it became to sustain that fear at its original intensity.

Only a few hours ago, you had been convinced that getting within twenty feet of a walker meant death. Now you found yourself walking close enough to distinguish individual faces.

It was a little concerning just how quickly you’d adapted to this… condition of yours.

You kept expecting your courage to fail. Every time you drifted a little nearer to the herd, your body tensed in anticipation of disaster. Yet the disaster never came.

The walkers just kept moving forward.

Eventually, you found yourself matching pace with one of them.

The corpse was an older man, or at least it had been at one point. Wisps of white hair still clung stubbornly to his scalp. A faded plaid shirt hung loosely from his frame, stained with dirt and other things you didn’t want to think too hard on. One sleeve had been torn away completely, revealing a skeletal arm mottled with decay.

You couldn’t stop staring.

On television, walkers always seemed interchangeable. Up close, individual details emerged.

This man had once chosen that shirt.

Someone had probably bought it for him— a wife or a child, maybe.

Someone had known his name.

The thought settled like a stone in your chest.

Your gaze drifted to another walker nearby. This one appeared much younger. A woman in what looked like a nurse’s uniform shuffled through the grass some yards away. The fabric was soiled beyond recognition, but fragments of a hospital logo remained visible near the collar.

You wondered if she had worked during the outbreak, whether she’d stayed behind trying to help people.

Whether she had family somewhere.

The questions came too easily and none of them had answers.

For the first time since arriving in this world, you found yourself studying the walkers for reasons unrelated to survival.

One limped badly on a ruined leg.

Another dragged a foot behind him.

A little girl wandered near the center of the herd clutching a filthy stuffed rabbit against her chest.

You looked away immediately.

All the knowledge in the world couldn’t have prepared you for this. These weren’t props covered in makeup, or people excited to be in the background of their favorite show.

They were the remains of human beings whose lives had ended in one of the worst ways imaginable.

As the herd reached the outskirts of a neighborhood, the sun had reached its final destination.

The light had softened considerably since the brutal heat of midday, painting the landscape in warm shades of gold and amber. Long shadows stretched across the ground, weaving between the walkers as they continued their steady march forward.

You found yourself paralleling them without consciously meaning to.

At some point, the herd had stopped feeling like an immediate threat and started feeling like a strange sort of constant. They were still unsettling to look at, and the smell lingered in the air whenever the wind shifted. Every now and then, you would catch sight of an especially gruesome injury and have to force yourself not to stare.

And yet…

There was something oddly reassuring in their proximity.

There was no arguing, or demands made, or questions asked.

They simply moved.

Hour after hour, they shuffled onward with the same mindless determination, and after spending most of the day among them, you had begun adjusting to their presence.

It was something that probably should have alarmed you more than it did.

You walked alongside a woman who had likely been in her forties before her death. Most of her dark hair had fallen out, leaving uneven patches across her scalp, and the floral pattern on her dress had long since faded beneath layers of dirt and weathering.

She didn’t acknowledge you.

You wondered if that would ever stop feeling strange.

Your gaze drifted ahead as the neighborhood came into view.

Rows of houses emerged beyond the trees, their rooftops visible above overgrown hedges and neglected lawns. Even from a distance, the place carried the familiar appearance of suburban America. Mailboxes stood beside cracked sidewalks, driveways stretched toward garages, tall trees lined the streets.

The sight stirred something unexpectedly painful in your chest.

They reminded you of home.

Not because they looked exactly like your own neighborhood, but because they belonged to the same world. The same civilization. The same life that had existed before everything fell apart.

The herd drifted into the neighborhood without hesitation.

Walkers spilled across the streets and sidewalks like a slow-moving river, weaving around abandoned vehicles and overgrown yards. A rusted bicycle lay forgotten near a driveway. One house still displayed the remnants of holiday decorations that had somehow survived months of exposure to the elements.

Your stomach growled.

The sound startled you enough that you glanced downward.

Right, food.

You hadn’t eaten since arriving in this world, and your body was beginning to remind you of that fact with increasing urgency. Your throat remained dry and your muscles still ached from earlier. The initial surge of panic and adrenaline had faded hours ago, leaving behind a very tired, very hungry human being.

The houses surrounding you suddenly seemed far more interesting.

Some had broken windows while others appeared untouched. A few still had vehicles parked neatly in their driveways, as though the owners might return at any moment.

The sight sparked a thought.

If the herd had been moving through this area regularly— or even if large groups of walkers simply wandered nearby— then many survivors would likely avoid the neighborhood entirely.

The risk just wouldn’t be worth it.

Clearing a house was one thing— clearing a house while multiple walkers roamed the surrounding streets was something else entirely.

For the first time all day, genuine hope lightened your frame.

If you were right, there might still be supplies here. Food, medicine, water. The possibilities seemed almost too good to believe.

Your steps slowed as the herd continued onward.

Immediately, a surprising feeling tugged at your heart.

Reluctance.

The emotion caught you completely off guard. Objectively speaking, you should have been thrilled to leave.

You had spent damn near the entire day surrounded by flesh-eating monsters! Normal people did not become attached to zombie herds!

Yet as you watched them continue down the street, you felt a faint sense of unease.

The herd had become familiar— safe.

At least, as safe as anything in this world could be.

Leaving meant stepping back into uncertainty. Leaving meant being alone again.

You paused before laughing softly.

Nope, you weren’t going to think about it. If you didn’t acknowledge the sinking feeling in your gut, it didn’t exist.

Food first, mental breakdown later.

Drawing in a steadying breath, you stepped away from the herd and crossed the street.

The neighborhood lacked the obvious signs of repeated scavenging. There were no doors hanging from hinges, no smashed-in walls— no evidence that desperate survivors had stripped the houses bare.

Hope fluttered in your chest again.

Carefully, you made your way up the driveway of the nearest home.

The house itself was modest but charming. It was painted a soft shade of blue that reminded you of the sky on a sunny day. Flower beds bordered the front walkway, now overgrown with weeds and wild grass. A wooden rocking chair sat abandoned on the porch.

You lightly trailed your hand against the armrest of the chair, swallowing thickly as you did so.

Someone had once considered this place home.

You forced yourself to keep moving. You reached the front door and grabbed the bronze doorknob with a shaky grip.

The front door stood unlocked.

That fact alone told a story.

You couldn’t imagine leaving your house unlocked under normal circumstances. Whatever had happened here had happened quickly. The owners had likely rushed out with only the things they could carry, fully expecting to return once the emergency ended.

Nobody had returned.

The interior was quiet as you crossed the threshold of the house. Not eerie, exactly. Just empty.

Dust coated the interior in a thin gray layer. Sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating tiny particles that drifted lazily through the air. Family photographs decorated the walls of the hallway, smiling faces frozen in moments of happiness that felt impossibly distant now.

The pictures made this harder.

It was easier to think of abandoned houses as resources.

It was much harder when confronted with evidence that real people had once lived inside them.

The kitchen became your first target.

Mostly because food was your immediate priority, but also because focusing on a practical task prevented you from dwelling on everything else.

You gently pried the door to the pantry open and froze, your mouth falling open in shock.

The shelves were still stocked.

Rows of canned vegetables sat neatly arranged beside boxed pasta and bags of rice. Soup cans occupied an entire shelf. Crackers, peanut butter, oatmeal, and various other non-perishables remained untouched.

A smile stretched across your face before you could stop it.

“Oh my god.”

Relief washed over you so suddenly that your knees nearly gave out.

You had prepared yourself to find scraps, a few overlooked items. Maybe enough food to survive a day or two if you were lucky.

Instead, you were looking at enough supplies to last for weeks.

‘No sane survivor would willingly search houses surrounded by walker herds.’

For the first time all day, you found yourself genuinely appreciating your absurd decision.

Following the herd had actually worked.

You quickly began removing items from the pantry, placing them in neat piles across the kitchen counter. Cans went together. Boxes went together. Anything remotely useful was carefully sorted into groups.

It wasn’t until you’d accumulated an impressive mountain of supplies that a new problem occurred to you.

You had absolutely no way of carrying any of it.

You stared at the collection.

The collection stared back.

A loud groan reverberated from the back of your throat. You dragged a hand down your face, your eyebrows pinching together in frustration.

Of course it couldn’t be that easy.

Leaving the food behind felt physically painful, but there was little point gathering supplies if you couldn’t transport them.

You stepped away from the kitchen and began searching the house.

The living room yielded little beyond dusty furniture and more reminders that people had once lived here. A blanket remained draped over the arm of a recliner. A few books rested on a side table beside a pair of reading glasses.

You hurried past both.

The hallways led to four rooms. You chose the first one and stepped in.

The bed remained neatly made. Family photographs occupied the dresser. Sunlight spilled across the carpet through partially opened curtains.

For a moment, you just stood there.

There was something uniquely unsettling about bedrooms. More than every other room in a house, they felt personal. You pushed the discomfort aside and began checking the room.

It didn’t take long for you to find what you were looking for.

Tucked near the back of the closet sat a large duffel bag.

The bag looked sturdy enough to carry a significant amount of weight. It was larger than anything you could have hoped to find.

You unzipped it and discovered a collection of colorful envelopes, folded paper decorations, and greeting cards stacked neatly inside.

For a moment, confusion replaced your excitement.

Then understanding followed.

Birthday cards.

Years worth of them, judging by the quantity.

You could have read them but you quickly squashed down the thought. Taking the bag already felt uncomfortable enough. Reading the cards would be crossing a line.

Carefully, you removed the contents and placed them in a tidy stack on a nearby shelf. You avoided looking too closely at the writing. A few colorful envelopes slipped loose during the process, revealing fragments of cheerful handwriting and cute stickers.

You ignored them.

Some things weren’t yours.

The cards remained where you left them as a monument to people you would never know.

Once the bag was finally empty, you slung it over your shoulder and headed back toward the kitchen.

As you began carefully packing the cans and boxes into the duffel, a reluctant thought surfaced.

Maybe following the herd hadn’t been the worst decision you’d ever made.

————————————————

Your shoulder was beginning to ache from the weight of the duffel bag.

The discomfort was worth it, though.

The bag was stuffed with canned food, bottled water, batteries, flashlights, spare clothes, and enough miscellaneous supplies to make you feel almost optimistic. Considering you’d arrived in this world with absolutely nothing, the transformation felt borderline miraculous.

You’d already searched most of the houses.

The first had been terrifying.

The second had been awkward.

By the third, you’d accidentally started developing a system.

Kitchen first, medicine second, anything useful afterward.

Somewhere around house number five, you had also realized you’d begun talking to yourself.

Quite a lot, actually.

The discovery had been prompted by a walker wearing a wedding ring.

You’d spotted it while crossing a driveway and spent nearly ten minutes wondering about the person’s life before abruptly catching yourself speaking your theories out loud.

The walker hadn’t cared.

At one point, you’d even found yourself walking alongside a woman in a tattered yellow cardigan while discussing the merits of canned ravioli.

She didn’t respond, obviously, but you’d like to think she agreed with you.

The house at the end of the street finally drew your attention away from your silent walking companion. You bid a quick farewell, to which she only groaned. Rude.

The house sat slightly apart from the others, partially hidden behind a collection of mature oak trees whose branches stretched over the roof like protective arms. The yard was overgrown, but less so than some of the neighboring properties. Ivy climbed one side of the house, softening the structures edges and making it feel oddly secluded.

Something about the place tugged at your memory. For a few seconds, you stood in the driveway trying to place it.

Then you shrugged.

You’d spent years watching The Walking Dead. You were beginning to suspect that half the state of Georgia felt familiar now.

The front door was locked.

The discovery should not have been surprising, yet it frustrated you all the same.

You rattled the knob one last time before stepping back with a sigh. The windows proved no more cooperative. Whoever had lived here had made damn sure the place was locked tight before they left.

Alright then.

Improv has always been one of your strong suits.

Your gaze drifted toward one of the decorative rocks lining the porch, already weighing whether it was worth sacrificing a window, when something else caught your eye.

A squat little stone frog sat beside the front steps, grinning at you with the vacant optimism only lawn ornaments seem capable of.

Well… it couldn’t hurt to try.

You crouched and lifted the statue.

Sure enough, tucked neatly beneath its stony ass sat a small brass key.

Thank god for cliches!

Sliding the frog aside, you snatched up the key and returned to the front door. It slipped into the lock with an almost disappointingly soft ‘click’.

