Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1

The helicopter dipped below the clouds with the precision of a knife through butter, and Rick's heart plunged with it—they were close. His fingers curled around the edge of the bench beneath him, his back rigid against the hollow cabin wall.

He'd unraveled the entire flight in silence. On the outside, he was still, unreadable to the ones sitting across from him, avoiding eye contact. But inside, his heart and mind threatened to implode.

It had been nearly a decade since he last walked the ground he once called home. Two years since he chose not to return. Two years since he looked Michonne in the eyes and spoke the words that shattered everything.

That moment—etched deep in his mind—was like a too-tight dog leash snapping him back every time the urge to go home crept in. He'd pushed down the memories he'd once fought to hold on to, knowing they'd have broken his resolve to stay away. And the pain of the restraint—sharp and relentless—reminded him of what he was doing it for.

Why he'd stayed away.

Once his family's safety was no longer an excuse—after Cascadia, after Beale—he had to face the truth behind his distance. The pain had shifted into something harder to bury.

Longing.

For her.

For their family.

For home.

What we had is broken. He hadn't meant it then. But now… now he feared it might be true.

Rick rubbed his thumb over the worn leather cover of the journal—Michonne's journal. He'd taken it when they found each other, pulling it from her pack before the Civic Republic could get their hands on it. A secret tether, a lifeline.

For months, it had taunted him in the quiet moments—locked within his couch cushion but heavy with unsaid words. The weight of her handwriting, the stories meant for their kids.

When she left, that journal was the last thing of hers he held onto.

Now, as the helicopter dipped low toward Alexandria's fortified walls, the leather journal pressed warm against his palm.

"Probably should've called ahead," he heard.

Rick's gaze drifted, unfocused, before settling on the window. One of the humanitarian aid workers from the recently established initiative, formed after Beale's downfall, peered out.

Rick stood and walked over for a closer look. Outside the gates, a makeshift force waited—not nearly as formidable as the Civic Republic, but more unified than that of the meager settlement he'd left behind. They steadily trained their rifles on the helicopter.

He felt a quiet swell of pride. This place had grown.

"I'll go first." Rick stayed still for a beat, the low thrum of the rotor blades vibrating through the floor beneath his boots. He let out a breath, slow and steady, then reached down and pulled his bag from beneath the bench.

As he slung it over his shoulder, one of the aid workers moved toward him, voice raised over the whirring blades.

"You want backup?"

Rick didn't look at him right away. Just ran a hand over the worn leather cover of the journal once more, thumb tracing the crease of the spine. "No," he said finally, stepping toward the open hatch. His tone was calm, grounded. "If they're gonna shoot, better it's just me."

The aid worker hesitated, then nodded.

Rick stepped toward the hatch, pausing only once to tuck the journal into the side pocket of his duffel. Then he descended the metal steps, boots hitting the earth with a soft, steady thud. Dust curled around his legs.

He crouched, unstrapped the steel fist from the wrist where his hand used to be, and set it gently on the ground.

Then he stood tall, raised both arms, and walked forward—slow, steady—toward the gates of Alexandria and the uniformed soldiers lined up behind them, rifles aimed.

No weapon. No threat.

Just a man coming home to whatever was left on the other side.

Rick squinted against the light, scanning the line of armed guards for a familiar face. But the longer he looked, the clearer it became—he didn't recognize a single one of them. These weren't the people he'd bled with. They were too young. Too clean. Alexandria had changed.

He was a stranger now. A ghost. He felt the weight of it pressing down on him.

Still, he stepped forward and raised his voice, loud enough to carry over the sound of the still-spinning blades."My name is Rick Grimes," he said. "I come from a place called the Civic Republic. But this used to be my home. We're here to help."

The silence that followed was long and tight. Just the wind and the metal groan of the gates as they began to creak open—not all at once, but inch by inch, like the place itself wasn't sure if it could trust what it was seeing.

Then, through the narrowing gap, Rick saw him. Older. A tad slower. Grayer around the edges. But still Aaron. Rick's breath hitched.

Aaron stepped through the gates, disbelief etched across his face. His eyes locked on Rick's, and for a beat, neither one of them moved.

"Rick?" Aaron said, voice catching halfway between awe and heartbreak.

Rick gave a slight nod, too choked up to speak.

And then Aaron was moving, crossing the distance in a few hurried steps. He pulled Rick into a tight, grounding embrace. Rick stood stiff for a moment, stunned by the contact, then pressed his hand to Aaron's back, gripping tight like the earth might fall away beneath them.

When they finally pulled apart, Aaron's eyes were red and wet. "We thought you were dead."

"I know," Rick whispered. "I thought I was, too."

Aaron gave a half-laugh, half-sob and looked him over. "I don't believe this."

Rick's eyes searched Aaron's face. "Michonne," he whispered, voice tight. "Judith? Are they here?"

Aaron shook his head without hesitation."No…"

The word hit Rick like a stone sinking deep in still water. His breath hitched—sharp and sudden.

Aaron's gaze flickered with sudden realization. "Wait—no, I mean, she's alive. She just doesn't live here anymore."

Rick's brow creased, confusion curling at the edges of his jaw.

"She's in the Commonwealth. They all—" Aaron hesitated. "Both are."

Rick blinked. "The Commonwealth?"

Aaron nodded, eyes flicking away like the answer carried more burden than words could hold. "It's... a community. Bigger than anything we've had before. Organized, with rules and real soldiers. It's more like the old world than anything we've ever seen."

Rick's fingers clenched the strap of his bag, knuckles pale—the distance between what he knew and what he needed to know stretched wide and cold.

Aaron peered around him. "Who are they?"

Rick looked over his shoulder; the group of aid workers stood beside the hatch. One of them waved.

"They're… here to help. They've got crates with lots of food, fuel, and medicine."

"And they're just giving it away."

Rick smirked. "Yeah."

Aaron gave a quick nod. "You vouch for them?"

"I do."

"... okay." He turned back to the lingering soldiers. "Get the forklift."

Aaron stepped aside, motioning toward the open gates, their slow creak like an invitation and a warning all at once.

"Come inside," Aaron said.

Rick nodded, swallowing hard, fragile hope tangled with uncertainty. He took a step forward, then another, following Aaron into the town he once called home—and into a life that had moved on without him.

The gates groaned shut behind them with a finality Aaron felt settle in his ribs. He walked beside Rick in silence, past the reinforced fencing and garden rows heavy with tomatoes. Rick didn't say a word—but his eyes were restless, drinking in every rooftop, porch, and face they passed like he was trying to match a memory to the present and not finding a clean fit.

Aaron stole a glance at him. The man who once bled for this place now moved through it like a ghost drifting through someone else's dream.

Alexandria had changed. Solar panels shimmered where lookout posts used to be. Houses had been rebuilt, some from scratch, others with their old scars visible in the siding. The laughter of children rang out somewhere nearby.

The place was safer, stronger, but not untouched. Not untouched by the years.

They passed what remained of the old wall Carl had spray-painted. Faded lettering clung stubbornly to the boards: Tomorrow Belongs to Us. Aaron felt the catch in his throat. Rick didn't slow, but his head turned slightly—just enough to let Aaron know he'd seen it.

"It wasn't always like this," Aaron said. "We had years that almost broke us."

Rick gave a slight nod. "You held it together."

"You showed us how."

They reached Aaron's house—a survivor in its own right. He opened the door and stepped aside. Rick paused, as if expecting the threshold to resist him somehow, then stepped through. The familiar scent of soap, leather, and the faint char of old grilled meat met them.

"Gracie!" Aaron called upstairs. "Come say hi."

Footsteps. Then she appeared—half-grown now, confident in the way kids got when the world let them sprout instead of survive. "Hi," she said, smiling, sleeves too long for her arms.

Rick stared like he'd forgotten how small people could be. His fingers tightened around the strap of his duffel. Blinked hard, once.

"You've grown," he said. His voice came out rough, barely there.

Gracie smiled like it was a compliment. "I guess." She shrugged, then disappeared back upstairs.

Aaron watched him. Saw the way Rick's jaw shifted, like he was bracing against something internal.

"She's younger than Judith, right?" Rick mumbled.

Aaron nodded.

Rick just looked down, bottle-still. That expression… Aaron recognized it. Not grief. Something quieter. Older. Like holding a familiar ache in your hands and not knowing if it was going to bleed again.

Aaron brought two beers from the kitchen and handed one over. They sat on the couch. For a while, neither spoke. Then Aaron started to fill the silence.

"After you were gone… things didn't get easier. Whisperers came first. Wore the dead like skins. They hunted us. Took people we loved." He paused. "We survived them. Then came the Reapers. Worse in a different way. We kept surviving."

Rick didn't ask questions. But Aaron could feel them, just behind his silence—like heat behind a closed door.

"And then the Commonwealth came. Big city. Bigger promises. They said all the right things at first. Structure. Peace. Resources. But it didn't take long for the cracks to show. We fought. We won. But not without cost."

Aaron watched Rick's face as the names and wars he'd missed landed like stones skipping across a lake. Guilt had started to show in his posture—slumped shoulders, that twitch in his jaw.

"She went looking for you," Aaron said.

That got Rick's attention. His head snapped up.

"Michonne," Aaron clarified. "Found something. Took off."

Rick didn't blink. Didn't move. Aaron couldn't tell if it was shock or restraint.

"When she came back…" Aaron let out a slow breath. "She was different. Like she'd stopped hoping. Or started accepting."

Still no reaction. But Aaron caught the way Rick's knuckles whitened around the neck of the bottle.

"She got better, though," he added gently. "Found her footing again. She's good."

He wanted to believe it was comfort, not salt.

Aaron nudged him with the neck of his bottle. "We're glad you're home."

Rick gave a faint nod, eyes fixed on the middle distance. And Aaron, watching him, had the sudden and unmistakable sense that Rick hadn't come back whole—but with just enough left to try.

"I'll get us another," Aaron said, sensing Rick needed space.

Aaron rinsed out their empty bottles at the sink, letting the water run longer than necessary. The hum of the house had settled into something quiet and brittle. Upstairs, Gracie's door clicked shut; outside, the world deepened into twilight. He grabbed two more beers from the fridge, hoping maybe the second round would finally let Rick exhale.

But when he turned back toward the living room, the couch was empty.

Aaron stepped onto the porch and spotted him almost immediately—Rick's figure cutting a straight path through Alexandria's heart, boots heavy against the gravel, his silhouette thinned by time and burden. He didn't look back.

Aaron followed at a distance, the beer bottles sweating in his hands.

Rick moved like a man on instinct, drawn by something older than memory. The graveyard behind the chapel lay in shadow, its iron gate creaking faintly in the breeze. Rick pushed it open and disappeared inside.

Aaron slowed.

He didn't want to intrude. But he couldn't bring himself to turn away, either.

Through the wrought iron, he saw Rick kneel beside the grave—a simple marker, the same one he'd carved nearly a decade ago. "Carl Grimes." No dates. Just a name and the weight of a world that had been lost with it.

Rick placed his hand on the headstone, fingers splayed like he was checking for warmth. He stayed there, still as stone, head bowed. Aaron watched his shoulders tighten, shake once. Then again. The beer bottles felt heavy now—useless, almost insulting.

The grave had been kept. Cleaned. Michonne had come through just a few days ago, Aaron remembered—as she did every month. A fresh white flower had been tucked beneath the stone. Simple. Honest.

Rick brushed a thumb across it like it was holy.

Aaron's throat tightened. He turned back quietly. Some moments belonged to a man and his dead. And this—this was one of them.

Aaron walked home through the dimming streets, the familiar hush of Alexandria settling over the neighborhood like a soft blanket. The porch light flicked on automatically as he stepped up to the door, and he lingered outside, leaning on the railing, the second beer still cold in his hand. He figured Rick would need time alone out there.

And sure enough, not long after, boots scuffed the gravel path. Aaron turned as Rick came into view, shoulders squared but face shadowed with something heavier than just exhaustion.

Aaron didn't say anything at first. Just offered the unopened beer.

Rick took it. Nodded his thanks. But his gaze stayed distant.

"I need to get to the Commonwealth," he said.

Aaron gave a quiet sigh. "I thought you might."

Rick's grip on the bottle tightened. "How soon?"

Aaron looked out past the houses, toward the darkened road beyond the gates. "Train comes once a week. Left a few days ago."

Rick didn't flinch. "Can I get a horse?"

"It takes a week on a horse." Aaron's brows lifted. He just studied him for a beat. "It's a long road, Rick."

"I've gone farther for less."

"I know you have," Aaron said gently. "That's not the point."

Rick finally looked at him then—really looked. And Aaron saw it in his eyes: not recklessness, but urgency. That ache. That bone-deep pull toward his family, toward whatever version of home might still exist on the other side of that journey.

"I get it," Aaron continued. "How long you've been gone, I get it. But let me help."

Rick shifted, restless. "I don't need—"

"I'm not saying you need anything," Aaron said. "I'm saying you're not alone anymore. You don't have to do everything the hard way."

Rick looked down at the label on his beer, thumb brushing over the condensation. "I just… I can't wait. Not when I know they're out there."

Aaron nodded. "Then let me put something together. A caravan. A few people who've made the trip before. You leave tomorrow, first light. It'll be a hell of a lot safer."

Rick was quiet for a long time. Then he exhaled, slowly.

"Alright," he said. "One night."

Aaron clapped a hand to his shoulder, brief but solid. "Good."

They stood there for a moment longer under the porch light, two men who had lost nearly everything, but still somehow found a way to show up—for the living, and each other.

Aaron opened the door and stepped inside.

"You still… you still like eggs in the morning?"

Rick gave a faint smile. "Yeah."

Aaron nodded. "Then that's what we'll do."

Rick disappeared down the hallway, boots silent against the old wooden floor. The door to the guest room clicked shut behind him, and the house fell into stillness again.

Aaron stayed rooted for a moment, the weight of the day settling deep in his spine. He scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaled, and moved to the sink to rinse out their bottles. The sound of running water barely masked the ache in his chest.

The house had gone quiet.

Rick sat on the edge of the narrow guest bed, the mattress sagging beneath his weight, the air still heavy with dust. He hadn't turned on the lamp. The only light came from the sliver of moon cutting through the blinds, striping the floor like prison bars.

He was alone, finally. Long enough to breathe.

Long enough to bleed.

The journal sat on his thigh, its leather worn soft at the corners. His fingers lingered over the cover—thumb tracing the groove where the stitching had started to come undone. He had read it so many times that the pages fell open on their own to the one entry he couldn't forget. The one he'd clung to like scripture on nights he should've given up.

He didn't need to see the words anymore.

But he read them anyway.

I know you're back there.
I know your brother is back there,
Just as sure as I know he's out there, somewhere.
Not just as a part of us.
He's alive out there.
I will find him.
Because I know he's trying to find us.

Rick stared at the page, unmoving.

The old pain twisted in his chest like barbed wire. That she had written this—after everything—she still believed in him, despite there being only a fragment of a reason to.

His hand trembled slightly as he closed the journal.

He stood and moved to the window, cracking the blinds with two fingers. Alexandria slept. But not the way it used to. This place had healed some, changed some. But there was still something fragile about it. He wasn't sure what.

But he was sure of one thing: even if he had to tear through a hundred miles of the remaining dead, he was getting back to his family.

Chapter Text

Back to You

Chapter 2

The low hum of end-of-day stillness filled the hallway outside RJ's classroom. Lockers clicked shut somewhere down the corridor, and voices murmured behind doors, but Michonne heard none of it. She stood outside Room twelve, one hand resting lightly against the frame, the other clenched at her side.

She already knew how this would go. The rhythm of these check-ins had burned itself into her bones: concern, statistics, suggestions. Encouragement, if they could find it. Guilt—always.

She knocked once and pushed the door open.

Mr. Davis looked up from his desk and offered her a tired smile. "Michonne. Come on in." He wore a variation of the same outfit most days—button-down shirts rolled at the forearms, clean slacks, boots scuffed from use. Practical. Uncomplicated. He looked like someone who could plow through a sea of walkers and sit through a child's meltdown in the same afternoon without flinching. A man made of both patience and grit. It's why Michonne liked him.

The world had settled, dividing everyone into two groups: those who had been lucky enough to survive and those who had fought to do so, and it was clear which group he fell into.

She stepped inside with a nod, her posture sharp with resolve. "Thanks for staying late."

"For you two? Always." He said it casually, but there was something warm behind the words. Mr. Davis wasn't a man who took up space loudly. He moved with quiet intention, his presence felt more in the steadiness of his voice than in the volume of it. He had deep brown skin and eyes that seemed to carry more than he ever said—eyes that listened, even when his mouth stayed closed.

Michonne didn't respond, just slid into the chair opposite his desk.

The classroom still smelled faintly of glue sticks and pencil shavings. Sunlight from the tall windows stretched long shadows across the tile. A few art projects floated from the corkboard behind him.

Mr. Davis pulled a slim folder closer, but didn't open it yet. "How are you holding up?"

She blinked, the question catching her off guard. "We're here to talk about RJ."

"I know," he said, voice gentler than necessary. "But how you feel affects how he feels. Just wanna make sure everyone's doing okay."

"I'm fine."

He stared at her—steady. There was something so steady in him. Something good. And maybe that was the thing that made the lie not sit right.

She sighed. "I'm trying to be."

"I see the effort you make," he said. "Doing this on your own, I know what that means. I had a single mother raise me. I saw her sacrifice for me when the world was what it was before, so I can't even imagine what you—"

She slapped her jean-clad thighs and sat up straighter. "So, RJ…"

Mr. Davis gave a knowing smile and nod. "Well, he's finally made friends…" He trailed off.

"That's good… right?" Michonne's fingers clenched around her thighs.

"The type of kids he's gravitated toward are the ones who like to test boundaries, and RJ's easily influenced. He wants to belong, and I get that. And he's a good kid. Smart. Thoughtful. But he's been a little... untethered lately."

She tilted her head. "Did something happen?"

"He ditched today. Mr. Lorne found the boys at a blind spot, trying to go over the wall."

Michonne blew out an exasperated breath, her neck rolled to the side, and her fingers went up to massage her temples.

"To be fair, Mr. Lorne said RJ didn't look like he was gonna do it. And he was the only one who didn't run when they got caught."

She kept her eyes on the windows. "It's the friends."

"Looks like it."

"So…" She chuckled, humorlessly. "I tell him to go make friends, and he does. Now I'm supposed to tell him he can't have those friends?"

"It's not your fault." His voice was firm. "Not his either if I'm honest. And this meeting is more preemptive than anything else. I just suggest you keep an eye out. I will too. I have a feeling RJ will figure out soon that he's the one who is not like the others."

She stared at him. "And if not?"

"Then I can step in, guide him back on track, with your permission, that is."

"Okay." She didn't need to think about it. Mr. Davis had already done so much for them over the past few months. Since being in his class, RJ had gone from a shy kid who cared about nothing more than his comics, barely making the grade, to a straight 'A' student. "Thank you for looking out for him."

"Of course. But it's not just him I'm looking out for." Mr. Davis came around the front of the desk and perched on the edge. "You're doing better than you know, Michonne."

She stared at him, the compliment landing awkwardly in the tiny space between them.

Then the silence returned, not uncomfortable but charged.

"I, uh..." He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly less sure than she'd ever seen him. "I don't ever do this." He held his hands up. "I wanna make that clear."

She leaned back in her chair, her brow lifted slightly.

"I was wondering if you'd… want to grab a coffee sometime. Or dinner. Whatever feels less weird."

The question sat there, soft but sincere.

Michonne blinked slowly, her vision trying to adjust to seeing this Mr. Davis not as RJ's teacher, but as a man—earnest, respectful, kind in his own right. A good man. Something coiled in her gut. A memory. A face. A voice that had been gone so long, it sometimes felt like a dream, but suddenly it felt alive in a way she hadn't noticed before; alive in the man sitting across from her. Because all the things she now saw in Mr. Davis had all been things she'd seen in…

She swallowed his name down.

"I'm sorry if that's out of line," he added quickly. "I just… you're clearly carrying a lot. And I thought—if you ever wanted to talk. Or not talk. Just have a night that wasn't about all that..."

Michonne didn't answer right away. Her gaze dropped to her lap. "You're not out of line," she said eventually. Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of hesitation beneath it. "I don't do this."

"You don't have to," he said, rising from the edge of the desk. "No pressure."

She stood too. Shrugged her coat back over her shoulders. There was a weight in her chest she couldn't name, a whisper of something unfinished. Something unresolved. Something she'd been trying to shake for two years now.

As Michonne moved to the door, a thought arrested her; maybe it wasn't about forgetting him. Maybe it never would be. Maybe this was just… what it looked like to try again, even with the ache still there.

She turned around. "Okay. Dinner."

His smile widened—grateful. "Dinner."

She nodded once, then turned to go.

Later that night, the house hummed with the muffled thuds of settling wood and the low churn of the heater. Outside, night painted the windows in streaks of blue and peach, the sun's last light brushing the treetops. Inside, Michonne stood in front of her bedroom mirror, tugging gently at the sleeves of a deep green blouse. Not too dressy. Not too casual. She adjusted the collar, frowned, undid a button, then did it again.

Her room smelled faintly of lavender, the old books stacked in one corner, and her favorite record—Sam Cooke, on low—played from the vinyl in the corner. It was a peace she hadn't earned, not really, but tonight she was allowing it—just a little.

Footsteps padded down the hall, getting louder until they reached her room.

"Where you going?" Judith's voice floated in from the doorway, casual but curious, already laced with the spark of something teasing.

Michonne glanced at her reflection and caught her daughter's face over her shoulder—arched brow, arms crossed, one hip cocked in dramatic teenage fashion. She'd tucked her hair into a thrown-together bun, the front still damp from her post-practice shower, and her Commonwealth High School sweatshirt hung slightly off one shoulder like she hadn't noticed or didn't care.

"Out," Michonne said simply, dabbing a bit of clear gloss onto her lips. It was all the makeup she'd been able to bring herself to wear in this new world. Because after everything, did it matter?

"Mm-hmm." Judith stepped into the room and leaned against the doorframe. "Out where?"

Michonne smirked. "Why do you sound like you're the parent?"

Maybe because she had to be, Michonne thought.

When Michonne had returned after years away, searching for a ghost, she'd come home to a daughter who didn't need lullabies anymore. Judith had become a quiet guardian of her brother, the one who kept bedtime routines, soothed nightmares, and made scrambled powdered eggs when there was nothing else. And even now, even after two years of being home, Michonne was still catching up.

Judith glanced toward the mirror. "You're wearing your 'I'm not trying too hard but I definitely tried' shirt."

Michonne chuckled. "That is not a thing." She crossed over and grabbed her coat from the hook near the door.

Judith tilted her head, more curious now. "So… where are you going?"

"Dinner," Michonne said.

Judith's mouth curved slowly. "A date?"

"Not a date," Michonne said too quickly.

"Mom." She punctuated it with two raised eyebrows.

Michonne sighed, turning back to the mirror and fiddling with some unfussy studs. "Dinner. With a friend."

"You don't have friends."

"Uh." Michonne paused. "Rude."

"Honest. Everyone you were close to is scattered now, and the ones still in Alexandria you barely see."

Michonne couldn't argue that; she'd designed it that way. When she'd come back, she'd put distance between her and anyone who knew her enough to suspect the story about not finding anything out there was bullshit. It was already a full-time job keeping it from RJ and Judith; she didn't need the added guilt.

"I'm going to dinner with RJ's teacher," she admitted. "He asked. I said yes."

Judith gave her a look, like she was watching a chess piece move exactly where she'd predicted it would. "A male friend who asked you to dinner. Sounds date-ish."

Michonne gave Judith a dry look in the mirror. "Are you done?"

"Not even close."

Judith plopped onto the bed and picked at a loose thread on the comforter. "You're allowed to be happy, you know." The words were quiet, but they landed loudly.

Michonne turned to look at her fully now, heart tugging. "I'm happy," she said, just as quietly.

Judith met her eyes. "I mean really happy. The kind that lets you be… a person again. Not just our protector."

That stopped Michonne cold. Because, damn—if it wasn't true. Judith had seen her that way her whole life—sword always in hand, shoulders squared, eyes scanning the horizon. And Michonne had worn that role like skin. At every stage of their lives, she'd found a new threat to shield them from, a new reason to stay in fight mode. But now, behind the safety of these walls, there were no battles left to win—just chores and routines she clung to like armor. She called it protection, and told herself it was her duty. But lately she'd started to wonder what it meant to be more than a shield for her kids.

She crossed the room and knelt in front of her daughter. "You make me happy. You and your brother," she said. "I don't need anything or anyone else."

Judith shook her head and paused, seeming to weigh what she wanted to say next. "I think Dad would want you to try again." And immediately, she looked sorry to have said the words.

Michonne's fingers tightened slightly where they rested on Judith's. Her daughter's words lingered in the air, but Michonne's mind had already drifted somewhere else.

Try. She didn't think she could. Or at least… part of her didn't. But another part—more stubborn—held fast to a question she could never ask out loud: Would he even care?

Not the man he used to be—who kissed her on that couch when their world was simpler and built dreams out of scrap wood and stubborn hope. But the man he was now. Whoever that was.

What we had is broken.

She could still hear those words—still feel the way they split her clean down the middle.

At that moment, she'd frozen. The look in his eyes, the distance in his voice, the finality of it—it was like watching someone you love close a door and turn the lock from the other side. Her mind had leaped to the only conclusion that made sense at the time: There's someone else.

Maybe for a brief second, she'd felt something was off. A flicker of hesitation in his voice. A tremor he didn't mean to show. But Michonne had learned long ago not to cling to what people say. Words could be pretty. Words could lie. It was what people did that told the truth—and everything Rick had done pointed to one thing. He'd let her go.

He didn't come after her. He didn't fight.

So she stopped fighting, too.

Whatever doubts she had, she buried them—deep. Because believing he'd moved on hurt like hell—but it was better than holding on to hope and being wrong again.

That belief stained everything that followed. It shaped every decision. It was why she kept the truth from the kids. Why she let them believe he was gone. Why, when she reached for him in the quiet moments, all she could hear was that one sentence, echoing over and over.

What we had is broken.

And after a while, she stopped asking whether it was true. Because if it wasn't, then the real question was even more painful to live with: Why hadn't he really come back?

Try. Such an easy word to say, but impossible in practice. Because if he were gone, she could grieve. But him choosing to stop loving her… how did she mourn that? And how did she ever move past it enough to try again?

Judith stood and crossed to the dresser, picked up a scarf, and held it out. "Here. Don't forget this."

Michonne took it, eyes soft. "Are you sure you've got your brother tonight?"

"I always have RJ."

Michonne sighed. "I know. And I appreciate that." She leaned in and kissed her cheek. "I'm gonna go say goodbye to him."

She padded next door, soft footfalls against worn floorboards. RJ's door was cracked open, the dim blue light of his TV spilling into the hallway in flickers—bright, then dark, bright again. She knocked once, knuckles light against the wood, before pushing the door open.

He was on the floor, back propped against his bed, controller in hand. "Hey." His eyes stayed glued to the screen as a blocky, animated figure leapt across a rooftop and then fell gracelessly into a pit of lava. "Dang," he muttered, thumb jabbing the joystick.

His room smelled of snacks and socks and that faint boyish body odor she could never quite get rid of, no matter how often she aired it out. Posters covered one wall—ancient comic book heroes mid-flight, a glowing map of the world with tiny red thumbtacks marking places he said he'd visit "someday."

Michonne rested against the doorframe, studying him for a beat. His curls had grown out, making him look older than she was ready for.

He looked up when he realized she was still there. "You heading out?"

She nodded, stepping inside. "Judith's here."

His face twisted. "The warden."

"Don't call your sister that." Michonne walked over and crouched beside him. "She's watching you because after today, we need to rebuild some trust, don't you think?"

RJ didn't say anything at first, but his shoulders slumped a little, like he'd been carrying a backpack full of bricks and finally got to set it down. "Sorry."

"I know."

"So… you're not mad?"

"No," she whispered. "Not tonight."

He looked down at his hands, thumbs worrying the edges of the controller. "It wasn't my idea to ditch. Marcus said we were just going to hang out during lunch, but then they left campus and… I didn't even know we were going that far."

Michonne studied him—his eyes, his voice. She'd gotten good at reading people, but with RJ, it was always trickier. He wore everything quietly. He didn't explode. Didn't defend himself until he was cornered. He just folded inward, like origami—each misstep another crease he couldn't quite undo.

"You know I'm not raising you to follow other people off cliffs, right?" she said.

RJ didn't look at her.

She kept her voice even. "If someone jumps, you don't go with them. You stop and think. You remember who you are."

"I didn't jump," he said, voice small. "I just… walked close to the edge."

That got her—the honesty in it, the ache in how hard he was trying.

Michonne sighed, brushing a hand over his curls. "RJ… I know it's hard." She paused. "I'm learning too. Every day." Being a good mother wasn't instinct, it was work. It was showing up even when she was bone-tired, pushing through her own grief and guilt, walking back into bedrooms with gentle words when anger would be easier, and knowing that no matter how much she got wrong she had to keep going for them. "I see you. Even when you think I don't."

RJ looked over at her. "So… you and Mr. Davis?"

"You were listening."

"The walls are thin."

"It's just dinner."

"Mr. Davis is cool, I guess," RJ muttered. "I like him."

Michonne blinked. "Yeah?"

"He's kinda funny and says I got leadership in me." He shrugged like the words meant nothing, but his voice cracked a little, betraying how much they truly meant.

"He's right," she said. "I see it too."

He picked up the controller again, more gently this time.

Michonne rose to her feet, hand resting briefly on his head. "Get your reading in for history before lights out."

He groaned.

"Non-negotiable," she added, already backing toward the door. "Be nice… to your sister."

RJ grumbled, but she caught the flicker of a smirk.

She lingered in the hallway a moment after closing the door, palm still on the wood. The edges of motherhood were constantly shifting—soft in some places, sharp in others. Some days she held the line. Some days, she just held them.

Tonight, she hoped everything she'd said and done was enough.

Fairy lights looped through the branches overhead, casting golden halos against the night sky. The restaurant sat beneath a canopy of trees, with a wooden deck lighting it like a secret; jazz drifted from a crackling speaker while glasses clinked and quiet laughter floated between tables.

Michonne, a half-drunk glass of red wine in hand, sat across from Mr. Davis—no, tonight he was Terence. A faint smile still played on her lips. "A cheerleader? Really?"

He laughed. "What? Is that so hard to believe?"

She snorted. "Just can't picture it."

He held his hand out. "It was the only way I could get a scholarship. Mom couldn't afford college, and basketball wasn't exactly an option. Contrary to popular belief, melanin and extraordinary height don't always amount to hoop dreams."

She smiled, the surprise softening into warmth. "Look at you shattering stereotypes."

"A pioneer is what I am," he said with a grin and shrugged. "Plus, it got me a lot of girls."

"I'm sure it did."

They laughed again. For a moment, the world felt like it used to: full of little absurdities and the kind of tension that didn't mean life or death.

Then the laughter faded, and with it came the inevitable quiet.

"I forget sometimes," Terence said after a beat. "That we lived whole lives before all of this. That we were other people."

"Was it just you at the start?"

The hush between them deepened—not heavy, not awkward. Just honest.

"No, uh… my wife, Fatima. She was my world. Our daughter, Samira—she was six. Smart. Loved puzzles. Wore rain boots even when it didn't rain. Said the worms liked it when she stomped."

Michonne smiled faintly, her chest beginning to tighten.

"We were trying to leave, but D.C. traffic was hell, everyone panicking. Fatima didn't want to go—kept thinking it was just another thing that'd blow over. That we should hunker down." He paused, eyes distant. "Samira had her little backpack on. It was pink. She'd packed it herself. With a Juice box, her stuffed rabbit, and one of those dry-erase boards. She said she'd draw a picture to pass the time." His voice caught.

"They didn't make it past the bridge. I'd gotten out to help a woman whose car was smoking, and by the time I turned around... it was too late. Everything unraveled so fast."

Michonne looked at the table, fingers tightening around her wineglass.

"I looked for them for weeks," he said. "Woke up every morning thinking I'd find them. I don't know what's worse—losing them, or not knowing what happened."

She didn't speak, she couldn't.

"I see Samira sometimes," he added quietly. "In my students. Maybe it makes me a masochist being around kids the same age she was. Makes me think about what could have been."

Michonne nodded. "I think about that kind of stuff too," she said, her voice nearly a whisper. "My sons…"

"I'm sorry."

They sat with that for a moment, each staring everywhere but at each other.

Michonne glanced at him just as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

He blew out a breath and flicked the tear away with his thumb. "This is not how tonight was supposed to go." He laughed through the drying wetness in his eyes. "I'm supposed to be charming you, making you laugh. Not spilling my guts."

Michonne gave a sly smile. "Who said you're not charming me?"

Surprise flickered across Terence's face.

"Honestly, it's nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who is not my child."

Terrence glanced down at the table. "What happened to their father?" he asked softly, only looking back up at her when the question was out.

Michonne's spine straightened a fraction. Her gaze drifted back to the lights above them, suddenly too bright. "He's gone too. Happened when the kids were little." It was all Michonne could say without bringing Terence into the web of lies or otherwise completely breaking down. Because even now, after all these years, she wore the grief from both times she'd lost him—like something borrowed, worn thin, and far too damaged to give back.

The silence this time was not gentle. It pressed against the table like a third presence. She reached for her scarf, suddenly feeling the chill.

He didn't press; instead, he looked out into the night and let them both sit with the ache.

The rest of the evening wound down slowly, full of careful words and silences. Terence paid. Michonne offered to split, but he insisted. They walked back to her house unhurried.

The evening air was crisp, wrapping around them like a fuzzy blanket as they walked side by side down the quiet street. Warm pools of light, long shadows cast by the glow from street lamps, punctuated the darkened pavement beneath their feet. The distant buzz of the town settling in for the night seemed to slow time itself.

Terence stole glances at Michonne. There was a strength in her he'd admired since the day she'd walked into his classroom to introduce her son to his new teacher. There was something steady and fierce about her, but also a fragile softness that flickered in her eyes tonight—moments when the walls slipped just enough to reveal the woman beneath the armor. He appreciated that more than he could say, though he tried to keep it carefully contained behind a calm exterior.

When they reached her house, his hand ghosted near the small of her back as they walked up the porch steps. In front of the door, the instinct to lean in pulled at him like a tide. But the step back she took told him she wasn't quite ready for that just yet.

