All Richonne with A Punch Bowl, A Promise, A Past ...

After the death of her husband, Michonne returns to the house they never got to share.

The kitchen gleamed, but grief still lingered in the grout. This would be my first Thanksgiving alone—and the house we'd planned to fill with laughter now echoed with silence.

I'd spent months repairing it. Polished countertops, stainless steel appliances, cabinets painted a cheerful off-white. It looked perfect. But it didn't feel like mine.

Determined to change that, I decided to cook a Thanksgiving meal like Mom used to. I invited my brothers—Morgan and Ezekiel—certain they'd jump at the chance for a home-cooked meal. But Morgan already had plans with Jenny, and Ezekiel and Carol were headed to her parents' place in Alexandria.

That left me with a quiet holiday and a pared-down grocery list: a small turkey, greens, mashed potatoes, stuffing, rolls, and a single slice of pumpkin pie from the bakery. Baking a whole pie felt excessive for one person.

I stayed up late Wednesday night flipping through old photo albums. One had fallen open to prom night—lace gloves, corsages, Rick's crooked smile. The memory hit like a slow burn.

Prom had been a night of contradictions. I'd gone with Shane, the charming playboy who'd asked me only after being rejected by other girls. I should've known better. I saw him kiss Lori that night—drunk, reckless, and unthinking—while Rick stood frozen nearby. Lori was his date, his future wife. That kiss shattered something unspoken between them.

That same night, Rick and I had found each other. The connection had always been there, quiet and persistent. He was the golden boy with legacy pressure. I was the quiet girl with sharp wit and a tight-knit crew. But in the haze of rejection and vulnerability, we collided. For me, it had been my first time. For Rick, it was the beginning of something he never fully let go of.

Though Rick and Lori reconciled in college and eventually married, their relationship was rocky and ended in a divorce that left more scars than closure.

Life moved on—college, marriages, heartbreaks—and now here we were again, both back in the same small town, both starting over.

The turkey was nearly done when I noticed a missed voicemail.

"Hey, Michonne. It's Shane. Just checking in... If you need company tonight or anything, let me know. Bye."

I pressed the phone to my ear, caught off guard by the loneliness in his voice. Shane had been calling since I moved back, trying to convince me he'd changed. But I wasn't sure I believed him. In high school, he played with my emotions. Even now, I doubted he'd outgrown the habit.

And then there was Daryl. We worked together. He'd been steady during the hardest months after my husband died. Kind. Present. But the spark wasn't there. I didn't have the heart to tell him.

None of that mattered tonight. There was only one person I couldn't stop thinking about.

When the food was ready, the counters were filled with steaming dishes. I stared at the solitary place setting on the table, my chest tightening. The meal looked perfect, but the emptiness of the moment stole my appetite.

I stood abruptly, wiping my hands on a towel, and moved to the living room. Maybe music would help. I let a soft melody play, its warmth filling the space where laughter and voices should've been.

A knock at the door startled me. My heart leapt as I peered through the peephole.

Rick.

He stood on the porch, hands full—one holding a punch bowl, the other clutching a bottle of wine and a charcuterie board. His familiar tousled hair caught the golden glow of the porch light, and my breath caught in my throat.

I opened the door, trying not to look as stunned as I felt.

"Hi," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi." His smile was soft, disarming as always. "Can I come in?"

"Oh—of course. Yeah, come in."

Rick stepped inside, balancing the punch bowl, wine, and board. He set them carefully on the counter, and I couldn't help but admire the care he'd put into assembling it all.

"You brought the punch bowl back," I said with a small laugh.

"Figured you might want it." His voice carried that familiar warmth. "Liberated it from—you know who." His smirk had just the right touch of mischief.

I shook my head, laughing softly. "I thought I'd never see it again."

He glanced toward the living room, where soft music played in the background. "Am I interrupting anything?"

I hesitated, then shook my head. "No. Just... keeping myself company."

Rick nodded, understanding flickering in his gaze. "I get that."

"Would you like some cider?" I asked, moving toward the counter to pour a glass.

"Sure."