And just like that, you’re in.

The door creaked open as you peeked your head inside.

Two walkers occupy the foyer. Neither seemed particularly interested in you. They barely spared you a glance before returning to… whatever it was walkers did when they weren’t trying to eat somebody.

Fine by you.

You let them to whatever depressing hobby occupied the undead and headed straight for the kitchen.

Throwing open the pantry door, you fully expected to find shelves lined with canned food like the rest of the neighborhood.

Instead, a pair of spiders and several enthusiastic dust bunnies greet you.

The spiders scattered as you stared into the empty pantry, thoroughly betrayed.

“Guess I got too cocky…”

With a sigh, you shut the pantry and started opening cupboards instead. No matter, surely there had to be—

A single can of dog food on the shelf.

It somehow managed to look smug.

Huh.

Alright, so the kitchen is a bust. Go figure.

You trudged back through the foyer, brushing past the walkers with an exaggerated groan when one of them happened to turn its head in your direction.

“Oh, don’t start!”

Couldn’t they see you were in the middle of a crisis?! Who knew when you’d stumble across another neighborhood this untouched?

Your footsteps echoed through the house as your search continued, each room somehow more disappointing than the last. By the time you climbed the stairs, your patience had all but vanished.

The second floor wasn’t any better than the first!

Bedroom, bathroom, closet— all useless!

Finally, you stopped in the doorway of what looked like a teenagers bedroom, your foot tapping impatiently against the hardwood floor.

Band posters plastered nearly every inch of the walls. Some you vaguely recognized, but most you didn’t.

None of them held your attention for long.

No…

What caught your eye was the bulky old computer sitting on the desk beneath the window.

Your eyes lit up.

The thing was practically a museum exhibit! It still had the giant monitor box and everything!

You wandered over, looking it over with open curiosity. A tape-recorder sat precariously on the edge of the desk, while the keyboard was surrounded by multiple cassette tapes. A few had handwritten labels, but most were left blank.

You picked one up.

Across the faded strip of masking tape, someone had scribbled:

‘Pops Mix :P’

A smile tugged at your lips.

Your dad used to ramble for ages about how much of a pain making mixtapes had been back in the day. Sitting by the radio for hours, finger hovering over the record button, praying the DJ wouldn’t start talking halfway through the song…

So for some moody teenager to make one for their dad…

They must’ve been close.

Carefully, you set the cassette back on the desk before sifting through the others. The labeled tapes followed much the same pattern— Mom’s Road Trip Mix, Summer Songs, a few dedicated entirely to individual bands.

A whistle pushed past your pursed lips as you took it all in. This kid had been obsessed with music.

Then something else caught your eye.

Nestled innocently among the chaos sat a Walkman

A delighted squeal escaped before you could stop it.

You knew what a Walkman was, of course, but only because your dad had brought his old one out for you to gawk at. They’d gone out of style before you were even born!

You snatched it up like you’d just discovered buried treasure.

A pair of worn headphones was already plugged into it. You settled them over your ears, then spent the next minute squinting at the buttons with growing determination.

“C’mon…”

The thing couldn’t be that complicated!

Eventually, stubbornness won out and you pressed Play.

For one long, agonizing moment… nothing.

Then the cassette whirred to life and the blessed sound of music flooded your ears.

Your eyes widened when the song was something you knew.

“… The Wanderer?”

You’d know that song anywhere!

Sure, it was decades older than you were, but after sinking an embarrassing number of hours into Fallout 4, hearing it felt strangely… comforting.

The familiar tune washes over you, filling a silence you hadn’t noticed until now. Ever since you found yourself stranded in this nightmare of a universe, there had been no music.

Just groaning walkers.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed it.

By the time the chorus rolled around, there was an undeniable spring in your step.

You gathered up the remaining cassettes, carefully slipping every labeled one into your duffel bag.

Your hand hovered over ‘Pops Mix :P’.

Would taking that one be crossing a line? You didn’t take the letters from the other house, why should this be any different?

You stared at it for a few quiet seconds before sighing and picking it up anyway. These tapes had been made with love. Leaving them here to gather dust— or worse, rot away with the house— felt like the greater tragedy.

Once the cassettes were safely tucked away, you turned your attention to the rest of the room.

The closet was stocked with graphic tees and faded band shirts, but one in particular caught your eye.

A nearly pristine Transformers T-shirt.

You couldn’t help but grin.

The Walking Dead never nailed down an exact year for the outbreak, but most fans agreed it kicked off sometime around 2010. If that theory held true…

The first couple of Michael Bay’s Transformers movies would have already been out.

Across the black cotton, Bumblebee posed triumphantly in bright yellow. Childlike glee fills your form as you grab the shirt. Little you would have killed for a shirt like this!

“I’m just gonna… take this.”

Your voice filled the empty room, but it’s not like you were expecting an answer. Still, your next words come out all the same.

“Thank you.”

It felt silly talking to an empty house, even sillier thanking people who were almost certainly dead.

Still…

You hopes they would’ve understood.

Setting your duffel bag onto the floor, you peeled off your sweat-soaked shirt with a grimace. It clung stubbornly to your skin before finally coming free.

You send a silent ‘thank you’ to every god that you can think of that you decided to wear a sports bra instead of going commando.

The clean shirt slipped over your head a moment later, and you practically sighed in relief as fresh cotton settled against your skin. It wasn’t just cleaner, it felt… normal.

For a few precious seconds, you could almost pretend you weren’t scavenging through the apocalypse.

You clipped the Walkman onto the waistband of your jeans, settled the headphones over your ears once more, and slung your duffel bag back across your shoulder.

One room left.

You nudged open the door— and immediately stumbled back with a startled yelp.

A massive owl stared back at you, its golden eyes never blinking.

“Oh.”

Your heartbeat slowly drifted back down from your throat.

The owl remained perfectly still, save for a slight puff of its feathers that managed to convey mild irritation.

“…sorry.”

You couldn’t help yourself.

Owls had been one of your favorite animals ever since third grade. You still remembered sitting cross-legged on the classroom carpet while your teacher explained how silently they could fly. Eight-year-old you had been completely obsessed.

Standing only a few feet away from one now felt…

Weirdly familiar.

Like there was something important sitting just beyond the edge of your memory. A frown tugged at your lips.

Slowly, you raised your hands in a placating gesture and crouched a little lower, trying to make yourself appear as unthreatening as possible.

“Hey, buddy…”

The owl regarded you with all the enthusiasm of an exhausted customer service worker, but it didn’t fly away.

Small victories.

Music continued humming softly through your headphones as you closed the remaining distance one careful step at a time.

When you were finally close enough, you hesitated before slowly reaching out.

Your fingertips brushed impossibly soft feathers and you smiled.

The moment lasted exactly two heartbeats.

Something hard pressed into the center of your back.

Every muscle in your body locked and your breath caught in your throat.

Not a walker.

The ones downstairs would’ve been moaning long before they reached you, and if they’d somehow wandered up here, the bird would’ve caught their attention first.

This…

This was a person.

Before you could react, the headphones were ripped from your head. The music died, and a rough, gravel-worn voice spoke directly behind you.

“Stay still.”

Cold metal dug harder between your shoulder blades.

“Move…”

A beat of silence.

“And I kill you.”

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Finally bringing the main cast into play! I was going to start with Reader finding Hershel’s farm, but I got lazy and decided to just jump headfirst into season 3 😭

Hope y’all enjoyed!

It makes you shy. Makes you quiet, prone to self-isolation. But you're different; special in a way that sets you apart from everyone else who's developed hyper-vigilance after the shitty hand life's dealt them.

You're soft. Sweet. Fucking kind.

And he isn't really sure how he managed to lure you under his arm, but he did. And he's determined to keep you there.

Which, at times, honestly seems too easy. He thinks it should be harder. That you should give him a harder time. That you should ask for more, maybe give him shit every now and then.

The first time he tells you, you look at him strangely. Like he'd just suggested you run naked into a hoard instead of (what he believes) to be a pretty reasonable request. Then you'd given him awkward smile (that had no right to look as cute and pretty as it did) and said 'sure.'

Like you were placating him. 'Sure, Rick. I'll get right on that.'

The second time isn't as direct, but it does end in another awkward smile. You'd both been fairly busy all day. You, on a supply run —He doesn't want to toot his own horn when he says that he made a good decision making you a runner, but damn, you're good— and him doing day-to-day problem solving, scouting, decision making, and all the other exhausting shit he wishes he didn't have to do.

So you'd both been lying on the couch, just kind of taking each other in, and he asked you:

"What do you want to do tonight?"

You'd lifted your head from where it was pillowed against his shoulder, eyes a little wider than usual. You'd stared at him for a beat too long to be considered normal, like you were looking for something in his face. An answer.

And then you'd asked him: "What do you want to do?"

And it wasn't really the answer he was looking for, but it did make something kind of click, in his head. He didn't remark on it out loud or make any sort of indication that something relatively important regarding you and your relationship has just occurred to him.

Instead, he said: "I'm pretty content right here."

And you'd smiled, but it wasn't quite right. It was just a little off. Like you were waiting for something.

He files it away for later.

—

Later happens to be much sooner than he thinks, because now he can't really stop himself from noticing all the myriads of ways that you just... don't ever state your opinion. There's a part of him that preens when you automatically defer to his judgement, especially when it involves giving you a command or order, and he gets to see that glassy look in your eyes, but the other part of him, that part that twinges uncomfortably when he can't manage to wrangle a clear answer from you about what you wan't for breakfast, kind of thinks that there might be layers to the whole fawn thing you've got going on.

It's honestly kind of confusing. On one hand, he knows that if he were to ever really cross a line, you wouldn't hesitate to stab him in his sleep. Or poison his food, or maybe just slap the shit out of him, plain and simple. You're not harmless or defenseless. You wouldn't have survived this long by yourself if you were. So it doesn't really make sense when you simply just... never interject or say "I don't want to do that."

He honestly doesn't think he's ever heard you say no to him before. Which makes him feel extremely slimy and gross, and he vows immediately the moment the thought occurs to him that he has to put a stop to this.

"Sweetheart," He says one morning, having finally worked the courage up, "I got a little something."

You rush over to him immediately, eyes sparking and your body practically vibrating with excitement.

"Is it a new water bottle? Cause I know mine is gross—"

"Slow down," He chuckles, though makes a mental note to add a water bottle to the list of things to do for you, "It's not that exciting I'm afraid. Just... a little treat."

From behind his back, conveniently hidden on the counter behind him, he pulls out a box of your favorite tea. Nothing crazy- he'd happen to spot it on a run-slash-get-away with Daryl, and he knew he could use it to enact a certain plan of his.

It feels so cruel, but he needs to test it. To make sure. And to see the severity of what he's dealing with.

Sure enough- you gasp, hands immediately reaching out for it.

So he interrupts you before you can speak. "It's Maggie's favorite. I know you and her have started to get closer, so I thought you could give to her as a gift."

Watching you falter and retreat into yourself is physically painful. This was a terrible idea. Rick feels awful.

"Oh. Yeah, I think she'd like that."

Rick sighs, full-bodied, and leans back against the counter and gently grabs you by the arms, pulling you forward.

"Baby," He says, voice pitched low and a little soft, just for you, "I did not get that for Maggie. I got that for you."

"Oh," You say again, voice too quiet for his liking, "Then why did you say you got it for her?"

"Because I wanted to see if you'd tell me no."

He waits for you to respond, maybe defend yourself, or something like that, but you don't. You just look at him, eyes a smidgen wet, expression carefully blank.

He raises his hands slow, slow, slowly, because he knows you, and if you're quiet that means two things: Content or scared. And you're definitely not content right now, and he doesn't want to give you a reason to bolt.

You don't though. Run, that is. You freeze in place instead, which almost feels worse, and close your eyes when his hand grows close to your face. He watches your whole body tense, he watches you suppress a small flinch when he finally touches your jaw, your cheek.

"Angel," He brings his other hand up, and your eyes flutter open, "I want you to say no to me. I want you to ask for things and I want you to give me shit. Can you do that for me, baby?"

You scrunch your face up, hesitant, and take your bottom lip between your teeth and nod.

"Uh-uh," He presses on your lip, tugging it free from your merciless bite, "None of that. Come on, use your words."

"I'm... not good at that," You admit, tone hushed, "And... I don't want to. I like it when you decide things, because then I don't have to think about decisions and it's not as stressful. I don't want to go back to stressing all the time."