He cleared his throat, voice low and sincere. "I know what it's like," he began, searching her eyes when they faced each other. "Losing that one person you thought was your forever. Thanks for giving me a chance."

Michonne stayed quiet, meeting his gaze with a hesitant vulnerability that stirred something deep inside him.

"I don't wanna rush you," he whispered. "But… will you let me keep trying? To get to know you better? At your pace."

Michonne swallowed hard, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. A small, weary smile brushed her lips. "Yeah," she breathed.

They lingered, standing close but not quite touching, two wounded souls reaching cautiously toward something new, fragile, and maybe—just maybe—a beginning.

Michonne stepped through the front door, the light click barely disturbing the quiet house. The scent of simmering spices and roasted vegetables floated gently from the kitchen. She found Judith there, sleeves rolled up, methodically placing leftovers into containers with practiced care.

"Hey," Michonne said, sliding onto the edge of the counter. "Brought dessert." She set the takeout box beside her.

Judith glanced over her shoulder, a small smile tugging at her lips. "How was dinner?"

Michonne shrugged. "Fine."

Judith moved closer and slipped her arms around Michonne's waist. The hug lingered longer than usual, a wordless exchange of support. "RJ's waiting for you to tuck him in. I told him he could stay up." Judith pulled away and went to set the last leftover container in the fridge before she wiped her hands on a dishtowel. "Now, I'm clocking out for the night." She gave a mock sigh and threw the dishcloth on the counter, grabbed the takeout box, and retreated. "Love you."

"I love you too." Michonne shut the light and moved down the hall with quiet steps, pausing outside RJ's door. Through the dim glow of the nightlight, she could see him—curled beneath the covers, a comic book resting on his chest, his breathing slow and even.

Michonne knelt beside the bed, carefully lifted the comic, and shifted the covers over him.

Her eyes paused on the subtle rise and fall of his chest. She stayed there a moment longer before walking over to close the door with gentle care, leaving behind the night.

Rick hadn't meant to sleep in.

The sun was already cresting high by the time he stirred, a slant of light breaking through the cracked shutter of the cabin they'd sought shelter in during the night. For a moment, he stayed still, blinking against the light pooling across his face—half caught between the faded memory of a dream and the weight of the journey still ahead. The chirr of cicadas clicked low in the background, a lazy symphony of slow time.

But Rick had no use for slow time. Not today.

He wiped a hand over his face and sat up, already half-dressed from the night before. His boots sat neatly beside the bedroll on the floor of the one room cabin populated by Jerry, Aaron, & Gabriel's empty bedrolls.

Rick's pack—small, worn, overstuffed—was ready. He slipped his boots on, rolled his mat up, and slung it over his shoulder.

When he stepped out, the others sat near the fire, tin mugs in hand. They looked up almost in sync.

Aaron was the first to speak, brow lifted. "You're up."

"Yeah." Rick adjusted the strap on his shoulder. "Didn't mean to sleep in."

Jerry grinned, fork halfway to his mouth. "Figured you needed it. You were out cold, man. Snored like a dying moose."

Rick didn't answer. Just shifted his weight, scanning the tree line as if he could see through it. As if somewhere beyond the branches, the road was calling him. They'd been traveling for four days already and still had a few left to go.

Gabriel set his coffee down, already reading him. "Got a mug with your name on it." He held it up.

"I wanna get moving before the heat hits and the horses can't go too much farther," Rick said. His voice was even, but the words came clipped.

Aaron took a sip from his mug, not looking away. "We'll break camp soon. Just figured we'd take a moment to breathe first."

"I've rested long enough," Rick said.

Silence fell for a beat.

Jerry wiped his hands on his pants and stood, walking over with the slow, unbothered gait of a man who still believed in pacing. "You ever think maybe you don't have to white-knuckle this whole thing?"

Rick looked at him. Really looked at the softness around his eyes, the way the beard had gone a little silver. Jerry had changed, too. They all had. But there was still an ease to him, a rootedness that Rick envied.

"I need to get there," Rick said finally.

"And we will," Aaron said from behind him. "But we're traveling straight into a horde. The redirect is gonna draw them away, but they won't be clear for another hour. The smart move is to wait it out."

Rick didn't answer. Instead, he adjusted the bag again and began marching toward his horse, pine needles crunching under his boots. "I'll go north," he muttered.

"That'll set you back hours," Aaron warned. "I understand you're eager to get to them—but getting yourself killed in the process..."

"You don't have to come." Rick hoisted the saddlebag onto the horse's flank.

He heard footsteps behind him, then Gabriel spoke. "Rick." His voice didn't rise.

Rick paused, one hand still resting on the saddle strap.

Gabriel stepped forward, slowly, carefully, like he was approaching something fragile—something wild. "I know what it feels like," he said quietly. "That sense that if you don't keep moving, you'll miss it."

Rick's jaw tensed. He didn't turn around.

"Rushing headfirst into danger won't bring them back to you any faster," Gabriel continued. "But it might keep you from ever reaching them at all."

Rick closed his eyes, just for a second. "I can't lose any more time," he said. His voice had frayed at the edges, thin in places where it used to be steel.

Gabriel's tone didn't waver. "Then don't waste more of it by making stupid mistakes."

Rick finally turned.

Gabriel stood a few feet away, hands loosely at his sides, no sermon in his posture—just truth. "They're alive, Rick. And they're waiting. But they're not waiting for this version of you," he said, nodding slightly. "They're waiting for the man who survived because he knew when to pause. When to breathe. When to trust someone else to carry the load for a moment."

Rick looked at him, something flickering in his expression. A soft recoil. Then surrender. He stepped back from the horse. Not in defeat. In choice. He was choosing his family, like he'd vowed to do the moment he'd stepped on the helicopter bound for home. "One hour."

Gabriel nodded once, a smile on his face. "One hour."

Rick let the pack slide from his shoulder. The others exhaled like they'd been holding their breath the whole time.

And for the first time that morning, Rick allowed the world to slow down.

Not because it didn't hurt like hell to wait—but because he finally realized he wasn't running from anything anymore. He was running toward something.

The makeshift supermarket was bustling with late-afternoon energy—the hum of conversations, the low rumble of carts over uneven flooring, the occasional call from a vendor who'd set up beside a shelf. What was once a warehouse had become a hive of community and trade, with crates of preserved vegetables, bags of milled grain, and an eclectic mix of bartered goods packed along rows of reclaimed shelving. Fluorescent lights flickered above, stubbornly doing their job.

Michonne stood by a bin of onions, testing each bulb with practiced fingers. She wasn't in a rush, though Judith and RJ were already getting restless—Judith subtly trying to keep RJ from sneaking extra cheese into the canvas shopping bag.

"Put it back," Judith hissed through her teeth.

"It's for the pizza," RJ muttered. "I'm doing us a favor."

Michonne looked up, an amused smirk tugging at her mouth. "The favor would be sticking to the list, alright?"

Judith offered her a knowing glance—equal parts 'can you believe him?' and 'this is your child.'

Michonne turned back to the bin just in time to catch sight of a familiar face strolling down the aisle. Terence. He wasn't in his usual button-down and tie. Today, it was a navy Henley rolled at the sleeves and dark jeans, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He was mid-laugh at something the vendor in front of him said before his gaze shifted—and landed on her.

There was a beat. A spark of something in his eyes—warmth, maybe—and then a smile.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said, voice easy. His eyes shifted to the kids. "And you brought reinforcements."

Judith perked up. "Hey, Mr. Davis."

RJ gave a little wave, trying not to look like he cared. There was something about seeing your teacher outside of a classroom that scrambled a kid's internal compass.

"Pizza night," Michonne said, explaining the scene with a small shrug as she straightened up. "We're getting ingredients."

"Sounds like serious business," he replied, then leaned in conspiratorially to RJ. "You in charge of toppings?"

RJ puffed his chest, momentarily forgetting his earlier demeanor. "Who else?"

Terence grinned. "Good man."

There was something about the way he interacted with them—calm, goofy, with just the right amount of sweetness that didn't feel forced. Michonne found herself watching him more than she meant to.

Unfortunately, Judith caught it. "You should come," she said, casually dropping it like she wasn't flipping the whole entire day on its head. "We make a whole thing of it. Pizza, a movie, sometimes a game. It'd be nice to have even teams."

Terence looked at Michonne, uncertain. "Oh," he said. "I wouldn't wanna intrude."

Michonne blinked. She hadn't expected Judith to do that. She should've, though. That child could read a room faster than anyone she knew.

She hesitated—just a beat. There were too many thoughts at once: RJ, the timing, the subtle pressure that came with blurring lines. But none of them were enough to outweigh the feeling of her chest unexpectedly fluttering at the idea. The way it had felt to see him just now, warm and simple in a world that rarely gave her either. The weight she felt lifting at the idea of not having another adult to share the load of entertaining her kids, even for just a night.

She gave a small nod. "The balls in your court."

"That a dig at my non-existent basketball career?"

"It wasn't… but… if it's how you took it."

"What?" RJ said.

"Inside joke, kid," Terence said. He smiled again—slightly crooked this time, like he was trying not to overplay his hand. "Count me in."

Judith, already triumphant, turned back to the list. "We need olives," she declared, moving down the aisle like she hadn't just invited her mom's maybe-sorta-date to dinner.

Michonne exhaled, quiet amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth. Terence took a step forward, falling into pace beside her, careful not to crowd.

They moved down the aisle slowly, talking about nothing and everything—how hard it was to find decent tomatoes now or whether pineapple counted as an abomination on pizza. She hadn't noticed until now how full his laugh was, the kind that lingered even after it faded.

By the time the crusts were gone and the plates were scraped clean, RJ had declared it officially "the best pizza night ever," which felt like an honor—one Terence accepted with a hand over his heart and an exaggerated bow.

The living room had that cozy, soft-lit feel of a place well-lived in. Judith dimmed the lamps and queued up a movie—some old animated flick she and RJ had both seen a dozen times, which meant they quoted every third line and laughed before the punchlines even landed.

Terence settled onto one end of the couch, waiting to be told where to sit, but Michonne surprised him by taking the cushion beside him, folding her legs underneath her, an easy grace to the way she moved.

The scent of pizza still hung in the air, tangled with the faint smell of her—something like citrus and cedar. It was familiar now, and he was surprised by how quickly he'd come to notice things like that.

The kids sprawled out on the floor with a blanket tucked around their shoulders. Judith's head slowly tilted until it was resting against RJ's. Siblings. Survivors. They looked peaceful now, even with the slight tension that Judith wore. That awareness she carried like armor.

For the first time that night, Terence and Michonne were alone. Not truly—but enough for his nerves to catch up with him. Around the kids, it was easy to stay grounded, easy to be himself. But something about Michonne stirred something deeper. Sharpened his own awareness. Rattled his calm. Killed his game.

He didn't speak. Neither did Michonne. For a while, they just watched.

Then came a dramatic chase scene—some wild, cartoonish chaos—and he let himself stretch, arms lifting into the oldest move in the book. The yawn, reach, and slow descent of his arm behind her shoulders was instinct. Muscle memory from being twenty and awkward and too hopeful for his own good.

Michonne tilted her head, deadpan. "Really?"

Caught. Absolutely caught. Terence laughed softly, his hand still hovering. "I think I might have peaked in high school." He winced.

She shook her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—but she didn't pull away.

When he began to shift, ready to reclaim his dignity and his arm, she reached up—fingers hot against his forearm—and kept it there.

Then, without a word, she leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder. In that moment, something shifted between them—subtle, unspoken, but intentional.

There were things he could say—about how rare this felt, how much of himself he thought he'd buried with his wife, how unexpected it was to feel pulled toward someone again. But the silence between them was enough. For now, being still beside Michonne was more than he'd hoped for.

The helicopter landed just before dawn. The sky over the Civic Republic was the color of dying embers. The wind bit sharp, the kind that whistled through empty streets and made you feel like a ghost for still being awake.

Michonne hopped out of the helicopter the moment the pilot gave them an all clear. The second her boots hit the ground, she was already ahead. She moved fast. Too fast. Walking like she could outrun whatever this was.

Rick hated the way she'd stopped looking at him somewhere between Oregon airspace and the final descent. Like she'd tucked herself into a place where he couldn't reach her anymore. Like maybe he didn't deserve to.

"Wait," he snapped, harsher than he meant to. The churn in his stomach he could have easily chalked up to the choppy flight over, but he knew better.

She froze mid-step. Chin tilted slightly, and her shoulders stiffened like she was already bracing.

He jerked his head toward a narrow alley between two collapsed storefronts. "Over there."

Michonne moved wordlessly. No eye contact. No sigh. No fight. Just… obedience. That alone cut deeper than it should have. He'd always admired her fight. Even when it was aimed at him. Especially then. Because that fight meant she still cared. Still had something left to burn. But this… this silent compliance? It felt hollow. Like watching a warrior lay down their sword, not out of peace, but out of surrender.

And he wasn't sure which of them had lost more in that moment.

They stopped beside a wall streaked with soot and moss, and she turned to face him. Still, she said nothing. Just looked at him with a face stripped down to bone and silence.

"I'll set it up," Rick said. "Two nights from now. Same spot as last time, same plan. But this time, you go. For good."

The words hung there. Cold. Cracked. Final.

She nodded. Just once. And it wrecked him.

Rick's throat burned. He wanted to say more—I'm sorry. I'm not trying to lose you. I hate this too. But he didn't; he couldn't. So he turned and walked. Fast and hard, because staying meant folding.

But twenty steps in, Rick stopped. The air felt different behind him—thinner somehow. Wrong.

He turned back. Didn't call her name. Didn't announce himself. He just rounded the corner again, then ducked behind a crumbled support beam when he saw...

Michonne slid down the brick wall. Slow. Like her body was too heavy to hold anymore. And then she broke. A sound ripped from her chest—muffled by her hand but raw. Her forehead dropped to her knees. Shoulders heaving. She was wrecked.

And all he could do was watch.

Rick pressed his back against the wall, chest rising fast. It felt like something inside him was ripping apart. He hated himself for doing this to her. Hated that loving her meant letting her walk into danger alone. But staying near her now? Watching her cry and not rushing in to hold her like he so desperately wanted to do?

It was gonna kill him.

He looked up at the sky, where dawn had almost fully died. Then back down. One last he turned away for good. Because if he didn't leave now… he wouldn't leave at all.

Rick woke with a jolt.

His breath caught sharp in his throat, chest rising too fast, eyes wide and searching. The nightmare still clung to him, heavy and unwelcome.

He sat up. The fire had burned to embers, casting faint shadows across the clearing. A blanket cocooned Jerry, who was snoring softly. Aaron lay curled nearby, motionless.

Only Gabriel was awake, keeping watch. He sat with his back to the fire, facing the trees, spine straight, cross resting against his knee. He didn't turn. Didn't say a word.

Rick watched him for a beat, breath still ragged, unsure if Gabriel was giving him permission or simply pretending not to notice.

Then Rick moved. Strapped on his bag. Avoided the crunch of dry leaves. Every step was quiet, deliberate. The horse waited just beyond the firelight, tail swishing, ears twitching at the slightest rustle. Rick approached and untied the lead, fingers brushing its neck in a quick, steady stroke. The horse shifted, uneasy but calm.

Rick's decision had already been made. He wasn't wasting another second. He mounted the saddle, heart pounding.

Then—

"Rick!" Aaron's voice, rough and half-awake.

Rick flinched.

"Rick!" Louder now. "Wait—what the hell are you doing?!"

Rick nudged the horse forward, out of the brush and onto the trail, legs tight around the saddle, chest tight with unease.

"Rick!" Aaron again, voice cracking—part confusion, part fear.

Still, Rick didn't look back. He had to go—a quiet, restless pull urging him forward, even if he didn't fully understand why.

So he rode. Toward the Commonwealth. Toward Michonne. Toward whatever came next.

DAYS LATER

By the time Rick saw the gates, his legs were numb from the saddle and his fingers were stiff from gripping the reins. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through with sweat and trail dust. The horse—bless it—was flagging, but still moving, hooves dragging slightly with each step. Rick slowed him to a walk, then a full stop just outside the checkpoint.

The walls of the Commonwealth stretched tall and clean against the early evening light, guarded but calm. No alarms. No drawn weapons. Just the steady rhythm of a place that had learned to survive without panic. He had no strength to even sit in wonder at yet another place that had risen from the ashes of a death world.

And there, standing just beyond the open gate, was Ezekiel. His dreadlocks had more silver in them now, his posture still proud, regal even. The moment his eyes landed on Rick, he offered a quiet smile, hands tucked behind his back like he'd been waiting a long time and didn't mind it. "Welcome, my friend," Ezekiel said with a disbelieving laugh. He stepped forward.

Rick dismounted slowly, knees cracking as his boots hit the ground. He gave a quick nod, shoulders tense, jaw tight with the kind of restraint that came from needing something too much. He wanted to give Ezekiel more—something warmer, something worthy—but his mind was locked in. Singular. And anyone in the way of that was only gonna get paid dust.

"Aaron gave me a heads up," Ezekiel continued, nodding to the weary horse. "Said you parted from them. We weren't sure when you'd get in, but…" He looked Rick up and down, not unkindly. "You made record time."

Rick ran a hand through his overgrown hair, eyes darting past the open gate, scanning the passersby on the street beyond like she might appear if he looked hard enough. "I need to see her," Rick said, voice low but firm. "Michonne. She's here?"

Ezekiel nodded slowly, his gaze gentle but searching. "She and the kids are here."

Rick flinched at 'kids', but said nothing.

The journal had hinted at someone. Judith's brother. Michonne hadn't named him, hadn't written much, but the presence of that word had stopped Rick cold the first time he saw it. Brother.

There was another child.

And Rick didn't even need to ask to know. He felt it. The boy was his.

Still, he'd said nothing on the road. Not to Aaron. Not to Gabriel or Jerry. Not because he didn't want to know for sure—but because he needed to hear it from her.

So he just shifted his pack higher on his shoulder, the tension rippling through him like heat.

"I'll take you," Ezekiel said.

Rick nodded again, already moving.

And Ezekiel—never one to rush—fell into step beside him without another word.

It was the third night in a row Terence had been over.

Not planned. Not even expected. It had just… happened. Dinner again, after Judith asked. Then dishes, laughter, lingering in the doorway. And now, the porch—quiet, still, somehow suspended in a rhythm that felt like it had always existed.

Crickets stitched the dark with sound, and the porch light cast a dim halo over the steps, leaving the yard in shadows. The stars blinked wide and indifferent above them.

Michonne leaned against the porch rail, arms folded loosely, wine glass cooling in her hand. Across from her, Terence stood with one shoulder against the post, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, the soft scratch of his beard catching a glint of light as he looked down at the yard.

Neither of them said much. They didn't need to.

"I'm not usually like this," he said after a long pause. "Being around people this much. I mean, I love the kids. But adults? I kind of keep to myself."

Michonne glanced over, arching an eyebrow. "Could've fooled me."

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I've been making an exception." There was something shy in the way he said it. But not unsure. Just honest.

"I like being here," he added. "With you. With them. I didn't realize how much I missed it—just being around people who don't expect anything. Just sitting with someone. Laughing at dinner. Feeling like myself."

She let that sink in. There was no rush to respond. Instead, she looked down at her wine glass, fingers curling loosely around it. "Judith told me I was friendless," she murmured after a moment.

He looked up, amused. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." The edge of a smile curled her lips. "She said it like she was commenting on the weather. Just—'Mom, you don't have any friends.' Like it was tragic."

Terence laughed, low and full in his chest. "Brutal honesty."

"Brutally right," Michonne said, her smile fading a little. "It's been a long time since I let anyone in."

"So… thanks. For helping me prove my chronically correct daughter wrong."

He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her, like he was trying to read something more than her words—like he wanted to make sure she knew he saw her. All of her.

"I want to kiss you," he said boldly. "But if you're not ready… just tell me."

Her breath caught. Not because she didn't expect it, but because of the way he said it. Like he could wait forever, if she asked him to.

She didn't answer. Not with words. She stepped toward him, slow and sure because after all he'd done to get them here, letting this be her move was the least she could do.

Even still, he met her halfway.

One hand slid to the small of her back, the other hovering near her cheek until she guided it gently to her skin. His touch was warm, steady—no tremble in it.

When he kissed her, it was soft at first, tentative. Then deeper. A slow unfolding.

He kissed her like she was something precious. Something long withheld. And she let herself lean into it.

When they finally parted, his forehead rested lightly against hers, breath mingling in the quiet space between them.

Michonne pulled back just a little, catching her breath.
"Ooph," she murmured, a soft huff that made her smile despite herself.

"You alright?" he asked, still close, voice low against her skin.

"Yeah." Her voice was a whisper now. "Yeah."

He lingered for a moment longer before he gave a slow nod. "Then I'm gonna go. Before I ruin the perfect exit."

That made her laugh.

He leaned in to kiss her forehead—gentle, unhurried—then stepped back.

And just like that, he was gone.

Off the porch. Down the path. Back into the night.

She should have gone back inside.

But something kept her there—maybe the quiet. Or maybe it was the strange flutter in her chest she hadn't felt in a long time.

Michonne stood at the top of the porch, one hand resting lightly on the wooden rail, the ghost of a smile still on her lips from Davis's parting kiss. It hadn't been fireworks—but it had been something.

And then—movement.

A flicker in the corner of her eye.

She turned her head slowly, gaze scanning the edge of the street. Her brows knit together. There—just beyond the pool of light spilling from the porch lamp—stood a familiar figure. Still. Watching.

A hallucination, surely.
She blinked hard. Her fingers curled tighter around the rail.
No, this was guilt. That's all it is. You're not ready. That's why you're seeing him.

But then Ezekiel stepped forward from the shadows. His hand rested lightly on the figure's shoulder.

And suddenly, the air left her lungs.

Because they both couldn't be a dream.
That was Rick. Not a ghost. Not a dream. Just a man standing at the edge of her world, real and breathing… And he'd just seen…

Michonne's breath caught like a hook in her chest. Eyes fully adjusted to the dark, she saw him clearly now. Hair longer, face thinner, his shoulders sloped beneath the weight of time—but it was him.

And then—the look on his face registered. His eyes were the worst of it—wet, but not blinking. Like he'd come all this way, only to arrive a minute too late.

She couldn't breathe.
Couldn't move.

The smile on her face vanished.

And for the first time in years, Michonne was terrified.

Not because he'd come back.

But because he'd come back now.

Chapter Text

Chapter. 3

Michonne staggered backward toward the house, clutching at the porch walls as if they alone could hold her up. The screen door screeched shut behind her. Her hand fumbled for the lock, missed, then caught it. Metal shifted beneath her fingers, sluggish and distant, every motion dragging, like swimming through deep water.

Light from the porch poured through the windowpanes, but all she could see was the shadow standing just beyond it—Rick.

Rick.

Not a dream or a memory or a ghost.

Michonne pressed her back against the door. Chest pounding, she set one hand on her sternum, then slid down the wood until she was crouched low.

It was too much, way too fast.

The air inside the house felt suffocatingly stagnant. The kids had fallen asleep during the movie marathon, and now the nearly inaudible hum of the fridge stabbed at her ears, the relentless tick of the clock gnawing at her nerves. Every sound was amplified; every silence unbearable.

Rick.

She couldn't breathe around his name. It echoed inside her, bouncing off the walls, carving a hole through her chest. How much of it had he seen? How did she explain… God, was there even anything to explain? There was no language for what her life had become in his absence. Only choices made of grief and survival, and the prolonged ache of having no one left to make her feel something.

Why am I even rationalizing it? He'd chosen to leave her alone. He did this. The only people she owed an explanation were… Shit, her kids.

Her head tipped forward as her vision swam, and she tried to breathe through her nose—in, out, then in, again.

Michonne didn't want to see him. Not like this. Not with her heart wide open and exposed.

But she did.

God, she did.

Her fists clenched on top of her knees. Why the hell was she hiding from him?

This is not who I am. Michonne had lived through hell and clawed her way back. Had led communities, fought wars, and buried the people she loved most. She could face him; she had to.

Michonne pushed to her feet, movement stiff, as if her bones had aged while she sat. When her palm hit the doorknob, it slipped slightly, damp with sweat, but she managed to turn it and step out onto the porch. It was empty; the yard was quiet.

She walked down to the bottom step, bare feet brushing the cool wood. She looked left, then right, but saw nothing. He was... gone.

Sinking slowly onto the top stair, one hand gripped the railing, and her other hand pressed to her lips, as if it could somehow take the kiss back. As if that could undo any of it.

Michonne sat upright in bed, the next morning, her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around them. She hadn't slept a single second. Fragments—images, memories, questions—all of it had occupied her mind all night. Moments looped like a film she couldn't turn off. Every time she dared to close her eyes, she saw him. Not Rick from the past, but Rick now, Rick standing at the edge of her porch with the full display of heartbreak on his face.

The sound of movement in the house pulled her out of herself. Footsteps creaked faintly across the floor below. She heard the thud of a cabinet door closing and the rustle of lunch bags being packed. The rest of the world hadn't stopped turning just because hers had.

Michonne swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose slowly. Her limbs felt heavy, and her head was light. It was a struggle to stay upright. She stepped toward the mirror above the dresser and winced. The reflection staring back at her was tired and haunted; the skin beneath her eyes was darker than it had been the day before. Her fingertips grazed the hollows, and for the first time in a long time, she wished she had makeup to cover it all up.

She dressed quickly, nothing special. Just jeans, a tank top, and an old flannel she hadn't touched in years, buried at the back of her drawer. Her fingers fumbled over the buttons, the fabric soft from age and steeped in the memory of Rick. Today, it felt like more than a random piece of clothing—it was proof that his choice hadn't broken her so completely that a single shirt could bring her to her knees. Well, that's what she tried to convince herself of, even as her chest tightened at the fabric brushing her skin.

By the time she walked into the kitchen, Judith and RJ were already there. RJ zipped up his backpack and hummed under his breath with not a care in the world while Judith stuffed a water bottle into the side pocket of her practice bag. She tugged her French braid over one shoulder, the strap of her practice bag digging into the shoulder of her jacket. Fourteen felt older than Michonne was ready for sometimes.

"Morning, Mom!" RJ said, flashing her a big grin. "Can we stop by the workshop after school? I wanna check if my skateboard's ready."

Michonne tried to smile. "We'll see."

"Okay." He went off to grab his shoes. It tracked that he didn't notice her fragile state.

Michonne looked over at Judith and saw that her daughter had noticed, and that tracked too.

Judith focused her gaze on Michonne. She studied her mom's face with the sharpness Michonne had always admired. "You okay?" Judith asked, her tone low enough to keep the concern from RJ's ears. "You look like you didn't sleep."

Michonne made herself busy, putting their lunch ingredients back where they belonged, but she couldn't shake Judith's stare. "Just a rough night. That's all." With the counter clear, she grabbed the house keys from the hook and made for the front door. "Let's go."

Outside, the kids filed out in front of her, arguing about who would do something first when they got home after school. Michonne followed slowly, eyes scanning the street—every figure in the distance and every shape beyond the trees. She couldn't shake the feeling that Rick might show up without warning.

She was not ready to face him again or explain to her kids why she didn't act surprised by the reappearance of the man she had led them to believe was dead.

It was possible Michonne didn't breathe the entire walk to school—watching, waiting, and bracing for the impossible and yet entirely possible.

Rick woke with the dull throb of a hangover, though he hadn't touched a drop.

His mouth was dry, his head ached, and his body was sore, protesting even the smallest movement. The silence of Ezekiel's empty condo unnerved him; it was an unnatural quiet, like the hush before a storm or the slowed seconds just after a gunshot.

For a while, Rick didn't move. He just sat there on the edge of Ezekiel's guest bed, elbow braced on his knees, and head in his hand.

Somewhere far off, bird chirps tried to convince him that this morning was just another day.

His gaze drifted to the boots by the door, crusted in dirt and blood, with his pack slouched beside them like it had given up. He could take his things and run, before anyone knew, and spare everyone the mess of figuring out what to do with his presence.

No, the thought collapsed as soon as it took shape. Leaving now would be worse than never having come back at all. That'd be saying to Michonne he'd meant everything he'd said back at Cascadia.

Still, the idea gnawed at him, whispering that it would be cleaner, easier—for them and him—if he just disappeared before the day began.

But that didn't ring right either.

The unshakable truth sat heavier than the ache in his bones—he couldn't survive losing them again. The years apart had gutted him, hollowed him out in ways he'd barely endured. He remembered nights spent staring at dark ceilings, fighting to hold their voices in his mind before sleep could steal them away. And the terror—the bone-deep terror—of forgetting their faces.

Now, even with the uncertainty of what was next—what it would mean to stand in front of them again, to face the damage, to see what had changed—he couldn't leave. The fear was sharp, but it wasn't enough to make him walk away.

He didn't know what the hell to do, though. It was his move—his turn to step forward, to bridge the years—but after last night, the road in front of him was a blur. The kiss had been an atomic bomb—obliterating the map and every plan he thought he had.

Michonne on that porch. Her easy smile. The way she'd looked at the man who'd stood too close. The subtle lean toward him.

The image bled into his thoughts—unwelcome, but immovable.

It wasn't just the kiss, no, it was the lead-up and aftermath that concerned him most. The way she looked like she was on the brink of falling in love, if she wasn't already there.

Rick squeezed his eyes shut, hoping for darkness, but the images played on. He pressed the heels of his hand into his eyes, as if rubbing hard enough could erase the memory.

A knock came—soft, measured.

He froze, and his eyes opened and fixed, through the guest room door frame, on the front door down the hall.

A second, more tentative knock. Then silence.

Slowly, with stiff and aching joints, Rick rose and crossed the room. His steps were heavy. He didn't need to ask who it was. He felt it in the way the air itself had shifted, her presence reaching him through the wood and hinges. No one else could make his pulse stumble like that. No one else could make him want to move and stay rooted all at the same time.

At the door, he hesitated, then pulled it open.

There she was—quite literally the woman of his dreams—real and close enough to touch, bathed in soft morning light that leaked through the windows on either end of the hallway and curled around her like a halo. Time had been kind to her. It hadn't dulled her beauty one bit; it had only deepened it. The way the light kissed the curve of her cheek, the quiet, unyielding strength in the upward tilt of her chin; she was beauty forged in hardship.

Michonne squared her shoulders, guarded. She pressed her lips thin, but those eyes—her eyes—were softer than he expected. They carried a thread of concern that unsettled him as much as it steadied him. It was a look that made him want to step closer and retreat in the same breath. "Michonne. I—"

She held up a hand. As if hearing her name out of his mouth had triggered a more natural response, the warmth in her eyes drained away, replaced by a narrowed stare. "Not out here," she said, all traces of softness gone.

The sudden shift jolted him, like the ground beneath his feet had tilted. "Okay," was all he could say. It was all he had to offer. He stepped aside.

Michonne passed by him with careful, measured steps, as if she were afraid even the slightest touch might unravel them both. Her locks swung gently down her back—familiar and unchanged—and something about that simple, human rhythm nearly broke him.

She walked a few paces before stopping, gathering herself as if summoning courage to face the storm between them.

They stood in Ezekiel's living room like strangers meeting for the first time; two souls bound by history but divided by a chasm wider than years could bridge. She was there, close enough to reach, and yet impossibly distant.

The silence stretched long and too sharp to touch. Rick hated it, but had no words to fill the space.

Michonne's hands clasped tightly in front of her, the gesture annoyingly controlled. "Are we in danger?" Her voice was all business.

"No," he said. "Beale's dead. The ones who followed him, too. It's safe now."

He thought he saw surprise in her eyes before she masked it carefully.

"The kids don't know… what happened," she said, matter-of-factly. “That I found you."

His mind spun, grappling with the weight of what she'd just told him. He reached for the most urgent question. "They?" he croaked.

Michonne froze with eyes wide. Her body went rigid, and she swallowed hard.

"I was pregnant," she said, voice barely more than a whisper, "when the bridge happened."

Rick didn't move. The room shrank around him as the confirmation settled.

She met his gaze again—eyes shimmering, brimming with unshed tears. "His name is Rick. But we call him RJ. I was going to tell you… when we got away." She let the words hang heavy and fragile as she watched the impact settle over him.

His shoulders slumped, eyes falling to the floor as the full meaning hit him for the first time—his son.

Pushing on, she said, "He's about to turn ten." Her voice was worn.

The number echoed inside him—ten years. For ten years, their child had grown up without his father. For ten years, Michonne had held them both alone. Ten years.

The space between them grew wider still.

"I told them I searched. That I tried. That… it wasn't enough." Her body slumped, involuntarily it seemed. "But I didn't tell them you were alive. I… I just couldn't." She paused, giving him a moment to process, before she went on. "So I need to tell them. Before anything else happens." It was an olive branch wrapped in resolve; her tone made it clear there was no room for negotiation.

"You don't have to do that alone," he said.

Michonne paused. Her eyes dropped for a moment, and when she looked up again, they held his, steely and unwavering. "I'm used to it," she said. Not in cruelty, but pure, unflinching truth.

Those four words—simple and unadorned—landed heavier against his chest than any blow could have. Because in them, Rick heard the truth he couldn't avoid; she had been carrying their world on her shoulders, even when it meant standing alone in the dark.

Shame flooded through him.

"I need to go." She didn't wait for a response.

Rick watched her leave, feeling the space between them grow wider and emptier than it had been when she'd walked through the door.

Michonne stepped into the hallway, Ezekiel's door clicking shut behind her with a softness that betrayed the storm building in her chest.

She moved the way she'd taught herself to in moments like this—one foot in front of the other. Down the corridor, past the peeling walls of the condo complex, past the scent of dust and old wood. Past the look in Rick's eyes when she'd said their son's name.

Her hand trembled at her side, fingers curling into a fist.

She made it down the stairs, through the front entrance, and onto the sidewalk before her knees faltered.

She stopped, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut, willing her body back into submission.

Breathe. Just breathe.

One hand found the edge of the brick building; the other pressed to her pounding temple. She let her forehead rest against the wall's roughness for a single moment, grounding herself in the scrape of stone against skin.

Then she straightened.

She would not fall apart. Not here. Not for him. Not again.

A sharp, quiet exhale.

And then she turned, walking back toward work—toward the life she knew she'd soon have to upend.