As I handed him the glass, his hand brushed mine. The warmth of his touch lingered a little too long, igniting something unspoken between us.

"The kitchen looks great," he said, eyes scanning the space.

"Thanks. It's... nice, I guess. Doesn't feel like home yet, though."

"A house doesn't always feel like home," Rick said quietly, his gaze softening as though he knew the weight of his own words.

The sentiment struck me, heavy with unspoken meaning. "Rick," I started, but he spoke first.

"I've been thinking about you, Michonne," he said, his tone steady but raw.

My breath caught. "I've been thinking about you too."

His eyes searched mine, and our silence grew thick with unspoken truths. "Do you ever think about prom?"

The word rippled through me like a long-forgotten melody. I swallowed hard. "Yeah. Sometimes it feels like it was a lifetime ago."

He looked away, tracing the rim of the punch bowl with his fingers. "I've never stopped thinking about it. Or you."

His admission made my chest tighten. I let out a shaky breath. "We should've talked after that night, but I avoided you," I confessed, the long-buried emotions stirring.

Rick stepped closer; his gaze unwavering. "If I could go back, I'd do things differently. For you. For us."

The sincerity in his voice made my chest ache.

"I know you've been through so much," Rick continued, his tone gentle, steady. "And I know I'm not coming to you clean. But Michonne… I've thought about you every day since prom. About what could've been."

My breath hitched as he stood and knelt in front of me, his hands resting lightly on my knees. His blue eyes searched mine—raw, open, and reverent.

"I'm here because I don't want to wonder anymore. I don't want to waste another day wishing I'd done things differently."

Tears welled in my eyes. I whispered, "I've thought about that too, Rick. More than I should've. That night changed everything for me."

Rick's voice dipped into that tone I remembered from so long ago—gentle, curious, but certain. "I've been meaning to ask… why didn't you ever tell me what prom night meant to you?"

His question caught me off guard. I drew in a shaky breath, fingers tightening around my glass. "You mean… when we…?"

Rick tilted his head, his wry smile softening the tension. "The kiss. The dance. After the dance… everything. It wasn't just a night for me, Michonne. It never felt like just a night."

The memories came rushing back—his hand clasped around mine during the slow songs, the way his eyes lingered like I was the only one in the room.

"I was scared," I admitted, lowering my gaze. "Scared of what you'd think if you knew how much it meant to me."

Rick leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice dropped to a whisper. "What could I have thought, Michonne? That night… it changed everything for me too."

I swallowed hard, cheeks burning. "It was my first time, Rick."

The silence that followed was heavy. His eyes widened slightly, then softened with awe and regret.

"Your first time?" he repeated, voice thick with surprise and something deeper.

I nodded, throat tightening. "You were… everything I hoped it would be."

Rick sat back, running a hand through his hair. "God, Michonne, if I'd known—if I'd realized—I would've…"

"Rick," I interrupted, voice firm but soft. "I don't regret it. Not then. Not now."

He reached for my hand, grounding me with his touch. His thumb brushed gently over my knuckles.

"I always had a thing for you," he admitted, words tumbling out. "You were the girl I watched from the stands during debate tournaments. The one I thought was too good for someone like me. But Shane…"

He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Shane," I echoed, bitterness creeping in.

Rick sighed. "He had a way of making everyone fall for him. I didn't think I could compete. So, I stayed on the sidelines. Just… wishing."

"You thought you couldn't compete?" I asked, stunned. "Rick, you were the only one I ever looked at like that."

He blinked, jaw tightening. "I didn't know. Not until prom night. And even then, I wasn't sure. I didn't want to push you or make you think I was just… some guy taking advantage of the moment."

"You weren't," I said firmly, covering his hand with mine. "You never were."

His hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear. "You were my first love, Michonne. I don't think I ever stopped loving you."

He kissed me—slow, deliberate, tender. I opened my mouth to him, tasting the years between us, the ache, the longing. I pulled away, gasping for breath.

"I've missed that kiss," he murmured, lifting me off the ground and pressing me gently against the wall. His lips found my jaw, my cheek, my neck—soft kisses that felt like home.