"Can you honestly say you haven't been stressing this whole time? About what you thought I would do or say if you spoke up about something?"

Your silence is telling.

"If I ever, and I mean ever, raise my voice to you when it's not an emergency, or if I get mad at you for disagreeing with me or voicing your opinion, you have my full permission to slap the shit out of me. Or ask Daryl to do it."

You giggle a little. "That's not fair. Daryl would do that if I asked right now."

"He'd do it for free," Rick amends, a smile tugging at his lips. "But I'm serious. Ain't nothing bad gonna happen to you if you tell me what you want for breakfast."

"I dunno," You shrug, "I might spontaneously explode."

He snorts, then opens his arms and beckons you forward. You collapse against him without a second thought, a little whine expelled from your lungs and muffled by his chest.

"I know, I know," He coos at you, half-mocking half-serious. "But you were so brave, and brave girls get treats."

"Like tea?"

"Yes, like tea."

You hum against him, easily placated, and he thinks that you really aren't difficult at all.

—

A few weeks go by, and you really do make a concerted effort to speak up. For him only, of course. You still have the habit of keeping to yourself, and you seem to just be quiet by nature. Which is fine, because he's taken an awful liking to having such a cute and quiet little thing around him. And your effort is adorable.

Still, though, it's not without it's hiccups.

You got home from a supply run a little bit ago, and you've been avoiding him. Not so glaringly obvious that he feels like he has to say something, but. You definitely are. You just seem on edge. Skittish. Like you were when you first got here.

So he goes about making dinner, cause he's not the kind of man to expect his girl to do everything for him. Especially you, because he knows you would if he asked. You would do anything if he asked. Which really only makes him want to make you do less. Sweet little thing like you shouldn't worry about things like that.

Except here you are, in the kitchen, hovering, and very obviously worrying.

"Sweetheart," He says, absentmindedly flipping a pancake —you've never said it out loud, but he knows breakfast for dinner is one of your favorite meals, "Sit down."

You comply- and quickly at that. But in the absence of hovering near him, you begin bouncing your knee and staring at him, so he dishes up a single pancake and slides it to you.

"Eat that. And when you're done, I want you to tell me why you're upset."

"I"m not—"

"Didn't I tell you to eat first?"

You do actually grumble under your breath a little, much to his satisfaction.

Once you've finished wolfing down the pancake, you tap your fork on your plate, staring at the silverware and clearly avoiding his gaze.

"I've been trying harder to speak up."

"Mhm. You have. I've noticed."

You start chewing on your lip.

"Am I... Am I not trying hard enough?"

Rick's eyebrows furrow. "Why would you think that?"

He quickly flips the last pancake, plops it on the stack with the others, and carries it to the table where you're nervously fidgeting.

"You haven't- um. Usually, you..." He watches you clench and unclench your hands, body tense like you're two seconds away from skittering right out the door, and when you speak, it's hushed and mumbled. "You usually tell me I'm doing good."

Oh. Oh you poor thing.

"Oh baby," He murmurs, sitting down on the chair next to and patting his lap, "Come here,"

You rise from your chair slowly, your eyes briefly flickering from him to the door, and then back to him. Weighing your options. A prey animal weighing comfort over safety.

In the end, comfort wins out, cause you gingerly shuffle forward and plop yourself into his lap, burrowing your face in his shoulder. It doesn't seem like a comfortable position, with you all scrunched up like that, but he's not going to fight that battle right now. Not when your hands are shaking with their grip on his shirt.

"My poor baby," He coos, rubbing up and down your back, "Have you been stressing this whole time? You been worrying? Thinkin' you ain't good?"

"Mhm." You mumble, voice dejected.

"Oh, sweetheart, that ain't true, not one little bit, alright? You've been doing so good, haven't you? Yeah you have. Working so hard to be good on top of being the best runner here, ain't that right?"

You nod into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you think you weren't doing good. I'm so proud of you, you know that?"

You make a little wounded noise, kinda soft, kinda whiny.

"It's true. I am. I don't like that you were stressin' this whole time. Defeats the whole purpose, don't it? You know why I wanted you to start speaking up for yourself in the first place?"

Your breath hitches a little before you speak.

"Why?"

"Cause I could tell it was making you worry. And if you have anything to worry about, then I'm not doin' my job properly."

"It's your job to make sure I'm not worried?"

"Yes ma'am," Rick lets his hand come up to rest on the back of your neck. "Sweet things like you shouldn't have anything to worry about. You're too kind for that."

"You think I'm kind?"

"Course I do." He says, readjusting his grip, one hand squeezing your hip, just a tad possessive, It's too hard to resist, when you're clingy like this.

You pull back, bottom lip jutted out and the perfect shade of bitten-pink, entirely irresistible. He doesn't even try to stop himself from kissing you, soft and deep. You've earned it.

"Now," He says, a touch breathless, "I reckon you've worked up a bit of an appetite with all that worrying. And it looks like someone made your favorite dinner."

You give him a quick kiss on the nose. God, you're adorable.

"You're too good to me."

"No," Rick mouths at the side of your neck, lazy and slow. "M' just giving you exactly what you deserve. My pretty girl."

—

After that, he makes sure to praise you each and every day. Honestly, it's as much for him as it is for you. On several occasions, he has to pull you aside from your daily chores just to kiss you, to hold you, because you're just too enticing, all sweet and kind and so happy when he tells you 'good job' or calls you 'good girl'. You're a menace to his blood pressure.

Watching you slowly bloom is a special treat, though. Kind of intoxicating, if he's being honest. Because now he knows with absolute certainty that when he gives you an order, a command, you comply because you want to. You want to listen to him.

It's a miracle he manages to leave the bedroom every day.

You'd confided him one night, curled up into his side that you'd been worried that you'd be difficult to handle. That he'd get tired of putting up with you and your skittish nature.

"Sweetheart, I fuckin' love handling you."

He spent the rest of the night putting your fears to rest. You both sleep through your alarms the next morning.

He's pretty sure it was worth it.

A cool breeze bit through the summer heat, nipping at your arms. The sun was relentless. Sweat dripped down your forehead, your neck, arms—anywhere the sun could reach its rays. 

Some of the group had gone out for supplies. Only a few of you were left to guard the camp now, promises of food, water, and medicine kept you hopeful while you drowned in the humidity. Sifting through the heat, you hoped Glenn remembered your request for sunscreen—your shoulders already began to peel and blister—a near hyperthermic sluggishness to your movements.

Even if he didn’t, as long as everyone came back safe, you would’ve been content with whatever they brought home.

Home. 

It was funny you thought of it like that.

With the people you stayed around, there never was just one place to call home. Shane, the group’s self-proclaimed leader, kept the team wandering, always on the move. It was the only way of survival now, but it never stopped feeling like you lost a piece of yourself at each stop. The days blurred together, exhaustion wore thin as supplies dwindled and the trek just kept getting longer.

When the end of the world had struck, your mind went blank. Nothing had ever prepared you for this moment, there was no rulebook to follow. If you couldn’t figure this out on your own, there was only one thing you knew you could do: Find a group.

Stuck in piled up traffic along the highway, you became friends with the nearby drivers, striking up conversation when things started to sound more serious than just a car wreck. Carol and Lori were the first two by your side, idly chatting about what could’ve caused this traffic. Then, when things got more serious—drivers started attacking each other, gunshots in the distance—you all agreed to stick together. 

Shane came along with Lori, practically inseparable with how protective he was of her and Carl. He was possessive, not only when it came to his family, but the group as well. Although no one outright said it, Shane was what you all needed to get through this. It always felt like he knew more than he gave off though—that he had secrets he’d never let go—but he was Lori’s husband and you didn’t want to overstep.

Or at least you thought he was.

A few weeks into forming a real group—one supported by vehicles, supplies, and a real chance at survival—Lori had mentioned her actual husband.

“He was a real good father– husband too.” She turned her head to look around then, “Always looked out for me and Carl. I’m sure he would know what to do right now…”

The confession had taken you by surprise. It was one of the few times you had truly been alone with Lori—no Carl, Shane, or Carol listening in. It was a brief encounter, one entirely by chance, but it stuck with you for a while.

You had gone out in the middle of the night for a breath of fresh air. It was a full moon that night and you hoped the clouds parted just enough to let you catch a glimpse. When you peeked through the opening of your tent though, you saw a figure, hunched over and quivering over the smothered campfire.

Pulling a knife from the back pocket of your jeans, you planted quiet, careful steps towards the logs. Blade held at your side, nervously anticipating your next move, you quickly realized that this wasn’t a walker, nor was it a raider—it was Lori, crying in the dark.

That night you got closer to Lori than you had ever been with anyone since the outbreak. She wept to you about her late husband, how he was in a coma when the world turned to shit. How Shane—her saviour—went back for him, but was too late.

You couldn’t imagine the pain she was going through—the pain she had to mask for the sake of her son. She had clearly leaned heavily on Shane, even before everything, he was her rock. The two were so close that you thought they had been together for far longer than this. They just seemed so in love.

From then on, you watched the dynamic closely. How Carl slowly attached himself to Shane and how Lori lovingly watched from afar. Even in the mess of everything, they still managed to pick back up the pieces of their shattered family. It was something you admired, how she could look past her grief to make a better life for her son—for herself.

That hot, summer day was no different. 

Most of the group idled around, waiting for the results of the supply run as if it were any other day. Carl and Shane were out by the lake, catching fish. Lori and Carol bathed in the shade, hunched over the wash bin. Dale was taking watch up on the RV, looking for the rest of the group who was supposed to be back long before now.

“Merle said he was gon’ be back here before sunset ‘n by the looks of it, the sun is fuckin’ settin’.”

Daryl was growing restless now, driving the rest of the group mad while his brother was out on a run. He was pacing back and forth in front of you, his hand clawing at his scalp, tugging at the roots of his hair.

“You know what can happen on these runs,” you said, leaned back against the RV, your arms crossed. “They probably just had to take another way home. Glenn’s good with directions, I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”

To be honest, you weren’t sure of anything, but if it got the younger Dixon to stop pestering you, then a little white lie couldn't hurt.

“Y’ain’t sure of shit!” He yelled, throwing a punch at the old, rusted metal of the motorhome.

“Don’t dent my RV!” Dale shouted from above. “I better not see a scratch on her when I get down there!”

Rolling his eyes, Daryl took a few steps back to get a good look at the man posted on the roof. Laid back in his lawn chair, Dale had a gun sprawled in his lap, binoculars pointed right down at you two.

“This old thing? S’got more scratches than I can count.”

“How many is that—ten?” you quipped, a sly smile creeping on your face.

Daryl sneered, his footsteps clouding up dust until he was right in your face. “I ain’t messin’ ‘round right now, little princess.” He spat, so close you could smell his breath. “You’re sittin’ around while my brother s’out there takin’ care of the useless group y’all sent out with him.”

“Useless?” Standing up now, you shoved Daryl’s chest, sending him stumbling back a couple feet. “You should be grateful we even took your-”

“Quit arguing, you two!” Dale hissed. “I see a truck coming up the hill.”

Grumbling, Daryl pulled his bow from around his shoulders, getting himself into a good position. 

“You better hope this s’my brother.”

Shoving him further behind the RV, you pulled out your gun. “Or what, Daryl?”

The soft gnashing of gravel grew closer, a faint scent of gasoline filling your senses. Through the clearing, you could see a box van coming up the mountain. It looked harmless so far, no raiders peeking out the windows with guns, waiting to rob your camp. Pulling to a stop just shy of the RV, you could see through the windshield—it was Glenn in the driver's seat.

A crowd started to form as the other members of the groups noticed the arrival. Everyone was cautious when the stranger tumbled out of the truck, people were almost worse than walkers nowadays.

Shane was quick to make his way to the front, especially when he noticed the familiar face next to Glenn. He looked astonished, pale almost, at the sight of the officer.

“Rick?”

Whipping your head back, Lori clutched onto her son, quivering in fear like she was seeing a ghost. To her, she really was. You had only heard that name once from Lori’s lips—that night you comforted her outside of the camp—it was the name of her supposedly deceased husband. But here he was, alive and breathing, spinning Carl around in his arms.

===

Rick had become an integral part of the group, almost succeeding Shane in his leadership position. Things were taking a turn for the better, having two strong minds working together instead of Shane’s impulsive drive leading the group to disaster.