The front door clicked shut behind Judith, and she shrugged off her backpack, letting it drop with a dull thud beside the shoe rack. RJ was already fiddling with his sneaker laces, talking about some weird bug or cat, with one leg, he'd spotted on the way home; Judith wasn't listening. Her eyes had already landed on her mom.

Her mom sat ramrod straight at the kitchen table. No smell of dinner stewing, no work papers piled on the table, and no radio blaring the oldies her mom liked to listen to while making dinner. She just sat there.

That was the first sign.

The second was the look in her eyes—remnants of rinsed-out red. She'd been crying.

"Come sit down," her mom said, her voice just above a whisper.

The third sign.

RJ glanced at Judith, then padded over without hesitation.

Judith followed more slowly, each step weighed more than the last. She sank into the chair beside her brother, across from her mom, and folded her arms.

Her mom clasped her hands on the table, pressing them together like she was about to say a prayer. She didn't speak at first, just stared at them, lingering on Judith a moment longer.

Judith shrank back, unsure what to do.

"I need to tell you something," Her mom said. "And I need you to really listen."

Judith nodded.

"When I left years ago to look for your father, I told you that I found… traces. Hints. But when I came back, I said it wasn't him. That I didn't find anything solid. That I—we had to move on." Her mom paused, inhaling slowly. "That wasn't the truth."

An icy wave slid down Judith's spine.

"I found him." Her voice broke on 'him'.

Silence. Nothing moved. Not even the air. The words were too absurd not to roll back a time or two.

I found him.

Dad.

She'd found him.

That meant he was alive or he'd been alive.

RJ blinked slowly, like the words hadn't landed yet.

Judith felt them settle deep inside her chest—cracking like ice.

She lied.

"I found your father. Alive. Broken, but alive. He was somewhere far away. A place with walls, a military, and strict rules."

No—she couldn't be hearing this right. How could her mom be saying it all so casually, as if it were nothing? Judith stared at her, mouth dry.

She felt RJ shift beside her, but she didn't look away.

And her mom went on in the same even tone. "He said—your dad—he said I needed to come back to you. That he couldn't leave because it wasn't safe. The people he was with were keeping him captive. And if I stayed, I'd be stuck too. So he made it so I could get away." Her mom unclasped her hands and then pressed them together again. "He thought he was protecting me. And I thought I was protecting you."

Something started stirring inside Judith—a pulse in her heart and nauseating churn in her stomach.

"When I came home, I told myself it was better this way. That if I told you he was out there but couldn't ever come back, it would be harder on you. I thought if I gave you a clean ending, it would be easier to move on."

"I lied." Her mom's voice cracked. To both of you. And…" She reached out to take each of their hands. "I'm so sorry."

Judith's ears rang. Her pulse hammered at her temple. The world hadn't changed, but the air felt thinner—like something inside her had cracked open, letting all the trust leak away. She slipped her hand out of her mother's grasp.

Her mom stared at her: hurt.

RJ finally whispered, "My dad's alive?"

Her mom kept her eyes on Judith a second longer before turning to RJ. She smiled a little. "He's here, baby."

Judith stood. The scrape of her chair was louder than it should have been. She couldn't sit there one more second. "You let me believe he was dead?"

RJ flinched.

Her mom let go of RJ's hands and leaned back in her chair, hugging herself. "I thought it was the only way—"

"You let me grieve him," Judith interrupted, voice rising with every realization. "You stood there, and you told me he was gone. You made me carry that."

"I thought—"

"You thought wrong!" Judith's tone crossed into the zone of no return—a place she'd never dared to enter with her mother before.

RJ stayed silent.

Judith could feel the heat of his unease beside her, but didn't look his way. "You said he was gone, and I stopped hoping. All this time you knew where he was and…"

"It wasn't safe," her mom said.

"He was alone," Judith said.

"I couldn't put our home or our family in jeopardy."

"He's part of this family!"

Her mom stood. "I had no other choice!" she shouted, then paused, and blew out a breath. When she spoke again, her voice was more controlled."There are things you can't understand. I am asking you to trust that everything I did was for your good."

"How can I trust that, when I don't trust you anymore!" The tears came then. Hot water traced slow lines down Judith's cheeks.

Her mom instantly hurried around the table and reached for Judith, but she crossed her arms and stepped back.

They stood there at an impasse, staring at each other above RJ, who sat unmoved.

"Where is he?" Judith finally said.

"What?" her mom said.

"You said he's here," Judith said low and snarky, her tone sharp—daring her mom to prove it. "Where is he right now?"

"Judith—"

She sighed. "Just tell me."

Her mom's jaw clenched and unclenched. "At Ezekiel's."

Judith turned to the door, footsteps heavy on the floor, heartbeat loud in her ears. She didn't remember putting on her jacket and barely registered her mom calling after her before the door slammed shut.

Judith lingered outside the door she hadn't approached in years. Faded paint chipped around the frame, the cold metal handle worn smooth by countless hands—hers among them. This had once been their home, the place she'd stayed when Carol left to find Daryl, just before Mom returned.

A stab of memory hit her: her mother at this very door, tears falling after two years apart; tears shed knowing she was about to deceive them.

She pressed her palm lightly to the door, the rough texture grounding her. In the glass of the welcome sign, her reflection startled her—eyes red-rimmed and wet. She blinked rapidly, rubbing at tears she thought she'd swallowed, desperate to hide the rawness beneath.

Gathering the shards of her courage, she lifted her hand and knocked—once, twice.

The door eased open.

She'd held onto her father's memory even after knowing he wouldn't come back. And now the man stood before her—older, worn, but undeniably him. His eyes searched hers, wide and unguarded, and in that instant, the distance carved by time crumbled.

Disbelief crashed over her; how could he be here?

How can this be real?

Then the floodgates broke.

"Dad?" Judith breathed, collapsing into his arms as tears spilled freely from them both.

Rick filled a glass with water, his hand trembling slightly as he set it on the table in front of Judith. She raised the glass slowly, eyes locked on the clear liquid, as if it held answers she wasn't ready to face.

He took a moment to really look at her. The last time he'd seen Judith, she was just four—small, wide-eyed, a child clinging to innocence. Now she was a young woman: composed, sharp, carrying her mother's quiet strength. It unnerved him more than he expected.

"Thank you," she said, voice tight.

He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. The room felt too small. "Your mom… she told you everything?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

Judith set the glass down gently, eyes flicking up to meet his. "You don't have to be," she said, confusion softening her voice. "You were trying to keep us safe."

Rick's throat tightened. What the hell had Michonne told her? Because no version of the whole truth painted him as the hero.

"It's Mom who lied to us," Judith said.

The words struck hard, a knife twist in his chest. He shifted in his seat, the sting of blame toward Michonne cutting deep. "No," he said. "Your mom's not to blame. I know she made choices you don't agree with, but the rest is on me." His eyes searched Judith's face, willing her to understand. "I did this."

The story unfolded between them, every detail offered plainly, with deliberate care where Michonne had chosen silence. Rick treaded gently, honoring Michonne's choice to shield him from the weight of the harshest truths, even as he told their daughter his own.

Judith stayed quiet, listening as he laid it all out.

When he finished, the room seemed to hold its breath.

Judith's eyes were wide, unreadable, but the slight flicker of guilt as her gaze dropped to the table did not escape him.

Rick sensed the turmoil inside her—the tangled storm of feelings too complex to put into words. He guessed she hadn't left the house quietly, that the weight of everything was raw. Tentatively, he reached out to graze her arm. "Maybe I should walk you home. Your mom's probably worried."

Judith hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Okay."

As they stood, Rick felt the fragile thread between them stretch—new, uncertain, but undeniably real.

On the quiet walk back, Rick's eyes kept drifting to Judith, noticing the way she carried herself with a composure that seemed far beyond her years.

When they reached the front porch, Michonne was waiting. Relief softened her expression the moment she saw Judith, flanked by Rick.

As he approached, Rick's gaze bounced between Michonne and the boy behind her—caught between wanting a clearer glimpse of who was undeniably his son, and reading his mother. His attention settled on Michonne when, without a word, she rushed forward and pulled Judith into a tight hug. Her arms held a fierce tenderness.

Her eyes met Rick's across the small space between them. Over Judith's head, Michonne mouthed, "Thank you."

Rick nodded in response, setting his hand on his hip as he watched Michonne close her eyes and squeeze Judith one last time.

She pulled back and set her hands on either side of Judith's face. "I love you," she said fiercely. "I know we need to talk, but I need you to know that."

Judith looked unconvinced. She glanced over her shoulder at Rick, drawing her mother's gaze there too.

Rick's eyes slid just past them to the boy, the boy he and Michonne had made. His throat tightened. He fought to keep his emotions at bay, but the sight of his son hit him with a force that stole his breath.

He was lean and with sharp features that echoed Rick. His dark eyes, watchful, held a quiet intensity. Those were his mother's eyes. There was a distance in his posture, a guarded stillness. RJ looked like someone who had learned early how to keep trust close.

Michonne stepped back from Judith, positioning herself directly behind RJ. Her hands settled softly on his shoulders; an anchor, steadying him in the unfamiliar moment.

Instinct—maybe it was the fatherly kind, he wasn't sure—told Rick that RJ needed to ease into this introduction. "Hey, RJ." He smiled.

For a long moment, RJ simply stared at him.

Michonne broke the quiet, her voice calm and warm. She squeezed RJ's shoulders lightly, a gentle reassurance that he wasn't alone. "This is him. Your dad."

Rick moved up the steps and extended his hand.

After a hesitant pause, RJ took Rick's hand, fingers closing around it in a tentative grip.

Rick reluctantly let go, after a moment, stepped backward down the stairs to the bottom of the porch, giving them space.

"Kids," she whispered, voice firm but kind, "go inside. Give us a moment."

RJ's hand went up to touch his mother's, holding it in place on his shoulder. He looked up at her just as she glanced down at him. They shared a look Rick couldn't quite read. Then Michonne said, "I'm okay."

And in that moment, Rick wondered if he'd been wrong about RJ's hesitation toward him. Maybe it wasn't uncertainty about Rick at all—maybe it was the instinctive protectiveness of a son guarding his mom.

RJ squeezed his mom's hand and walked into the house.

Judith lingered on the middle step, arms folded tight—a protest, unspoken but unmistakable. She wasn't ready to be cut out of whatever came next.

"Judith." Michonne mirrored their daughter's stance, folding her arms.

The two locked eyes, a silent battle of wills.

It didn't last long.

Judith's shoulders dropped first, her arms falling to her sides. Her gaze shifted to Rick. He offered her a small smile and a nod meant to say: Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere.

She stepped down the last few stairs, closed the gap in two quick strides, and threw her arms around him in a tight hug. Then, without a word, she turned and slipped into the house.

Michonne waited for the click of the door before facing Rick. "All of this is happening way too fast," she said, sounding exhausted.

Rick fought the urge once again to go to her, reminding himself it wasn't his place anymore. Not yet. "What can I do?" he said, offering her the only thing he had to give at that moment: support.

"Give me a couple of days, at least. To process all of this with them. Then we figure out where to go from here."

Rick nodded slowly, the ache of her requested distance settling in. "Okay."

They lingered in the fading light, the space between them crowded with everything unsaid, until he finally walked away.

"Come over for dinner in a few days?" she called.

Rick turned.

"We can see how things are then."

His heart sank—two days felt like a lifetime—but he kept it hidden. His feelings didn't matter right now. "I'll be there."

Later that night, the seat across from Michonne sat empty.

She stared at it as if willing Judith to appear, her hands wrapped loosely around a mug of tea gone cold. The clink of RJ's fork against his plate was the only sound in the room. Judith hadn't come out since earlier that night—hadn't so much as cracked her door.

Michonne pulled her gaze from the vacant chair and fixed it on the child in front of her. He was picking at his plate, his small shoulders hunched as though he were trying to fold himself out of sight.

"How are you feeling about all this?" she asked casually. She didn't use Rick's name—not yet. Just let the question hang.

RJ didn't answer right away. His fork scraped against the plate before he gave a small shrug, eyes on his pasta. "What about Mr. Davis?" He glanced up, a small grin tugging at his lips. "You like him, right?" He raised a brow, punctuating the question he clearly didn't care to hear the answer to. "So… I think the more important question is how are you feeling about all this?"

Michonne stared at her son in disbelief—the bravery. No, the audacity!

She shook her head, fighting to keep a straight face as warmth bloomed on her cheeks. After all these months of worrying about RJ, moments like this reminded her there was still a glimmer of humor beneath the brooding. She angled her head toward him. "All you had to do was say you didn't want to talk about your dad," she said, laughter threading through her voice.

RJ's grin widened. "Admit it, you wouldn't have let me off that easy."

"Okay." Michonne reached out to ruffle his hair. "Finish your dinner."

Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer, the sunlight catching the soft curve of his smile, and for a moment, the heaviness eased. "So, just so we're clear, you're not mad at me?"

RJ shook his head. "Nope."

"You can be."

"But I'm not. So…"

"Okay." His forgiveness, so quick and unguarded, was a gift she didn't quite feel she'd earned.

She took another bite of her meal, the knot in her chest loosening just enough for her to draw a steady breath.

And yet, even in the quiet, RJ's words echoed.

Terence slipped to the forefront of her mind—his relaxed nature, the kindness in his eyes. Just the thought of him steadied her, gave her a sense of ease she hadn't felt all day. That peace should have been Rick's to give, not another man's. And yet here she was, clinging to remnants of Terence's calm like driftwood in a storm.

The morning light was soft, spilling through the cracked blinds as Michonne reached beneath her bed, fingers grazing the long, familiar shape tucked away in a worn cloth.

Right on time, the door burst open.

Judith, pushing her head through the hole of a sweatshirt, hurried in, impatience pressed in her voice. "Mom, did you turn my alarm off? I'm going to be late!"

Michonne said nothing, carefully pulling the cloth fully into the room. Judith's eyes widened the moment she recognized it—her mother's sword, once as much a part of her as her breath.

She'd packed it away when they'd settled here, a silent promise to build a new life, a quieter one, with her kids. The blade hadn't touched air since her last visit to her son's grave; the only time Michonne drew it was for her monthly trips to Alexandria.

"What are you doing?" Judith asked, voice sharp with surprise and a hint of worry.

Michonne met her gaze. "No school today." She unsheathed the sword, the steel gleaming faintly in the morning light, and admired it a moment before sliding it back in. "Get dressed and get your sword. I want to show you something." Michonne slipped the scabbard strap over her shoulders and strolled past Judith out of the room.

Each breath Judith took slapped against her lungs as she trudged along a rocky trail. Ten miles stretched behind—a long walk to an unknown destination. Her legs burned, and her muscles ached more than they should.

She needed to up her conditioning.

She glanced over at her mom, whose steady strides showed no sign of fatigue. Her mom's faint smile betrayed a hint of amusement at Judith's struggle, but she said nothing, letting the quiet between them stretch out as they both kept an eye out for walkers.

Judith's pack bounced with each step, the weight of the day pressing down, the unspoken tension heavier still.

The forest was alive with the songs of distant birds, and the rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. A pine scent mingled with damp earth and the slight stench of the dead, the air always carried, grounding Judith even as frustration simmered beneath her skin.

At last, the trail opened to a clearing where a breathtaking waterfall tumbled down rugged rocks into a pool so clear it mirrored the sky.

Her mom wasted no time spreading a blanket on the mossy ground, pulling out the simple lunch she had packed—bread, cheese, fruit.

They ate in silence, the quiet broken only by the soft splash of water and the distant call of a hawk circling above.

Judith stared into the shimmering pool, the sky's reflection fractured by the rippling surface.

Her mom broke the silence. "This place..." she whispered, eyes tracing the curve of the waterfall. "It's where I stopped on the way back home. Where I made the hardest choice."

Judith turned, searching her mom's face, but she looked past her—lost in memory.

"When I was on the road looking for your father, I met some people. People who became friends. They heard what I was doing, and they wanted to help me find him." She laughed. "Even though they thought I was crazy."

Her mom closed her eyes and settled into the memory. "There was Nat. Smart guy. A little rough around the edges, but he had a good heart." Her voice was chock-full of emotion.

Judith listened, gaze locked on her mom, softening despite herself.

"Then there was Aiden. Brave, selfless. Grateful, even when everything was falling apart. She wanted to be safe. She wanted to live." A tear slipped through her closed lids, and her mom left it alone. "Before she died, she told me to go home to you and RJ, that I shouldn't risk it. To choose you. " Her mom's eyes opened, a wellspring spilling onto her cheeks.

Judith's voice trembled as she finally spoke, "But why did you have to lie?"

"Because I knew you wouldn't accept anything less than fighting to bring him home. I couldn't risk it. Your whole life has been a fight, Judith. I wanted to give you the chance to really live. I told myself it would be easier if you thought it was final—if you could mourn and move on instead of clinging to a hope that might get you killed. I know you. I know you'd have wanted to go after him, and if I said no, you'd have done it anyway."

Judith couldn't argue that; she was like her mom in that way.

Her mom sniffed and looked out at the water. "I stopped here on my way home, and I buried the pain, the loss, the truth I couldn't share. I let go of it all here." She glanced back at Judith. "It was wrong, no matter why I did it. I shouldn't have lied to you. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby." She set her hand on Judith's cheek. "I'm asking you to forgive me… Can you?"

The surrounding woods seemed to hold their breath. Water rushed on, stealing a fraction of Judith's anger as it passed. "I don't know how to do that yet. But… I can try."

Her mom's mouth curved into a small, tired smile. "That's all I can ask."

"Just so you know, I'm mad at him, too." Judith's fingers slipped into her mother's. "I hate that he hurt you."

Something flickered in her mom's eyes then, a shadow she didn't bother to sweep away. "Me too."

They sat like that for a while, the world filling the silence with the wind stirring the leaves, the far-off ripple of water. It should have been peaceful. Instead, it only reminded her how much there was left to unravel.

Rick hadn't planned on the flowers. They were just there, brighter than anything in the corner stall of the Commonwealth market, nodding gently in the breeze that wound through the open space. The stem of the Daises—simple and unfussy—was damp against his palm.

He glanced down at the small stack of bills Ezekiel had pressed into his hand that morning. No questions asked, just a warm smile and a quiet, "Go get your family something nice." Rick hadn't known how to respond at the time.

Now, with the money tucked in his pocket, it felt less like charity and more like a lifeline—a way to do right by his children, even if only in small gestures.

The gift for RJ was harder. He wasn't sure anymore what a boy his age would want—what his boy would want. He'd missed too many birthdays, too many little shifts in personality.

He drifted further into the market, eyes skimming shelves for something that felt right.

That was when he felt it: eyes on him.

He turned, scanning the aisle. A man stood at the far end, clutching a can of green beans, blinking at him like he'd just stepped out of a dream. Eugene.

Rick took a step forward, and Eugene's mouth fell open.

"Now, this here's… this is an anomalous circumstance of the highest order," Eugene stammered. "Either I have sustained a cranial injury resulting in lifelike hallucinations, or… you are, in fact, corporeal."

Rick grinned despite himself and shook his head. "It's me, Eugene."

Eugene stayed rooted, blinking rapidly as though his mind was still churning through improbable equations. "Well, I'll be… I was ninety-nine percent convinced you'd shuffled off this mortal coil."

Rick laughed, closing the distance. They hugged, Eugene's grip hesitant, as if he worried Rick might vanish in his hold.

Eugene stepped back. "How are you here—"

Rick waved away his wonder. "It's a long story. For another day."

A small voice interrupted. "Daddy, who's that?"

Rick glanced down. A little girl, who looked about four, clutched at Eugene's pant leg—hair spilling in soft curls.

"This," Eugene said, crouching beside her, "is… an old friend. One of the best. Rick Grimes, meet Rosie."

Rick crouched too, smiling at her. "Hi, Rosie."

A woman approached—dark hair pulled back, arms full of groceries.

"Maxxine," Eugene said, straightening. "This here's—well, he's a reason I'm here today."

Rick shook her hand. "Good to meet you."

They stood for a moment, the hum of the store settling around them, a quiet Rick didn't quite know how to break. Eugene had a family now. A wife. A daughter. Something inside Rick ached, not with envy, but longing.

He glanced back at the shelves.

"Uh… can we help you find anything?" Maxxine offered.

"No, I wouldn't wanna—"

"It's not an imposition," Maxxine said. "Right, honey."

"No, none at all," Eugene said.

"... Alright. I'm picking up something for my boy. And… something for Michonne and Judith."

Maxine's face softened. "Oh, we can absolutely help with that."

So they wandered the aisles together—Rosie perched happily in the cart, Eugene delivering long-winded product analyses that Rick only half-absorbed. Even as he listened, his mind drifted forward, imagining how the evening might unfold.

The front door cracked open, and RJ stood there with arms crossed and a wide stance like he owned the threshold. There was a confidence in him Rick hadn't noticed before, that made him pause for a fraction of a second.

"Hey, Rick," RJ said, casual, as if this were an everyday ritual they'd shared for years.

"Rick, huh?" he asked, half-smiling, testing the waters.

RJ shrugged. "For now." He stepped back, opening the door wider. "Coming in?"

Rick returned the smile, stepping inside. "Brought you something," he said, just as RJ shut the door behind him.

RJ's brows lifted as he took the package, carefully peeling back the paper to reveal a finely carved wooden slingshot. Smooth, balanced, with a subtle weight that looked just right in his hands.

"This is… really cool," RJ said, turning it over thoughtfully. "Thanks."

"Maybe we can try it out later," Rick suggested, keeping his tone light.

"Yeah, that'd be cool."

Soft footsteps echoed from the hallway, and when Rick turned, Michonne and Judith appeared in the foyer, arm in arm. Rick's eyes met Michonne's. He smiled at her—not an apology, not a plea, just a quiet acknowledgment, a small gratitude for the trust she'd extended in letting him back in. She returned it with a small smile, calm and measured.

His gaze lingered on the two of them together, warmth stirring in his chest. Seeing Judith and Michonne like this, connected, brought a relief he hadn't realized he'd needed, from fear of having helped fracture something precious.

Rick's eyes flicked back to Michonne, just for a heartbeat longer than necessary, noticing the way the fabric of her casual dress moved softly with her, the subtle confidence in her posture, the way she carried herself like she had weathered every type of storm and still managed to stand firm. It was familiar, grounding, but he caught himself, shifting his focus just in time as Judith stepped forward, arms opening.

"Missed you," she murmured, pressing into him.

"I missed you," Rick replied, returning the hug. He reached into his shopping bag and pulled out a small wrapped box. "This is for you."

A grin broke across her face as she accepted it, already tugging at the paper to reveal the journal inside. Her fingers traced the cover reverently. "I love it. Thanks, Dad." She squeezed him again before stepping back, a light bounce in her step.

When Rick turned to Michonne, she was watching him. He held out the flowers and the bottle of wine. "These are for you."

"You didn't have to," she said, taking them. "Thanks." Her hands lingered only briefly on the bouquet, then she shifted her attention, turning toward the dining room. "Alright, let's eat."

Rick followed, feeling the ease of being home—even if only for a moment. The house smelled faintly of dinner, comforting and alive, and he walked behind them, grateful for this fragile normalcy, this small reclaiming of time lost.

The table vibrated with the quiet life of a family dinner—the clatter of forks, the low hum of conversation, the warm scent of garlic and crusty bread curling in the air.

Rick sat across from RJ, who leaned forward slightly, shoulders hunched in that earnest way kids do when they're lost in something they love. His hands darted through the air, tracing invisible ramps and rails as he explained.

"—and if you hit enough speed, you can clear the curb, then flick it so it spins underneath—" RJ snapped his wrist, pretending the board obeyed.

Rick leaned in, brow knitting—not from doubt, but effort, trying to keep pace. "And… you don't fall ever?"

RJ grinned widely, flashing his teeth, and said, "Sometimes. The cracked sidewalks on the east side are better for speed, anyway. Nobody tells you to slow down."

Rick let a short laugh escape, unguarded. He pictured this wiry boy, his boy, cutting down uneven streets, wind tangling in his hair, loose-limbed and fearless. Pride pooled in his chest, mingling with something stronger—the ache of years gone missing.

"That's good," he said, eyes steady on RJ. "Sounds like you're getting the hang of it. Just… watch those cracks."

"I know," RJ said quickly, defensive in that charming, proving-it-to-the-world way.

Michonne leaned slightly toward RJ, her attention fully captured, a soft lift at the corner of her mouth betraying amusement at his certainty. She hadn't glanced at Rick all dinner.

Rick shifted, turning to Judith. "What about you?"

Her lips curved into a confident smirk. "I'm on the junior varsity volleyball team. Oh, and I have a big game Saturday. You coming?"

Rick didn't hesitate. "Wouldn't miss it."

Judith's face lit with a brightness that reminded him of Carl—pure, unguarded joy.

He let the quiet stretch a heartbeat before pivoting back to Michonne. "And you?" he said in Michonne's direction. "What keeps you busy here?"

She set her fork down with a subtle annoyance at what Rick could only assume was having to engage with him. She folded her hands neatly in her lap before finally looking at him. "I work with Ezekiel. I'm the community organizer. Mostly mediating disputes, listening to complaints, that sort of thing."

Rick's lips lifted faintly. "So… Alexandria, round two."

"Pretty much."

Judith interjected before the moment could settle. "She's being modest. She keeps this place running."

"I don't doubt that," Rick said, voice warm, holding his gaze on Michonne. "Your mom, she can do just about anything." There was a quiet honesty in the moment, an unspoken acknowledgment hovering in the air. Time slowed, and for an instant, neither looked away.

Then Michonne lowered her eyes to her plate, letting the tension drift unsaid.

RJ's voice punctured the pause. "So… what will you do here?" He asked Rick.

Rick tore his gaze from Michonne and shrugged. "I'll help wherever I'm needed."

"And." Judith tilted her head, brow furrowed. "Where will you live?"

The question landed like a weight in the center of the table. Rick felt both children watching him, but it was Michonne he sought for guidance, because it was her response that would chart the course for everything else.

Michonne straightened in her chair, lips parting as though to speak. Instead, she rose, sliding back with a quiet scrape. "I'll go get dessert ready."

Rick watched her escape into the kitchen, a tight knot forming in his stomach.

He had pictured this table, these faces, this kind of night for years. Now, with candles flickering and dessert waiting, he realized there was still one thing he didn't know—where he truly fit, and whether there was a place for him where he most wanted to be.

The sound of laughter drifted in from the living room, muffled under the running water. Michonne's hands moved automatically—stacking plates, rinsing glasses, scraping the last of the food into the compost. But her chest felt tight, as if it were being pressed from the inside. Being near Rick all night had unbalanced her, like stepping into shoes that didn't quite fit.

Her mind wandered, drifting to Terrence—the ease of his presence, the way he could take the edges off her worry without a word. She wanted him here, wanted to speak to someone who wouldn't carry the weight of her history with Rick, someone who could help her sort through the tangle in her brain.

No, that wasn't true. She hadn't just wanted him here to talk. She missed him. He was uncomplicated and, most importantly, being around him didn't hurt like hell.

The creak of the floorboards yanked her back. Rick stepped into the kitchen, carrying two empty glasses.

"Lost the round," he said, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "They sent me in for refills."

She nodded toward the fridge without looking. "Top shelf."

A faint tug of guilt grazed the edges of her thoughts. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, forcing the thought of Terrence away. Focus on the dishes.

He crossed the room, the fridge door opening with a familiar clang that filled the space between them. Michonne could feel him there—present, solid, unsettling. She kept her gaze on the sink, pretending the plates demanded her full attention.

When he set the glasses down, he lingered.

She felt his eyes on her and looked up to meet them. "Need something?"

"Can we talk?"

Her throat constricted. "About what?"

Rick's eyebrows raised. "Us."

She drew a breath. "If you mean the kids, you, and me—sure. Anything else…I can't."

He shifted his weight, jaw tightening as if forcing the words past some barrier. "Michonne, I just—I'm so—"

"I don't need an apology," she cut in, sharper than intended. Then she sighed. "I'm not angry. Or resentful. I swear I'm not."

His brows knitted, as though he were deciphering a language he didn't know.

"I'm just… not the woman you knew back in Alexandria," she intoned. "And I'm not the woman who went out there looking for you." Her throat worked around the words. "I had to become someone else. Someone who… needs something different from you now."

"And what is that?"

"I need you to be the father to our children. That's all."

He shook his head, refusing to let her words settle. "I know things are different, but we—we can find our way back." His voice broke through, threaded with passion, teetering on the edge of desperation.

Rick stepped closer, into her space, and stared into her eyes. "I love you, Michonne. I pushed you away and denied it, but I never stopped. Not ever." His eyes searched hers, pleading.

Her breath caught, and she backed up, bumping into the edge of the counter. She slid away, crossing to the safer side of the kitchen, keeping her back to him as she busied herself with cleaning. "I'm thankful you're back," she said robotically, words falling flat, like she was reading from a script. "Thankful the kids have their father again. And I'd never keep you from them… even though we're not—" She paused, shaking her head, then turned, and froze for a heartbeat at the look on his face.

Devastation. Quiet, raw, unguarded. Her words had slipped out casually, but the weight of them landed with a force she hadn't intended.

Rick swallowed, a tight line pressing his lips together.

"The guest room's yours if you want it," she offered.

Rick simply nodded once, took the glasses, and walked away.

Michonne lingered, hands flat against the counter, holding herself in place. A single tear slipped free, but she brushed it away before it could fall.

She went back to the sink, and as the water ran over her hands, an ache bloomed in her chest at what she'd just pushed aside.

Chapter Text

Ch. 4

Rick lay in the guest room staring at the ceiling later that night, the silence of the house pressing in on him. Sleep wouldn't come. It felt wrong being under the same roof as Michonne and not beside her, like trying to rest with a limb missing. Well, another one.

His mind strayed to the man on the porch. He still didn't know his name—didn't want to. Whoever that guy was, Rick hadn't seen him since, and there was no ring on Michonne's finger, no outward sign of promises that could shut him out completely.

How the man had looked at her burned vividly in Rick's brain. It gnawed at him, with an undue question he couldn't keep from circling: had that man ever slept in her bed? Had he laid his head on her pillow where Rick once had? Had he held her in the dark?

Rick clenched his jaw and pushed the thought back down, but it lingered all the same. It was an ember refusing to die, stoking the fire that forced him to choose: fight or flight. And he sure as hell wasn't going anywhere.

He blew out a slow breath, forcing his tense shoulders to relax into the mattress and his mind to quiet. To focus on what he still had, the only thing he still had—what he'd seen across the table that night. The look in her eyes. Small, quick, but undeniable. The pull was still there—no matter how hard she tried to hide it.

He rolled to his side, away from the space that belonged to her. He hadn't been able to bring himself to lie there, not even in beds that'd been his alone at the Republic. That spot belonged to her—always had, always would.

Rick closed his eyes, finally letting the mattress take his weight.

The hour before dawn belonged to Michonne—a pocket of quiet she could unfold alone, tea warming her hands, the porch rocker ticking as the sky lightened over the walls. A pause before responsibility settled onto her shoulders.

The next morning, she woke earlier than usual, pulled from sleep by the fear of facing the newest presence in her home.

Rick was an early riser. Back in Alexandria, he'd wake before the sun to patrol the walls or simply walk the community. She had realized quickly enough that it was in his nature as a protector to rise first and make the day safe for those he loved. And though many things about him had changed, she was certain that wasn't one of them.

Between sips of herbal tea, Michonne moved briskly through her morning routine; bread, apples, and a jar of peanut butter were lined neatly across the counter. On good days, the rhythm of feeding her kids—giving without bloodshed—brought her peace. But today, it felt like nothing more than an obstacle to getting out the door.

A floorboard creaked behind her. Not the kids—no, they never came into a room without announcing themselves.

Her body went taut; she held her breath before turning.

Rick stood in the doorway, already dressed, dawn beams skimming his face. "Mornin'."

"Morning."

He tipped his head, eyes holding on to hers before sliding past to search the open space of the kitchen. "Got any coffee?"

"Tea," she said, almost apologizing.

"Right."

She lifted the kettle off the stove. "Add it to the list on the fridge. I'll grab some on my next grocery store run. "For now…" She poured a cup, then offered it up.

"Thanks." He took it and stepped into the open living room, crossing toward the bay window that overlooked the porch. There he stilled, watching as the horizon lifted and thin light feathered into the room.

Michonne watched him.

There was a time when she could read him without effort and guess the shape of his thoughts before he spoke them. Now, with the light cutting his profile, she wasn't sure what he saw when he looked out on their neighborhood.

Rick shifted at the window, turning her way just as she realized she'd been staring.

Michonne snapped her gaze back to the counter. Her hand came down too fast, the knife slipping as it hit the cucumber she meant to cut. The blade caught the pad of her finger instead. "Shit."

The sting was clean and immediate; a bead of red bulbed bright.

Before she could reach the sink, Rick was there. He grabbed a dishcloth from the counter, caught her hand with his good one, and pressed the cloth firmly over the cut.

"I got it," she murmured, trying to pull free.

"Just—hold still." His grip was stubborn.

His focus narrowed on her hand, as if he were suturing something vital, not just a kitchen cut. Jaw tight, brow furrowed, he examined slowly, adjusting the cloth with the care of a man who couldn't afford mistakes. His thumb pinned her hand steady, his grip gentle but unyielding. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the cotton.

He glanced up once, briefly, checking her face. Their eyes met before he dropped his.

Breath stalled in her throat.

"You okay?" he whispered.

"Yeah. Thanks."

He paused and looked back up at her. This time, his gaze held. "You never have to thank me. Ever." He held her stare a moment longer before his eyes went back to her finger.

Her chest warmed at his words, a small glow spreading through her. It was as if he'd seen all the ways she'd carried things for him, all the moments no one else noticed, and he was saying it mattered. It was the recognition of her efforts, sacrifices, and care—not as an obligation, but as something he truly noticed.

"You got a bandage?" Rick asked without looking up.

"Top drawer," she managed. "Right of the stove."

He nodded and let her go.

Air touched the place his hand had been, and it suddenly felt bare.

The wrapper fought him; he tore at it one-handed, grunted, then won.

Back at her side—close enough she caught soap and cold air from his shirt—he smoothed the strip across her finger with surprising precision, sealing the edges with his thumb. The touch lingered a beat too long. "There," he murmured.

Michonne turned to the sink, letting cool water run over the drying blood on her free hand.