Although Carl was grateful to have his father back, things between him and Shane didn’t falter. Things with Lori, however, took a drastic turn. Like night and day, her feelings for Shane seemed to fade. 

Following her husband into the tent that first night, she never looked back, but you could tell the pain it caused her—the agony it caused Shane.

Unknowingly, you became trapped in the triangle too.

Never would you have done it on purpose, but the longer Rick weaved his way into the group, the more your feelings grew for him. It started off slight, his looks catching you off guard the moment you saw him. He was attractive, a thought that hadn’t crossed your mind about any man since the world went to shit. 

But the moment you realized he wasn’t yours for the taking—and never would be—you rid that thought from your mind.

Then you saw Lori with Shane again.

They seemed to be arguing at first, Lori’s hands up in the air until they curled into his hair, tugging at the roots. Then, Shane pulled her in by the waist, slamming his lips onto hers. For a moment, she went stiff, debating the consequences of her actions until she went limp, falling into his touch.

You stopped looking after that. Anything more and it would have felt like an obligation to tell Rick though you had barely known him. He just looked so happy to find his family again—god knows how long he was searching, the things he had done to get here.

From that moment on, you began to unknowingly attach yourself to the man. Whether it was pity, some sort of guilt, or a hidden attraction—you’d never know—but something had you and the officer tied to the hip. You tagged behind him on supply runs and perimeter checks, helped out with chores—basically became his second shadow.

He obviously took notice, so did the others in the group, but just like with Shane and Lori, they kept their lips sealed. Everyone knew better than to press, had more important things to focus on than a messy love triangle. It’d all blow over eventually.

You found yourself with Rick and Daryl, doing a perimeter check of the farm. The entire group was still very wary of the new location, but with a working agreement between Hershel and Rick, tensions seemed to be lessening.

“Ya keep walkin’ so close t’tha fence ‘n yer gon’ get zapped.” Daryl said teasingly, his boots dragging in the dirt.

“Maybe I’ll take you down with me,” you quipped.

Things between you and Daryl wouldn’t seem to have changed just listening in, but the way you spoke to each other now was softer—more joking rather than harsh jabs. It took a while, and a lot of convincing from Carol, but you finally came around to him.

Rick chuckled, shaking his head as he marked another weak spot onto his map.

“If Carl ever had a sister,” Rick turned his head to look at you, “I imagine this s’exactly what it’d be like, you two argue like children.”

“Yet you still bring us with you.” Scrunching your nose, you took the map from Rick’s hands. “Maybe if you gave us something interesting to do we wouldn’t have time to argue.”

“Alright then,” Rick took a moment before speaking, like he suddenly regretted saying anything in the first place. “Come with me on a run tomorrow. Goin’ to check out the next town over. S’that interestin’ enough for ya?”

You expected Daryl to chime in, complain about how he wasn’t invited or how he ‘didn’t even wanna come anyway.’ That never came though and the three of you just sat in a passing silence. The two men shared some sort of knowing glance, awaiting your response.

“Yeah.” Shrugging, you looked back at Daryl. “Yeah, I don’t see why not. Are you not coming, Daryl?”

He opened his mouth to say something, eyes nervously flicking to Rick before he stuttered out, “N-nah, I’m busy t’morrow.”

“Busy, got it.” You laughed, unconvinced. “Sounds fun.”

The rest of the search fell in a deep silence that you couldn’t seem to wade out of. Drowning in the tension, you waited for it to flood over and find a moment to breathe before you thought too hard about it.

Both men were painfully silent, sharing secret glances like they were having a whole conversation with just their eyes. It made you feel small, suddenly self-conscious around these people you had spent every day around.

When you got back to camp, you were quick to part from them, ready to shed the uncomfortability that grew on your skin. Before you could get back to your tent though, a familiar voice called out your name.

“Tomorrow morning, remember?” Rick called out from across camp. 

A few heads turned at the interaction, including an inquisitive Lori whose eyes flicked between the two of you, and the moment felt unnecessarily vulnerable—like this was something you were caught doing.

Nodding your head, you flashed a thumbs up before dipping into your tent for the rest of the night.

You didn’t know why things felt so tense all of the sudden. You and Rick had never been alone like this before. Daryl or Glenn typically tagged along, keeping you company as you babbled along, allowing Rick to complete the task at hand. It was always through the playful banter of your groupmates that you spoke to Rick—just teasing jokes and mindless chatter about the weather.

Everyone in the camp—except you—noticed the way you looked at Rick. How each time he turned a corner, a smile appeared on your face and your back would straighten just to get that much closer to him. It was all subtle, just your body trying to get your brain to catch up on how badly you had fallen for the man. That idea was strictly forbidden though—not even something that crossed your mind in the slightest. He was Lori's husband.

Though, you had noticed them sleeping in separate tents lately. During the day, they played up the role of a happy couple, but at night they were nowhere near each other, and occasionally, you’d hear Lori slip off with Shane deep into the night.

You liked to think that Rick could see through them. That he was smarter than his heart would let him and realize what was going on between his wife and best friend. If he did know, he did a damn good job at pretending not to care.

Unbeknownst to you, Rick did know—and he didn’t care. 

Blindly enamoured with his wife, Rick did anything in his power to find his family when he first woke up in that hospital. Stumbling upon this group was unknowingly the worst thing to ever happen to him as the weeks unfolded. A prickling feeling that something was just out of reach followed him everywhere. Some deep sense of dread followed him for days until he finally saw it.

Shane and Lori—his best friend and his wife—holding hands beneath a tree, having some sort of serious conversation. He wanted to wait and watch, find some more incriminating evidence than just hand holding, but he felt sick to his stomach at just the thought. Resentment was quick to grow towards the both of them, a rekindling of feelings inadvertently growing towards someone else.

In his time at the camp, Rick found himself gravitating towards you. Unlike the others, you didn’t seem to get caught up in all the fighting, choosing to keep close to Daryl and Carol. You were always a fresh breeze after a long day of putting up a front with Lori, saving face for Carl’s sake, and secretly wishing he was with you the entire time.

A large part of him felt guilty for his feelings. He tried his best to push them away and ignore them until he just couldn’t anymore. That was when he started assigning you to the same tasks as him, but always with another person to accompany you. It just didn’t feel right to him, the way he wanted to look at you, the things he wanted to say—to confess.

It was all too much for him that he’d bring Daryl along almost as a chaperone. He wasn’t too scared to talk to you—like Rick was—and could coax an easy laugh from your lips. The sound was heavenly to him, bathing in your voice as he walked around doing different chores, the time flew by with you chatting behind him.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous of your relationship with Daryl. The two of you had gotten close so quickly after being sworn enemies that he wished he could make conversation just as easy.

 Of course he talked to you—always so interested in what he had to say—but that was the problem. You’d look up at him with those eyes, arms across your chest and your head tilted with a soft pout. He just couldn’t keep himself together when you looked at him like that.

And he knew it was wrong. He was married—still had the ring around his finger to prove it. So why did he invite you on a run tomorrow?

When Daryl pulled him aside after he had called out for you at camp, he still couldn’t answer that question.

“The hell y’doin’?” He said roughly, dragging Rick away from the crowd—away from the timorous eyes of Lori. “Thought we weren’t doin’ this?”

“Doin’ what?” Rick said dumbly.

His eyes flicked back over to his wife for a moment and a feeling of guilt panged his chest.

“You know exactly what—you’re married.” Daryl was seething, words barely audible with how he gritted his teeth. 

He was never one to press someone's morals, but this was Rick, the one person he knew to be noble and loyal. Without Rick to stand behind, he would have no one—the group would have no one—it’d only be a matter of time for things to crumble if he didn’t keep his head straight on his shoulders.

“We’re goin’ out for a run.” Rick crossed his arms, ready to walk away from the conversation. “S’not like we’re gettin’ eloped.”

“Bet you’d love that.”

“Well the plan’s already been made, so there’s no goin’ back.” Fumbling out a poor excuse, Rick stalked back towards the camp, catching a brief glimpse of Lori’s face before heading into his tent.

It was hard to gauge what she thought, nothing in her gaze besides a silent, defeated observation. Some part of Rick told himself that she deserved it after lying to him for so long, but another part of him—the part he liked to think was the real him—was disgusted he could brush off his wife’s emotions so easily. 

Rick tossed and turned through the night. When the sun finally rose, he wasted no time unzipping his tent. Though his lids were still heavy, his body exhausted, a rapid, thrumming heartbeat thrashed in his chest.

He really did need to go on this run, but was it too late to just go by himself? Maybe you’d wake up, grateful he had gone and left you the day to relax. 

The longer he stalled, the more he was starting to think Daryl was right.

He was married. So what was he doing going out alone with the only woman who made his heart race and his cheeks flush—a woman who wasn’t his wife.

Biting the skin on his fingers, Rick tore his knuckles raw, the skin puffy and bleeding. He was so caught up in his own mind, that he didn’t notice you had already woken up.

“You ready?” Beaming up at him with a warm mug in your hands, your breath frosted a little in the chill morning air.

It was barely light outside, no sight of the sun peeked above the horizon just yet. The rest of the group were tucked away in their tents, chasing warmth in their sleeping bags. That left just you and Rick alone in the middle of camp.

Suddenly his mouth felt dry, his throat closing in on itself.

Just one offhanded comment about going for a run and you were up bright and early with a smile on your face just for him. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—how happy you seemed to be here with him. There were none of those fake eye rolls or witty jokes you threw at Daryl. This was a side of you he rarely saw, a slightly less bubbly, but softer side. He felt special getting to see you like this, wanted to reserve this view for himself and no one else.

A quiet yawn left your lips and curled into a lazy grin. Tiredly, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, looking to Rick for the next direction.

His lips parted, tongue jutting out to wet them—anything to get another moment of you like this. “Yeah, truck’s all warmed up. You got everythin’?”

“Mhmm,” Motioning to the bag slung over your shoulder, you nodded sleepily. “Gun, knife, water, and some food. I even brought a surprise in case the ride gets too boring.”

Rick couldn’t stop the smile that formed on his face. “A surprise, huh? Might have to drive extra slow then.”

Starting towards the truck, the engine rumbled gently, the lights flicked off to not wake the rest of the camp. It was nice just being able to talk with Rick for once. Your time together always felt sort of disconnected, or maybe it was just the boundary you had put up for yourself to not get too attached.

Rick's arm reached around you, pulling open the passenger door. His fingertips ever so slightly grazed your back, guiding you in the cab, stalling for a moment too long before shutting the door.

While he rounded the truck, the pieces of the puzzle—the one you had been trying to fit together ever since he invited you out here—started to fall into place. 

You couldn’t sit still. Now that he had touched your skin, it felt like you were on fire. Since you met, you had always thought your feelings towards Rick were purely physical. That the presence of a man this attractive was uncommon nowadays and the way your mind wandered was just a product of that.

The guilt seeped in, making you want to hop out of the truck and crawl back in your tent like none of this had ever happened. The way he spoke to you—his words finally meant for just you, his eyes focused on yours—made your body electric, practically buzzing in your seat. 

This was no small crush like you had thought. Over these past few months, you were falling in love with Rick Grimes—the husband of one of your closest friends.

You had thought it was just a coincidence that you and Lori had grown apart when Rick arrived. Figured she was preoccupied with the shock and patching things up with Shane. But maybe, just maybe, she saw what you couldn't see. 

Maybe Lori saw the way you looked at Rick like he hung the moon. The way you followed him around like a dog, obedient to his every word. What really had Lori’s eyes following you two that day though, was the way Rick looked. She knew that look anywhere because it was the same look he used to give to her.

That sappy, lovesick look that used to be solely reserved for her was now directed towards another woman—and Lori couldn't help but feel relieved? She was at a crossroads, having to take her place beside her husband, knowing her heart truly resided with Shane. It was a choice she didn’t want to admit was difficult to make, but seeing that maybe her husband felt the same gave her some hope.

Rick hadn’t lied when he said the ride would be slow. It started out with him telling you to get some rest and to ‘save up some of that energy for the interesting part.’ Little did you know, he just wanted to get a good look at you, up close, without anyone else watching, and not be too nervous to look you in the eye.

When you had finally dozed off, he brushed the loose hair from your face, watching the way your lips pouted out and the soft snores that left them. He drove extra slow as promised, but not for anything other than to make sure you didn’t wake up. Avoiding any potholes or branches in the road, he opted for the smoothest route possible.

He never would’ve admitted it to his face, but Daryl was right. The longer he was alone with you, the more his mind spiraled. Guilt was eating him alive even though he hadn’t done anything. The simple fact that he felt something was enough to crush him. The weight of his feelings were enough to drag him into a pit for the rest of the drive until you woke up.

Groaning, you squinted your eyes to adjust to the sun now peeking in through the glass. The truck seat was more comfortable than any place you had slept in months and the rhythmic rumbling of the tires was enough to lull you to sleep. A yawn escaped your lips, absentmindedly flipping in your spot until your gaze fell on Rick in the driver’s seat.

“Good mornin’, sunshine,” he rasped, eyes focused on the road.

“Shit,” you cursed, sitting up in your seat. “I didn’t mean to sleep that long. We almost there?”

“Told ya to get some rest, y’know I don’t mind.” Rick said, flashing you a smile. “Town should be right up ahead—right on schedule.”

Abandoned cars littered the roads and Rick tried his best to maneuver around them, but when he got to a certain cluster, there was no way out. You didn’t say anything, wanting to let him concentrate. A frustrated grumble left his lips, head peeking over his shoulder as he started to reverse.

“M’leavin’ the car here, there’s no way ‘round.” Slamming his palm onto the wheel, he set the truck into park. “I can see buildings right through the clearing. It should be close enough to bring stuff back.”

Nodding, you followed Rick’s lead. The sun was up now, just barely peeking through the clouds to pick up the morning dew that tickled your ankles. You both walked a few feet from each other, eyes focused on the couple of buildings ahead.

The walk was quieter than you had expected. You wanted to throw in some joke, one of those witty remarks that always came so easy when Daryl was around. Things felt so fragile now that you were alone, like all the things simmering just below the surface were starting to rise and the both of you could feel it bubbling over.

“I’ve been uh.” You stared at the ground, kicking a stone ahead of you and repeating the process all over again a couple feet ahead. “I’ve been talking to the Greenes a little more since we got here. They’re really nice people, especially Maggie—looks like her and Gleen have been hitting it off too.”

That last part made the both of you chuckle, the entire group letting Glenn awkwardly shuffle his way over to Maggie each day, trying to make a good impression. It was a noble attempt and Maggie seemed just as into him to relay the nervousness right back his way.

Rick laughed, running a hand over his jaw. “I remember bein’ like that—makes me miss bein’ young.” He said, his feelings more recent than he was admitting to.

In all honesty, Rick did miss being that young, nostalgic over the freedom he once had. Maybe if he was a little younger he wouldn’t feel the guilt that tore him apart each time he looked at you. If he was younger then maybe he would feel like he had a sliver of a chance with you. 

“You’re not that old,” you giggled.

“Thanks,” he laughed dryly. “Sounded real convincin’.” 

Rick looked over to you, not expecting you to be looking right back. He sucked in a sharp breath. Time felt frozen, like he was stuck here, body paralyzed by the force of you. 

“I mean it,” you said, a little more serious this time. “I know the world has gone to shit, but we have the whole world to make something of ourselves, to do whatever we want.”

He smiled to himself.

‘We’

The way you spoke like you were a unit, two pieces of the same puzzle. He knew you probably didn’t mean it that way, but his heart couldn’t help but hope that somewhere deep down you maybe felt the same.

When he didn’t answer, you took it upon yourself to fill the gap. “The world clearly favors you, Rick.” Your tone started off more lighthearted, but shifted into something more serious, weighing down the air just slightly. “After everything you still made it back to your family, your best friend, still alive. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but you’re handling it a hell of a lot better than the rest of us.”

“You’ve got to,” he words were rushed, intense, with a fierce gaze that locked your eyes. “The only way Carl stays strong is if I’m strong for him.”

You noticed how he only mentioned Carl. Trying not to think too deep into it, you glanced over to the town right ahead of you now. There were a few walkers that roamed the streets and with how rummaged through the entire town looked, the risks seemed to outweigh any possible benefits.

“Just don’t wear yourself out.” Turning back to Rick, you gave him one last small smile before pulling a weapon from your bag. “Let people help you every once in a while.”

“I brought you here with me, didn’t I?” 

That statement felt more charged than he probably meant it. A heat flushed your cheeks and you refocused back on the threat ahead of you.

“Let’s get in there then.”

The crowd ended up being more than you could handle. What just seemed like a few walkers aimlessly roaming in the streets ended up being a whole horde. Even just the sound of your knives and heavy panting drew a flood of undead from out the alleyways. They seemed to be coming from every direction, crawling out of abandoned cars, old buildings and shops. There was no escape, having to result in your guns, you hoped that some nearby group would hear and come to help. As unlikely as that was, it seemed even more unlikely that you both were making it out of here alive.

Pulling the trigger, the empty chamber rang out in the air. Panic filled your body and you reached into your empty pocket as a last resort.

“Rick!” you yelled out into the crowd.

No answer.

Ducking past a few reaching limbs, you weaved through the crowd trying to find Rick. Heartbeat thrumming in your ears, the monotonous groaning was drowned out and your vision blurred at the edges.

Everything was blurry the longer the adrenaline coursed through your veins. It was a strong, heavy, and unwelcoming feeling that made you disoriented and wobbly. You hadn’t realized you lost Rick, let alone where. Now that you were separated, you had no way into the truck, no way home, and no way out of here alive.

There were no more gunshots ringing out and the mass of walkers drowned out any sounds Rick could make to call out for you. It felt hopeless and for a moment you just wanted to accept that you would die here. Your feet couldn’t carry you for much longer and even if you could outrun the crowd, where were you to go after that?

Then, an arm curled around your waist, pulling you away from the store you were about to hide in and carried you back towards the crowd. You didn’t think, just acted as you tried to claw the fingers from around your hips. Thrashing, you fought the body dragging you closer to the danger, thinking you were surely done for.

“Quit it.” A voice, low and rough, hissed out. “It’s jus’ me. I’m gettin’ us the hell outta here.”

Your brain slowly started to catch up, allowing your feet to drop to the ground and run alongside Rick rather than have him drag you along. He blew through the crowd, using a combination of his knife and the barrel of his gun to strike down the crowd. Trying to help out where you could, you took down a few walkers, fishing through the back pocket of Rick’s denim when you saw the truck in the distance.

“Here!” Running up beside him, you made a quick exchange of the keys and his gun, slipping the weapon into your bag.

It felt like your lungs were on fire and your heart would just pop out of your chest if you didn’t stop, but it was too close to give up. Reaching the vehicle, you tossed open the door, throwing yourself inside before locking the door shut.

The two of you sat in a heavy silence, letting the fastest of the walkers bang on the glass while the rest staggered behind. Your chests heaved, slumped in your respective seats, trying to comprehend how this all went so terribly.

Then, as the crowd started to thicken, Rick put the truck in reverse, ignoring all the thumps beneath the tires. Leaving the road, he merged onto the empty highway, biting the skin on his fingers.

Never had a run turn so quickly on him and of course it happened to be the one time you were with him—the time he was supposed to keep you safe. The crowd has just appeared out of nowhere without any shot being fired, there was almost nothing you two could've done differently.

“M’sorry,” Rick whispered finally. “I should’ve never brought you out here. It was dangerous ‘n I shouldn't be puttin’ your life at risk like that.”

His voice was low and even, almost monotonous. He was clearly scolding himself. After everything with Carl, Rick had been a lot more harsh on himself—questioning whether he could lead this group like everyone thought he could—only to drag you straight into danger.

And for what—a moment alone with you?

Shaking your head, you propped your legs up on the dash. “Are you kidding me? I asked for something interesting and you delivered. I haven’t felt this alive in months.”

“Yeah?” Rick quirked a brow in your direction. “M’glad you had fun. I feel like I’m ‘boutta drop dead from a heart attack.”

You laughed. A real, belly laugh. One that Rick had always heard, but never been on the receiving end of—at least not as often as he’d liked to.

“Well,” a sly smirk curled your lips, arms digging in the bottom of your bag, “if that didn’t take too much out of you…” Pulling out a sealed mason jar from the pack, you held it next to your head. “Here’s that surprise I was talking about.”

Rick flicked his attention from the road for a moment, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

“Which would be…?”

“Some moonshine I stole from that bastard Merle after you left his sorry ass up on that roof.”

He cringed at the memory. 

As much as Daryl had claimed to have forgotten about it, the thought of leaving that man—as terrible as he was—up on that roof, haunted Rick almost every night. Though you clearly didn’t seem to mind, almost relieved the older Dixon was gone.

“And what’re we doin’ with that?” Laughing, he couldn’t believe the idea you were proposing—nevertheless with him. 

“Drinking it, duh.”

He had never seen you anything more than tipsily chatting with Daryl over the fire. Now here you were, proposing he get drunk with you. Not only did the idea seem dangerous, out here just a few miles away from a marauding horde of walkers, but he wasn’t sure he could trust himself around you. He was a grown man, could surely control his body, but his mind was different—the things he might blurt out.

“C’mon,” you whined when he only bit his lip, staring out onto the road. “We have nothing but ourselves and this truck to look after. No one is expecting us until later tonight, might as well use up the day to its full potential.”

This was a bad idea. 

The temptation Rick felt told him how much he probably shouldn't have been doing this. If it were anyone else he’d immediately object, probably even confiscate the bottle, but this was you. Looking at him so eagerly, he couldn’t find it within himself to say no. He loved that yearning look in your eyes, the one that told him you really did want to be spending your time with him.

Wordlessly, he pulled the truck onto the side of the road.

“A few sips—but that’s all. I mean it.”

Already unscrewing the lid, you flicked it back at him, letting the metal hit his shoulder. Lifting the glass to your lips, your face soured, the smell immediately filling your senses. It was strong, pungent, and although it had been years since your last hangover, the feeling hit you like a truck.

“God,” you cringed, pulling your head back, “this smells awful. First sip is all yours.”

Shaking his head, Rick ushered the jar back towards you. “Ladies first. This was your idea after all.”

He seemed more relaxed than earlier. His shoulders were more slack, his body leaning into the cushions with the belt unstrapped from his shoulders now. There was a soft mechanic rustling as he pushed the seat further back, stretching his legs, watching you fuss over the drink.

Taking the first sip was brutal. It shocked your senses, bringing you upright in the seat, jolting you awake. It tasted awful, just what you expected from a handcrafted Dixon creation, but you couldn’t deny its effects. It surely did its job, immediately working its magic with the second sip. You could feel that slight tingle deep beneath your skin that was slowly giving you the confidence alcohol always seemed to.

“Here, five sips.” Shoving the glass into his hands, you dramatically scrunched your face, words garbled by the liquid. “Beat that.”

Raising a brow, Rick cautiously lifted the jar to his nose. “M’surprised you didn’t puke on the first sip—this smells like Daryl’s feet.”

Giggling, you curled your legs into the seat, leaning over the center console. “You know what Daryl’s feet smell like?”

Nodding, Rick gulped down a generous sip before handing back the glass. “Can’t miss it. He avoids showerin’ like the damn plague.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t come with us.”

Then, taking another sip from the jar, you could feel your mind numbing. The questions you had always wanted to ask, the things you always wanted to say, didn’t seem as daunting anymore.

“Why didn’t you invite him?” you asked suddenly.

The question caught Rick off guard, snatching the glass from your hands to stall his answer.

“Needed someone to watch the camp,” he breathed out, the remnants of the moonshine glistening his lips.

“You don’t trust Shane?”

Questions were coming in quick now, not giving him a moment to breathe. The glass kept getting passed between the two of you, mainly ushered by Rick each time he felt too overwhelmed by one of your questions or intense stares—anything to buy him just a moment.

He drew his lips tight, the skin paling slightly. “Shane’s always been…” Taking another sip he took a moment to control himself, or maybe find the courage to say what he truly felt. “Impulsive. Don’t know if I can trust him in an emergency.” Then his last words were hot on his tongue, spitting out fire with every syllable. “Not with my son there.”

Nodding, you curled into yourself, knowing you tugged a thread too loose, letting his emotions unravel. Rick had always been so levelheaded that this was foreign. Sure, he had a lot on his shoulders—the stress was always evident—you had never seen him this unguarded though. He was letting it all out now. Finally bringing you into the space he always bridged so far with his silence. Letting Daryl typically fill the gap, Rick was able to feel close to you for so long without having to actually let you in. Now that the alcohol was talking, his true feelings began to spill over the edge and there was no turning back now.