Rick stepped back, granting her space. "Ezekiel wants me to come by his office this morning," he said. "Talk council. Community. That sort of thing, I think." He picked up the half-empty cup and shrugged like it didn't matter before he took a sip.

She glanced over—took in the slump of his shoulders, the way his eyes stared into the tea. "Don't sound too excited," she said, wryly.

"I don't want authority." He groaned. "Don't wanna make calls for people anymore."

Michonne went back to the cutting board—packaging the food. "What do you want?" Her voice was soft.

He thought for a moment. "A nine-to-five."

She blinked, then snorted. "A nine-to-five? Really?"

"What?" He grinned, wide and unguarded. "I can dream, right?"

She threw a banana and an apple into each bag. "While you're dreaming, I've got to place about a hundred people—a pipe burst in one of the apartment buildings last night. And I've got a council meeting after work." She hesitated, looking his way. "Can you walk the kids to school? Be here when they get home?"

He looked startled at the ask, then braced a hand on the counter to push himself upright. "'Course." He paused. "Want me to make dinner?"

She arched a brow, arms folding. "Since when do you cook?"

"Can't be that hard."

Michonne shook her head. "Don't worry." A smirk slipped out as she turned back to the counter. "Judith'll make something. She likes to. Says it relaxes her."

She tucked a brown bag into her tote and scrawled You got this in Sharpie across the two brown bags she'd left on the counter—a ritual she never skipped.

She slung the tote over her shoulder and started for the door. "I'll see you later," she said absently, her mind already running through the long list for the day ahead.

"You got this," she heard and froze mid-step, turning.

Rick leaned against the island, casual, an apple arcing up and down in his hand. The warmth in his eyes caught her off guard, made her heart stumble.

"You too," she murmured, before turning slowly back toward the door.

The soft click of the latch followed her onto the porch. At the top of the steps, she paused, shifted the strap of her messenger bag higher on her shoulder, and let a small, almost hidden smile ghost her lips.

"Yeah…" she whispered, breathing out, "You got this," before stepping into the morning.

Rick walked a step behind RJ and Judith, watching sunlight thread through the strands of their hair. He was starting to get used to it, the awe he felt looking at them—Judith's maturity and the reality of RJ's existence. And yet, with each passing moment, they felt more and more familiar, as if he had always known them this way.

Judith's voice broke through his musing. "So… what do you think of the Commonwealth?"

He glanced down at her. "I like it."

She let out a small, relieved breath. "But it's not the Civic Republic. It's better there, right?"

"Different. Not better." They had been bigger, sharper, more modernized. But better? That would always be here, with his family.

Judith frowned. "So you… you'd never wanna go back?"

Rick's jaw tightened; he hated that she even had to ask. "Hey." His hand landed on her shoulder, and he slowed his pace, choosing his words carefully. "I'm not going back. Not ever. We're never gonna be apart again."

Her shoulder relaxed under his hand. "Okay. Just checking."

"So…" Ahead, RJ turned and walked backward, his backpack bouncing behind him. "What did you do at the Civic Republic?"

Rick understood—hell, he expected—their questions about the years he'd been gone; the kids deserved to know. But every answer felt like dragging barbed wire through his chest; the weight of his time in the Republic still clung to him in ways he couldn't shake. "I was a soldier. Pilot."

Both kids froze, staring.

"You… flew?" Judith whispered, awe threading through her voice.

RJ's mouth hung open. "In the sky?"

It was easy to forget they hadn't grown up like his oldest—they didn't carry with them memories of the old world. Maybe they'd read about planes and helicopters in schoolbooks, seen pictures, but they'd never stood in front of the real thing.

Rick nodded, pride flickering across his features. "Yeah. One day, I'll take you both up. You'll see it for yourself."

Judith's smile was radiant; RJ's eyes sparkled with wonder.

Rick felt a pull in his chest. This was a simple, ordinary moment on a day that was just as simple and ordinary. But he'd longed for this back in the Republic, where life had been nothing but orders and blank walls to stare at. The mundane task of walking his kids to school had felt like a dream come true.

When they reached the schoolyard, Rick's fist clenched almost instinctively at his side as his eyes landed on a man near the doors—greeting kids and guiding parents with a casual ease. "Who's that?" he asked nonchalantly.

RJ's gaze followed his. "Oh, that's my teacher. Mr. Davis."

Rick's brow lifted. "Your teacher, huh?"

Judith glanced at her brother, then said carefully, "Umm… he's also… Mom's friend."

Rick wanted to press, to ask more, but the thought of dragging Judith into it sat wrong in his gut, especially since her eyes darted to everything but his face, like she knew more than she'd ever say. So he forced a smile instead, clearing his throat. "Alright. You two head on in."

They slipped through the crowd of students, teachers, and parents into the building.

Rick stayed rooted, watching.

Mr. Davis. He exuded an ease that Rick recognized—his shoulders were relaxed, he had a ready smile, the kind of charm that either he naturally had or had practiced until it looked that way.

Parents lined up to exchange a word or two with what seemed to be everyone's favorite teacher. He laughed with one, crouched briefly to clap a child on the shoulder as she headed inside, then straightened and offered a wave to another teacher across the way. Everything about him said approachable.

There was nothing flashy about the man, but there was a quiet confidence—like he knew where he stood in this place, in these people's eyes.

Slowly, Rick shifted forward. One step, deliberate. Another. His boots met the worn stone with purpose as his eyes stayed locked on the man.

"Morning," Rick said, once he was in front of him.

Mr. Davis turned to him. "Morning."

"I'm Rick. My son's in your class."

"They didn't tell me I was getting a new student."

"No, he's not new."

"I know all the parents…" he said kindly.

Rick's jaw tightened imperceptibly.

"Who's your son?"

"RJ." The name hung between them like a stake in the ground.

Mr. Davis blinked, surprise flickering across his face. "RJ…? You're his father?"

"That's right."

"But I thought—"

"Yeah. I was away. Couldn't get back until now. But I am… back." Each word came pointed, not raised, but sharp enough to cut.

Something clicked in Mr. Davis' expression then—surprise thinning into a different kind of awareness. He nodded once. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Grimes." He held his hand out.

Rick's gaze lingered on the outstretched hand, narrowing, before he lifted his head with the faintest tilt.

Mr. Davis let his hand drop; the smile he'd held through their exchange thinned to nothing. "Well… I'd better head in before the bell." A beat, then he turned for the doors—stride steady and shoulders set a touch stiffer than before.

Rick didn't move, eyes fixed on Mr. Davis until he stepped into the building.

Rick rounded the corner toward Ezekiel's office, each step heavier than the last. He wasn't eager for this meeting—truth was, he'd been dreading it. But the thought of doing his part, of proving he belonged here for the kids' sake, kept him moving. Then he saw them: two Civic Republic soldiers posted outside the door. Black uniforms, clean, severe. His pulse sped up.

The soldiers stepped aside, making way for him, and Rick pushed the door open warily.

And froze.

Thorne sat across from Ezekiel's desk, helmet tucked at her feet, posture relaxed like she owned the air around her.

She turned at the sound of the door, and her face lit up. "Grimes."

A rush of shock hit him as he strode across the room. "Thorne?"

She stood and pulled him into a tight embrace. "I knew our paths would cross again." When they drew back, her grin was sharp. "You look like hell."

He shook his head and fired back with a grin. "Wha—what are you doing here?"

"My scouts couldn't keep their mouths shut about this place. I had to see it for myself." She glanced toward Ezekiel with something like admiration. "We haven't found anything like it so far."

Ezekiel's eyes warmed with pride, but his voice carried a tone of business. "Thorne has an offer for us. She wanted my counsel, and I thought it best that you be here as well." He held his hand out, motioning to the chairs in front of his desk.

Rick nodded, lowering himself into the chair opposite Ezekiel and beside Thorne. He was just settling into the seat when a knock sounded.

The door cracked open, and Michonne stepped inside, a folder in hand, her presence filling the room in an instant. Her gaze was all business when she entered, the cool focus of a councilwoman stepping into yet another meeting. But when it landed on Rick, it softened for a heartbeat—then slid to Thorne, and hardened like steel.

"Michonne," Ezekiel greeted warmly. "Perfect timing. Come meet—"

"We've met." Thorne was already rising to approach Michonne. "Though I knew her by another name back then." Her smile was playful. "Looks like the dead really do walk."

Michonne crossed her arms and cut her eyes at Rick. "What is she doing here? You said—"

He stood. "Thorne's the new Commander of the Civic Republic Military—"

"I was their second choice. They wanted him." She nodded her head in Rick's direction and shrugged. "But we clearly weren't good enough for him anymore." Thorne stepped toward Michonne. "Grimes, he helped… open my eyes. He showed me the other way," she said, declaring the truth like she was in front of a tribunal.

Thorne's voice rolled on, offering the cliff notes from Cascadia and the downfall of the CRM, but Rick barely caught the words. His eyes stayed on Michonne, measuring every shift in her face. This wasn't how he'd wanted it. He'd planned to tell her everything himself—about Thorne, about Beale, about the long road that led him home. He owed her that truth. Now the story was spilling from someone else's mouth, and all he could do was sit there, watching her take it in. He hated it. Hated the way it stripped him of the one thing he still had to give her—his truth.

"When he took Beale down, I was right there by his side," Thorne finished.

Michonne cut a sharp gaze in his direction.

By his side. He could practically see the words echoing in Michonne's mind as they rang in his ears. Michonne had always been the one beside him when the world burned—the one he'd trusted with every decision on the battlefield. Every time he'd thought of standing against impossible odds, it was she who stood beside him.

Shit. He couldn't win for losing.

Ezekiel's voice broke through the tension. "Michonne. Sit, please," he urged, gesturing to a chair at the side of his desk.

"I can't stay," Michonne said, with her eyes still on Thorne, a moment before sliding to Ezekiel. Her cold tone shifted into something more polite, professional, and matter-of-fact, leaving no room for argument. "I promised the farmers I'd come over and look at the irrigation schedules. Fill me in later?"

"Oh, I—"

She didn't wait for his answer. The door slammed in her wake, echoing in the room.

Rick's feet were moving before he realized it. "Give me a minute." He hurried into the corridor after Michonne.

She was halfway out of the building when he finally caught up, her stride quick.

"Michonne," he called softly.

She didn't stop. "You should get back."

He lengthened his stride until he was standing in front of her. "Wait." He held up his hand.

Michonne reeled back with a sigh, annoyance flaring her nostrils.

"I didn't know she would be here," he said. "If I had, I would have given you a heads up. Explained things. I wanted—" He leaned toward her, pressing his hand to his chest. "I want to explain." Rick searched her profile for a crack in the armor, some opening. "Please, give me the chance to—"

"It's fine." She set her hands on her hips, her eyes falling to the ground, darting over the gravel like she was searching the dirt for her strength. When she looked up, all emotion had vanished from her face. "It's fine, Rick." Her voice was painstakingly calm.

"Michonne…" He let her name linger, like he knew exactly what she was doing.

"I have somewhere I need to be," she said carefully. "And you should get back to your meeting."

Rick read the moment—bystanders passing, Michonne unyielding. He had no ground to stand on. Rick gave a nod and stepped aside, watching her walk away.

The field beside the motor pool churned with motion—white and black uniforms moving in tandem, forming fast chains to unload crates from the helicopter's hold. Latches clanked, boots scuffed the dirt, voices barked orders above the low whine of cooling engines. Dust and fuel mingled sharply in Rick's nose as he walked at Thorne's side.

She adjusted the pack on her shoulder, eyes sweeping the activity. "Think Ezekiel's going to go for my proposal?" She asked, tone even but with that undercurrent of challenge she rarely masked.

Rick rested his hand above his belt, gaze cutting ahead toward the line of crates stacked near the helicopter they approached. "It's not up to him alone. Council meets tonight. You'll know soon enough."

Thorne's lips tugged into the faintest smirk. "Michonne's on that council, aye?" She threw the pointed question like a dart.

Rick slowed a beat, jaw flexing before he answered. "She is."

"Everything alright?" Thorne asked, keeping her tone light.

"Yeah…" he drawled.

"Oh, come on, I've known you too long to buy that bullshit."

Rick let out a breath, heavy and uneven. "She—" The word snagged in his throat. He shook his head, fingers dragging to the back of his neck like he could scrub the ache away. "Feels like I'm just chasin' my own tail."

"It's been less than a week," Thorne said plainly.

Rick's eyes slipped to the ground, jaw tightening as silence stretched between them.

Thorne studied him for a beat before adding, "For what it's worth… when I looked at her in that office, I didn't see anger. I saw hurt. And that's not the same thing."

Rick's boots scuffed the dirt as they neared the helicopter. The metal blades above creaked and shifted in the wind, groaning like tired bones. His voice was quiet. "I put that hurt there."

"Maybe," Thorne said without flinching. "But I also saw you walk through hell to get back here. Beale, the CRM, me at one point. All of it—you didn't break. Does she even know what that cost you?"

Rick's hand curled at his side. "She won't let me tell her."

"That doesn't sound like the Rick I know." She stepped in front of him, forcing his eyes to hers. "You fought to get back to your family." She pressed a finger into his chest. "Now fight to stay. Same grit. Different war."

Rick nodded, determination settling in him. That night, when she got home, he would tell her everything. Get her to see that she hadn't been an afterthought in his win against the CRM—she had been the greatest factor that made him fight at all.

The train station, a relic of the world from which it had been frozen, gave off a faint smell of oil and dust. Lights hung from the high beams, casting pools of golden glow over the polished wooden platform where the council members were seated, murmuring among themselves as papers rustled and chairs scraped against floorboards—community members claiming their seats.

Ezekiel raised a hand, where he sat at the center of the platform, drawing the room to attention. "First item," he said into the microphone in front of him, his voice smooth and authoritative. "The proposition from Commander Thorne of the Civic Republic."

A hush fell. Rumors of the Civic Republic had swept through the community faster than wildfire. It had been years since they'd encountered a new settlement outside their alliance with Oceanside, the Hilltop, and Alexandria—let alone one more than twice the size of all three combined.

Michonne sat up straighter, her hands clasping into a fist on the table.

Ezekiel continued, "She's suggesting that the Republic and the Commonwealth consider joining forces under a single banner—one community, united for mutual benefit."

A low rumble of murmurs spread among the crowd—some curious, others skeptical.

A council member at the far end raised her hand.

"You have the floor," Ezekiel said.

Cynthia was a fiery older woman with a pepper bob. She had a reputation for questioning everything. It annoyed Michonne to no end having to justify the smallest things, but today she leaned in, hoping she didn't have to be the only skeptic. "We've all heard about their reputation. We've heard about a coup. But none of us has seen it firsthand. We're going off the word of people we don't even know. How do we know this is even real?"

"I know Rick Grimes," Ezekiel said. "I built with him before the Commonwealth."

Cynthia smeared. "It has been ten years, Ezekiel."

"I understand your hesitation, but this man has a family here; he wouldn't put his children in harm's way—" Ezekiel looked down the line at Michonne, a plea for backup.

Michonne gave him an apologetic smile. "I have questions too." She looked at the crowd. "I was there, I saw the power of their military. I don't doubt what Rick is saying happened over there. But what it does mean is that wives, husbands, and friends were lost. Leaving behind a lot of people who may feel scorned. Putting ourselves in the middle of that is dangerous."

A murmur of agreement rippled this time, some nodding along, others shifting uneasily.

Ezekiel leaned back slightly, calm but firm. "Michonne, I understand your concern. But this place, our city, is a perfect example of how it can work." He motioned toward the people. "We fought against one another to get here today. We all lost people because of it. But we made a choice to forgive. To move forward together."

A pause settled over the room as Ezekiel let his words hang. The murmurs softened, but the tension remained.

From the left, a tall man with a stern jawline—Councilor Darius—spoke. "Forgiveness is noble, Ezekiel, but so is caution. The Civic Republic may speak of unity, but its reach is far beyond what we know. Their presence here could disrupt the delicate balance we've built."

"True," added Marla, a younger councilwoman with sharp eyes. "And alliances like this? They don't come without a price. Our people may not be ready to submit to an external authority—even one that claims to be 'for mutual benefit.' We've worked too hard to establish our autonomy."

It wasn't just the Republic Michonne had reservations about; it was their leadership. Beale was gone, yes, but Thorne… The last time Michonne had seen her, she'd watched the woman throw herself into the cause with reckless devotion, every effort fueled by Beale's relentless drive. It made Michonne wonder: what—or who—was Thorne truly fighting for now?

Michonne shifted in her seat, glancing at Ezekiel.

He gave her a small nod—permission to speak.

She took a breath, steadying herself. "We've learned to survive," she said, voice low but firm. "To protect what we have. That includes evaluating risk. I'm not opposed to talking with them. But I won't blindly sign onto a plan that could bring war to our doorstep. Not without knowing the full picture."

A murmur of agreement rose from some corners, while others frowned, unsettled.

Ezekiel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the podium. "This is precisely why we have this council—to ask the hard questions, to debate, to weigh the risks. Commander Thorne's proposal is not a decision to be rushed. There will be a delegation sent to the Civic Republic. They will report back. Only then will we make a collective choice. That is the process. That is how we protect the Commonwealth."

Councilor Darius shook his head but didn't speak further. Marla scribbled notes in her ledger, her expression unreadable.

Finally, Cynthia leaned back, folding her arms. "I may not trust them yet. But I trust this council to scrutinize every word they say before we take a step forward." She cast a glance at Michonne, who met her eyes with a subtle nod.

Ezekiel raised a hand again. "Then it's settled. The delegation will convene within the week. In the meantime, I urge all of you—speak with your neighbors, hear their concerns, and bring those back to this council. Knowledge is our greatest ally."

Ezekiel straightened, letting the last echoes of murmurs fade. "Very well," he said, shifting in his seat. "That concludes discussion on the Civic Republic proposition. Moving on to the next item—supplies and infrastructure for the northern districts. As you know, winter approaches, and—"

But Michonne had already drifted. Her thoughts circled back to the risk, the people lost, the weight of choice. She gripped the edge of the platform, forcing herself to focus, but her mind kept slipping, images of past battles and lingering dangers crowding in.

Then—her eyes flicked across the crowd and froze. Terence. Standing in the back, watching her.

His presence pulled her focus like a hand on her sleeve. The fire she had stoked to argue the remaining points of the meeting burned lower, and the words she had held ready slipped soundlessly from her mind.

She blinked, taking a shallow breath, and realized she was no longer listening to Ezekiel's voice. The northern districts, the supply plans, all of it had faded into the background.

Terence stood there unreadable; the one person she'd been delaying to face.

Michonne stepped off the curb of the train station, the evening air biting at her cheeks. Her eyes fell to the cracked pavement at her feet. She was lost in thought—the council meeting, Thorne, the endless loop of decisions. Rick.

Then she looked up. Terence was there, leaning against a light pole, hands tucked casually into his jeans' pockets. He straightened as she approached and smiled at her. No judgment, no expectation—just a look that seemed to say, I'm glad to see you. For a heartbeat, the stress of the day faded.

"Hi," he said.

"Hey," she said.

"Wanna take a walk?"

She hesitated. I really should go home; she hadn't seen her kids all day. But they weren't alone. Rick was there. And the thought of facing him—the tension she was too drained to deal with—was enough to make her give a small, almost reluctant nod.

As they fell into step together, Terence's easy presence felt like a balm. He didn't rush her, didn't push, just matched her pace and let her lead. For the first time in hours, she allowed herself to relax, giving in to the gentle rhythm of walking beside someone who wanted nothing from her but her presence.

The lake lay glassy in the fading light, clouds smeared like ash across the horizon. Terence sat on the worn bench beside Michonne, her profile carved by dusk.

"I half-thought Rick was about to knock me out," he said with a crooked grin, self-deprecating. "I'm man enough to admit, I don't think I could've taken him. The guy's kinda scary."

Her laugh startled him—the sound free, slipping past her guard before she could call it back. He wanted to catch it, hold onto it. God, it had been years since he'd sat beside someone who made him want to lean closer.

She groaned, a hand lifting to cover her face as though scolding herself. "I really shouldn't be laughing about any of this."

"Sometimes you gotta laugh to keep from crying?" he offered gently.

Her finger lifted, correcting him without looking. "To keep from crying more, you mean?"

He studied her as she said it—the way her mouth pulled down when the smile faded. There was a heaviness in her he recognized, the kind that never truly left after loss; it only shifted, changed shape.

"It's like that?" he asked, softer now, unsure he wanted the answer but needing to give her space to speak if she chose.

"It is." Silence stretched, broken only by the soft lick of water against the bank. She stared out at the lake as if confiding in it instead of him. "He saw us on the porch the other night," she finally said. "That was the night he got here."

Terence winced, a sharp breath cutting through his chest. "Ouch. It all makes sense now." He shook his head, meeting her gaze when she turned toward him. "He's got more restraint than I thought."

Her lips curved faintly, but it wasn't a smile. "He really does," she murmured.

Terence heard the years in her voice—years he hadn't been part of, years that still tied her to someone else. Someone she had built a world with. Someone she might still belong to, no matter how much space had been carved out for him.

And in that moment, Terence knew the truth that had been haunting him from the start: he was falling for her. Harder than he'd fallen for anyone since his wife. Yet what he felt wasn't fierce or demanding. It was reverent. Careful. Like holding a bird in the hollow of his hands, knowing the only way to keep it was to let it fly.

If she chose Rick, if she turned back toward the life she'd lost, he would let her go. Not because he wanted to, but because love wasn't something you clenched with fists—not after everything both of them had survived.

Still, when Michonne rested her head on his shoulder as the light bled out over the lake and the wanting rose in him, he couldn't stop the hope that followed close behind.

The house was dim when Michonne came in. A single lamp cast a warm pool of light across the living room, where Rick sat in the sofa chair, legs stretched out on the ottoman. He had been waiting for her, a weathered book in his hand.

He closed the book slowly and set it aside. "The kids are upstairs," he said softly, careful not to disturb the hush. "Doing homework. Dinner's in the fridge for you."

Her shoulders loosened. "Thanks," she murmured, the word dragging with exhaustion. "But I'm beat. I'm going to bed."

He nodded, then leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. "About Thorne—"

"No. I overreacted," she cut in, firm before he could press forward. She held his gaze, steady even through her weariness. "That's on me. I don't want to keep letting the past decide everything… especially when it comes to you and me."

He stood. "What are you saying?"

Michonne's shoulders slumped slightly, and her messenger bag slipped, hitting the floor with a soft thud. "I missed you," she said.

The words were simple and completely unadorned, but somehow heavier than anything she could have shouted. Rick froze, letting them sink in.

"This morning made me realize I missed my friend." She laughed as if the revelation was absurd. "And I want him back. I want us to be friends again, Rick."

"Friends?" A single word snapped him back to reality, sudden and sharp—he'd thought this was going somewhere more, that the long, unspoken ache between them might finally tip toward something else. The simple word landed with a subtle sting, a reminder that the ground between them was still uneven, that the distance he'd crossed wasn't quite closed.

Friendship.

He remembered the first time—the way he had started simply, as only a friend by her side, listening, waiting, letting her shape the space between them, until friendship had cracked and deepened into something undeniable. The rules were different now. The ground was uneven, scarred, treacherous. But patience had always been his sharpest weapon, as much as his will.

He would honor it. He could meet her there. "Okay," he said. "Friends."

"Goodnight, Rick." Her footsteps faded, leaving him in the hush of the room.

He sank back into the chair, hand braced on the armrests, the weight of words unsaid pressing into him. He hadn't spoken any of the sentences he had rehearsed while waiting all day—every confession, every plea, every fragment of longing—and the ache of restraint gnawed at him. But it didn't matter anymore. What he'd done to get home no longer held as much weight as how he showed up for her now. He closed his eyes, drew in a breath that felt heavier than air. Friendship—that was what she needed.

This wasn't giving up. This wasn't walking away. Not yet.

If it took months, if it took years, he would wait. He would find his way back. He had found his way into her heart once, and he could do it again.

Chapter Text

Ch. 5

One Month Later

The gym smelled faintly of floor polish and popcorn, sharp squeaks of sneakers ricocheting off the walls as Judith and her teammates shifted into position behind the net. The Commonwealth banner sagged from the rafters, its edges frayed from years of use, but the bleachers pulsed with life—parents, siblings, neighbors, their voices colliding in a hum Rick hadn't felt in what seemed like another lifetime.

Judith had her own cheering section, stitched together from family and friends who had survived side by side long before they'd ever sat shoulder to shoulder in a gym. Gracie, in the row ahead, had her eyes locked so tight on the court it looked like her life depended on the outcome of the match. Even before Rick's return, she and Aaron had been making the trip for every game since Judith joined the team. Though this time, at Rick's urging, they'd brought others.

Rick had noticed in the quiet weeks since coming home, how narrow Michonne's circle had grown—how much life she lived without anyone at her back. So he'd made it his quiet mission to pull their people in again. And here they were: Gabriel bouncing Coco on his knee. Jerry and Nabila corralling their brood; Jerry hoisting one child upside down to shrieks of chuckles. Ezekiel seated among them, the Governor's mask of neutrality firmly in place. He was supposed to be impartial, but each time Judith drove home a clean kill, his applause came a heartbeat too quick.

Then there was Michonne, leaning forward, elbows braced on her knees, voice carrying over the din. "Let's go, girls! Stay on it!" she shouted.

Rick chuckled under his breath. He'd seen Michonne fierce, seen her silent, seen her with a blade in her hand—but this was new.

He bent toward RJ, who sat between them. "She always like this?"

RJ sank deeper into his hoodie, groaning. "Every. Single. Game."

Rick chuckled. When he looked back, Michonne was watching him, suspicion playing at the edge of her smile.

"What?" she asked, tilting her head.

Rick angled his mouth in a crooked half-smirk. "Never seen this side of you before." He raised his brows. "I like it."

RJ groaned. "Speak for yourself."

Michonne rolled her eyes back toward the court as Judith's teammate's knees hit the wood, and she plunged to bump the ball over the net in one smooth motion. "That's it! Way to hustle, Kayla!"

The rally snapped back across the court, and the ball dropped fast toward an open patch of wood. Judith hurled herself forward, sliding across the polished floor to keep it alive, and a teammate took the set, driving the spike clean into the opposite side. The bleachers exploded.

Jerry shot to his feet, bellowing, "Come on!" with his arms flung high. Nabila clapped hard. Gracie hammered Judith's name like a drumbeat. Even Eugene, who Rick noticed was steadier now with Maxxine at his side, murmured, "An exceptionally elegant display of dexterity."

Rick rose too, clapping along, his voice rough but proud as it cut through the roar.
"That's my girl!"

"God. Now they're both doing it." RJ groaned.

Rick eased back into his seat as the whistle paused the game.

Judith's eyes found him across the court, her smile blazing, and something in his chest thudded hard and certain.

He gave his daughter a nod before turning to find Michonne watching him—her smirk tugging wider now, amusement sparking behind it.

The buzzer for the break between sets sounded, and the gym erupted in noise—crowd chatter. The smell of buttered popcorn grew stronger as people rushed to the concession stand.

RJ leaned over and looped his arm through Michonne's. "Mom, can I get popcorn?" His eyes were already tracking the long line through the door of the gym.

Michonne reached into her pocket, fingers searching for folded bills, only for Rick's hand to slip crisp ones from his pocket first.

"I got it." He slid the cash into RJ's palm.

Michonne didn't flinch; she didn't pay for much of anything anymore. Not since Rick started receiving wages for the hours he spent laboring in the sun as part of the building crew. She didn't mind pocketing the extra cash, which she'd ordinarily spend on her kids' whims. She finally had enough spare change to buy soap that didn't strip her skin raw and products that didn't leave her hair dry. These were small luxuries, but after going without for so long, it felt nice to splurge.

RJ looked at Rick with unpracticed puppy dog eyes, though they were wholly unnecessary. Her son apparently hadn't yet realized that he could get just about anything from his dad, just by existing. "Can I also get a candy bar?"

Rick pulled out two more bills. "Get your mom one, too."

"Chocolate crunch?" she said. "That's my favorite."

RJ stood and turned to Rick. "You want something?"

"A soda."

He stared blankly at his mom. "I can't carry all that on my own."

"Alright." She held her hand out, and RJ slapped his hand into hers, helping her up. "Let's go."

The slow-moving concession line curled toward the gym doors, the scent of hot pretzels thick in the foyer. RJ bounced on the balls of his feet, tense with anticipation. Every few seconds, he craned his neck around the shoulders in front of him to see how close they were.

Michonne's gaze drifted around the foyer, past banners announcing school fundraisers and faded trophy cases lining the walls. Her eyes landed on Terence, who was mid-conversation with another teacher, leaning casually against a far column.

When he broke away, cutting through the crowd toward the gym, Michonne bent down to RJ, squeezing his shoulder. "Baby, hold our spot. I'll be right back."

She weaved between students and parents, her boots squeaking softly on the polished linoleum. The chatter of the crowd swirled around her, a jumble of wrappers crinkled, and snatches of conversation blended into a single buzz.

"Mr. Davis," she called as she reached Terence.

His head snapped back, a grin spreading instantly. "Hey."

"Did you just get here?"

"Robotics club meeting," he said, shrugging lightly.

"You really volunteer to wrangle kids when you don't have to?"

"What can I say? Hazard of being everyone's favorite teacher." He bent forward towards her and whispered, as if it were a secret, "Heavy is the head that wears the crown."

She smirked. "And humble too."

"It's good to see you."

"You see me every weekday morning."

"For five minutes at drop off. I was this close…" He measured the air with his thumb and forefinger. "To calling a parent-teacher conference just to spend some real time with you. But RJ's doing too well to make it look believable."

"Mr. Davis," she said in a reprimanding tone.

He tilted his head, grin unfazed. "I'm just saying, I've got a healthy fear of rejection. Figured if I asked you out again, I might not like the answer."

She exhaled. "Yeah. Things are… good right now. But delicate. And I can't afford to upset that balance."

"And I'm the thing that would upset it."

"Unfortunately… you are."

He let that hang a beat, then glanced toward the gym. "All right, then, how about this: the field trip to Oceanside this weekend? One of the parent chaperones dropped out. Which means there's a spot open for my class." He stepped closer, casual but deliberate. "A whole weekend at the beach with not only your kids but—" He set his hand on his chest. "Yours truly—in an official capacity only, of course." His grin was sly. "Don't think that would upset the balance one bit."

"Tempting." She sighed, heavy. "But I agreed to go to the Civic Republic on Friday. The entire council's going."

"Yeah, but you don't really wanna do that. Do you?"

"I do not," she admitted.

"Then don't. Say you can't. It's not even a lie—you'd be doing your kid's class a favor. Feels like the right kind of excuse." His voice took on a coaxing tone, but it wasn't pushy. "Come on, Michonne."

The Civic Republic was the last place Michonne wanted to be, obligation or not. And her children came first; she'd made that known to everyone. Her name would have already been on the chaperone list for Oceanside had the spots for both Judith and RJ's classes not filled up so fast. Her kids had been disappointed that she wasn't going. Now, here it was: the chance to show up for them. Thorne, the Civic Republic, all of it could wait. "All right," she said. "I'll go."

"Once it's finished, it'll cut the trip in half," Aaron said, sketching a line on the empty bleacher slot beside him. "No more washouts, no hauling wagons across the riverbed. People, supplies—everything'll move more easily between the communities."

Rick nodded absently; his eyes already drifted past Aaron, to where Michonne stood just beyond the gym doors, speaking with Mr. Davis.

The man had his hands tucked loosely in his pockets, posture too easy, standing too close to Michonne for his liking.

Gaze fixed, Rick watched the man lean in even more, as if sharing a private joke meant only for the two of them. What unsettled Rick the most was how relaxed his wife looked there—like the man belonged in that carefully guarded space she offered to so few, the same space Rick was only just beginning to find his way back into.

"Rick." Aaron's voice cut through. A pause, then a quieter, "Oh. I see."

Rick dragged his gaze back to him, but Aaron's eyes had already strayed toward Michonne and Terrence.

"Yeah, I wouldn't worry about that," Aaron said.

Rick's jaw shifted as he turned back to the court. "I'm not."

Liar, his mind bit back.

Later that afternoon, Michonne leaned back in a patio chair on the back porch, letting the warmth of the late afternoon sun wash over her shoulders. She watched the children darting across the yard: Rick, Jerry, Aaron, Eugene, & Ezekiel on a team playing soccer against all their kids. Over the shouting and foul play calling, Michonne thought about how much her life had shifted in such a short time since Rick had been back.

He was the reason she now sat on the porch with Nabila, Princess, and Maxxine, the four of them gathered in easy conversation. Rick had been the one to suggest inviting everyone over, and the house answered with laughter and running footsteps, alive in a way that pulled her back to the days in Alexandria—back when life felt simpler.

Since returning, every move she made had been measured by what she owed her children, by the things she needed to shield them from. But with the secrets gone, reaching beyond herself no longer felt like a risk. It felt like remembering who she was.

"No one told me about the swollen ankles." Princess groaned, flexing her toes as though they were carrying the weight of the world, as she rubbed her pregnant belly.

"Girl," Nabila shook her head, "no one told me about waking up every hour of the night. I thought babies were supposed to keep you up after they were born, not before."

"Try heartburn," Maxxine added, rolling her eyes. "By the end, I swore fire in my chest was just my new normal."

Michonne took a sip from her glass of water, shaking her head as though in surrender. "For me, it was the cravings. I think I ate my weight in pickles. Good thing there was a bumper crop of cucumbers at the time."

The women dissolved into another round of laughter, and Princess wagged a finger like she'd just uncovered a secret. "Alright, so tell me—are any of you gonna have another? Me, personally, I want a basketball team."

"We've talked about having more," Maxxine answered easily, her tone light but decisive. "But definitely not a basketball team."

"Seeing as I've already got a starting lineup…" Nabila snorted, waving her hand like she was batting away a fly. "The shop is closed, locked, and boarded up. Done."

Michonne smirked into her glass. "What she said."

Princess leaned forward, grinning mischievously. "Why not? Rick's back." She wagged her eyebrows. "Seems like prime time to—"

"Princess," Maxxine hissed, eyes narrowing at her sister-in-law in mock warning, "they're not together."

Princess's eyes went wide, innocent as a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "My bad. Must have missed that memo. I just thought… after seeing you two today… y'all got mad chemistry."

Michonne exhaled, setting her glass down on the porch rail. Her voice was calm, measured. "We're friends."