You kept your mouth shut. Your feelings about Shane had always been the same, and it was hard to gauge if your hatred stemmed from the same place. You knew the things Shane was doing outside of his role as the group’s leader. There was so much you wanted to tell Rick, but it didn’t feel like the time—it never did—just seemed like something that would unnecessarily crush him.

“I agree with you,” Was all you said, letting the cab simmer in whatever this was.

“You see it too, right?”

Your heart stopped, stuttering a few times to catch back up—Could he know?

His words were vague, but deep down you knew what he meant. Feigning ignorance, you pressed your lips thin, lowering your gaze to the floor.

“See what?”

Scoffing, he shook his head, fists rocking against the wheel. “Y’don’t think I notice the way everyone looks at me? Y’think I don’t know my best friend is fuckin’ my wife?”

The words came out so even, so calm, that it frightened you more than any outburst could've. It was like he had rehearsed this. Like the anger bubbled within him for so long he had replayed this conversation in his mind more times than he could count. Instead of confronting them though, he was with you—vulnerable, voice raw and shaking.

“I-’

You didn’t know what to say.

“I’ve convinced myself not to believe it for long enough.” About half the glass was gone now, still switching between the two of you. “I can’t ignore it like it’s not happenin’ right in front of my face.”

Jaw slack, you didn’t know how to react. You and Daryl had spent countless hours on the topic, weighing the options between you, ultimately deciding it was better for Rick—and the group—to keep this a secret. Knowing he was aware the entire time made you wonder how he could keep it together for so long.

“I’m sorry we never said anything- that I never said anything…” Drawing a blank, your mind clouded—fuzzy from the alcohol but also from how broken Rick looked in front of you.

His head was heavy, eyes focused on his lap so intently that you were waiting to see smoke from the hole he had burned through the seat. Never had he been this vulnerable with you. Things with Rick were always surface level, light hearted conversation that left you in a lovesick daze. Now, this was just as real as your feelings for him, and once again you just wanted to tuck it all away and let this hot feeling of awkward shame leave your shoulders.

“That ain’t your job, darlin’.”

The nickname slipped off his tongue smoothly and although he had never used such a term of endearment towards you, it almost felt natural leaving his lips. Still, you felt the heat of it on your cheeks, starting to spread lower as the alcohol took its hold.

Nodding, you bit the skin on your lips, debating how to diffuse this tension. 

You both looked out onto the empty road, letting the silence clear your minds. For the first time tonight, you wished it wasn’t just the two of you here. That Daryl or somebody was here to relieve the tension, chime in and save the day whenever your feelings for Rick had your head too clouded.

“Yeah, but I still mean it, I really am sorry,” you said anyway, deciding speaking what was on your mind was better than nothing at all. “It’s not right. You woke up in the hospital, came all the way back here, just for her to act like she’s the one making the difficult decisions? I don’t get how you’re not furious, how you can just pretend everything is fine-”

The alcohol had you rambling now, a slight slur in your words the faster you spoke, your hands flailing around.

“It’s because I’m not pretendin’, sweetheart.” 

He cut you off politely, a deep, gravelly chuckle leaving his lips. There was a subtle blush on his cheeks, the alcohol affecting him too. Surely not as much as you, but it did guide the truth out easier, letting him get closer to you than he ever thought he could.

“What?” you gawked, dumbfounded.

Shaking his head, he smiled softly. It wasn’t a genuine smile, just one of those placeholders that said something like ‘ya caught me’ or a sarcastic ‘surprise!’ 

“S’not worth stressin’ over.” Raking his hands through his hair, he tried to distract you from just how misty eyed he was getting. “Can’t change what’s happened ‘n I’ve got more important things to focus on.”

“Cheers to that,” you nodded, handing him back the jar, “but you can’t just ignore it forever, Rick. You don’t know what that would do to you.”

Though you desperately wanted to lift the mood, you couldn’t help but express your concerns for the man. You knew first-hand the toll it took looking on from the sidelines. When Rick first got here, you experienced it everyday, watching him go off with Lori while your feelings got stronger and stronger. Even now, with the alcohol coursing through your veins, you don’t think you could ever form the words to tell him. This felt like the perfect opportunity with him so disconnected from his wife—but would that make you just as deceitful at her?

“Y’don’t gotta worry ‘bout that.” He leaned back in his seat now, seemingly more relaxed. Turning his head to you, he had a lazy smirk splayed on his lips, body caving into the exhaustion you both felt. “Been through a lot of heartbreak in this life. This surely ain’t the worst of ‘em.”

“Really?” Turning to him, fully intrigued, you leaned further over the console. “Thought you would’ve been the one breaking hearts,” you joked playfully.

Scoffing, Rick reminisced for a moment. “Then y’got the wrong image of me, darlin’. Wasn’t no athlete or anythin’ back then. Jus’ barely enough sense to get me outta highschool.”

“Sounds like you’ve changed a lot since then.”

“Glad to know ya think of me that way, doll.”

You both just stared at one another, the remnants of the past half hour swirling around both of your minds. It was strange for Rick to be this vulnerable, but with you it didn’t feel so bad. You wished you could’ve said more, found the words through the haziness of your mind and say something to truly heal the broken man in front of you. You just didn’t expect him to be so open with you. How much he didn’t care. It all caught you so off guard that anything you might’ve rehearsed in your head flew out the window.

His words were sharp talking about the situation, but any time he led back to you he always softened his words. Those nicknames kept tumbling off his lips like he couldn’t stop himself, like now that he got the first one out unquestioned, it was something he was addicted to.

“I really do,” you urged, trying not to let your feelings drive your words too much. “I think what you’ve done for the group is amazing. We never would’ve found somewhere like the farm without you.”

His tongue jetted out to wet his lips before he ran a steady hand over his jaw. "You're awfully sweet, darlin’, but you shouldn’t be thankin’ me after today.”

Scrunching your eyebrows, you lightly shoved his shoulder. “God, you’re such a drunk sap, Rick. You’re really still thinking about that? Shit happens, it could’ve been anybody-”

“But it was you.”

The words tumbled out faster than he could stop them, his eyes widened, heart frozen in place. He had just dug himself a hole, and by the look you gave him, there was no getting out.

Your lips were dry, stomach churning with bad moonshine and an unnerved tension. His words weren’t making sense, all this mindless babbling he’d done tonight, it just wasn’t Rick. That didn’t mean you hadn’t liked it though. His words were the closest thing you’d had to quelling that thought in your mind that maybe your feelings were reciprocated.

Breathlessly, you tried to repress your nervousness. “And I’m fine, Rick– barely even have a scratch on me.” You huffed out a sigh. He had been beating himself up over this all day when he should’ve just been grateful to be alive, and unharmed at that. “Just be in the moment for once. Enjoy being alive.”

The curls tossed atop his head, the back of his arm coming up to wipe the alcohol that dribbled from his lips.

“Can’t do that no more, sweetheart,” he sighed, taking a moment to lean back, really take a look within himself. Whatever he’d seen must’ve been too much because he reached for the lid, tightening the old rusty cap back on tight. “Got a whole group of people relyin’ on me to keep ‘em safe, can’t be wastin’ time livin’ in the moment. Even this…” he gestured to the jar, your empty bags, “I shouldn’t be doin’ this…”

His palms splayed wide, stretching his long fingers, nervously tapping them along the steering wheel. You watched them curl around the leather, the roughness of his hands audibly scratching against the threads. It sent a wave of heat through you, your legs crossed and the cab closed in tighter.

“It’s just one drink.” That was a little bit of an understatement. “It’ll be our secret– even Daryl won’t know.” That was the truth—no matter how difficult it was going to be keeping your mouth shut around the shaggy haired man.

It wasn’t the drinks Rick cared about, or the failed supply run. He was only worried about saying the wrong thing—ruining all of this. Nothing else mattered to him in this moment except you, but that confession was also the one thing that could ruin it all.

He fumbled with the ring on his left hand, the one he found himself wearing less and less now. He didn’t know why he chose to put it on that morning. Maybe he had expected this all along—the temptation he would feel—knew he would need some reminder of why he shouldn’t be doing this.

“Thanks,” he mumbled quietly, staring into his lap.

He had ruined it.

Rick had finally been able to talk to you alone, make you laugh, and he had gone and squashed the moment while drowning in his own self-reproach.

Then, it was slight, but fingertips crept up his bicep, wrapping around his shoulder. He looked to you to make sure he wasn’t imagining it. You gave him a soft, sympathetic smile. With nothing else to offer him but your presence, you fought through the shakiness of your hands and the haze of your vision.

You were definitely drunk now. It wasn't enough to set off any alarms by the time you got back to camp, but right now, kneading the warm, solid muscle of his arms was enough to tell him your mind was a little cloudy. 

Throughout the conversation, you had migrated closer and closer to Rick until you could almost feel his breath on your skin. He was hot to the touch, the tip of his nose and cheeks a bright shade of pink, and his messy mop of curls stuck to his forehead. Closing the gap, you could even feel it radiating off onto your skin.

Rick swallowed the lump in his throat, feeling your breath that crept up the side of his neck. You were swaying, leaning on your elbows across the center console—no longer interested in what you had been talking about, the weight of it seemingly gone from your mind. 

“I think…” Fingertips trailed his skin and you watched him shudder under your touch. “You should smile more…”

Your tone caught him off guard, more sultry and suggestive than you had been all night—than you had ever been. 

He shifted, not uncomfortably, but stiffly, weighing his options of how to move further. You were obviously drunk and your out-of-character behavior was definitely a product of that. As much as he wanted to convince himself you felt the same, that these were pent up feelings finally coming out within the heat of the moment, he knew it was wrong. 

“Sweetheart,” he shuddered, shutting his eyes as if he’d wake up from a dream. “I think we should get back to camp.”

Frowning, you jutted out your bottom lip, wet and slicked from the last of the moonshine. Your pupils were dilated, no longer flickering away from his gaze but holding it, strong and steady, tempting him closer.

“M’serious, Rick,” your words were more slurred, hands trailing lower. “Don’t like seeing you like this…thought I could cheer you up today.” Crackling in your throat, your voice got less and less confident and tears started to well in your eyes. “And I just made everything worse…”

His jaw went slack, your confession taking him by surprise. This whole time, you had been skating through this conversation just the same as him, treading on thin ice, too scared to make one wrong move. Now as the alcohol boldened your moves and softened your mind, it didn’t take long for the ice to break, dragging you beneath the surface.

“Oh darlin’,” he cooed, pulling you further into his chest, letting you grip onto his shoulders. “Such a sweet little thing…y’don’t have anythin’ to worry ‘bout.”

Your limbs were crumpled in the seat behind you, awkwardly twisted so you could bury your face in the crook of his neck. He could feel the hot, sticky tears that clung to his skin, the vulnerability that sunk in with each dig of your nails. 

“What’s got ya so worked up, doll?”

He was trying to be gentle and soft to not let you see how much his heart broke at the sight of you trembling in his lap. His hands roamed your back, tracing little shapes onto the skin from over your shirt, pinching the fabric between his fingers.

“I-It’s not fair,” you hiccuped.

Your drunken state had flown through all the stages so quickly: A bashful tipsyness that led into more thoughtful conversation, letting you both speak your truth until that unavoidable sappiness bled through the cracks and had you like putty in his hands.

“You work so hard.” Your voice was muffled in his neck, fingers desperately grabbing at the curls on the back of his neck. “Why do you let everyone run over you like that?”

This caught him even more off guard, the way you cared so earnestly. The way you sobbed into his neck like this had kept you up for nights, taking his problems just as personally as you own, had him reeling.

“Shhh…breathe, darlin’, breathe.” He smoothed a hand over your hair, shushing your sobs while you hiccupped into his skin. “Y’don’t gotta worry ‘bout me. S’long as the group’s safe—as long as you’re safe—I don’t mind takin’ a few hits.”

You lifted your head, shaking it frantically, cupping Rick’s face into your hands. Squishing his cheeks in a little, he looked at you, face scrunched and lips pouted. 

“I just wanna see you happy again– like when you first got here.” Your back stiffened, trying to bite back the anger from your voice. “The way she talked about you…I-I don’t know how she could do that.”