Michonne glanced back at the yard, at Rick corralling RJ and the others, his voice carrying. Being around Rick when she didn't need anything from him made her appreciate his presence in a brand new way.

Rick had settled back in with care, with an attentiveness that respected the boundaries she had built around herself. Not trying to rewrite what had become of his absence, what she'd been forced to create, but simply sliding into the rhythm of their days. The result wasn't perfection, of course—it never could be—but it was peace. And in the middle of it all, Michonne had realized that maybe she could learn to let this peace last. Maybe this was the shape their relationship could finally hold. Rick there—present, but on terms that didn't mean she had to risk him leaving her raw the way he had.

"Not to be nosy," Nabila said. "But I saw you today with a tall drink of water."

"I clocked that too." Princess pushed herself up straighter, her whole face alight. "That's Terrence," she dished to Nabila. "Now that man is fine!"

"I concur," Nabila said. "And you two sure did look good together."

Michonne gave Nabila and Princess a look that said to leave it alone. "He's just a friend."

"Okay…" Princess held her hands up, but her eyes darted between the ladies like she was contemplating saying just one more thing. She shrugged. "I just didn't know you were so friendly."

Nabila and Maxxine smothered a laugh until Michonne let one burst free.

The night thinned slowly, voices tapering as people headed out. The last echo of Jerry's laughter drifted down the walk, and Rick stood at the door in front of Aaron.

"This was good," Aaron said. "Thank you."

Rick let the silence stretch before answering. "It was."

"You seem… better. I'm glad." Aaron's hand settled on his shoulder, steady and sure, that same knowing look he'd worn since Alexandria. "Stay strong."

Rick nodded. "Yeah." Aaron's words lingered even after the door clicked shut behind him.

He turned toward the living room.

Michonne stood in front of the couch, arms folded, a faint smile tugging at her mouth as she looked at their sleeping kids. "Like clockwork, right?" Her voice was soft. "Movie starts, and they're out."

Judith slumped against the armrest, while RJ sprawled halfway across a pillow, both lost to sleep.

"Yeah," Rick said. "They've had a long day."

Michonne glanced at him. "I'll take Judith. You get RJ?" she said, like she was calling a play.

"Alright."

Rick bent carefully, sliding his arms beneath RJ and lifting him against his chest. His son stirred, head tucking instinctively into his father's shoulder—as natural as if he'd been doing it all his life.

Beside him, Michonne coaxed Judith up. Before letting herself be guided down the hall, their daughter mumbled and leaned against her mother's side.

In RJ's room, Rick laid him on the mattress and tugged the blanket beneath his chin. For a moment, he only stood there, watching his son's face slack with sleep: something tender pulled at his chest.

He and Michonne had settled into a friendship stripped of any affection. He'd grown so practiced at navigating her feelings that sometimes he wondered if it might be easier just to let things be—to accept his new place in her life. Then he would see RJ, the living proof of their love at its height, and it painfully reminded him that what they had now would never be enough.

He smoothed his son's hair back and kissed his forehead. Whispered, "Good night, son."

Half-asleep, RJ rolled to the side, yawning as he mumbled, "' Night, Dad."

The word struck Rick like a blow. His throat locked, chest burned, eyes stinging as he stood frozen in place, afraid even to breathe—afraid that if he moved, the moment might vanish.

Rick lingered in the doorway, staring at RJ's sleeping form, the word "Dad" still pounding in his chest. Every inhale felt thick. Finally, he flicked off the light and stepped down the hall, each footfall reluctant.

Then his eyes drifted and froze. Michonne's door was cracked open. Warm lamplight pooled across her, catching her as she slipped into her shorts, her back to him, half-turned toward her dresser. Every line of her, the curve of her shoulder, the quiet rhythm of her movements—it made his body stiffen. His chest tightened, throat constricting. He felt like he was both drowning and burning at the same time.

She turned just as he was about to tear his gaze away, and the moment caught him like a trap.

Rick's mouth went dry. Words came out jagged, fumbling. "I—uh—I was just… thinkin' I might pour one last drink. You want one?"

Her eyes narrowed, a flash of something dangerous—but the small, knowing smile curling at the edges softened it. She tied the drawstring of her terry cloth shorts, deliberate and unhurried. "I'll be down in a minute."

Rick stood frozen, chest still hammering, every nerve screaming with the ache of her nearness and the absence of what he craved.

They ended up on the couch, legs tucked toward each other, glasses in hand.

Michonne swatted his arm. "You told Morgan?"

Rick's grin spread slowly, boyish in a way she hadn't seen in years. "I wasn't about to have your lie on my conscience."

"It's called having my back," she shot at him, shaking her head.

He smiled again and, somehow, the years between them felt thinner, almost gone.

Rick's gaze drifted outward, toward nothing in particular. The house had gone still—the kind of hush that comes only after the kids are asleep. His voice broke the quiet. "RJ… he called me Dad today." He tested a glance at her, unsure, before letting his eyes fall to his glass.

Michonne looked at him—not with surprise, but with a quiet knowing. "Of course he did," she said gently.

He looked up at her.

"He just needed to get to know you. To see what he has. You've always been an amazing dad, Rick. That hasn't changed."

She studied him—the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his hand flexed against the glass. She thought of all the time he'd missed: scraped knees, bedtime stories, milestones that had fallen into someone else's hands. And yet here he was, finally woven into this rhythm.

"They're amazing," he murmured, almost to himself, pride threading through the simple words.

"They are," she said, letting her gaze linger on him.

He nodded once, then swallowed. "Who our kids are… that's because of you."

"They're us, Rick."

He gave an almost inaudible snort of laughter and lifted his glass. "Cheers to that."

"To us." She tapped her glass against his, and the sound felt small, intimate—a seal on something fragile and enduring.

Michonne's office was spare and precise—no clutter beyond what was necessary, every shelf, every stack of papers in its place. Blueprints Maxxine had brought lay neatly across the desk. Michonne sat straight-backed, hands folded over the papers as she listened.

"The idea," Maxxine said, tapping a spot on the blueprint, "is to build another playground for Ward Eight. The community is growing faster than we anticipated. The kids—there's barely any space for them to run inside the walls. And with all the council plans, this might not make the cut. But the need is real." She paused, letting the weight of the words settle.

"I agree," Michonne said simply.

Maxxine's shoulders relaxed, as if she'd been bracing herself to do more to convince Michonne. She studied her for a moment, then asked tentatively, "You think you could have my back? When I present it? They listen to you."

"I believe in what you're proposing," Michonne said. "I'll speak up for you."

"Thank you." Maxxine nodded, relief softening her expression. "Well, then. I'll get out of your hair. I know you've got a lot on your plate." She gathered her papers, then hesitated, as if weighing whether to speak. "When Princess mentioned Rick and Terrence, I saw you tense up… You don't have to talk about it, but if you ever need to… I'm a good listener."

Michonne pressed her lips together, giving a small nod. "Thanks. But things are fine." She truly believed it—or at least, she wanted to.

Maxxine stared a moment longer. "Okay."

A soft knock at the door pulled Michonne's attention. "Come in," she said.

Rick stepped inside.

Maxxine raised her eyebrows politely. "Good morning, Rick."

"Morning," he returned.

"Thanks for inviting us over last night."

"Of course."

"Rosie had a great time and Eugene—"

Michonne's attention drifted, against her will, over Rick's lean, impossibly sculpted frame. The way his black shirt clung to his chest and arms, sweat darkening the fabric, tracing every old and new line of muscle. His hair was slicked back, the curls at the tips more pronounced, catching the light. Even simply standing there, he radiated a quiet, unyielding strength—the kind that had always made her pause.

"Michonne," Rick said. She blinked, shaking herself out of her stupor, meeting his eyes. A flicker of a smirk crossed his face.

"You need something?" Her voice came sharper than intended, a touch defensive.

Rick didn't falter. "You left your lunch on the counter. And… I meant to grab it but forgot. So…" He produced a brown takeout bag and a drink from behind his back. "…I picked up that green juice you like from the corner stall. And a chili mac from the barbecue pit."

Michonne allowed herself a small smile. "You didn't have to." She reached for the bag and cup. "But I'm glad you did." She began opening it, the aroma teasing her senses, but paused, meeting his gaze. "This smells amazing."

A knock interrupted them. Ezekiel stepped in, smiling apologetically. "Sorry to bother. Rick." He nodded at him, then turned to Michonne. "I saw that you were removed from the transport list for the Civic Republic. Thorne specifically requested all leadership. Both of you."

Rick's brow knit, and Michonne realized she'd forgotten to tell him she was no longer going—or that she'd be spending three days with the man who was the elephant they refused to acknowledge.

"I'm chaperoning RJ's class to Oceanside," she said, eyes bouncing between them, holding Rick's gaze as recognition crossed his face. "I just decided to go," she added quickly.

"Well… you'll be missed." Ezekiel nodded slowly. "But I understand." He glanced at Rick. "At least we have one Grimes going." He left, the door closing softly behind him.

Rick exhaled, shifting his weight, eyes darting everywhere but to her. He looked like a caged animal. "I gotta get back to the site," he said, gruff. "See you at home."

Michonne blew out a breath and leaned back in her chair, letting the tension bleed away, if only slightly.

Days later, the kitchen buzzed with unusual morning chaos—zipper teeth snapping, sneakers squeaking across the tile, and Michonne's voice threading through it all as she ran down her checklist.

"Sleeping bags?" she asked, leaning against the counter, eyes cutting to Judith first.

"Packed," Judith hoisted hers just enough to prove it.

"Same," RJ said, puffing his chest like he'd just won a battle, tugging at his straps.

"Bathing suits?" Michonne pressed.

"Yeah." Judith smirked. "Even packed RJ's for him. Otherwise, it'd still be sitting on his bed."

RJ's head snapped around. "I was gonna get it!"

"Sure you were," she said, dry as the desert.

"I would have!"

"Alright, change of clothes?" Michonne cut in before the argument escalated into full-on sibling warfare.

"Yes," they chorused—Judith flat, RJ sharp with indignation.

"Good," Michonne said, setting the list down. "Then I think we're—"

"All ready to go?" Rick's voice cut in from the doorway.

They turned to see him standing there, pack slung over one shoulder.

Judith straightened. "Wait… what? I thought it was just a day trip to the Republic."

Rick tilted his head, eyes twinkling. "Well, when I picked you up from school yesterday, your teacher mentioned she needed one more chaperone. So I figured… why not make it a family thing?"

Judith blinked. "You're actually coming?"

"I am."

"Sweeeet!" RJ yelled. "You can sit with me on the bus!"

Judith arched her brow. "Uh… he's chaperoning my class, so technically, he's gotta sit with me."

"Man, not fair," RJ groaned, kicking the air with exaggerated defeat.

Rick moved toward the counter, filling the space like he owned the room. He grabbed the bag resting against the cabinets—Michonne's—and straightened, leaning close enough that only she could hear. "It's gonna be fun."

Michonne watched him walk with the kids to the door, her mind working a million miles a minute, trying to process how the hell she was going to manage this.

The depot came into view as they rounded the corner. No yellow buses waited in neat rows—just a line of black CRM-marked Chinooks, blades whining as kids funneled toward them, jittery with excitement.

RJ skidded to a stop, eyes wide. "What the—"

"Holy crap!" Judith's jaw dropped, then snapped shut as she turned to Rick.

Michonne's gaze shot sideways at him, suspicious. "Did you do this?"

Rick grinned. "Thorne owes me. She was already sending some over…"

"You used your favor on this?"

"Don't question it, Mom. Just go with it," RJ said, lunging at Rick and wrapping him in an eyes-closed hug. "You're the best, Dad!"

Rick's arms tightened around his son, his chest lifting with pride. He glanced at Michonne with a look that asked, "Did you hear that?".

Judith squealed and dove in, joining the hug. Both kids dropped their bags and sprinted toward the nearest helicopter.

Michonne crossed her arms, unimpressed. "This is a bit much for a school trip, right?"

Rick bent down, scooping the bags onto his shoulder with ease. "It's faster." He straightened, holding out a hand as if he were preparing to school her. "Bus? Seven hours. Helicopter? Two and a half." His eyes met hers, that same early-morning twinkle daring her to argue.

Michonne's glance drifted toward the helicopters, where Terence stood with a clipboard, surrounded by chaperones. But his gaze was fixed on her—and on Rick, standing impossibly close.

Rick caught the direction of her stare. He leaned in, face inches from hers, voice teasing. "I think you're wanted."

She could feel his breath on the side of her face, but didn't dare look at him. Every instinct told her to—but she couldn't.

Terence shifted, clipboard tightening in his hands, his posture stiff, as if sensing the invisible line Rick was drawing around her. His proximity was a clear, silent message.

Before Michonne could respond, another voice cut through the tension. "Mr. Grimes!" Mrs. Hanover, Judith's teacher, was eagerly waving him over, her own clipboard clutched tight, eyes too bright. It might have given Michonne pause had the woman not been old enough to be both of their mothers.

"I think you're wanted," Michonne said, barely keeping her laughter in. "Don't wanna leave her waiting!"

Rick groaned, dragging the sound out as he adjusted the bags. "Yeeeah."

Then, before she had time to react or retreat, Rick's hand brushed the small of Michonne's back, subtle but possessive. He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her temple. "See you there," he murmured, walking away, keeping his gaze on Terence as he strode toward Judith's class.

Michonne exhaled slowly, unfolding her arms. Her gaze followed him for a heartbeat too long before turning back to Terrence's questioning eyes. She stepped forward and walked into the hum of activity and the complicated tangle waiting for her there.

The Chinook's cabin rumbled beneath Rick, rotors droning a low, steady pulse. Judith sat beside him, knees tucked to her chest, eyes sharp and unrelenting, examining every inch of the interior. Helicopters weren't new to him—he'd flown in enough to have long since lost the awe—but seeing it through her eyes, everything felt fresh again.

Rick shifted in his seat, hand resting on his knee, letting himself think. He'd been naïve—so damn naïve—to think that whatever had happened with Terrence on the porch was finished just because Michonne hadn't mentioned it again. Or that their tense run-in weeks ago had been enough to scare the man off.

The moment he heard she'd be chaperoning RJ's trip, he'd known. And the look Terrence had given him across the motor lot had only confirmed it—like Rick had stepped into a space that already belonged to him.

He wasn't proud of how he'd managed to slip onto the chaperone list—trading favors, agreeing to cover four double shifts for a guy who'd given up his spot—but he didn't regret it either. And as for the helicopters, he could admit it was petty, pulling rank like that. But in a situation like this, petty didn't just feel appropriate. It felt necessary.

"So," Judith's voice cut through the drone, pulling him back. She turned toward him, eyes glittering with mischief. "How are you gonna play this?"

Rick blinked. "Uh… what?"

"Getting Mom back," she said, like it was obvious.

He raised his eyebrows, silent, unsure what to say.

"You want my advice?"

He opened his mouth, but Judith jumped ahead.

"Keep doing what you're doing. Be yourself. Mom… she fell in love with you for a reason. She just needs time to remember." She shrugged, small but self-assured. Then, softer: "Mr. Davis is cool, but he's no you… okay?" It landed less like advice and more like a command.

Rick's throat tightened. He hated that his daughter had to play coach in a mess he'd made. Still, her words cracked something inside him—hope, fragile but alive. "Okay," he murmured, almost to himself. A promise he wasn't sure he deserved to make.

"Also," Judith added, an amused note in her voice, "stop staring at her so much. If I notice, she does too."

He huffed, half a laugh. "Got it."

RJ pressed his face to the window, eyes wide, drinking in the world below.

Michonne leaned over, grinning. The thrill of his first flight was infectious. "It's amazing, right?" She pointed at a distant hill.

"Is this what birds feel like?"

"I don't know, baby."

Beside her, Terrence's lips quirked. "Probably close." He glanced out the window, then back at RJ. "It's my first time too…"

"But you lived in the old world," RJ said, confused. "Didn't everyone fly?"

"Flying was a luxury," Terrence said. "Growing up, we couldn't afford it. But my mom made road trips fun, so I just kept the tradition alive with my daughter."

RJ's eyes widened. "You had a kid?"

"I did."

"I'm sorry she's not here anymore."

"Thanks, RJ."

"Hey, pop quiz," Terrence said, upbeat. "What was the President's personal plane called?"

RJ thought a moment before glancing at Michonne.

"Don't look at me," she said, smirking.

"You got this," Terrence encouraged.

After a beat, RJ said, "Air… Force… Air Force One."

"Ding! Ding! Ding!" Terrence high-fived him. "Now, can you spot the Ohio River?"

RJ leaned back to the window, grinning.

"You fly a lot back then?" Terrence's voice drifted closer to Michonne's ear.

She nodded. "I was a jetsetter. New York. Paris. Dubai."

"High class, huh?"

"Well-traveled," she corrected. "Plus, I had a family member with air miles to burn."

"Ah!" Terrence nodded, letting the conversation pause. Then, quieter, careful: "I didn't see Rick's name on the chaperone list."

Michonne shifted slightly. "It was last-minute," she said, casually. "But he is their father."

"Understood." Terrence's eyes met hers, steady and searching, not accusatory. "But for my clarity," he continued softly, "is that all he is to you?"

The weight of the question settled between them. She swallowed. The hum of the helicopter, the slap of wind against the windows, RJ's tiny tug at her sleeve—it all sharpened the moment.

"Yes," she said, firmly. The word felt like armor, a shield for the edges of her heart. Yet beneath it pulsed a complicated truth she refused to voice.

Terrence nodded slowly, the faintest lift of his mouth acknowledging both her answer and the hesitation lingering beneath it. "Good to know," he murmured.

The pontoons cut across the water, their wakes fanning white across the shoreline. Salt rode the air, sharp and briny, coating Rick's lips and beard, tasting of the sea with every breath. The wind tugged at his hair, hissed across the waves, and carried the faint cries of circling gulls. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this place—until the first outline of Oceanside emerged from the haze, jagged lines of sand and pine.

Ten years. A lifetime.

The boats slowed near the dock, wooden planks rising like memories. Rick braced his boots against the floorboards as the engine downshifted to a lazy churn. He glanced at Judith, her hair whipping loose from its tie, eyes bright as she craned toward the shore where figures gathered. Signs swayed in the wind—WELCOME COMMONWEALTH ACADEMY—painted in bold strokes, carried by children and adults alike.

For a moment, he let himself just take it in: laughter rolling off the beach, boots thudding on wet wood, the thrum of the pontoon beneath him. Life. A kind he'd fought too long to imagine again.

The boat rocked with a hollow thump against the dock. Soldiers rose first, rifles slung but ready, stepping out to steady the gangplanks. Rick followed, hand instinctively finding Judith's arm. "Easy, sweetheart," he murmured.

The wood groaned beneath them, slick with salt and sun. He kept his hand on her arm, grounding himself in that small act of fatherhood, even as his eyes darted—trained, searching—toward the other boats still easing in.

On the far pontoon, Michonne's figure caught him: sleeves pushed to her elbows, face taut with focus, one hand steadying RJ as their son leapt down with reckless eagerness. Beside her, Terrence crouched, hands ready to catch another child, his laugh cutting across the surf when the girl made a daring jump. "Whoa there."

Michonne laughed too, head tipped back, eyes crinkling—and for a moment it landed in Rick's chest like a shard of glass.

Then, at the edge of his vision, a shadowy figure lingered near the treeline: tall, rigid, unnervingly still. Shoulders squared, surveying. Rick's stomach tightened. For a heartbeat, he swore it was staring straight at them, deliberate and patient, each motion measured. He forced a blink. Probably a parent. Nothing more. But the chill crawling up his spine refused to be dismissed.

"Rick Grimes!"

The shout cracked across the air, bright and disbelieving. He tore his gaze away. A woman pushed through the crowd, sun on her face, arms spread wide.

"It's me," she laughed, voice bursting, "Rachel."

Recognition struck like sunlight through clouds. Rick laughed roughly and closed the distance, wrapping her in a hug. She was much taller now, grown into the strength he'd glimpsed last time.

"It's good to see you," he said into her shoulder, pulling back with a smile.

"Me?" She laughed again. "Word spread you'd resurfaced, but none of us believed it. Glad you're back, man."

"Glad to be back." His throat tightened as he glanced past her at cabins, beach, and rolling tide. "Where's Cindy?"

"On an expedition," Rachel said, shrugging. "Can't keep that girl here."

"That means you're in charge?"

"Yup." Her chin lifted, pride gleaming.

Rick's eyes flicked to the treeline—the figure was gone. He exhaled slowly, telling himself it was probably staff checking the boats. Probably nothing.

Then a bullhorn screeched through the air. An older woman, gray hair bound in a scarf, sun-darkened and lined from years of work, raised it high.

"Welcome, Commonwealth students, teachers, and parents!" The crowd roared, clapping. "Each class will be paired with an Oceanside attaché, who will guide you through all activities this weekend. First task: find your attaché and set up your tents! The fastest class gets a treat during the campfire!"

Movement rippled across the beach. Signs hoisted. Students split, teachers and parents chasing after them, soldiers weaving with relaxed vigilance.

Rick hung back, hand hovering over the Colt Python at his hip, eyes scanning—not the organized chaos, but for unknown threats. Every instinct hummed hot beneath his skin. This was the first time in ten years he'd stood in the wild, with his wife and children, and every nerve screamed to keep them close.

"No matter how safe things look, you're never safe," he had told Carl once. The words rang true now, even as Commonwealth soldiers stood like pillars at the shore's edge. Beyond them, barriers faded into the trees on either end of the shore—a clear territorial line drawn, but not secure enough for Rick's liking.

Judith darted back. "Dad, you okay?"

"Yeah, I—"

"Relax," she said, reading him in seconds. "We're safe here. You're missing all the fun."

Rick let himself be pulled forward, body easing into her thrust. He wasn't a sheriff or soldier—not here. Just a father learning to let the world he'd help build keep them safe.

He managed to relax for at least two hours, through tent setup and team-building games. He kept one eye on Judith and her classmates, the other on the only real threat in sight: Mr. Davis. Rick cataloged every gesture, every laugh, trying to understand what Michonne saw in him beyond charm and annoyingly good looks.

But as night approached, Rick's eyes never strayed far from the treeline, wondering if the silent figure would appear again.

The shoreline was alive with noise—squeals sharp enough to cut through the hiss of the tide, kids shrieking when a fish wriggled too close to their sneakers. The salt wind stung the air, tangling hair, carrying laughter out across the water.

Michonne crouched beside a boy whose worm had slid clean off the hook. "Here," she said, showing him how to thread it tight, the way you laced a stitch that needed to hold.

A few feet away, Terence knelt with two girls whose lines had knotted into a hopeless mess. "It's like braiding hair—only the hair hates you," he muttered, fighting the tangle.

Michonne bit back a laugh. "And you said you were good at fishing."

He shot her a wounded grin over his shoulder. "Did I?"

"You did," she said, deadpan.

"Well, I lied. Clearly." He grinned wider when one of the girls giggled. "Pretty sure I was trying to impress you."

"Mom?"

Judith's voice cut clean through the noise. Michonne turned, heart tugging at the sight of her daughter picking carefully across the sand, arms wrapped against the breeze, eyes shadowed.

"What is it, baby?" Michonne asked, dusting her palms on her jeans.

Judith stopped just close enough to be heard. "Have you seen Dad? He said he was grabbing something from the tent. He said he'd be right back, but… It's been like half an hour."

The words landed hard, heavier than they had any right to. Michonne straightened slowly, gaze shifting toward the line of tents pitched farther up the beach. Thirty minutes. Her chest tightened. Too long. She swept her eyes over the dunes, the tree line beyond. Nothing moved.

Before the silence could press in, Terence spoke, his voice deliberately light. "He probably just went into the community for supplies," he said, flashing Judith an easy smile. "Don't worry. I just met the guy, but even I can tell he's not the type you need to stress about."

Michonne's jaw clenched. She forced herself to nod, even as Judith's eyes searched her face like she could read past the lie. Michonne leaned down, brushing a kiss against her daughter's hair.

"He'll be back," she murmured, soft. "Don't worry."

Judith exhaled, some of the tension draining from her shoulders, though the unease lingered in her eyes.

"You want to fish with us for a bit?" Michonne asked gently, opening space for her, pulling her closer instead of letting her sit with the fear alone.

Judith hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

Michonne guided her toward the line of children, back into the noise and tangles and small victories. She smiled for Judith's sake—but her eyes kept cutting toward the tents, then to the black seam of trees at the edge of camp.

The air felt different now. Not light, not safe.

Rick was gone.

And in her gut, Michonne knew it wasn't right.

Camp had dimmed. Mini fires all across the shore snapped and hissed, chewing through driftwood stacked high. Another half hour had crawled by since Rick disappeared.

RJ sat glued to Judith's side, their faces lit by firelight, both stealing glances toward the black line of forest as if their eyes alone might drag their father back out.

Rachel had swept the outer paths twice and returned empty-handed.

No radio. No word. No trace. He was just gone.

Michonne stood apart with Terence and the other chaperones, arms cinched across her chest, katana strapped to her back.

"He probably just lost track of time," one of them offered.

"Rick doesn't lose track of time." The words came out sharper than she meant, but she didn't pull them back. Her gaze stayed fixed on the treeline. "I'm going."

Terence stepped forward. "Then I'm going too."

"No." It cut from her before he finished. She forced her jaw to ease, but not her tone. "You stay here. Manage things."

"Some of my men will go with you," Woodsby, the commanding soldier, said.

"No." She unstrapped her katana and held it at her side, the weight of it grounding her. "All protection stays here—with the kids. I'll radio if I need backup."

"Let her go," Terence said quietly. "She's got this."

Michonne felt Judith's stare before she turned. Her daughter stood at the edge of the firelight, eyes searching her, waiting for the truth.

Michonne crossed to her, crouching low.

"You're going," Judith said flatly.

Michonne nodded.

"Let me come," Judith whispered, fierce as a blade.

Michonne shook her head. "No. I need you both here. He's probably fine—just took a wrong turn. I'll bring him back."

Judith swallowed hard, her face shadowed and bright by turns in the firelight. "I've heard that before," she said softly.

The words stung like an old scar reopening. Michonne leaned in, kissed her forehead, then moved to RJ, pressing her lips to his curls. "Stay close. I'll be back before you know it."

She rose, hand finding the katana where it leaned against the tent pole. Then she turned and slipped into the treeline.

The forest swallowed her fast. The ocean dulled behind her, firelight lost, replaced by the whisper of pines and the creak of branches overhead. She kept low, scanning the earth. A snapped twig. A scuff dragged through damp sand.

Then—there. A heavy boot print, pressed deep, angled away from camp. Rick's.

Her chest tightened. Memories ached hard against her ribs. Years spent chasing after rumors, half-prints, whispers. Back then, she hadn't even known if he was alive.

And now, with him finally here—he was still vanishing into the trees. Still pulling her after him.

"Damn it, Rick," she muttered, picking up her pace.

Rick pushed deeper into the forest, boots crunching over pine needles, eyes cutting through every shadow. He had to know what he'd seen—the flicker of movement near the treeline, the unnatural stillness beyond the barrier. It gnawed at him.

He paused, palm brushing against a low branch. He knew he should've brought backup, but the thought of pulling soldiers from camp twisted his gut. He'd leave the kids exposed. No—this was his to handle.

Branches scraped his jacket, leaves caught in his hair. The forest smelled sharp: damp earth, resin, and the faint tang of salt drifting in from the shore. Fading light stretched shadows long, unnatural. His pulse quickened, every sense flaring awake.

Then he saw it. Movement—subtle, precise. His breath tightened. Something darted between trees.

A branch snapped behind him. Rick whirled, Colt raised, scanning the dark in a tight circle. The feeling of eyes on him, though no faces showed.

Then they broke cover.

CRM soldiers in black, fanning out, moving with practiced synchronization. He knew this tactic—he'd been trained this way. And now it was aimed at him.

The first came fast. Rick pivoted, slammed his prosthetic hand into the man's chest, driving him back. Another soldier lunged in from the right; Rick ducked under the swing and drove his boot hard into the man's knee.

He raised the Colt. One squeeze, one clean shot—drop. Another followed, neat and brutal. But for every body that fell, more advanced in a disciplined line, forcing him backward into the brush.

Branches lashed his jacket, sweat burned his temples. He fought in tight, efficient bursts—firing, striking with his prosthetic, driving his boot where his left hand couldn't follow. Every movement was calculated. Every misstep could end him.

A baton swung overhead—he ducked, rolled, Colt snapping up. Fired. Another attacker closed in from the side. Rick spun, slammed his shoulder into a trunk, pain flashing white-hot. He barely registered it. His instincts screamed to retreat, but there was nowhere to go.

Then—sharp, piercing—a whistle split the dark.

One soldier faltered, glancing up.

Michonne dropped from the trees like an executioner. Katana flashing silver, she carved clean through the first wave, the blade's hiss sharp as breath.

Rick exhaled once—relief, then focus. He moved again, firing his last rounds, his rhythm syncing with hers. They fought as if no time had passed: blade and bullet, back-to-back, each covering the other's blind side.

The forest closed around them, trees tight as walls, roots twisting underfoot. A soldier lunged from the right—Rick pivoted, smashed his prosthetic into the man's jaw, then kicked him down. Another surged from the left—Michonne cut him clean, fluid and merciless.

Rick fired—the hollow click echoed. Empty.

He cursed, dropped the Colt, and yanked the machete from his belt with his one good hand. Cold steel. He swung in short, brutal arcs, carving through black armor. Michonne's katana sang beside him, their strikes overlapping, relentless. Shoulder to shoulder, they forced the line back into a small clearing. Blood spattered bark. Bodies groaned in the dirt.

Still, the CRM regrouped, circling tighter. Discipline unbroken.

"Run!" Rick shouted, voice raw. "I'll make a way!"

Michonne didn't flinch. Didn't move. Her eyes locked on his, fierce, unyielding. "Not without you."

They surged forward again, cutting as one. But the circle collapsed in. A crack of electricity split the night.

Rick jerked as taser prongs buried into his side. Agony ripped through him, muscles locking, body convulsing. His machete slipped from his hand as his vision blurred to black.

"Those were gunshots," one soldier snapped, voice sharp, clipped.

"We need to send out a party. Now," Woodsby said, already reaching for his gear.

Terrence squared his shoulders, forcing calm, racking his brain for what Michonne would do—for what she would want him to do. "No," he cut in, voice firm enough to slice through the murmurs of the chaperones gathered. "We don't send soldiers into the woods until the children are secured. Too many variables. Too many risks. The kids come first."

"Got it." Woodsby nodded once, then marched toward the waiting soldiers.

He turned back to the chaperones, his tone commanding. "Gather the kids. Bring them into the community. Do not stop for anything. Get them behind those walls. Understood?"

Nods all around. Quick, purposeful movement. Sleeping bags, backpacks, lanterns—all snatched up in efficient hands.

Rachel's voice carried over the shuffle, calm but edged with steel. "We'll go into lockdown. Everyone inside. No one moves without clearance. That includes the perimeter."

Terrence scanned the crowd until he spotted RJ and Judith. He moved fast, crouching down to their level, hands light but steady on their shoulders. "You two stick with me," he said, voice firm. "Don't wander."

Judith's eyes flicked to him, narrowing. A crease in her brow—worry or challenge, he couldn't tell. She said nothing, only gave a small, tight nod before taking RJ's hand.

Terrence rose, eyes sweeping the tree line.

Michonne's eyelids fluttered against dim, musty light. The air smelled of damp wood and rust, like a place forgotten for decades. She blinked, trying to focus, and saw him—Rick—sitting across the room, back against the wall, shoulders taut but eyes softening when they found hers.

"You okay?" His voice was rough, thick with concern.

She flexed her fingers against the cold concrete, the faint give of rotted floorboards beneath her. The room came into focus in pieces: cracked tiles, the faint outline of lockers, the ghost of a chalkboard pressed into the wall.

"Yeah," she whispered. "You?"

"I'm good."

The space pressed in around her—dust heavy on the beams overhead, mildew thick in the air, water dripping in a far corner. Shadows pooled like ink in the edges, and the cold crept along her spine. She tested the restraints at her wrists behind her back, teeth clenching. Not budging.

"Dammit, Rick," she snapped, the sound echoing in the stale air.

His head tilted. "You're blaming this on me?"

Her chest rose sharp with anger. "No one knows where we are because you wandered off without telling anyone. So yeah—I am."

His eyebrow arched. "Really? 'Cause unless I'm mistaken, I didn't see you rollin' up with backup either."

She gave a dry, humourless laugh. "And now here I am, chasing after you again, because you had to play the hero, again."

Her shoulders slumped, the weight of what had just slipped past her guard cutting through the moldy silence. She braced her back against the wall, jaw tight.

"There," Rick murmured. "That's it, right?"

Her head snapped toward him, defensive and unwilling to let him pull her deeper into the moment. "We need to focus on figuring out where we are. How to get out."

His jaw ticked like he wanted to push—but he let it drop. "Or why we're here."

"That's pretty obvious," she shot back. "Those were CRM soldiers. They were stalking our camp. You don't think it's a coincidence, do you? While leadership's away, while the defenses are split between the Republic and here, that they'd do…" She pulled against her restraints. "Whatever the hell it is they're doing? Thorne's fingerprints are all over this. Should've killed her when you had the chance."

"No, I don't believe it." Rick's brow furrowed. "She wouldn't—"

"Oh my God!" Michonne barked a rueful laugh, head tipping against the wall. "I wish you had that much faith in me."

He flinched like the words hit bone. "I can't believe you'd say that."

"What else was I supposed to think, Rick? I was there. At the Civic Republic. Right there in front of you!" Her voice rose. "And it never crossed your mind that we could've made it out together. Just like—"

"Like what?" he growled.

"Like the damn bridge!" The words tore from her. Her eyes brimmed as she leaned forward, chains rattling. "I was right there, Rick. You looked at me—and you waved me away. Told me not to try. And then you blew it all to hell. Do you know what that did to me? Knowing I could've—" Her voice broke. She swallowed hard, but the memory clawed through anyway.

Rick's eyes softened, pain flickering raw across his face. "I couldn't think straight. All I knew was if you came closer, you'd die too. I had to protect you. You and Judith. That's all it's ever been. After Carl…" His voice cracked. "After Carl, I swore I'd never let someone I love die because of me. Never again."

Her anger faltered, something inside her loosening at the rawness in his voice.

"Carl's death wasn't your fault," she whispered.

Rick shook his heard. "I failed him. I failed him. And I've carried that every damn day since. Every choice I've made—it's been trying to make that right. To keep you safe. Judith. RJ." His throat bobbed, voice barely holding. "I can't lose you."

The room fell silent but for the steady drip of water. Her chest ached, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She wanted to reach for him, to let it break—but the sound of the lock turning shattered the moment.

The door groaned open. A soldier stepped inside, boots heavy, face covered in a mask.

"Rick," Michonne whispered, panic flaring.

The soldier moved with infuriating calm in his direction, a syringe glinting at his side. Rick quietly fought against the restraints, every muscle trembling with effort, but they wouldn't budge. The soldier didn't slow.

He moved swifter, reaching Rick and driving the needle into his neck in one fluid, practiced motion. Rick's body seized, his breath catching ragged in his throat.

Michonne cried out, pulling against her restraints. "No! Take me! Take me instead!"

The soldier looked back. His voice was cold, mechanical, almost sounding robotic. "Don't worry. You're next."

Her heart pounded as he unlocked Rick's restraints and dragged his limp body away.

Chapter Text

️Chapter 6

Rick woke to the chill of stone against his cheek and the stale, iron-scented air filling his lungs.

For a long moment, he didn't move. He didn't breathe. His senses scrambled to catch up, to place him in a world that felt distant and wrong.

He blinked through the blur. Iron bars sharpened into focus, cold and unyielding, echoing the shards of memory crashing back into him.

Oceanside.

The fight in the woods.

The rush of soldiers, faceless and fast, chaos closing in.

And then her face. Michonne. The last thing before the darkness swallowed everything.

"Finally awake," a voice cut through the fog.

Rick turned toward the sound. Pain splintered up his neck as he pushed himself upright, bracing a hand against the slab that passed for a bed. Across the corridor, a shadow moved. Dreadlocks framed a face that had lost its warmth and ease.

"Ezekiel."

"You were out a while," the man said. His tone was flat, stripped of its old fire.

Rick gripped the bars, metal biting into his palms. "What the hell happened?"

Ezekiel let out a slow breath, like someone tired of repeating a nightmare. "It was a setup. Every part of it. We landed here and soldiers were waiting."

"Here?"

"The Republic."

Rick's pulse jumped. "The others?"

"I don't know." Ezekiel's eyes fell. "Some panicked. Fought back." He looked toward the corner of his cell. "They didn't make it."

"They killed them?"

"Like it was nothing."

The words hit like a blow. Gunfire and screaming rose in Rick's mind, faces flashing and fading. People he barely knew but had seen around the Commonwealth. His chest tightened. "Michonne," he said, his voice raw. "Have you seen her?"

Ezekiel shook his head. "No."

For a heartbeat, relief cut through him. Then it twisted. If she wasn't here, she was somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn't reach. And he had to.

His gaze swept the corridor. Cold stone. Wet mortar. Bars bolted into concrete. This wasn't a cell for soldiers or criminals. It was for enemies.

"Did you see Thorne with them?"

"They were masked," Ezekiel said. "But I'm sure she was there." His eyes darkened. "How could she not be? She pushed for this meeting. Knew half our platoon would be at Oceanside, leaving Alexandria wide open."

Rick shook his head. "No. I don't care what it looks like. She wouldn't do this."

He'd seen the fire in Thorne. The defiance that fought against Beale and the system that tried to own her, the same way it had tried to own him. To imagine her behind a mask and a rifle felt like a betrayal his mind refused to accept.

Bootsteps broke through the silence, echoing off stone.

Rick turned. Ezekiel stiffened, gaze locked on the dark at the end of the hall.

Three soldiers appeared, rifles raised, masks blank. The world shrank to the narrow corridor, the smell of metal and damp earth closing in.

One keyed the lock. The door slid open with a harsh, scraping sound. "You. Arms behind your back."

Rick's mind ran the math. Three against one. No weapon but himself. No chance.

He moved anyway, slow and deliberate, raising his arms. The soldiers seized him, twisting his forearms into restraints with mechanical precision.

As they dragged him toward the corridor, Rick met Ezekiel's eyes. A wordless exchange passed between them—steady, unbroken—before the soldiers pushed him forward into the waiting dark.

The Commonwealth soldiers came back through Oceanside's gates in staggered formation, boots grinding into the gravel. Their faces were pale, drawn tight under the weight of what they'd just seen in those woods.

Terence didn't need their words to understand. The air around them already carried it—the quiet stench of bad news.

Behind him, the others waited. Teachers. Oceansiders. Kids. Every set of eyes fixed on the soldiers as if the right question could change the answer.

"No sign of Rick or Michonne," Woodsby said, voice clipped. "But there's evidence of a fight."

Terence's stomach turned. "What kind of evidence?" He kept his tone even, aware of Judith and RJ standing close by.

Woodsby glanced at the kids, then tilted his head toward the far wall. "Let's talk over here." He was already walking before anyone moved.

Terence gave the children a calm nod before following. Rachel joined him, her steps quiet beside his. The crowd murmured behind them, the silence between words heavy with dread.

Once they were out of earshot, Woodsby spoke lower. "Bodies. A lot of them. CRM soldiers. Cut down clean." His jaw flexed. "Looks like Michonne's work."

The words hit hard, settling deep in Terence's chest. He'd never seen her fight, not really—only the steadiness she carried, that quiet kind of power that said she'd been through worse than anything in any given present moment and survived it. RJ's stories had called her a warrior, blades flashing through the dark. He believed it now. That kind of strength didn't vanish. It just waited.

If her body wasn't among the fallen, she was still out there. Still moving. Still fighting. The thought steadied him.

"You're certain it wasn't her?" he asked, then added more quietly, "Or Rick?" The man stood between him and what he wanted most, but Terence felt no anger for him. Not now.

"They were both gone," Woodsby said flatly. "We found tracks, but we couldn't follow—too open, too exposed. We don't know how many are out there. And we've lost contact with the Commonwealth."

Rachel frowned. "What do you mean, lost?"

"No comms," Woodsby said. "Alexandria's gone dark too."

The silence after that was heavy, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Terence's throat tightened. "So what are we looking at?"

"A coordinated strike," Woodsby said. "Whatever hit Rick and Michonne, it's the same thing that hit home and Alexandria. This place was next."

Terence nodded slowly. "They bought us time."

"Then we use it," Woodsby said. "CRM will come back. Count on it."

Rachel's voice broke through, firm and steady. "We've got the safe zone."

Terence turned toward her. "Safe zone?"

"Every Alliance community has one," she explained. "Fallback point. Stockpiles, comms, food. Enough to last awhile. Only leadership knows the location." She hesitated. "Ours is deep in walker country."

For years, they'd burned fields, cleared borders, and built walls high enough to forget the world outside. But the dead never disappeared. They waited in the silence—in the woods, in the ruins—until life made enough noise to wake them again.

"It's our only option," Woodsby said. "Arm everyone. Teachers, guards, the older kids—rifles. Younger ones get knives, last resort only. We keep them alive."

Terence and Rachel both nodded.

"Your people?" Woodsby asked her.

"They're ready. Go-bags packed. Weapons set."

"Then move. You take yours." His gaze cut to Terence. "You lead our civilians. I'll handle my soldiers."

Terence's jaw tightened as he nodded. Thoughts of Michonne pressed close, sharp and insistent, but he forced them down. She was out there, fighting her battle. His place was here—with her children.

Whatever came next, he'd keep them safe.

Woodsby's voice carried across the courtyard, calm and sure. "We move out in five."

The hallway stretched ahead, long and sterile, humming with the low mechanical thrum of power beneath the concrete. Rick kept his eyes forward as the soldiers escorted him, each step echoing in the emptiness. Their grips were firm, not cruel. Not yet.

He didn't ask where they were taking him. He already knew what a walk like this meant.

They stopped at a steel door. One soldier scanned a badge; the lock hissed and slid open.

Rick stepped inside and froze.

The room was almost a replica of the one where he'd killed Beale. And at the far end of the table sat Thorne.

Her wrists were bound behind the chair, shoulders squared, chin lifted despite the rifle aimed at her skull. Her face was carved from stone, unreadable, but her eyes—when they found his—burned with something fierce and unbroken.

Relief hit Rick first. She wasn't part of this. He hadn't been wrong to trust her.

Then came the terror.

If not her, then who?

The soldiers shoved him into the chair across from her. Thorne didn't flinch. Didn't plead. Just watched him—silent, steady, unreadable.

Time stretched thin between them. The air buzzed. The hum of the lights pressed against his temples. Her stillness scared him more than any gun could.

Then the latch clicked. The door swung open.

More soldiers entered, rifles raised, moving with quiet precision. They lined the walls, faceless behind black visors, turning the room into a box of waiting violence.

And then the last one walked in.

He was young—barely more than a boy. Blond hair, pale skin, the last traces of youth softening his jaw. But his eyes were sharp, almost feverish, a hint of chaos hiding under command.

He moved loosely, like someone who wanted to be watched. His gaze drifted over the scene before settling on Rick.

"We haven't met," he said, voice calm, clipped. He tapped his chest. "Mason. Mason Beale."

The name hit Rick like a live wire. Beale's son. He saw it now—the same jawline, the same hollow arrogance.

Rick glanced at Thorne. Her brow lifted slightly. A silent, bitter confirmation: yeah, this is some shit.

Mason sat between them with surgical precision, palms flat on the table. "You don't know how many times I've imagined this moment," he said. "Coming face to face with the man who took my dad from me."

Rick's jaw flexed, but he didn't rise to it.

"Your father was wrong, Mason," Thorne said evenly. "The people he wanted to wipe out—they were innocent."

"He was trying to save the world," Mason snapped.

Rick leaned forward. "He wanted control. That's all."

A flicker of something crossed Mason's face—grief, maybe—then it vanished. "He wanted order. To put things back the way they were."

Thorne gave a low, disbelieving laugh. "I can't believe this. After everything I taught you, after everything we built, you're still chasing ghosts."

Mason's jaw tightened, his eyes darting between them.

"I thought you could be better," Thorne said, voice softening, then hardening again. "But here you are. Wearing your father's shadow like armor."

The silence that followed was razor-sharp.

Mason's lips curved into a dark grin. "You really thought I'd just let it go? That I wouldn't make you pay for what you did to him?" He leaned back, smiling wider. "I played you. Used you. It wasn't hard."

Thorne's eyes flicked toward the soldiers—some shifting uneasily, the truth landing heavier than his words. A flash of hurt crossed her face before she swallowed it down. "It doesn't matter," she said. "The city won't let this stand. They know the truth now."

Mason shook his head slowly. "They don't have a choice. My people are already moving in. Taking back what's ours." He smiled faintly. "Guess you don't have as many friends as you thought. Which sucks for me…" His gaze slid to Rick. "But you—Rick Grimes—well, you've got someone who really cares about you."

The door opened again.

Two soldiers entered, dragging a woman between them. Her wrists were restrained, her spine straight, her face unbroken.

Michonne.

Air left Rick's lungs. He surged forward, the chair screeching back, until a rifle slammed into his ribs and forced him down. Pain barely registered. Only her.

Michonne's eyes locked on his. Calm. Sharp. Burning. No words. No panic. Just that silent rhythm between them—wait, watch, then we move.

Mason gestured, and the soldiers shoved her into his chair. He crouched beside her, voice dripping mock sympathy. "Sorry you got caught in this. Not the plan, but my men found you anyway. Lucky me, though. He loses you now. Gets to watch."

Michonne tilted her head, voice low and certain. "We're gonna kill you."

For a heartbeat, Mason hesitated. Then he straightened, raising his gun.

Rick's pulse hammered. Michonne didn't flinch. The faintest tilt of her chin, a shift of weight, the flick of her eyes in his direction: Wait.

He gave a barely visible nod. Ready?

Mason's finger tightened on the trigger.

The world exploded.

The blast ripped through the room—light, sound, and concrete collapsing into chaos. Dust filled the air. Rick felt the shockwave rattle his bones.

Mason stumbled.

Rick and Michonne moved together. She shoved off the table, her chair crashing into Mason, slamming him into the wall. His gun clattered away. She lunged, reaching for it—but Mason caught her ankle and yanked.

She twisted, kicked free, and rolled to her feet. He swung wild. She caught his wrist, pivoted, and threw him hard to the floor. He came up gasping, swinging again. She blocked, drove her knee into his ribs, then spun for the fallen gun.

Across the room, Rick drove his shoulder into the nearest guard, slamming him into the wall. They hit the ground in a tangle. Rick rolled, using his bound wrists like a weapon, looping the chain around the soldier's throat and yanking until the body went limp.

Thorne was already up. Free. Rifle in hand. She moved with brutal efficiency, dropping two soldiers before they could even aim.

Another soldier lunged for Rick. Still cuffed, he ducked under the man's swing and drove his forehead into the soldier's nose. The man went down hard.

A gunshot cracked through the smoke—Thorne's. One clean shot. A soldier lining up on Michonne fell where he stood.

Mason snatched a sidearm from the floor and fired. The bullet missed Michonne by inches, punching a hole in the wall.

She pivoted, raised his rifle, and fired once.

The round hit Mason in the shoulder. He stumbled, spinning into the doorway, blood darkening his jacket. Still, he pushed up and staggered into the hall, vanishing through the smoke.

"Rick! Don't!" Thorne shouted when he went after Mason.

He stopped, breathing hard, watching the empty doorway.

Thorne crossed the room fast, blade flashing as she cut through his restraints. Rick flexed his hand, blood coming back in a rush of pins and needles.

Michonne stood across the room, chest heaving, grit streaking her face.

He reached her in two strides. When they met, it wasn't gentle. Arms locked, breath caught, the world fell away. He pressed his face to her shoulder, exhaling everything he'd been holding in. She gripped him tighter, grounding him again.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads stayed touching. No words. None needed.

Thorne slammed the door, breaking the moment. Bolting it, her eyes scanned the shattered window—out of it, smoke rose over the city. "No idea what caused that blast," she said, voice steady again. "But it bought us time."

Rick turned toward her. "What happened?"

"Ambush," she said. "People I trusted. Should've seen it coming."

Michonne's tone softened. "So you don't have anyone?"

Thorne hesitated. "Thought I did." Her eyes hardened again. "Guess not. But we can't stay here."

"Where?" Rick asked.

"I've got a place. Guns, comms, and walls thick enough to regroup for the night. If anyone's left standing they'll expect me to go there."

"And if no one shows?" Michonne asked.

Thorne gave a quiet breath. "Then we find another way."

Michonne met Rick's eyes. One beat. One shared understanding.

Rick nodded. "We go."

Smoke still curled through the shattered ceiling as they slipped into the corridor—dressed in stolen uniforms, armed with scavenged rifles, ghosts at their backs, and more questions than answers.

The forest pressed in: wet earth, heavy air, shadows breathing between the trees. Every branch whispered like it carried a warning. Judith kept her katana low, both hands firm on the hilt just like her mom had taught her. Wrists loose. Shoulders down. Wait for the opening.

RJ walked close beside her, breath quick but even. She could hear it under the crunch of boots and the faint drip of water from the leaves.

Her parents should have been here. She kept seeing it—Mom out front, Dad beside her, cutting through the dark like they always did. But they weren't. Every second without them stretched thinner, tighter, until it hurt just to breathe.

"Mr. Davis," she whispered, voice smaller than she meant. "What did they find out there?"

He slowed just enough for her to see his face in the moonlight—drawn, tired, older than it had been that morning. "There was a fight," he said quietly. "Your parents and CRM soldiers. But they weren't there when they found the site." He hesitated, swallowing hard. "I think they're okay, Judith. They're strong. Stronger than anyone I've met."

She wanted to believe him. But hope felt thin—like smoke between her fingers.

"Hold!" a soldier barked from the front.

The column stopped. Teachers pushed the younger kids behind them, weapons up.

Judith froze. The sound came next—low, wet, and familiar. A moan. Then another. Her pulse jumped.

Walkers.

The first stumbled from the trees, alone and slow. A soldier stepped forward and cut it down easily. Then came the answering moans. Dozens. Maybe more.

"Formation!" someone shouted.

Gunfire cracked through the dark. Muzzle flashes lit the trunks in bursts of orange light. Walkers poured in from every direction, shadows breaking apart and reforming as they fell.

Judith crouched, forcing her breath steady as one came straight for her. Don't swing wild. Breathe. Step in. Slice out.

Before she could move, Mr. Davis broke forward. His blade—a short military knife—flashed, cutting clean through the walker's skull. He pivoted fast and fluidly. Not panicking.

Another came from her side. Judith stepped in, just like her mother taught her—pivot, swing. Her katana sliced clean through the neck. The body dropped. She didn't stop to think, angling the blade up through the next walker's jaw. The weight shuddered down the steel. She gritted her teeth, yanking free.

She turned—and froze. RJ wasn't beside her.

Her eyes searched through flashes of gunfire until she saw him—too far forward.

RJ darted from behind a log, hatchet gripped tight in both hands. He swung hard, cracking a walker's knees, then when it fell again, he slammed the blade into its skull.

Pride flared for half a second—then fear ripped it away.

A walker loomed behind him. "RJ!" she screamed.

He turned, and tripped.

The walker lunged, teeth snapping for his face.

She ran, lungs burning, but Mr. Davis was faster.

He shoved RJ aside and drove his knife straight through the walker's skull. It dropped—on top of him. Relief hit her like a wave, until another shape moved behind him.

"Mr. Davis!"

The walker's teeth sank deep into his calf before anyone could reach him.

The sound was small. Final.

"No!" Judith screamed. She swung low, her blade cutting through the walker's neck in one clean motion. The body fell away, but the damage was done.

Mr. Davis staggered, blood soaking through his pant leg. He gasped, catching the tree for balance before he dropped to the ground.

RJ just stared—frozen, trembling, the hatchet slipping from his hands. "Mr. Davis…"

An adult hand caught Judith's shoulder, pulling her back as the other teachers closed in on him. Voices blurred around her—urgent, hushed—but she couldn't hear them. She just watched.

The gunfire faded into the distance, the moans growing softer. But the sound of his breathing stayed. It was rough, uneven, and breaking.

Judith tightened her grip on the katana and blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. Because she knew what came next.

Rick pulled off his helmet. The stolen uniform clung to him—too tight, the fabric stiff with dried blood. He tugged at the collar, skin itching, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his focus. His eyes swept the room before settling on Thorne.

The bunker was bigger than it looked at first glance—two adjoining rooms carved straight from concrete and intent. The first was a staging area: crates stacked to the ceiling, spare uniforms folded with military precision, a wall lined with rifles, pistols, and boxes of ammunition. Against another wall, a single cot waited, thin mattress tucked in tight, a blanket folded at its foot.

Beyond a reinforced doorway, a second room glowed with the faint pulse of machinery. A long table held a comms rig—a tangle of radios, cables, and blinking lights, the heart of the place. Wires crept up the walls, disappearing into metal conduits overhead. Another cot sat in the corner.

Rick scanned it all. "What is this place?"

Thorne peeled off her jacket and tossed it over a chair. "It was Okafor. He saw it coming. Civil unrest, revolt. He tried to change the system from inside, but he knew someone would come for him eventually." The edges of her voice softened with memory. "This was his failsafe. Backup plans. People he trusted knew. He figured if the Republic burned, this is where he'd fight from."

She crossed to the radio table and brushed her fingers across the dials, almost reverently. "They were supposed to meet me here. Maybe they still will. But until then…" She exhaled. "We wait. We find out what's left of the city. Who's still alive. If anyone is."

The word wait hit the air and hung there.

Michonne stood still for a beat, then began pacing the narrow stretch of floor, arms folded tight. "No. No, I'm not holing up here while my kids are out there." Her gaze fell to the ground, and the words came rough, unguarded. "They need me. I need to know they're safe." She turned to Thorne, eyes blazing. "Good luck with your plan. But I'm not staying."

She grabbed her helmet and strode for the door.

"Michonne," Rick pleaded quietly. "Please."

She stopped, back straight.

"There's no way out without getting caught," he said. "You know that. If you go now, you don't make it." His voice wavered, just barely. "And if you don't make it… Well, I'm not letting that happen."

Her hand hovered near the handle, the muscle in her jaw tightening.

Rick stepped closer, the space between them charged, fragile. "I get it," he said, softer now. "But…" He reached for her shoulders, the touch grounding, familiar. "Trust me. Trust us. Whatever this is—whatever's coming—it's bigger than the CRM. Bigger than anything we've seen. The safest place for the kids right now is wherever they are—with people who know how to fight, how to keep them alive."

For a long moment, Michonne didn't move. Her breathing was shallow, eyes locked on the door. The tension between them thrummed like current—two storms pressed together, neither willing to break first.

Finally, she exhaled. The fight didn't leave her eyes, but it changed shape. "Fine," she murmured and turned toward Thorne, nodding at the comms rig. "What's the range on that thing?"

Thorne's gaze flicked over the dials before answering. "Farther than most. Strong enough to reach what's left of the old networks. But it's not fast. Not clean. It'll take time. And patience."

Judith lay on the stage of the abandoned mega-church—it's what she heard the adults call it—her sleeping bag drawn tight around her shoulders. The floor creaked beneath her with every shift, the sound echoing into the cavernous dark. Lanterns strung along the aisles cast long, trembling shadows up the high ceiling beams.

Soldiers watched from the risers, rifles in their hands, eyes sweeping the dark like predators guarding a den. The rest of the space had been transformed into a shelter—crates of water, stacks of canned food, blankets laid out across the pews. Every detail spoke of preparation, not comfort.

RJ lay beside her, staring up at the rafters. His fingers brushed hers. "Do you think… Mom and Dad are okay?" he whispered.

Judith squeezed his hand, her voice steadier than she felt. "Yeah," she said. "They're okay."

He hesitated. "And… Mr. Davis?"

Judith swallowed hard before forcing a small smile. "I'll be right back," she said, unzipping her sleeping bag.

The hallway behind the stage smelled of dust. The faded signs on the doors—Infant Room, Nursery, Toddlers—peeled at the edges, relics from another world. In one room, a crib leaned in the corner, stuffed animals slumped against its rails, a cracked sign above it reading Jesus Loves You. The words made her chest ache. Innocence didn't live here anymore.

She stopped short at the sight of Rachel slumped in a doorway, blood streaking her arms, exhaustion etched into every line of her face.

When she saw Judith, she straightened, trying to summon a smile. "Hey," Rachel rasped. "You're supposed to be asleep."

Judith's throat tightened. "Did you… lose people?"

Rachel nodded once. That was all it took.

"I'm sorry," Judith said.

Rachel exhaled through her nose, rubbing at her eyes. "Yeah. Me too."

Judith's gaze flicked down the hall. "Is Mr. Davis—?"

"No." Then she nodded toward the room behind her. "You can go in."

The triage room had once been the church's kitchen and dining room. Folding tables served as makeshift cots, sheets spread over them, bandages stacked in plastic tubs. Soldiers, teachers, Oceansiders—twenty or more—lay in rows beneath flickering lights.

She spotted Mr. Davis almost immediately. His lower leg was gone, bandaged tight, blood seeping through the wrap. Judith hesitated, then stepped closer and touched his arm.

He stirred, blinking. "Good," he breathed. His voice came rough, strained. "You're okay. RJ?"

"Yeah," she said softly. "He's fine. Because of you. Thank you."

A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Your mom would kill me if I let anything happen to you two."

That broke her. A small laugh slipped out—half joy, half grief—before it dissolved into tears. "I was so scared," she whispered. "I've never been so close to losing RJ. I—I thought I was done losing people."

He reached out, hand warm against hers. "He's fine. You're fine. That's how it's gonna stay."

She nodded, wiping her face, trying to believe him.

Then the door opened, and Woodsby's voice carried low across the room. "We're getting a signal," he said to another soldier. "But we don't know if it's real. Come listen."

Judith froze, then rose, glancing once at Mr. Davis. "I'll be back," she murmured, giving his arm a gentle pat.

The smaller room was dim, the air buzzing faintly with static. A battered radio sat on a desk, wires spilling over its edges. Woodsby leaned over it, tuning the dial.

Then, through the crackle, came a voice. "…Shoto. It's Daito."

Judith's breath caught. Her eyes widened.

"That's my mom," she whispered.

Michonne sat hunched over the radio, her fingers steady on the worn dials, tuning with careful precision. The speaker hissed and crackled, spitting static that filled the silence.

"Shoto, it's Daito. Do you copy? …Shoto, it's Daito."

Nothing. An hour of nothing.

She leaned back, rubbed at her temple, eyes burning.

Footsteps scuffed across the concrete behind her. Rick appeared, a dented tin plate in his hand—food rationed from the bunker's supplies. He set it beside her elbow.
"Anything?"

Michonne shook her head. "If they made it to the safe zone, she should be answering."

"Shoto?"

She glanced at him. "Judith's code name," she said softly. "I gave it to her before I left to find you. Just in case."

Rick nodded, gaze dropping to the plate. "You should eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I know," he said quietly. "But you need to."

Silence filled the space again. Somewhere in the other room, Thorne moved.

Rick eased down beside Michonne, close enough that their arms brushed. "I'm sorry," he said.

She turned toward him, surprised by the heaviness in his voice.

"I heard what you said back there in that basement," he went on, eyes fixed on the radio. "And I—" He drew in a breath. "I need you to know I wouldn't be here without you. All the way back to the prison, Alexandria… all of it. It was always you and me." He finally looked at her. "Us. Always. I just… got scared along the way. But I never let go. Ever." He searched her eyes. "You know that, right?"

Her throat went tight. Words crowded her mouth, but none made it past the ache in her chest. She just nodded, barely, her hands still trembling on the edge of the table. The air between them pulsed—grief and recognition, all wound too tight to name.

"I didn't know," she said finally.

Then the radio crackled.

A thin voice, faint and trembling, bled through the static. "…Daito… it's Shoto."

Michonne's hands flew to the dials. "I'm here," she said, voice shaking. "We're here. I'm with the Brave Man. Is Little Brave Man okay?"

Static swallowed the reply.

She hit the button again, breath catching. "Judith, is he okay?"

And then, faint but clear—"He's okay."

Michonne's body slackened, eyes closing in sheer relief. "Thank God," she whispered. "Where are you?"

Judith's voice came slowly, careful. "We're… where we're supposed to go… when things go wrong."

Michonne's gaze met Rick's. "They made it to a safe zone."

He exhaled, shoulders dropping for the first time in hours.

"You can't go home?" Michonne asked.

A pause. Then: "It's not safe. We can't get through."

"You have food? Water?"

"Yes."

"Good. Stay put. We're… where the Brave Man was," she said carefully. "But safe. Things are bad here too. Probably everywhere. But when it's over—when it's safe—we'll come for you. You hear me?"

There was a small, shaky breath. "Okay. I love you. Both of you."

Michonne's lips curved into a trembling smile. "I love you too."

She lowered the mic slowly, the hum of static fading to silence. Her eyes found Rick's—shock and relief written across his face.

He reached forward, his calloused hand steady on the transmit button. The faintest smile tugged at his mouth. "Shoto," he said, voice low but full of warmth, "this is the Brave Man. I love you."

Michonne spread a blanket across the cot tucked into the tiny room—an alcove barely large enough to hold it. A thin sheet separated her space from the rest of the bunker, offering the illusion of privacy if not the reality.

Across the hall, Thorne had already drawn her curtain. Her space was sparse and deliberate, weapons laid within reach—every motion quiet, economical. A soldier's solitude. Rick lay stretched out on a pallet in the main room. The bunker's air was thick, close, pressing down like the weight of the world above it.

Michonne's lantern light was soft and gold, flickering across the concrete walls. She peeled her white tank top from her skin, the fabric stiff with dried sweat and grime. She caught sight of a dark smear on the fabric—blood. Frowning, she reached back, fingers finding a tender spot near her shoulder blade. When she drew her hand away, it was streaked red.

"You were hit." Rick's voice came from the doorway—rough, immediate.

She turned as he crossed to her, worry etched deep across his face.

"It's just a graze," she said quickly. "I'd know if it wasn't."

He didn't argue. He stepped closer, eyes scanning her back, breath steady but taut. His hand hovered, then dropped to his side as he exhaled. "Just a graze."

Before she could move, he nudged her gently toward the cot. "Sit."

He disappeared for a moment, then returned with a battered tin of supplies. She sat still as he lowered himself beside her, the cot groaning beneath their combined weight. The warmth of him pressed close.

The sting of antiseptic hit her skin as he cleaned the wound. He worked with the kind of care born from habit, fingers firm but gentle. The silence was deep, intimate. Only the soft scrape of cloth and their slow, measured breathing filled the room.

"Brave Man, huh?" Rick said after a moment, voice low, the hint of a smile in it.

Michonne's lips curved faintly. "When they were little, they used to tell each other stories. About you. What you did. RJ started calling himself Little Brave Man—it stuck."

The cloth stilled against her skin. She felt him swallow behind her, his silence heavier than words.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. Just the quiet rhythm of care—the swish of fabric, the rasp of his breath.

When he finally tied off the bandage, his fingers lingered, brushing her skin. He didn't move away. His gaze stayed fixed on her shoulder, but the weight of it was somewhere else—on everything unspoken between them.

"Ya know," he drew out, voice roughened with regret, "I'm mad at the time I missed. Judith's growing up. RJ's first words. First steps. All of it—gone." His jaw tightened. "I did this. I made those choices. But that time… I'll never get it back."

Michonne turned her head slightly, meeting his eyes over her shoulder. Distance, loss, and something else passed between them.

"You're back now," she said quietly. "That's what matters most to them."

He hesitated. "Does it matter to you?"

Her chest tightened. The first answer that came was the truth, and she let it fall without censor. "Yeah."

Rick's breath hitched, just barely. His hand rose, brushing her cheek—tentative, searching. She didn't pull away.

He leaned closer, and his hand rose, hesitant, brushing her cheek.

She didn't pull away. She couldn't.

But he paused, his lips inches from hers, as if waiting for her to stop him. For one heartbeat she almost did—fear, anger, the ache of ten years screaming in her head.

And then, before she could speak or move away, his lips met hers, holding. Suspended in a breathless euphoria so fierce neither of them could bring themselves to break it.

Rick pressed deeper. It wasn't hunger, not yet. It was fragile. A plea. A reminder.

She let him lead, yielding to the warmth and intent in his touch. And then—God help her—she kissed him back, tipping over the edge into something raw and undeniable.

The restraint she had clung to slipped, first in tremors, then in a flood she could no longer hold back.

At first, it was only lips meeting lips, tentative as if either of them might break apart at the slightest pressure. Rick's hand trembled against her neck, the roughness of his palm both familiar and foreign.

The kiss deepened, unspooling slowly, then fast, until Michonne was clutching at his clothes with a desperate need to rid him of them. His hand skimmed her back, finding the curve of her waist, fingers splaying against warm skin.

She gasped when his lips broke from hers, trailing along her jaw, down the slope of her throat. The sound startled her. It had been so long since anyone had drawn it from her. So long since it had been him.

Her body trembled, her mind a storm—don't give in, don't you dare—but the storm gave way to the fire building in her chest. "Rick," she whispered, half-warning, half-prayer.

He lifted his head, eyes locking with hers, raw and searching. "I never stopped loving you. Not one day. Not ever."

Tears threatened, but she pulled him back down, silencing him with another kiss. Her hands moved over him, pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin.

Clothes fell away in uneven haste, and soon his weight was above her, pressing her into the thin mattress. His body was familiar, yet not—stronger. Still, it fit against hers like memory foam.

When he entered her, slow, reverent, she arched against him with a broken sound.

They moved together, not frantic but steady, as if relearning each other. His lips brushed her cheek, her temple, her mouth between ragged breaths. She clung to him, not only for pleasure but because she was terrified that he might disappear again.

"I'm here," he whispered against her skin, as if he knew.

And when release came, it wasn't just physical—it was the undoing of years, the rediscovery of something neither of them had ever truly lost.

Rick woke with his arm still draped across Michonne, her warmth pressed into him, her breathing shallow and even. For one fleeting moment, he let himself forget everything outside the bunker—the blood, the chaos, the inevitable fight. For the first time in years, there was only her. Only the weight of her body against his, the quiet rhythm of her breath, the fragile peace of survival.

His hand flexed against her waist, memorizing the curve of her, the softness beneath calloused fingers. He wanted to brand the feeling into memory, carry it into whatever storm waited beyond these walls.

It hit him hard how much he'd missed this. Missed her. The nearness and rightness of her beside him. Even after he'd come home, he'd feared he'd never get to feel this again. Now, with her here, his chest tightened with a gratitude too big for words.

Michonne stirred, stiffening against him. She slid from beneath his arm with practiced care—too quick for him to coax her back—and rose from the cot.
The emptiness she left behind felt colder than the years he'd spent without her.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

"Fine," she said, clipped, already reaching for her shirt. "I'll see if Thorne's heard anything."

Her tone stung.

He swung his legs over the side of the cot, the old ache in his knees catching up with him. "Michonne—"

She stopped but didn't look back.

He reached out, hoping for something—contact, reassurance, anything—but she stepped aside, the movement small yet definitive.

"Our kids are out there." Her voice wavered, just enough to betray the steel beneath it. "They're all that matters. I won't ever put them second again."

Rick's protest caught in his throat. He saw her—the warrior, the mother, the woman who'd carried the world on her back—and knew she was unshakable when it came to protecting their children. Still, the ache in him deepened.

She finally looked at him and in her eyes, for the first time, he saw it: regret.

The realization twisted inside him. He had held her again—after ten years of ghosts and silence—and now he feared losing her all over.

Before he could speak, the bunker door rattled beneath a heavy pounding. Instinct took over.

They moved in sync, grabbing weapons and dressing fast. No time for words.

Rick's gaze met hers for a fraction of a heartbeat before they rushed into the main room.

Thorne stood at the door, gun raised, her stance wide. "If that door opens," she muttered, "we fire. We don't—" She stopped mid-sentence, head tilting toward the sound. The pounding came again—steady, deliberate, coded. Recognition flashed in her eyes.

She holstered her weapon. "That's mine."

Rick hesitated, lowering his gun. Michonne's fingers loosened on the handle of her gun as Thorne undid the locks. The door swung open.

Chaos spilled in.