Your words held a certain discretion to them, like even after all this you were too nervous to breach this topic. This was meant to be a good time. You had brought the moonshine in hopes of getting closer with Rick, letting the alcohol dull your senses until you were no longer too nervous to talk to him. 

Whenever you and Daryl drank, it was never like this. The two of you would have lighthearted conversation, maybe wander down to the lake and playfully splash water at one another. You didn’t realize with so much hanging on this moment, all the time you had spent stressing over making it perfect, that you’d crumble the second the liquid touched your lips. Alcohol clung to your insecurities, peeling back the layers until that was all you could see.

The apples of his cheeks pinched between your palms. He couldn’t help the laugh that rippled from his lips with the sight of you, so fixated on making everything right. Truly, things couldn’t have been more perfect for him within this moment. This was the closest you’d ever been and though you grabbed him with a force that made his face sore, he wouldn’t trade this moment for the world.

Hearts pounding in sync, neither of you understood the weight of this moment, both sharing the hot, cavernous shame that buried itself within—wedging its way between you.

The grief Rick felt over his crumbling marriage was complicated. At first it tore him from the seams, pulling each thread until he was left a scrap of fabric on the floor. Then you came along and Rick started to notice the effect your presence had on him. What started with mindless babbling on supply runs or perimeter checks, slowly, unknowingly, let you weave the pieces of him back together.

“Y’don’t gotta worry ‘bout all that,” he cooed, tucking a sliver of hair behind your ear.

He wanted to say more. Wanted to tell you that he was that happy again—when you were around. He wanted to tell you that he didn’t care about his wife anymore not only because she had cheated, but because he had feelings for someone else—for you.

Instead, he only let himself say what the silver band on his ring finger allowed.

“Don’t go stressin’ over this old man’s problems, yeah?” Copying your movements, he carefully wiped the edges of your eyes, holding your face in his hands just gently enough he could excuse the action.

Leaning into this touch, you let your lashes flutter against his palm. Nodding against his skin, you breathed in his scent—the remnants of the alcohol on his lips and that deep, musky pull from the crook of his neck. 

Your small hands still held his arms, fingers creeping along his skin—feeling, tracing, memorizing—you felt him shudder beneath your touch. Readjusting his hips, Rick felt the denim on his legs getting more confined and he reached for his belt. Shifting the buckle, he tried to relieve the tension, but you just kept creeping closer.

He felt disgusting. Here you were, confiding in him, pouring your heart out to show you cared, and all he could think about was the blood rushing between his legs. His grip on you had tightened, palms greedily splayed on your waist, resisting every twitch to pull you onto his lap.

You didn’t say anything else, the moment felt busy enough with all the tension coming to a standstill. Though there were no words, the slow, lazy movements fused between each other were enough to speak for itself. Pure want filtered through every action and Rick found himself holding his breath in anticipation.

He saw you glance once, twice, at his lips. Jutting out his tongue, he slipped them beneath his teeth, maybe to dissipate the tension, or maybe to stop himself from giving in.

“Rick…?”

God, you were irresistible right now.

With spit-slicked lips and tear-puffed cheeks, you looked the closest to fucked out Rick had been able to see you outside of his imagination. 

He cleared his throat, grumbling out a soft string of curses. “Yeah, doll?”

Your eyes held a certain seriousness he hadn’t seen from you all night. He gave you his full attention, his heart beating fast with uncertainty. 

“M’sorry I got too drunk,” you slurred out sleepily, a gentle yawn leaving your lips.

Rick chuckled, shaking his head. He squeezed your cheeks between his palms and they almost disappeared with how his hands swallowed your face. 

You were so different now compared to just a few minutes ago. Like a cat, you curled up in his lap, claiming your territory. It was a cramped spot, huddled up between his chest and the steering wheel, but you didn’t seem to mind. 

His breathing shallowed the closer you pressed and he tried to fill his mind with thoughts that would stop the bulge from growing in his jeans. The last thing he wanted to do was make you uncomfortable. If you saw how he truly felt about you, the way his body just couldn't resist, maybe he’d never get to see you again.

He smoothed his hands over the outside of your thighs, putting your legs on either side of him. “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout, darlin’.” You smiled into his neck. “Been havin’ a real nice time with ya…s’been a while since I spoke my mind. Nice to know someone cares.”

That last part was quietly whispered into your ear. Wriggling your toes excitedly, he felt the vibration of you humming contentedly against his neck.

Pulling back your head from the crook, he saw your cheeks dusted a rosy pink. They matched his and the heat of the cab that painted droplets on his forehead. Both of you were breathing heavier now, stickily clung to one another with desire hot on your tongue.

“I’ve always cared, Rick,” you pouted, almost offended. “You just never let anyone in.”

He hummed in response, lips pressed thin.

Rick knew you were right. Even Daryl, his right-hand-man, was oblivious to most of the things that raced through the man’s mind. There was so much he had lost—so much he felt he could never obtain—that the grief of it all was too much to speak out loud. 

“Want you to talk to me,” you whined, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “S’not fair how they treat you.”

Your head dipped low, stealing a gasp from Rick’s lips when you started to gently nibble at his collarbone. He sat there, frozen, his fingertips pressing further into your skin the more you licked. Your nose nuzzled the fabric of his shirt, breathing him in deep. A trail of kisses were planted from his pulse point to that soft, sensitive notch behind his ear. Your breath ghosted the shell of cartilage, feeling him twitch with every graze of your lips on his skin.

“T-thank you, darlin’.” He was fighting for his life now—one look away from bursting a blood vessel. “Awfully sweet of ya.”

Watching the Adam’s apple bob in his throat enticingly had your tongue flicking out, licking a stripe down the middle of his throat, feeling the groan he fought back. 

With the way he was holding on, you’d definitely have bruises where his hands sat on your hips. He was gripping onto you like a lifeline, the only thing keeping him from drifting away. You weren’t sitting on his lap anymore, but he had it so you were just slightly hovering above him, trying to lessen the temptation he felt. His hips would still twitch upwards with each sloppy kiss you left on his neck though, chasing friction like it was his only will to live.

You didn’t respond to him anymore, just happily sucked along the skin of his neck, feeling the goosebumps rise on his skin. His large hand closed down on the back of your head, sliding up your scalp until he had a firm hold of your hair.

“You’re killin’ me, doll.” His voice was low, guttural, with a breathiness at the end that sounded like he was pleading with you. 

Still, you didn’t look up, didn't even respond, just kept exploring the underside of his jaw, tugging helplessly at his curls. Getting a more hardened grip, he dragged your head to face him. 

“Look at me.” He demanded.

His words weren’t harsh, just firm.

Eyes blown wide and jaw slack, Rick couldn’t help but stare at your kiss swollen lips. He could feel every splotch on his skin where your touch still lingered—how much he had to pretend he didn’t want more.

“We can’t be doin’ this.” Repeating Daryl’s words from earlier, Rick tried to scold himself out of wanting.

“Do what?” you asked, playing dumb.

It was clear you knew what you were doing. It was what you had always wanted to do, but never had the shield of apathy to hide behind. Your embarrassment fizzled away with your sobriety, leaving you an empty husk of pure want—and Rick the target of your desires.

Lacing your fingers with his, you didn’t give Rick a moment to stop you. Didn’t give him the chance to tell you this was a bad idea.

His left hand covered your entire vision, his palm spread wide in front of your face. Cracks and scars littered the skin, hair curling between his knuckles and brushing roughly against the softness of your skin. Hand barely wrapped around his thick wrist, you toyed with the wedding ring on his finger, a cloud of guilt and anger clouding your senses.

You wanted to rip the damn thing off. It felt like some sick joke he was married—if you could even call that facade a marriage. It didn’t feel like she deserved him, but at the same time you wanted to understand the grief she was going through, and somehow process how she could do this to him. She was your friend, and you wanted to believe there was something redeemable under all the mistrust she created.

Rick stared at the band with you, both your eyes lingering on the metal, an unspoken conversation shared within the silence.

Cautiously, your eyes flickered to his, trying to read the mix of emotion in those icy blues. Then, slowly, you pressed a gentle kiss to the tips of his fingers, starting from thumb to pinky. He drew in a sharp breath, eyes not leaving yours as you worked your way across his digits. Lips pressed to his pinky, you trailed back, painfully slow, dragging the tip of your tongue over his ring finger, swirling around the tip.

He stifled a moan as you popped the digit between your lips. The band cooled your lips the further you took him, letting your eyes meet his in a deadly hold.

“Fuck,” Rick sighed, tipping his head back against the seat. “Y’don’t know what you’re doin’ t’me.”

He set you down on his lap, your plush thighs flush against his denim clad legs. You could feel him through his jeans and the way he tried to shy away from you. 

“I told you I had a surprise,” you giggled into his ear, bashfully hiding your face in your hair.

You wanted him bad and Rick could only resist for so long. The more he tried to pull away, the more of yourself you gave to him—it felt like an endless back and forth.

“You’ve been plannin’ this then, huh?” He rasped.

His guilt began to simmer and the realization that you wanted him just as badly—plus the grinding of your hips—dimmed any doubt he had before. A slight cockiness smoothed over his tone with you so desperately pawing at him, crying in his ear for more.

Nodding, you looked up at him through fluttering lashes. “Wanted you for so long.”

You whined, pulling yourself closer to him. His hands smoothed down your back, twisting the hem of your shirt around his fingers until he skated a light, feathery touch along your skin. 

“Yeah?” He laughed a little at your eagerness, the way you couldn’t hold yourself back anymore. “Coulda told me sooner, darlin’. Woulda taken care of ya.”

Pressing your hips down even harder, Rick took hold of your waist, stilling your movements. The pads of his fingers tapped gently against your side, beckoning your attention. Eyes blown wide, you looked up at him, lips parted like you were drooling over the sight of him.

“You want that, hmm?” Even with you crawling on top of him, nudging the buckle of his belt, there was a part of him that still needed to hear that yes. A deep, gaping part of him that still didn’t believe you could want him in this capacity, that in his position as a leader he had somehow swayed your thinking. “Wan’ me t’take care of ya?”

Impatiently, you clawed at the collar of his shirt, stretching out the fabric, trying to pull it over his head.

“Mhmm,” you nodded exaggeratively, your tongue poking out to wet your lips. “Please, Rick, that’s all I want.”

Well if you were gonna ask so nicely…

He smiled, washing away that last shred of doubt with that persistent look in your eye.

“Okay, sweet girl.” He glanced over his shoulder, wishing there was somewhere else other than the front seat of this truck he could be having this moment with you. The seat was cramped, your legs tangled in his lap, pressing against the steering wheel with a certain discomfort. “C’mere.” He lifted you onto the center console, guiding his seat back, and widened his stance for you to sit comfortably between his legs.

Happily, you perched yourself in front of him again, roaming your hands over the expanse of his chest. You tugged yourself closer, allowing yourself to get lost in the scent of him, letting your face absentmindedly brush against his skin.

“Wish this coulda been somewhere more special,” he started. Teeth grazed the shell of your ear, biting the lobe and tugging the skin harshly, making you whimper. “Been thinkin’ of this for a while, doll…” His hands slipped up the legs of your shorts, cupping your ass beneath the fabric, toying with the hem of your underwear. “How soft your skin feels in my hands…how good you’d taste. Feels like a dream jus’ gettin’ to touch you.”

You tossed your arms over his shoulders, bucking into his touch. Forehead pressed against his, you whined, wanting more of him. You placed your lips on his, tugging him closer and pushed deeper into the kiss. His lips were warm just like the rest of him, skin cracked and rough on the edges, reminding you that he was really here. Hands firm, he held you like it was something he owned, something he couldn’t live without. 

Brushing your tongue over his bottom lip, he gave you a false sense of control, letting you explore him eagerly, shamelessly circling your hips. You were chasing your own pleasure through the confines of your shorts, moaning into his mouth each time you felt him brush up against you.

If he weren’t so close, Rick could’ve lived in this moment forever, letting your bodies meld into one another. He couldn’t fool himself though—he wasn’t getting any younger. It had been a while since he’d felt like this, been this close to somebody. Though his mind was cherishing this moment, taking it all in one breath at a time, his body was chasing a fast release, his balls tightening with each roll of your hips.

“Slow down, doll” he chuckled, hands resting on your hips, stilling your movements. “M’not goin’ anywhere.”

That made your head dip low and cheeks flush in embarrassment. It had been so long since you’d been intimate—spent so much time daydreaming over this man—that the moment you got the opportunity you were rutting up against him like a hormonal teenager.