Soldiers stumbled through the threshold, uniforms slick with blood, eyes wide with shock. Some were carried, limbs hanging limp; others clutched wounds that wouldn't stop bleeding. The bunker, silent seconds ago, erupted into noise—shouts, groans, the metallic scent of blood filling the air.

Cots were dragged out. Crates split open. Morphine, bandages, orders. Panic blurred into purpose.

Rick pressed his back against the wall, scanning the scene, pulse thundering.

And through it all, Thorne moved like lightning—issuing commands, directing triage, her voice cutting clean through the chaos.

Cornwall leaned against the wall of Michonne's room, blood dried into dark tracks across his cheek. He breathed like a man who had been holding too much for too long. Rick, Thorne, and Michonne gathered around the map spread across a small table, the bunker's dim light turning lines and pins into something urgent.

"We already hit the destroyers," Cornwall said, voice raw. "Right before they were set to move yesterday."

Rick's jaw tightened. "Where?"

"Alexandria. Oceanside. Commonwealth. Mason was trying to scorch any place that could resist him. If we hadn't hit when we did, those strikes would have started before dawn."

Thorne's face went still. Cornwall's words hung in the air; Rick watched Michonne's hand clamp on the table, knuckles tightening as she swallowed the possibility of what they'd almost lost.

"Once we broke our allegiance," Cornwall continued, "the people joined us. It bought time. But it turned everything volatile. The streets are chaotic."

Thorne stepped closer, eyes flinty. "How many of our people are left inside the CRM?"

"Enough to feed us intel," Cornwall said. "Men risking everything. They told us Mason still has boots on the ground—loyalists to Beale, heavy firepower. But we know his lines now; we know his next steps. That's the leverage."

Rick leaned over the map. Mason's command post—the courthouse—sat painted in thick red ink. "So what's the play?"

"Cut the head off," Thorne said flatly. "Take Mason out. His network fractures without him."

Cornwall tapped a block on the map. "Most of Mason's foot soldiers are staging here—barricades, checkpoints, men who shoot first and ask later. They obey orders. When orders come from the wrong hands, those men become the wrong men."

A long breath escaped Thorne. "We can't let them live," she said. Her voice carried no sermon—only cold decision.

Rick felt the old churn of anger, but it sat next to something harder: the sober arithmetic of survival. "They chose their side," he said. "We end this."

Thorne crouched and sketched into the margin—a plan unfolding in hurried strokes. Alleyways shaded, chokepoints marked. "We use their confidence against them. They think the streets belong to them. We take the roads away. Trip-lines at the approaches to cripple vehicles. Caltrops and nails to slow columns. Then we collapse a couple of old buildings on the main route—chaos, confusion, broken momentum."

Cornwall tapped the pencil against the paper. "We'll need demolition rounds from the hangar, pipe charges on trip-wires, timber wedges for controlled collapses. Someone has to bait them—lights, movement—pull the column where we've set it."

"And Mason?" Michonne asked, voice level but small.

The name settled heavy in the circle.

Cornwall looked at all of them. "A small strike team—led by you three—goes for Mason. We know his hide. You move fast, quiet. When the city ruptures, the rest of us push the play in the streets."

"How do we signal the insiders?" Thorne asked.

"When the last charge goes, the main archway by the square goes dark." Cornwall's finger traced the route. "That blackout triggers the flare lines. Our people know—the fires mean it's time. Mason cleaned house; his inner circle is small. That puts you on your own when you get in, but it's manageable."

He checked his watch and the paper map as if they might contradict one another. "We go at night. Civvies for everyone. Clear rules of engagement. Know who the enemy is before you pull the trigger."

Silence pooled around the plan. Each of them felt the weight of the choices pushed onto the table: strategy, yes, but also the lives that would hinge on whether the ropes held.

"We do this?" Rick said, his eyes on Michonne. "We take Mason?"

She nodded. They weren't fighting this war just for these people.

Rick found Michonne in a sliver of quiet behind a stack of crates, out of sight from the rest. The bunker buzzed with movement—boots scuffing, guns loading.

He held up a Kevlar vest.

Michonne gave him a look, hand outstretched. "I got it."

He didn't hand it over. "C'mon."

She sighed and lifted her arms. He slid the vest over her shoulders, cinching the straps tight across her ribs. His hand moved slowly—careful again, but not for the same reason as last night. His ego was too fragile to risk touching her, only for her to pull away.

She tugged a shirt over the vest, then a flannel. Rick reached out automatically to flatten the collar. Her eyes flicked up, and his hand froze midair before falling back to his side.

He cleared his throat. "There's somethin' I need you to know."

Michonne tilted her head, guarded. "What?"

He met her gaze, steady. "What happened last night. That wasn't a mistake you made. It was love. Maybe you forgot what that feels like, but that's what it was. No matter what you tell yourself."

He tightened the last strap, the sound cutting through the heavy quiet, then stepped back.

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and walked away.

The streets burned. Firelight licking the edges of shattered glass and the ribs of overturned merchant stalls. Smoke hung thick and chemical-sweet, the air tasting of oil and scorched wiring. Far off, a blast rolled the ground—Cornwall's diversion—and the sound answered through the city like thunder. It had worked; most of Mason's men were moving north, drawn to the noise.

Rick moved like a shadow through the ruins, crouched low, revolver loose in his hand. Every step crunched on grit and glass. Up ahead, Thorne's fist rose in a clean, practiced signal. Her silhouette cut the orange haze, hard and sure.

Two soldiers stood at the next intersection. Rick's pulse tightened. Michonne slid up beside him, gun ready, breath slow as a metronome. They shared a glance that needed nothing; she melted into the darkness at the alley's edge.

One heartbeat. Two.

A muffled thunk. The first soldier folded without a sound. Before the second could pivot, Rick squeezed the trigger—a single, precise shot swallowed by the city's distant roar. The man crumpled where he stood.

"Clear," Michonne whispered.

They moved again, ghosts among wreckage, shoulder to wall, using debris and shadow as hide and shield. Around them the city convulsed—shouting, sporadic gunfire, flames snapping—but their path held an eerie, concentrated quiet.

Thorne cut through a half-collapsed lane, voice low. "Courthouse tower's two blocks east. Most of Mason's men are tied up north. Keep low, keep close."

Rick scanned the ruined facades, eyes catching every darkened window.

Michonne's arm brushed his as they slipped past a smoldering sedan. The contact was slight, but he felt it, a current beneath the armor of the night.

They eased into the square. Firelight ate the courthouse's broken face. A handful of loyalists hunched behind makeshift barricades, eyes flicking north where the city screamed. They were tired and skittish men who'd been ordered into something they hadn't chosen.

Rick dropped behind a charred sedan and mouthed, "Quiet. Clean. No alarms."

Michonne's gun flashed once in the low light. "On you."

Thorne checked her gun, fingers practiced and spare. "Make it fast."

The doors gave under Rick's shoulder, splintering open. He went low, revolver up, scanning through the ornate, empty entry. Michonne slipped in beside him, gun drawn, every muscle coiled tight. Thorne covered their rear, rifle steady, her team wedged between them in a disciplined line.

They moved fast through the main hall. A staircase loomed ahead. Rick led the ascent, Michonne right behind him, gun angled for the next strike. Thorne's gun swept the dark behind them, clearing corners with crisp, practiced precision.

Halfway up, Rick said, "We're good to go up another flight," he murmured. "Watch for traps."

They climbed. The air thickened, smoke threading through cracks, carrying the faint tang of cordite. At the top landing, light flashed and smoke exploded. A burst of bullets screamed down the hallway. Metal pinged. Plaster burst.

"Left side!" Thorne barked.

Rick dove behind the reception desk, firing tight, measured bursts. Two soldiers went down hard. He looked up—Michonne had already vanished into the smoke. A second later, a muffled cry cut short; her silhouette moved like a blade through fog. Rick fired again, dropping the last gunman.

"Clear," Michonne whispered, voice low, certain.

They pushed forward. The city thundered beyond the walls, but this corridor was its own world of echoes. Thorne motioned them on. "Courthouse tower's ahead. Move."

They ran. Every flight of stairs was another gauntlet—doors bursting open, soldiers shouting, gunfire cracking in confined space. Rick fired from cover; Michonne cut through close quarters with silent, brutal precision. Thorne's squad covered their six, picking off stragglers, advancing in sync. Step by step, they carved their way up through the tower.

At last, the top floor. Rick halted at the door, breath ragged, he peeked through its glass, catching in the drifting smoke. "Clear as far as I can see," he said—though the tension in his voice said he wasn't convinced.

Michonne's hand closed over the handle. Rick nodded once. She eased it open.

They entered slowly. The room beyond the narrow hallway they moved through to get to it was chaos frozen—papers scattered like snow, overturned chairs, the silence of something abandoned in haste. "We split," Rick said. "Mason's gotta be here. Once you find him hit fast, hit hard and—"

A gunshot cracked from the hall. Rick spun, instinct snapping taut. Michonne wasn't behind him.

"Shit!"

He bolted, bullets slashing the air. Thorne slid into cover beside him, returning fire. "Go! I've got you!"

Rick sprinted down the hall, ducking low, weaving through shattered light. He slammed through the stairwell doors—and froze.

Michonne lay slumped against the wall, one hand pressed to her abdomen, blood seeping fast. A dead soldier sprawled beside her.

"Michonne!" He dropped to his knees, panic flaring hot and helpless.

"They were hiding… in the rafters," she gasped, voice shredded by pain.

Rick's hand shook as he tore open her vest, peeling back Kevlar slick with blood. The wound gushed. The bullet was lodged deep. He pressed his palm down hard, desperate to keep her tethered. "Stay with me. Stay with me."

Thorne appeared, half-limping. "Fuck." She stripped her off and ripped it into long strips. "Tourniquet. Now!" she yelled, handing it to Rick.

He tied it tight around Michonne's waist, hand slippery with blood. "Don't close your eyes," he whispered, voice breaking as he watched her fade away.

"Finish it," Michonne breathed. "Don't—don't stop."

"That's not happening," Rick said. "Not this time."

"The hospital," Thorne said sharply. "My people are there. They can save her. I'll take Mason."

Rick met her eyes and nodded, jaw set. He pulled Michonne's arms over his shoulder and cradled her. She was too light in his grasp, her head lolling against him.

"Hey," he murmured, voice raw. "Stay with me, baby. You hear me?"

He ran. Down the stairs, every step a thunder in his chest until he reached the main hall.

Then—

"Leaving so soon?"

The voice cut through the ringing in Rick's ears. He froze, turning slowly.

Mason stood behind them, smirking, a detonator glinting in his hand.

"The fun's just begun," Mason sneered. His thumb pressed the button.

The world exploded.

The blast tore through an upper floor—the tower. Rick hit the ground hard, curling over Michonne as debris rained down in a deafening storm. The air turned to fire and dust; glass and concrete rained from above. His lungs seized as he coughed through grit, arms locked around her, his palm pressed firm against the bleeding wound at her side. Blood slicked through his fingers, hot and endless.

Mason stepped through the haze, the detonator clattering away as he drew his gun. His boots crunched over the rubble. "Every time I make a plan, you ruin it, Rick," he snarled. "You two were supposed to be up there." His gaze flicked down at Michonne. "Though it looks like she's already on her way out. Guess that means all I have to do is take care of you."

Rick's jaw tightened, rage and desperation threading through his voice. "You won't win," he growled, through the hot tears rolling down his cheeks. "Even if you kill me today—you've already lost this place."

Mason's smile was thin, cold. "Me killing you is how I win." He raised the gun, arm steady.

Rick didn't move. His eyes stayed on Michonne, her breathing ragged, trembling against him. His blood-slick hand stayed pressed to her side.

"Look at me!" Mason barked, fury cracking in his voice. "Look at me!"

Rick leaned down, brushing a kiss across Michonne's forehead, voice soft and certain. "I love you." He lifted his head, meeting Mason's gaze, above the barrel of the gun.

"Yeah." Mason racked the slide. "This is how I win." His finger slowly pulled back on the trigger.

A single gunshot pierced the air.

Rick flinched, but felt no pain.

He stared at Mason: eyes wide as blood gushed from a hole in his chest. He stumbled backward, collapsing to the floor. Smoke curled from his back, blood pooling on the concrete beneath him.

Behind Mason, Thorne staggered toward Rick, coughing, skin streaked with soot and blood but alive, gun still smoking in her hands.

Rick didn't speak. He only held Michonne tighter, feeling the faint rise and fall of her chest. The building groaned around them, dust falling in lazy spirals through the smoke. For a second, he couldn't move. His mind was blank, ears ringing, body locked in that one impossible truth: she was still breathing.

Then a rough hand gripped his shoulder. "Rick." Thorne's voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent. She was limping, half-burned, coughing through the dust, but her eyes were clear. "We have to move. Now."

Rick blinked hard, the world snapping back into motion. The ceiling above them cracked, another tremor rippling through the walls.

He nodded, tightening his hold on Michonne. "Help me."

Together, they lifted her—Rick cradling her shoulders, Thorne grabbing her legs. Debris shifted underfoot as they stumbled toward the exit, the building moaning with each step.

1 week later

The curtains fluttered in the late-morning breeze, carrying the scent of grass and the distant lake through Michonne's open window. She sat propped against the pillows on her bed, watching the leaves fall from the tree outside, letting their slow descent push back against the pain still throbbing at her side.

RJ and Judith lay on either side of her in their school clothes, their quiet restlessness stirring the stillness.

"It's gonna be weird going back to school… after everything," Judith said, twisting a french braid around her finger. "Mrs. Swanson's class is combining with mine until they find her replacement." Her tone was light, but loss clung to the edges of it.

Michonne reached over, smoothing Judith's hair. Her fingers lingered, the familiar act both soothing and painful.

"Yeah," RJ murmured. "I'm sad Mr. Davis won't be there."

Michonne frowned. "Mr. Davis?" Her voice was slow, her memory hazy from recovery. "What happened?"

RJ's tone grew serious. "He… saved me. Out in the woods. A walker came after me, and he stopped it. Lost his leg doing it. He's still rehabbing."

Her chest tightened. Relief and guilt collided. The man had risked everything for her child and she hadn't so much as given him a fleeting thought since she'd been home.

The door opened. Rick stepped in, balancing a tray. His calm filled the room before he spoke. "Meds and breakfast for Mom," he said gently, setting it on the nightstand. Then he turned to the kids. "And school for you two. Go pack up.

Judith kissed Michonne's cheek. RJ hugged her tight, lingering longer than usual.

"I'll be right there to walk you," Rick promised, and they slipped out.

When the door clicked shut, he turned back, lifting the glass of water and pills.

She could've done it herself. But he didn't hesitate. He didn't ask for thanks. He never did. He was just there. "You could've just called me down," she said, trying to tease but sounding more weary than amused.

"You're still recovering," he said simply. "Let yourself be taken care of."

"Fine," she murmured, swallowing the pills under his watchful eye.

He sat beside her, fingers resting lightly on her leg through the blanket. The silence between them was tender and charged, and it ached. She wanted to reach back, to meet him halfway. The past week they'd fallen into a fragile rhythm that looked almost like normal life. He was gentle, patient, and loving. Sometimes his touch lingered longer than it used to, and she let him. But they both knew there was a line he still couldn't cross. He still slept in his room; there had been no intimacy beyond what her recovery required.

"What are you feeling for lunch?" he asked softly. "I'll go shopping after I drop them off."

"You're not going to work?"

"They gave me a few more days," he said, his gaze steady, searching hers.

She tilted her head, half-teasing. "Go to work, Rick. I don't need a nurse hovering around. I'll just sleep all day anyway. You gonna watch me?"

He grinned faintly. "You joke, but… that actually sounds like a great day to me."

Michonne grabbed a pillow and lightly smacked his shoulder. "Go to work."

He laughed, low and warm. "All right. But promise me you'll stay in bed one more day. Ezekiel will tell me if you try to go in."

"I promise," she said softly.

Rick's gaze lingered, full of unspoken love and patience.

She managed a faint smile and looked away, forcing down the storm inside her. "You should get going," she said quietly. "Or the kids'll be late."

He hesitated, something unreadable flickering in his eyes—disappointment, maybe, or simply understanding. Then he nodded. "I'll see you later," he murmured, brushing a soft kiss across her forehead before standing.

Michonne watched him leave, her heart full and heavy all at once. The world outside was calm again. But inside her, something restless stirred—a longing to meet him where he already was, to give him everything she once could so easily.

She wasn't ready. And what terrified her most, was the thought that maybe she'd never be.

The physical therapy wing smelled of sweat and antiseptic, sunlight struggling through tall windows that overlooked the lake. Machines chugged softly, the steady rhythm of recovery filling the air.

Terrence gripped the parallel bars, a new prosthetic strapped where his leg used to be. His shoulders flexed with effort, arms trembling, sweat cutting bright lines down his temple. He gritted his teeth and took another shaky step.

"Damn thing hates me," he muttered.

From behind him came a voice—warm, teasing, unmistakable. "Or maybe you're just stubborn."

He froze, breath catching. When he turned, Michonne stood in the doorway—slightly haggard from healing, but her eyes were bright.

Relief flickered across his face, raw and unguarded. "Didn't you just get shot?" he said, half-smiling.

She grinned and shrugged. "It's been a week."

He barked out a laugh, the sound caught somewhere between pain and joy. "Touché."

Before he could say more, she crossed the room in a few quick steps and wrapped her arms around his waist. He hesitated only a second before pulling her in, arms circling her shoulders.

Later, they sat in the small therapy lounge, mugs of lukewarm coffee between them. Through the windows, the lake shimmered in the light, rippling in the breeze.

Their banter came easy again—small jokes, old rhythms resurfacing like muscle memory. She teased him about his grumbling; he teased her about sneaking out of her room.

"You're the worst patient," Terrence said, leaning back in his chair. "I can't even use the 'I lost a leg' card around you—you'd still out-stubborn me."

She smirked. "That's because you don't know when to quit."

"Neither do you."

"Guess that's why we're both still here," she said softly.

The words lingered, quieter than before.

His smile faded, replaced by something gentler, heavier. He turned toward the window, then back to her. "You know, Michonne…" His voice was softer now, almost tentative. "I love you."

Her breath caught. "Terrence…"

He met her eyes. "I almost died, and I realized I should just start saying how I feel."

The world seemed to slow around her. The only words that came to mind were thank you, but that felt cruel. The other words—I love you too—would've been crueler, because they wouldn't have been true. Her thoughts scrambled, reaching for honesty—gratitude, affection, confusion—but none of them fit neatly into the space between them.

Before she could speak, he leaned toward her—not rushing, not demanding—and his lips brushed hers. The kiss was soft, uncertain, testing the line between comfort and confession.

For a heartbeat, she didn't pull away.

And she realized it wasn't because she needed it, but because he did.

Dinner passed in uneasy silence.

Michonne watched Rick across the table. He moved methodically, answering Judith and RJ in clipped sentences, barely looking up. His eyes were distant, fixed somewhere she couldn't follow.

She wanted to say something, to reach across, to bridge the space, but the words stayed locked behind her teeth.

When the plates were empty, the kids split off to finish their homework, and Rick rose and carried the dishes to the sink. She followed, stacking the rest beside him, trying for lightness, for normal. "I think that was your best meal," she said softly.

He was quiet, didn't look at her.

"You okay?" she asked.

He didn't answer right away. The sound of running water filled the space between them. Then, still facing the sink, he said, "RJ. Judith. Finish your homework upstairs."

RJ opened his mouth to protest, but Rick's tone ended it. "No arguments."

Their footsteps faded up the stairs, leaving the downstairs too quiet.

Rick turned. His gaze met hers, and something in her chest clenched hard.
"I went to the rehab center today," he said quietly.

Michonne froze.

"I overheard them this morning," he said, his voice rough, fraying at the edges. "Judith and RJ. Talking about Mr. Davis. How he saved RJ. Lost his leg doing it." His jaw tightened. "I thought… I should thank him. For keeping them safe when I couldn't." He paused, his next words heavier. "But I guess we had the same idea."

"Rick…" Her throat tightened. "It wasn't what you think—"

"Then what was it?" he asked, his tone wasn't angry—just tired, hollow. "Because I need to know if I'm being a fool for holding on. For believing that maybe… maybe you still want this. Us."

"Rick—"

"What are we doing, Michonne?" His voice rose—not in anger, but desperation. "Because I know what I want. You. This family. But not like this. Not with you shutting me out at every turn."

"I'm not shutting you out—"

"You are." His voice broke on the words. "You think I don't see it?"

"Stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Is it him?"

Her head snapped up. "Don't."

"You love him?"

"That's not—"

"Then what is it? Because I felt it, Michonne. Back there in the Republic. I know you did too. So why won't you just admit it? Why?!"

Her voice tore out before she could stop it. "I can't do this again!" The words cracked through the air, jagged and raw. She braced herself against the counter, breath shuddering, fists tight.

"When I lost you," she said, voice trembling, eyes darting away, "I forgot how to be without you. I lost myself, Rick. I lost time with our kids because I couldn't let you go. And when I finally found you, what was it all for?"

Her jaw clenched. "So what I'm doing now isn't about you. It's about me. The only way I know how to hold on to what's left of myself. I can't—" She swallowed hard. "I won't get lost in you again… in us, again."

Rick stood still, his hand gripping the edge of the sink. His voice came low, fragile. "So everything we were… everything we had… that's all it'll ever be now?"

Michonne's gaze flicked up, then fell again. "I… I don't know."

The silence after that felt endless.

Rick's shoulders slumped. He nodded once and turned back to the sink. The sound of dishes filled the room again, harsh and mechanical, the echo of a life they both fought to rebuild but weren't sure they could ever live in the same way again.

A few mornings later, Michonne stirred awake at the faint murmur of voices down the hall. Whispering. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and limped into the hallway.

The house was dim and still, shadows stretching long across the floor. She followed the voices until she reached Judith's room, where a sliver of warm light spilled through the cracked door.

Inside, Judith crouched over a duffel bag, folding clothes with quick, deliberate motions. RJ sat on the edge of her bed, chin in his hands, eyes downcast.

"I don't get it," he whispered, voice small but tense. "Why would we go without Mom?"

Judith's hands stilled mid-fold. The certainty in her movements faltered. "It'll be fine," she said softly, though her tone carried the strain of someone trying to convince herself as much as him.

Michonne pushed the door open wider. "Hey, guys," she said, keeping her voice calm. "What's going on?"

RJ's head snapped up. His eyes darted toward Judith, searching.

Judith glanced up at her mother, then back to the half-packed bag. After a beat, she straightened and said carefully, "You should ask Dad."

Michonne stopped in the doorway of the guest room.

The bed was stripped, bags stacked neatly against the wall. Rick moved with quiet purpose, fastening the last strap.

Her pulse hitched. "What… is this?"

He straightened, meeting her eyes. "We're going to Alexandria for the weekend. To visit Carl. Help with the rebuilding after what the CRM did there."

"Without me?" Her voice came out sharp.

Rick rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. "I thought you could use some space. From me. From all this." He took a step closer, his voice steady but low. "To figure out what you want. Because I know what I want."

He reached into his pocket and drew out a small ring, the metal worn smooth with age. Turning it between his fingers, he said quietly, "You. For the rest of my life."

His voice broke slightly as he went on. "I held you in my arms, bleeding out. I didn't know if you'd make it. And I realized then—I'm done living with only half of you. I want all of you. Maybe that's selfish, but…" He extended the ring between them. "If it's not me, Michonne, I need you to say it."

Her hand trembled near the ring but didn't touch it. Every muscle in her body held tight, suspended between longing and control.

Rick's expression softened as he retracted the ring, but his voice stayed firm. "I talked to Ezekiel. There's an open apartment nearby. If you choose another path, I'll move there. The kids will still have both of us. But I can't keep doing this halfway."

He grabbed his bags and moved toward the door, boots soft against the floorboards.

Michonne stayed frozen, her breath shallow.

At the door, he paused and set the ring on the dresser before brushing past her.

Then he was gone—his footsteps fading down the hall, leaving only the echo of everything he'd offered, and everything she couldn't yet bring herself to reach for.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

The house was too quiet.

Michonne sat at the dinner table, fork poised against her plate, the scrape of metal on porcelain louder than it had any right to be. She wasn't used to silence that didn't mean danger. There wasn't Rick's voice in the next room. Or RJ's laughter tumbling up the stairs. Or Judith humming softly to herself.

Just her.

She took another bite of the meal Rick had left behind; it was enough food for the entire weekend. God, that man. He was always thinking ahead and always thinking of her.

She was grateful. Truly. But gratitude came laced with guilt, because even now, he was giving when he had nothing left to give.

The food tasted flat. After a few more bites, she set the fork down and looked toward the counter, where the ring waited.

She didn't decide to move; her body simply did.

The ring caught the lamplight, small and unassuming. No diamonds, no flourish. Just a narrow band, smooth, worn at the edges. That was what made it beautiful. It looked built to last. The kind of ring you could live in. Work in. Survive with.

It seemed to hum faintly, as if alive—a pulse of warmth she could almost feel on her skin. She stood there, close enough to sense its pull, but she didn't touch it. Not yet. She wasn't ready for what it asked of her.

Michonne turned away.

The bath came next. Steam curled around her shoulders, heat tracing the shape of her collarbone, her scars. The water was hot enough to sting the skin beneath the stitches in her abdomen, but it couldn't thaw the cold lodged behind her ribs. She sank lower until the surface sealed over her ears, muting the world to the slow thud of her heartbeat.

Even underwater, her thoughts found her.

Later, she tried a movie—an old romance she used to watch with Judith when RJ was asleep. The violins swelled; two people swore forever through their tears. Halfway through, she turned it off. Too much. Too close.

By the time she dimmed the lanterns, the house felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for her to give up.

Then came a knock.

Three short raps—patient, unhurried. Someone who knew she was home. Her pulse jumped. Maybe if she stayed still, they'd leave.

But the silence pressed back, heavier than the knock itself. Before she knew it, she was crossing the room.

Nabila stood on the porch, arms full of mismatched grocery bags—bread, wine, a tub of hand-churned ice cream peeking out the top. Behind her were Maxxine and Princess, the latter balancing a newborn swaddled in a blanket so small it didn't seem real.

"Hey," Nabila said, stepping inside before Michonne could speak. "I saw Rick and the kids come in without you, and I just… had a feeling."

Michonne blinked. "A feeling?"

"The way he looked—and the fact that you weren't there. I couldn't not come. Told Jerry to watch our kids and caught the next train."

"I told her she was overreacting," Maxxine murmured, shutting the door behind them. "Sorry we just showed up."

"I'm not sorry," Princess said. "I needed a postpartum jailbreak. Mercer's been hovering like a hawk. I love the man, but he's driving me insane." She shifted the baby toward Michonne. "Here. Hold him. My bladder's on strike."

Before Michonne could protest, the baby was in her arms—small, warm, breathing steady against her chest. The weight of him undid her. Tears gathered before she even understood why.

"Oh, Michonne…" Maxxine whispered.

"I don't even know why I'm crying," she said, voice trembling.

"Babies have that power," Nabila murmured, rubbing her arm.

"Come on," Maxxine said softly. "Sit with us."

The house changed as they settled in—voices filling corners that had been empty all day. The smell of bread. The sound of soft laughter. For a while, they talked about nothing: crops, repairs, the small details of rebuilding. Michonne even laughed once. The sound startled her.

Then came the quiet again, the kind that waits for truth.

Maxxine leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You wanna tell us what happened?"

Michonne hesitated, then exhaled. "He left. Took the kids to Alexandria. Thought I needed space."

A silence. Then Nabila asked gently, "Do you?"

"I thought I did," Michonne said. "When he told me he was going, I felt… relieved. Like I could finally breathe. But he's been gone half a day, and—" Her voice cracked. "And I miss him. God, I miss him. Even when it hurts to be near him, I still—" She pressed a hand to her chest, searching for air. "I never stopped missing him. Not since that bridge. Not once."

No one spoke.

"Love's a bitch," Princess said finally, uncharacteristically subdued. "People act like it's supposed to feel safe, but it doesn't. Not after everything. It's like someone ties you underwater and says, trust me, you won't drown."

They stared at her.

"What?" Princess muttered. "I can be profound sometimes."

Michonne laughed, soft and broken, then fell quiet again. "All this time, I thought he gave up on us. That he moved on. But he didn't, I know that now. Every damn thing he did was for us. For me. And I—" She swallowed hard. "I walked away. I let myself believe he was gone. I gave up."

"No," Maxxine said, her voice stern. "You didn't give up. You lived. That's what you were supposed to do." Her hand closed over Michonne's. "You're not the same woman he lost. You've changed. You had to. And that's okay."

Nabila nodded. "The question is whether this you—the woman standing here now—still truly loves him. If the answer's no, that's fine. But if it's yes, and you just let him go—that's what's not okay."

The fire cracked softly.

The baby sighed in Princess's arms.

Michonne turned toward the counter, toward the ring waiting there in the lamplight.

She didn't move. Didn't speak. But the air between them shifted, charged with something like a held breath, like the moment before a promise is made.

The next morning, Michonne paused outside Terrence's door in the rehab center, hand hovering midair before she finally knocked.

"Yeah, come in," he called, voice warm, familiar.

She stepped inside.

Terrence sat propped against a pillow, the prosthetic resting against the wall beside him. He looked up and smiled with an easy grin that always arrived before the words. "Well, look who it is," he said. "You just missed the big event. Three steps without falling. I think that earns me a parade." But when his eyes found hers, really found them, the grin faltered.

The air shifted.

He looked away, then back again, forcing a half-smile that didn't hold. "We should get out of here," he said suddenly. "You, me, the kids. Oceanside, maybe. Steal a jeep, get some salt in the air. Maybe this time we actually enjoy the water."

She frowned. "What?"

Terrence exhaled, half-laugh, half-sigh. "Just trying to distract you," he said. "Figured if I talked long enough, maybe you'd forget you came here to break up with me."

Her heart clenched. She crossed the room slowly, sat beside him on the edge of the bed. The sheets were rough beneath her palms.

"Terrence," she said softly. "Thank you. Your friendship, it's meant more than I can say."

He nodded once, jaw tight, eyes kind. "But Rick's the love of your life," he said quietly.

For a moment, words wouldn't come. She'd always thought the love of your life meant the one who burned brightest, the one who consumed everything. But she saw it now: it meant the one who saw every version of you—scarred, silent, changed—and loved you still. And the one you could love the same way back.

"Yes," she said finally. "He is."

Terrence's mouth curved into a small, bittersweet smile. "He's a lucky guy." He hesitated, something tender and unguarded flickering in his eyes. "I should thank you."

"For what?"

"For reminding me I could do this again," he said. "Before you, I didn't think I could love anyone after my wife. Didn't think it was possible."

Tears pricked at her eyes. "Whoever gets you," she said, voice breaking, "they'll be the lucky one." She stood. The floor creaked under her boots. At the door, she paused, hand resting on the frame. "Do you think we can still be friends?" she asked, voice small but steady.

He looked down for a long moment, then met her gaze. "I'm gonna need some time for that," he said. "But… I'll see you at drop off."

Michonne nodded. "I'll see you at drop off."

She turned and walked out, the soft click of the door swallowed by the quiet hallway.

Outside, the morning wind cut clean and cold across her skin. But beneath it, something inside her, something long locked away, finally exhaled.

Judith hunched over the coffee table in Gracie and Aaron's house, brow furrowed, lips moving as she counted under her breath. Outside, hammering echoed from the south wall, the steady rhythm of Alexandria stitching itself back together.

"Math or history?" Gracie asked, tapping her pencil against her own workbook.

"Both," Judith said without looking up. "Math first, though."

Gracie snorted. "You're the only person alive who volunteers to do math."

Judith shrugged, pencil still moving.

Gracie leaned back in her chair. "You've been quiet today."

"Just thinking."

"About your parents?"

Judith hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Things are just… weird right now. Dad's here, but it doesn't feel like I thought it would."

She pressed her eraser into the page, leaving a faint smudge. "I used to think when he came back, it'd fix everything. Like we'd just pick up where we left off. I dreamed about it."

For a moment, only the sound of hammers filled the air.

Gracie set her pencil down. "My dad says family doesn't have to be perfect," she said quietly. "It's just… what we make it."

Judith looked up, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "Yeah. I think your dad's right."

Before Gracie could answer, footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Aaron appeared in the doorway with a walkie in his hand, breathing hard, eyes wide with something close to disbelief. "Hey, where's your dad?" he asked.

Judith blinked, straightening. "South wall. He got an early start. Why?"

Aaron grinned—breathless, bright. "You two need to come with me. Now." He was already hurrying out the door.

They didn't ask questions. They just ran.

By the time they reached the main gate, voices were already rising, murmurs rippling through the crowd. People were gathering, turning, and pointing.

And then Judith saw them, two figures stepping through the gate.

Daryl, first—leaner, older, the crossbow slung over his shoulder, his hair tied back and streaked with gray. The sunlight flashed off the bolts at his hip, small sparks of silver fire. Beside him, Carol moved with her quiet grace, silver hair bright in the sun, eyes sweeping the crowd with the calm of someone who's seen every type of storm.

For a heartbeat, Judith couldn't move. The world seemed to still—the hammering, the chatter, even the wind pausing.

Then she ran. "Uncle Daryl!" she cried, voice breaking as she collided with him.

He laughed, that rough, familiar sound, and lifted her clean off the ground. "Hey, kid," he murmured, setting her down. "Look at you. Taller every damn time."

Judith clung to him, half laughing, half crying. When he let go, she turned, and there was Carol.

"Aunt Carol."

Carol's smile trembled. "Hi… honey." She pulled Judith close, holding her tight, eyes shining. When she drew back, her hands framed Judith's face, thumbs brushing tears from her cheeks. "You've grown so much." She looked up and around. "Where's RJ?"

"At the playground with Jerry."

Daryl stepped closer. "Why aren't y'all at the Commonwealth, huh?"

Judith wiped her face, catching her breath. Then she smiled and reached out, taking both their hands. "Come on," she said eagerly. "There's someone you need to see."

The three of them turned toward the south wall, sunlight glinting off the scaffolding ahead.

The sun still burned hot through the haze, even with the day half gone.

Alexandria's south wall rose before Rick—jagged, bullet-pocked, half mended, half raw. The air smelled of sawdust and iron, sweat and smoke.

Rick lifted the hammer again. His palm blistered, his shirt clung to his back, and each swing felt heavier than the last. The rhythm had become its own kind of penance.