You softly mumbled out an apology, hips twitching with need as you tried to give him some space.

“Jus’ a little eager, ain’t that right, darlin’?” His fingers held tight on your jaw, cheeks slightly pinched together. Your eyes were glassy, lips pouted with a pent-up frustration that made his cock twitch beneath the denim. “Ain’t nothin’ t’be ashamed of.”

Nodding, you smiled, pawing at the loops of his belt, tugging his hips towards you.

He curled his fingers more sharply around you, cupping your heat, feeling the damp, sticky wetness through the fabric. Your body was a stripped wire, feeling every touch times ten, flashing sparks with each graze of his fingers.

Rick was so gentle with you in his words. You could feel through his touch that he wanted nothing more than to strip you down and claim you as his. His mind was a complicated thing though, always had been, seeking confirmation with every interaction. He didn’t move his lips or wander his fingertips until he had found the spot that made you shudder, moving on to claim the next piece of you, lapping up your sounds like praise.

He turned you in his lap, pressing you back flush to his chest. You could see out onto the street now, fingers curling around the leather of the sterling wheel while you tried to ground yourself. Lifting your hips, he popped the button of your shorts, sliding the fabric down your legs until they pooled at your ankles. 

Sucking in a breath, he groaned out a low string of curses, taking in the view of your soaked undergarments. Looping the waistband over his thick digit, he snapped the elastic back onto your skin, watching you flinch forward.

“Stop teasing.” You pleaded, arching your back, chasing his touch. “Please.”

The sound of your desperation, those salty tears rasping your voice, had his fingers moving even slower. He wanted to hear you beg. Wanted you sobbing in his lap until your tears soaked the denim, just pleading for a taste of his cock. But you were so sweet with your tear stained cheeks and puffy lips, asking for him so nicely. This time he’d let you off easy, figuring he’d savoured the moment long enough.

“Okay, darlin’.” His thick middle finger breached the hem of your underwear, pressing up the seam between your thigh. “Easy now.”

You were thrashing against him, bucking against the empty air. He kept you still though, one arm wrapped over the front of you, pressing down on your hips. His head dipped next to yours that was lulled back onto his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut with an impatient scrunch of the nose. His stubble scratched your skin and you could hear his stuttered breaths while he looked down at your core fluttering around the tip of his finger just barely grazing your entrance.

Collecting your wetness onto his fingers, they glistened in the light, matching your slick coated thighs. Pulling the rest of the fabric from your thighs, he brushed his thumb against your clit in a long, slow stripe. Again, you arched your back up off of him, tipping your head back with an unrestrained moan.

That was the sound he was looking for.

Latching his fingers onto the bud, he pinched, watching you squirm beneath him. Once again, you flooded his ears with that melodic sound, the unspoken praise perking up his ears.

“Rick…” you sighed, reaching down to his wrist, urging him for more.

Pressing down firmly, he traced slow, lazy circles onto your clit, watching the way your face scrunched in pleasure. He took in every subtle nuance, matching his fingers to the pace that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head. With full control, he used his leg to guide you along his slick coated fingers, slinking his hand to brush against your entrance. 

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he said in awe. His movements were quick, dipping the tip of his fingers between your walls before retreating with a squelching ‘pop’. “Y’hear that? She’s jus’ beggin’ f’me.”

You babbled incoherently, all thought going to the chase of your hips after his fingers. Rick forced his fingers past your lips, garbling the words on your tongue as he pressed the pads further down your throat. You gagged around him, spit bubbling up through your lips. He experimentally dipped his fingers even further back, testing your limits for just a moment before retreating, letting a string of spit connect him to your gasping lips.

He could do this all day if you’d let him. Looking at the way you twitched in his lap, mind numb, body pliant, you honestly might’ve let him. Watching you writhe in pleasure, chasing after his touch, having you call out for him—it was all too much.

Rick was studying—learning the ins and outs of your body in case you ever gave him the honour of touching you like this again. He could ignore the discomfort in his pants if it meant he got to hear those pretty moans on your lips just a little longer.

Eyelids fluttering open., you cried out his name again. “Need you,” you mewled. 

“Y’got me, doll,” he whispered huskily. “All of me– jus’ gotta tell me what you need.”

“Your cock,” you said shamelessly. 

You were always bold, cracking crude jokes that made the group stifle a laugh, maybe even roll their eyes. This was beyond any of his expectations though. This was pure, blatant desire—all directed at him—tumbling off your lips one confession after another.

“S’all yours,” he rasped coarsely. 

Your little fingers tugged on his belt, haphazardly unlatching the clasp the moment he gave you the go ahead. You were beaming, practically buzzing, to get your hands on him. Palming him through the fabric, you pulled down his jeans. Leaving him in just his boxers, the plaid fabric stared back at you intimidatingly, doing little to conceal the rest of him.

Shy fingers poked through the opening, carefully pulling out his length. He held his breath, watching you in awe, a crazed look in his eye while you lazily stroked his cock. Letting out a shaky groan, he couldn’t stop his hips from twitching up into your palm or they way needy moans filtered through his lips.

Rick was a giver—would’ve let himself go untouched if that’s what you wanted. You seemed to be enjoying his pleasure just the same though, taking in those beautifully parted lips and messily scattered curls. 

As much as he wanted to collect himself—focus on your pleasure—he was content with letting you take, take, take, his cock further and further into your palm, wrapping another hand to compensate for the girth.

He was big. Enough to make you a little nervous through your brazenness. The length of him was average, a perfect six or so inches that curved deliciously to his flushed tip. Wrapping your hand around him though, the base of him was wide, the tips of your fingers barely meeting back together. 

Rick was a mess beneath you, heaving out breathy moans and squirming his hips. He was close, more than he’d like to admit, and although your hands felt like heaven on his dick, he tore away your wrists.

Your eyes flicked up at him with a sharp insecurity, the hastiness of his movements taking you by surprise. He still had your wrists taken in his palm, chest heaving while he tried his best to collect himself. Every movement had him sensitive, on the verge of release, but he couldn’t let himself finish before he got inside you—before he made you finish.

You yelped as Rick lifted your hips, tossing your arms over his shoulders for balance. He was steady in the confined space, lip tucked beneath his teeth as he watched you with precision. Leaning back, he angled his hips towards the wheel, guiding you back so he could watch himself slide into you.

Sliding his tip through your slick, you gasped, tipping your head against the glass. He notched his tip to the brink of your entrance, watching your chest heave. As much as he wanted to watch the way you swallowed him in, he kept his focus on your face, stilling his movements each time he saw you wince.

He only had the tip in and you were already scrunching your nose, squirming away from the sensation. The intrusion burned, his cock bullying its way through your walls, pushing its way in with a brutal stretch.

You hissed, latching onto his arm, your other hand against his chest, trying to push him away. “S’too much, Rick,” you yelped, watching his swelling tip push past your folds. “C-can’t do it.”

Guilt burned his chest hearing you squeal like that, clawing into his chest to relive the ache. Seeing you so fucked out though—eyes rolled back, lips parted with a shiny trail of spit slicking your skin—he couldn’t pull out now.

He cupped your face, callouses scratching against your skin to refocus you, to bring you back to him. Curling his fingers around the back of your neck, he pulled you to his chest, easing in another couple of inches while he smoothed out your hair.

“I know, darlin’, I know,” he shushed your cries into the fabric of his shirt. Tracing shapes into your skin, he waited for your sniffles to subside before taking your hips back into his hold, guiding you down the rest of his length. “You’ve got it…” He picked your limp head off his shoulder, watching it soften as you got used to his size. “See? Ain’t too bad.”

He felt a tight squeeze around his cock and wriggle of your hips telling him he was allowed to move. Still, he needed further reassurance through your frantic nods into the crook of his neck.

“This okay?” Slowly, Rick pulled all the way out until it was just the tip, letting you sink back onto him with a loud squelch. You murmured some sort of praise into his skin, a conglomerate of ‘yesss, please, more’ muffled into his shirt. “Gotta hear ya, doll.”

“Yesss,” you moaned, lifting your head the best you could to look at him through teary eyes. “So good…please.”

Rick let out a satisfied hum, content with himself in how quickly he was able to make your mind go stupid on his cock.

Picking up the pace, you could feel the truck rocking beneath you. His breath was ragged, keeping himself flush against the back of the seat and holding a solid grip on your hips. As he pounded up into you, the edges of your vision blurred out, getting fuzzier the closer your bodies got. Your bodies clung together, sweat dripping off his curls and into your lap, only adding to the soft sloshing between you. 

He had fully stopped talking now, too close to the edge to hear your sweet voice try and respond to him. Just your gasps, stuttering out with thrust, was almost enough to send him over the edge, his eyes squeezing shut with the last of his restraint.

Trailing his hand around your front, he dipped his fingers between your folds, collecting the slick you were so generously pouring out for him. Deft fingers crept to your clit, starting with light, fluttering taps that had you biting your fist, trying to conceal your noises. He built up the pressure, finding a steady rhythm around the bud until he felt you shaking, your walls squeezing him in tight.

“C’mon, doll.” He leaned forward, swallowing back a groan, choosing to sink his teeth deep into your shoulder. “Let it all out.”

You cried out at the sensation, all of too much as you came tumbling over the edge. Little crescents indented the skin on his shoulders the deeper you dug, trying to ground yourself through your release. You were trashing in his arms, feeling the drag of his cock past your walls even through the aftershocks. 

He didn’t let up, kept pounding into you with the same force while you rode out your orgasm, chasing his own release. Just moments behind, you heard a broken moan stutter out from his lips, a rosy pink dusting his cheeks. Lifting your hips, he guided you further back against the wheel. Pulling you off his length, he frantically brought up a shaky hand, imagining it was yours as he tugged along the length of his dick. 

His eyes were focused on the tears bubbling in your eyes, that blissed-out look behind them, and the way your pussy fluttered around nothing, trying to coax his length back in. His hips stuttered once, twice, and he was painting the inside of your thighs with his release, blindly smearing the rest along his tip, leaning his head back with a sigh.

“God.” He looked at you in disbelief, almost reaching down to pinch himself. “Can’t believe you’re real.”

Giggling, you felt a hot embarrassment creep up your neck. Sobriety had settled its way through the cracks, your orgasm washing a needed wave of clarity over you. Now, despite being the one to initiate all of this, you felt embarrassed to have been so needy in front of the man you had been crushing on for months.

Rick took notice of your silence, the way you avoided his gaze like the plague. Scrunching his brows, he took hold of your chin, forcing you to look his way.

“Doll?” He blinked, trying to read your expression. “Y’alright?”

Bleakly, you nodded, somewhere far off from yourself.

“Talk t’me,” Rick urged, growing more concerned. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

Frantically, you shook your head, palms splayed out in front of you. “No, no, it’s just…” you trailed off, trying to find the right words. “Was…was that okay? I was pretty drunk and all over you…Are you sure that’s what you wanted?”

A laugh leaked from his lips before he could stop it from happening. 

You thought you’d forced yourself on him? 

He could’ve never thought of something further than the truth—the same exact thought clouding his mind except about himself.

“That’s what got ya so down?” Chuckling, he brought a hand to your face, pinching your cheek with his thumb. “Thas the last thing you need t’be worryin’ ‘bout. Could never stop me from wantin’ ya…was worried that you didn't want me, darlin’.”

“Really?” you giggled, popping your head off his chest. 

“Yes, really,” Rick smiled. “An old man like me would be crazy passin’ up a pretty girl like you. ‘Specially if she wanted me s’bad as you do,” he teased, giving your hip a playful squeeze. “Needy lil thing.”

Rolling your eyes, you tried to hide the blush that crept on your face. “Yeah, yeah, Grimes.” Crossing your arms, you gave him a feigned look of annoyance. “Thought you said we needed to get back to camp?”

Squeezing your thighs, he took one last look over your figure before clearing his throat. “Anythin’ you say, darlin’.” His eyes were unfocused, darting up and down your frame—god, he was pussy whipped. “Let’s get ya cleaned up first, yeah?”

Smirking, you dipped your pointer finger down to the puddles splashed on your thighs. Swiping at the liquid, Rick watched you intently as your lips wrapped around the digit, sucking off the salty fluid.

“Fuck,” he hissed, taking your thighs in a bruising grip. “Gonna be the death of me, doll.”