He needed the work.
He needed the noise.

Every strike was a thought he couldn't say aloud.

Maybe I shouldn't have pushed her.
Maybe I should've been grateful.
Maybe what we had was enough—her alive and the kids safe.

But it wasn't. If she didn't want what he still wanted, they'd just be co-parents. Strangers breathing the same air. And the thought hollowed him out in ways the CRM never could.

He wiped a forearm across his brow, squinting into the glare. The hammer hung heavy in his hand. For a moment, he just stood there, the chorus of hammers ringing around him, citizens rebuilding what the world had tried to erase.

Then—

"Dad?"

He turned.

Judith stood at the edge of the site, boots dusted with dirt, wind tugging strands loose from her braid. And beside her—

Daryl.

For a moment, the world tilted, light and sound draining until there was only that familiar, impossible figure standing there. The hammer slipped from his hand, hitting the dirt with a dull thunk.

Daryl's mouth curved into a half-smile. His skin was road-worn, scarred, but the eyes, his eyes were the same. Steely. Unbreakable.

Rick's throat worked, but no words came.

"Gonna stand there all day, old man?" Daryl drawled, voice rough as gravel.

Rick took a step. Then another. Then he was moving.

They collided in a hug. It wasn't graceful. Hands gripping tight, arms locked, years collapsing in on themselves. For a long, raw second, neither breathed. Ten years of loss and searching and not knowing came crashing into that single heartbeat.

Rick's hand found the back of his brother's neck. His voice came cracked, unsteady. "You're alive."

Daryl laughed, a sound scraped from somewhere deep. "Me?"

When they pulled apart, both men blinked hard, pretending not to. They stood there—two ghosts, survivors of different wars, somehow still here.

Rick's gaze drifted past him.

Carol stood a few steps behind, arms at her side, short silver strands of hair stirring in the wind. Her face was calm, unreadable, but her eyes shone wet in the sunlight.

"Carol…" Rick's voice broke.

She smiled, that small, knowing smile that said everything and nothing. "Rick."

He didn't hesitate. He crossed the distance and pulled her in. Her arms came around him without a word. "Thank you," he said, voice muffled against her shoulder. "For my kids. For everything."

She held him close. "It takes a village, right?" she murmured.

When they parted, his eyes found Judith again, standing a few feet away, proud and teary, watching him with a quiet strength that mirrored her mother.

Rick exhaled a laugh, shaking his head as if to wake himself. "Last I heard, you two were out on some mission that never ended."

"Yeah," Daryl cut in, glancing at Carol with a half-smirk. "Guess it just took us a while to find our way back."

Rick looked between them—the two constants in every version of his life. The ones who'd carried his family when he or Michonne couldn't. His chest tightened, eyes burning. "Guess we all made it home," he said softly.

Aaron's house pulsed with life.

Laughter rolled through the rooms—deep, easy, threaded with the clink of tin cups and the low murmur of voices. The air smelled of stew. The table was full again: familiar faces, new ones.

Daryl and Carol sat near the hearth, telling the story of what they'd seen out there, the long miles, the ruins, the strange new worlds they'd walked through and somehow survived.

Rick listened, smiling with them at first.

But as the night deepened, the warmth around him began to feel far away, like a memory pressed under glass.

Michonne should've been there.

She should've been beside him, hand in his, laughing at Daryl's stories, giving him shit the way she always did. This was the moment he'd dreamed of through all those lost years: home, safety, his people. But not without her.

He stared down into his drink, the firelight trembling in the amber. It wasn't anger that filled him, just ache. The kind that sits quiet behind the ribs and never really leaves.

After a while, he stood and slipped outside.

The night was cool, the world washed silver under the moon. Half-built walls loomed out of the dark, pale timber ghosting against the sky. The hum of crickets underscoring the faint laughter still spilling from the windows behind him.

He stood on the porch, breathing it in—the sound, the silence, the life returning.

Footsteps creaked across the boards. He didn't need to look to know it was Daryl.

For a while, they stood side by side without speaking. The quiet between them had always been easy, the kind forged in blood and years.

Daryl finally broke it. "Still can't believe you're here, man."

Rick huffed a low laugh. "You're telling me?"

Daryl nodded toward the walls, half-finished in the moonlight. "The people who had you, they did that?"

Rick hesitated, the air suddenly heavier. "Yeah," he said quietly. "They did."

Daryl studied him, the firelight from inside catching the scars along his jaw. "Everything good now?"

Rick's eyes stayed on the wall. "They're trying to make it right," he said.

Daryl gave a slow nod, his voice even softer now. "So, Michonne's back at the Commonwealth?"

Rick's jaw flexed. "Yeah. She is."

The silence deepened, thick with what they didn't say.

Daryl shifted, glancing toward the dark road. "Everything good with you two?"

"I don't know." He rubbed a hand over his beard, eyes tired. "I fucked up."

Daryl nodded once. "Did you make it right?"

It had gnawed at him since the moment he'd boarded that train—the apology he'd never given her. He'd told himself his actions were enough to show remorse for the hurt he'd caused, that she'd understand without the words. But deep down, he knew words were what she needed; after all, it was words that had broken them. He just hadn't had the courage to admit how deeply he'd failed her. The apology had stayed lodged in his throat, heavy and unfinished, the one thing he still owed her. And now, it was too late.

Rick pushed off the railing, squaring his shoulders. "I'm gonna put in a few more hours. We're leaving tomorrow, and that wall's not gonna build itself."

Daryl's mouth twitched. "Ain't ever gonna change, huh?"

Rick turned, that old lopsided grin flickering through. "Wouldn't know how."

He stepped off the porch, his shadow stretching long across the dirt.

The day had burned itself out. The hammers had gone quiet hours ago; only one still sounded—Rick's.

He worked beneath the streetlamp light, sleeves rolled high, hand raw and blistered. The wall rose before him, half rebuilt, every plank another act of penance. He wasn't sure anymore if he was building for repair or redemption. He only knew that he couldn't stop.

He paused, leaning into the boards. Sweat ran into his beard. The world was hushed but for the cicadas and the distant whisper of the river—that, and the emptiness pressing in from all sides.

Maybe he'd asked too much.
Maybe she was gone for good this time.
Maybe all they'd become was history and habit.

He stared down at his hand, the deep lines and the tremor in his fingers, and felt the ache bloom sharp in his chest.

He lifted the hammer again, but his hand stalled midair.

And then—

"You need some help with that?"

The hammer slipped. It hit the dirt with a dull thud.

He turned.

She was standing there, haloed in the streetlamp light.

Michonne.

Her shirt was dusted from travel, exhaustion clinging to her shoulders like smoke. And yet, there was something steady in her stance. Something unbroken. Her eyes shimmered, wet at the edges.

Rick blinked once, disbelieving. His breath hitched.

For a long heartbeat, neither spoke. The air between them hummed—charged, fragile, like a wire drawn too tight.

"Michonne…" Rick took a step forward, voice catching. "I'm sorry."

Her brows knit, just slightly.

"I left you alone," he said, his voice raw. "I let you think I didn't love you—that what we had was gone. I hurt you. I know I did. And I'd take it all back if I could. Every mistake. Every mile between us." The words came unevenly, carved from somewhere deep. "And no matter what you decide, I need you to know that I'm sorry. If you give me another chance, I promise I will never leave you alone again."

When Michonne finally spoke, her voice trembled, but it carried. "Loving you has been the scariest thing I've ever done," she said. "Because loving you means believing that life can give me something back after it's taken everything. And I didn't think I had that left in me. Not after losing you and almost losing myself."

Her hand dropped to her side. A tear traced down her cheek. "But I do," she whispered. "I do… and now I know what I want."

Rick's voice came rough, unsure. "What's that?"

Michonne reached into her pocket and drew out the ring, shimmering in the dark. It caught the light like something living. "I want you to ask me," she said, barely above a breath.

He stared at her, at the ring, at the impossible grace of this moment, the miracle of a world that somehow still offered second chances.

Then, slowly, Rick slid off his glove and let it fall.

He stepped toward her, close enough to see the reflection of the sky in her eyes. His hand brushed hers, and he took the ring from her trembling fingers.

Rick held the ring between them. "It's a broken world, Michonne," he said, voice raw, stripped of everything but truth. "But you're the only thing that ever made it right… Until my last breath, I'm yours. " He sank to one knee and took a moment to compose himself before looking up at her with burning eyes. "Will you marry me?"

The tears came freely now, catching on her smile. "Yes."

Rick rose, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her—soft at first, then certain. A kiss that folded years into a single moment.

When they finally broke apart, the stars had begun to pierce the blue.

They barely made it through the door of Rick's bedroom in Aaron's house, and when the door closed, Rick was there. Hands on her face, her hair, her back, pulling her in like he couldn't bear another inch of distance. Michonne met him halfway, her mouth finding his.

It wasn't gentle. It was years of silence breaking open; all the loss, all the waiting, all the things they'd never said.

The room was dim, lit only by the street lamp glow bleeding through the window. Their shadows moved across the walls as they stumbled toward the bed, breath catching between them. Every touch felt like something remembered, rebuilt.

The world outside fell away.

It was just them, together again, after too long, the space between heartbreak and home finally gone.

Later, moonlight drifted across the room in long, pale ribbons.

Outside, the trees whispered in the wind, soft and distant. Inside, only their breathing filled the space, rising from the tangle of sheets.

Rick lay on his side, one arm wrapped around her. His fingers traced idle circles against her skin.

Michonne stirred, turning toward him. Her lips brushed his mouth—a kiss quiet and deliberate, more promise than urgency.

When she pulled back, he was watching her.

"What?" she asked, voice low, a ghost of a smile in her voice.

Rick rubbed a hand over his face, half grin, half disbelief. "Part of me wants to leave it alone and just be grateful," he said quietly. "But I'm curious… what changed?"

Michonne's hand found his chest, palm resting over the steady beat beneath his ribs. "I realized something," she said, eyes open, steady on his. "That I'd rather love you and risk losing you than spend another day pretending I can live without you."

Rick's throat worked. He reached up, brushed his thumb along her cheek—reverent, like touching proof. "You won't lose me," he said. "Okay?"

Her voice came softer, a whisper swallowed by the dark. "Okay," she said, tentatively.

And in that moment, Rick knew that though she'd said yes, he'd have to earn it every day—her complete trust. And he would.

The smell of breakfast filled Gracie and Aaron's kitchen—eggs, toasted bread, a hint of wood smoke curling from the stove. Morning light streamed through the windows, turning the cluttered table to gold.

Judith sat beside RJ, both in their travel clothes, packs leaning against the wall. Across from them, Gracie sipped the last of her chocolate milk while Daryl, Carol, and Aaron nursed coffee that had gone lukewarm.

The room hummed with a peaceful calm that didn't happen every day.

Judith nudged her brother. "Bet you five you fall asleep on the train again."

RJ smirked without looking up. "Bet you ten you snore louder."

Daryl chuckled, shaking his head. "Some things don't change." He glanced at Judith. "So… how's Connie?"

Her face lit up immediately. "She's good. Real good. Still single."

That mischievous spark in her voice made him grin. "Stop."

She blinked. "Stop what?"

He tipped his chin, smirking. "You know what."

The others chuckled.

"Good morning." The voice came from the doorway.

Judith turned, mid-laugh, and froze. Her mom stood there beside her dad, their hands laced together. "You're here." And before she could register that, Judith's breath hitched. "Wait, are you two?" Her eyes darted between her parents.

Michonne smiled, eyes shining. She nodded.

Judith was out of her chair before the word yes even landed. She crossed the kitchen in two strides and threw her arms around both of them. Rick laughed, the sound rough, surprised, as he folded her in. RJ followed, short arms looping around their waists until the four of them were tangled together in tears and laughter, all of it blending into one long exhale.

When Michonne finally looked up, Daryl was watching from near the window. She crossed to him without hesitation. He met her halfway, and they held each other. No words, just that deep, solid embrace built over years of finding their way back to one another.

"I'm glad you're home safe," she murmured.

He gave a short nod, voice rough. "You too."

Carol stepped forward next, smiling.

"Took you two long enough."

Carol laughed, the sound soft.

Rick joined Michonne's side, his hand finding hers again as he looked around the room—the faces, the warmth, the impossible weight of having all of them in one place.

He turned to the kids. "How do you two feel about staying one more day?"

The old chapel stood at the edge of Alexandria, half-hidden by ivy and evening mist. Sunlight spilled through cracked stained glass, laying fractured color across the stone floor. The air smelled of wildflowers.

Inside, someone had laid white linen along the pews—patched, hand-stitched, soft against the worn wood. Candles flickered near the altar, their flames steady and gold in the hush.

Rick stood at the front beside Judith, his hands clasped loosely, trying to even his breath. He'd faced death a hundred times and never once felt this unsteady. His heart was a drum in his chest, wild and relentless.

He'd dressed simply: Aaron's cleanest white shirt, sleeves rolled once at the wrist, and slacks.

The room was full, familiar faces washed in candlelight. Carol and Daryl were near the front; Aaron and Gracie were beside them. The quiet hum of whispers, soft as prayer.

Then the doors opened. And time stopped.

Michonne stepped inside.

A pale scarf draped around her shoulders, a few wildflowers tucked at her temple. She wasn't in a gown, just a cream dress, light and simple, brushing her calves as she moved. But she was luminous. Every step she took carried the weight of all they'd survived—the miles, the years, the losses that hadn't been enough to break them.

Judith's quiet sob broke the silence.

Rick couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. It felt like the world itself was holding still for this one moment. Never in his life had he ever felt so undeserving.

Michonne's eyes found his, and she smiled—small and full of light.
No music played. The sound of her and RJ's footsteps as he escorted her was enough.

When she reached him, she stopped close enough for him to feel her breath. "You clean up well," she whispered.

He smiled back, his voice raw. "You look beautiful."

Gabriel cleared his throat, his tone soft, reverent. "Family," he said. "We stand here not just to witness a union, but to remember, even in a world like this, love endures. It survives the fire, the loss, and somehow… it still chooses to begin again."

Michonne's fingers slid into Rick's. He gripped her hand like an anchor.

"Rick. Michonne. After everything this world has taken, you stand here giving something back, hope." He nodded toward Rick. "You both have words you'd like to express to each other."

Rick turned to face Michonne, and their hands stayed locked. "You're my heart, Michonne. My reason. My home. And I swear—whatever comes—you'll never have to wonder again if you're loved. Till my last breath, I'm yours."

Michonne's tears shone in the candlelight. Her voice was quiet, but strong. "I never could have imagined this. But it could have only been you. I can't wait for the rest of our lives. For who we get to be… together."

They exchanged rings and vows, and then Gabriel let the moment rest before he continued. "By the strength of the promise between you, and the grace that's carried us this far… I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Rick's breath trembled.

"You may kiss your bride."

He didn't wait. He cupped her face and kissed her, deeply. The kind of kiss that felt like coming home.

Judith cheered through her tears. RJ whooped beside her. Carol laughed, pressing a hand to her mouth. Daryl looked down, shaking his head with a smile that didn't hide the glint in his eyes.

When Rick and Michonne finally pulled apart, their foreheads touched.

The candles burned brighter. The air felt new.

Gabriel whispered, "Amen."

Judith slipped her hand into RJ's; Carol reached for Daryl's arm.

Rick and Michonne turned toward their family. He raised their joined hands, and the cheers grew louder.

Together, they stepped forward.

Out of the chapel and into the rest of their lives.

1 week later

Rachel led Rick and Michonne down a narrow path through the dunes, sea grass brushing their legs, the scent of salt and pine heavy in the breeze. Ahead, the ocean stretched wide and bright, the sun bleeding gold across the horizon. The cabin waited near the edge of the water—small, weathered, beautiful in its simplicity. Its porch faced the sea with paint faded by years of wind and salt.

Rachel stopped at the steps and turned with a grin. "Here we are. Private, stocked, and quiet. The tide stays calm throughout the week. Enjoy it, lovebirds."

Rick laughed, tipping his head in thanks. "Appreciate it."

When she disappeared down the path, Michonne slipped her hand into Rick's.

"You like it?" he asked.

She looked toward the sea, eyes soft. "It's perfect."

They climbed the steps together, the boards creaking beneath their boots. When Rick pushed the door open, the scent of cedar and sea air drifted out.

Inside, the place was simple. It has one bed draped in white sheets, a small stone hearth, and a single window framing nothing but blue.

Rick set their bags down, glancing around with a faint smile. "Guess this is home for a few days."

Michonne turned toward him with that familiar spark in her eyes. "There's only one rule I have for this honeymoon."

"Yeah?" He raised a brow. "What's that?"

Her lips curved. "You can not get me pregnant."

Rick blinked, caught off guard, then laughed, a sound rough and easy, full of disbelief. "It's been ten years since we've been together, Michonne. Ten years. And you expect me not to—"

"Rick." Her tone carried warning, though the smile never left her face.

He chuckled, scratching his beard. "Why not?"

"Because," she said, folding her arms, "I'm done with diapers. And I like my sleep. And I don't have time to chase a toddler around."

Rick took a step closer, slow and deliberate. "That so?"

"Mm-hmm."

Another step. His hand found her waist. "You sure?"

"Positive."

He leaned in, voice low. "You're sure?"

"Rick…" She tried to sound stern, but a laugh caught in her throat.

He kissed the curve of her neck, the words a murmur against her skin. "Say it."

"Rick—" Her breath hitched, the protest melting.

"Alright," he said finally, smiling against her shoulder. "No more babies."

"Promise?"

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, sunlight caught in the blue. "I promise"

Michonne laughed, looping her arms around his neck. "I'm gonna hold you to that."

Ten Years Later

The sun rose slowly over the fields of the Grimes Farm, spilling gold across the frost until the world glittered. Morning light caught on the fence rails, the windmill, and the dark, rich soil ready for spring. The Grimes farm stretched wide.

Rick walked the pasture line toward the barn, his boots crunching over the frozen ground. His beard had gone silver at the edges, his hands still calloused, steady. Time had weathered him, but not worn him down. He carried himself with the same quiet strength.

"Ellie!" he called, scanning the barn. "Where'd you run off to, sweetheart?"

"Over here, daddy." Her voice was high and bright, the sound of wind through new leaves.

He followed it to the old pen, and there his eight-year-old daughter was: crouched beside a small pig, its flank streaked with mud, one leg scraped and bleeding.

"He's hurt," Ellie said, her voice small but certain. She had grass in her curls and dirt on her knees; his little girl was too kind for a world that had once forgotten how to be gentle.

Rick crouched beside her, the chill biting through his knees. "Looks like he got himself tangled in the fence," he said softly. "We'll fix him up."

Together they worked: Rick steadied the little animal and Ellie dabbed the scrape with a wet cloth. When the bandage was tied and the pig calmed, Ellie grinned, proud and radiant.

"I'm gonna call him Wilbur," Ellie said. "Like from Charlotte's Web."

Rick froze at the memory from back at the prison that flashed, then a smile crept across his face at how much she was like her oldest brother, even though they'd never met. "Yeah," he said finally. "That's a good name."

The pig squealed once, content, before toddling back toward the trough.

Rick rose, brushing dirt from his hand, before extending it to help her up. "Where's your brother?"

"With the horses," Ellie said, brushing straw off her jacket. "He said he's gonna try and ride Comet again."

Rick shook his head, laughing under his breath. "Of course he did."

He lifted her into his arms. "Come on," he said, bending down for her to hop on his back. "Let's go get your brother before he breaks his leg again."

They left the barn and hurried through the field together, her laughter carrying on the morning air. The frost melted under the slow warmth of the sun. Beyond them, the farmhouse stood white and bright, smoke curling from the chimney.

The road back home wound through tall pines and winter grass. Michonne rode steadily, sunlight glinting off the silver hilt of the katana strapped across her back. She hadn't drawn it in years, but she carried it still.

In the distance, the Commonwealth skyline shimmered, wind turbines turning slowly above the old city blocks, rail lines gleaming like veins of light stretching toward the horizon. What had once been a fortress of survival had become something greater: a city-state, the heart of a growing network of settlements bound by trade, learning, and law. The rail lines connected farms, coastal towns, and even the river ports. Markets bustled again, schools had reopened, and for the first time in a generation, people lived without fear of what might be waiting outside the walls. Civilization—fragile, hard-won, but real.

But home wasn't the city. Home was the farmhouse over the ridge, where fences were mended and a wreath hung on the gate. After the rebuilding—the long years of clearing roads, reopening trade, and stitching the Commonwealth back together—they'd been granted this land as a thank-you for the work they'd done. Rick had built the house himself, board by board, the way he once built walls: with his hands and the need to make something that would last. Smoke curled from the chimney, and warmth seemed to spill from the windows even before she reached the door.

When she stepped inside, the air wrapped around her like a blanket—cinnamon, sugar, and wood smoke, the scent of peace.

Laughter carried from the kitchen. Rick stood at the counter, sweater sleeves rolled, a dusting of flour across his forearms. Beside him, their ten-year-old son, Noah, was kneading dough with exaggerated concentration. Their third-born was sharp and bright-eyed.

Ellie stood on a stool, her curls tied back with a red ribbon, small hands smudged white with flour.

"Don't press too hard," Rick said, trying not to laugh. "You'll scare it."

Noah rolled his eyes. "You can't scare dough, Dad."

"Sure you can," Rick said. "You scare it, it stops rising. Happens every time."

Michonne leaned against the doorframe, smiling as she watched them.

Rick noticed her first. "Hey," he said, voice low and warm. "You're home early."

She pulled off her gloves, setting them on the counter. "Council meeting went fast. People are ready to shut down for the holiday. Trade convoys already left for the coast this morning." Her gaze softened. "Besides, I missed you. So I might've rushed a little."

He brushed the flour from his hands, leaned in, and kissed her.

"Mom!" Ellie chirped, waving her over. "Look! We made cinnamon rolls!"

Noah grinned proudly, holding one up—golden, imperfect, steam rising from its edges. "First batch."

Michonne raised an eyebrow, pretending to inspect it. "Looks good"

He nodded solemnly. "Try it."

She tore off a piece, still warm between her fingers, and took a bite. Cinnamon and sugar melted on her tongue. "Mmm." Another bite. "That's good."

Rick leaned an elbow on the counter, watching her with that quiet amusement she'd never stopped loving. "They've been up since dawn," he said. "Said they wanted to make breakfast for the homecoming."

The boy ducked his head, grinning. "We saved you the best one."

Michonne bent and kissed the top of his curls. "You sure did."

Rick turned back to the dough, Ellie giggling as she sprinkled too much sugar.

Michonne moved beside him, reaching for a bowl, the small domestic rhythm calming her as it always did.

Then came the sound of tires on gravel, a low crunch that broke the morning calm.

"They're here!" Ellie whispered, eyes wide.

Before Michonne or Rick could say a word, both kids bolted for the door. Their boots thudded and cold air rushed in as they burst outside.

A truck rolled to a stop by the fence, dust trailing in the pale winter light. Judith stepped out of the passenger side. RJ climbed down after.

"Judith! RJ!"

Ellie and Noah tore across the yard, voices bright in the cold. Judith laughed as Ellie collided into her, spinning her little sister in a circle while RJ dropped to a knee, pulling his brother into a rough, joyful hug. The sound of it all filled the air like music.

Rick and Michonne stood on the porch, side by side. Their hands brushed; an instinctive touch.

Rick's eyes followed the four of them in the yard—all that life, all that proof. His throat tightened; the air felt too big for the moment.

"Hey, Mom!" Judith called, still holding Ellie close. "Hey, Dad!"

Michonne smiled, waving.

Rick's voice came rough, almost breaking. "Welcome home."

That afternoon, Michonne stood in the doorway, watching her daughter fasten a necklace made from an old bullet casing engraved with her name.

"You look beautiful," Michonne said.

Judith smiled. "Thanks."

"Work's good?"

"It's great. We're opening another safe-route station north of Hilltop next month. More trade, more travel."

Michonne nodded, pride and worry twining in her chest. "You always were the brave one."

Judith laughed. "You sound like Dad."

Michonne smirked, fixing a loose braid. "We've been together too long," she joked.

Judith caught her hand. "You happy, Mom?"

Michonne hesitated—not for doubt, but awe. Her gaze drifted to the window, where she could see Rick moving in the yard, golden light catching the dust around him, the faint whir of a windmill turning beyond.

"Yeah," she whispered. "I'm happy."

The garden slept beneath a thin veil of frost, its beds trimmed neat and waiting for spring. A few hardy flowers still stood through the cold—pale hellebores, clusters of snowdrops, and the last stubborn stalks of witch hazel glowing amber in the late light.

Rick knelt by the fence, pruning shears in hand, the breath from his nose rising in faint curls. RJ crouched beside him, gloved hands cupped around a bloom.

"These ones are still growing," RJ said, awed. "In this weather?"

Rick smiled, cutting a stem and holding it up. "Winter flowers don't quit easy. You just gotta know where to look." He brushed frost from the petals. "Besides," he added, straightening, "it saves me a trip into town every time your mom wants flowers for the table."

RJ laughed. "That's why you grow them? For Mom?"

"Why else?" Rick's grin was soft.

RJ stood, tucking a few blooms into the basket at his feet, and for a moment, Rick saw flashes of both his parents in him—Michonne's focus, his own easy mien.

"How's teaching going?" Rick asked, clipping another stem. "Heard you got certified for upper grades."

RJ's face lit up. "Yeah, they're rebuilding the entire north wing and turning it into a middle school, and Principal Davis said I could teach my own class next school year. I feel like I'm actually doing something that matters. You know?"

Rick nodded. "You are," he said simply. Training the next generation. That's good work."

"Do you think I could come stay here for the summer break? I miss you guys. Ellie and Noah are growing too fast."

"Of course. You don't need to ask. Just because you live in the city now doesn't mean you don't still have a place here. Your room will always be yours. No matter how much Ellie tries to convince us to turn it into her own personal playroom."

RJ laughed.

"You can stay as long as you want, son."

"Thanks, Dad."

Rick rested a hand on his shoulder. "I'd like that. Be good to have you home again for a bit."

Snow fell slowly and steadily, soft against the dark windows of the farmhouse. Inside, warmth spilled from every room—golden light, laughter, the hum of voices layered over the faint crackle of a Christmas record spinning in the corner. The scent of roasted vegetables and cinnamon carried through the air, heavy and sweet.

Judith moved through it all, her heart and hands full—plates, hugs, greetings. It was chaos, but the good kind. The kind that felt alive. Her dad had built, brick by brick, a home big enough to hold them all.

Jerry was the first through the door, arms wide, his laugh booming. "Merry Christmas, family!" Behind him came Nabila, smiling as their teenagers squeezed past, already heading for the food. "Don't touch the pie yet!" she called, but they were gone.

Gracie and Aaron followed close behind, hugging Judith tight. "You made it," Judith said, smiling into her shoulder.

"Wouldn't miss it."

From the kitchen came Princess's voice, bright as ever. "Where's the wine? Baby—tell me you remembered the wine!" Mercer appeared behind her, shaking his head, a bottle already in hand. Two small kids darted between their legs.

Carol arrived next, bundled in soft gray. Ezekiel walked beside her, hand resting gently at the small of her back. They smiled like people who had found their way home twice over.

Then Daryl stepped in from the cold, snow dusting his jacket. Connie was at his side, her hand sliding into his, her eyes bright as she spotted Judith. Behind them came her sister, signing something quick and fond before joining Gabriel, who'd just arrived with Rosie—taller now and carrying the confidence of Tia Rosita.

Mr. Davis followed, carrying a tray of bread, his pregnant wife at his side. "We didn't want to come empty-handed," he said sheepishly. Michonne smiled, guiding them toward the fire. "You're family now. The only thing you need to bring is yourselves."

Judith stood back for a moment, taking it all in—the light on her mother's face as Michonne moved between the kitchen and table, the way her father leaned in to help Ellie light the last of the candles. She'd never seen him look more at peace.

When everyone finally settled, the table was crowded—elbows brushing, hands reaching for bread, someone passing the salt, someone else refilling glasses. The garland ran the length of the wood, candles flickering in between dishes that looked almost too good to eat.

Rick stood slowly, glass in hand. The laughter dimmed to a murmur, then to quiet.

He looked around the table, at each face. His voice came rough at first, but strong.
"I spent a lot of years thinking about what we lost," he said. "The homes, the people, the world we thought we'd never get back. But standing here tonight… I see what we built instead. Family. Not the kind you're born into, the kind you fight for. The kind that finds you in the dark and pulls you back into the light."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. Carol reached for Ezekiel's hand; Daryl nodded quietly, his fingers brushing Connie's.

Rick's gaze drifted to Judith, to RJ, to Ellie and Noah—their faces shining in the candlelight. His voice softened. "Our kids, they're growing up in a world that knows peace. They'll never know what it truly cost to make it, but they'll live because of it. That's our legacy. That's what all this was for."

He then looked at Michonne. She was already watching him—eyes wet, mouth curved in that small, sweet smile that had always undone him.

Rick's next words were quieter, said to everyone but only for her. "And through it all… love's what carried us. What still does. The world can break a thousand ways, but if you find the one person who makes you want to keep fighting… you hold on."

For a long moment, no one spoke. The fire popped softly. Outside, snow tapped against the glass.

Michonne's eyes glistened. She reached across the table, her hand finding his. Rick took it, thumb brushing her knuckles. That simple, familiar gesture said everything words couldn't.

Judith watched them from across the table—her parents' hands clasped, their smiles knowing. Warmth rose through her, the kind that settled deep and stayed.

Around her, chatter began again—softly at first, then swelling as someone cracked a joke, as glasses clinked, as life moved.

And for that one perfect night, the world felt whole.

The End.

Chapter Text

No Sleep (Part 1)

About 9 months after the wedding

The sheets beside Rick were still warm, faintly wrinkled, carrying Michonne's lavender scent and the trace of the market soap she loved. Panic surged through him for half a heartbeat, a reflex he feared would never fully go away, before logic caught up.

The house was settled into its deep, earned quiet. Rick pushed out of bed, dragged on the shirt at the foot of it, and padded barefoot into the hallway. A faint creak from the room next door broke the silence.

He knew exactly where she was.

He made his way to the nursery. Judith's old room, now painted a soft, warm color, Michonne insisted, would make the baby feel calm. The air still carried the faintest smell of fresh paint and sawdust. Their half-finished life for the baby sat scattered across the floor.

And in the middle of it was Michonne.

Eight months pregnant, struggling in the dim lamplight, her belly enormous and beautifully in the way as she fought with a stubborn crib rail. Locs fell across her face as she fussed with the hardware, muttering under her breath.

Rick's stomach knotted with concern first, instinctive and fierce. He crossed the room quickly. "What... are you doing? I said I'd put that thing together this weekend."

"Couldn't sleep. He was kicking the shit outta me." Michonne didn't look up.

Rick glanced at the window. Darkness pressed against it. "It's two in the morning. Come lie down at least. I'll rub your belly; it seemed to help last night."

"I need to get this done." She gave the crib a shove. The crib groaned. She did too.

"No, you don't." He was at her side in an instant. "Sit down before you hurt yourself."

"I'm fine," she said automatically, right before wincing as she tried to bend.

"Michonne." His tone shifted to something soft but unrelenting.

She sighed, exhausted and frustrated, and let him guide her to the rocking chair. She sank into it heavily, one hand rising instinctively to her belly. Her thumb stroked slow circles over the thin fabric of her tank top, soothing herself as much as the baby.

Rick crouched in front of her. "What are you doin', really? You've been on edge all week."

Her lip trembled before she managed to speak. "It's just... two weeks, Rick," she muttered, voice tight. "He'll be here in two weeks, and nothing's ready. And nothing was ready when RJ came. I wasn't ready, and I didn't like that feeling."

Michonne's gaze darted around the room. She opened her mouth again, then shut it quickly with a shake of her head.

"What? What is it?"

She laughed. "It's dumb."

"I'm sure it's not."

She let out a shaky breath. "I keep thinking he's gonna show up and feel that we weren't ready for him," she said quickly, giving him an embarrassed look.

Rick's mouth twitched, the beginning of a laugh he smothered out of respect. He had never seen Michonne irrational about anything. Pregnancy had softened the edges she had never allowed him to touch, and he loved it more than he'd ever admit.

"Honey," he said, "I don't think he'll notice. Newborns aren't that perceptive, I don't think."

That earned him a watery laugh.

He reached up and brushed a loc away from her cheek. "Hey. It's gonna get done. All of it. Crib, dresser, walls. I'll make sure of that."

She tried to hold his gaze, failed, and the trickle of tears came anyway. "Promise," she whispered.

He nodded. "Promise."

Her breath hitched, and she let out a quiet, relieved laugh. "Okay."

Rick kissed her hand, then stood, stretching his back. "Now, you stay right there. Doctor's orders. Mine, not Holmes'."

She watched him as he turned to the crib, picking up the instructions like he actually planned to read them this time.

"You don't have to do it now," she said softly.

He glanced over his shoulder, that slow, half-crooked grin pulling at his mouth. "Can't sleep without you there. So I figure I might as well build something while I'm up."

She leaned back, the rocker creaking softly as she settled into it. The baby shifted beneath her palm, a gentle, curious kick. Her eyes softened.

For the next few hours, Rick worked with quiet focus, tightening bolts, steadying panels, doing the job right because it mattered.

When he finished tightening the last bolt, he stepped back and wiped sawdust from his palm. The crib stood solid and steady in the lamplight, a real thing now instead of a pile of parts. "Well, how's that?"

Michonne pushed herself up from the rocking chair and waddled toward him, slipping an arm around his waist as she leaned into him.

He kissed her forehead. "Better?"

She sighed. "Better." Then her eyes lifted, warm and sly. "Still have two hours before the kids are up." She arched her brow. "I can think of a few things we could do to pass the time."

Quick on the uptake, his smile deepened. "Oh?"

"That is if you're not tir—"

His lips were on hers before she could finish.

She laughed against his mouth, her hands sliding up his chest. He caught her waist, careful and reverent, mindful of the curve of her belly. He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper.

Michonne pulled back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against his. "Rick," she murmured, amused and exasperated all at once. "Not in the nursery, okay."

He huffed a low, eager laugh. "Right. Yeah, no. That'd be weird."

"And uncomfortable." She raised a brow.

"Bedroom," he said, already guiding her gently toward the hallway, his hand at her back.

She smirked, letting him lead her.

He shut off the lamp, took her hand, and together they slipped out of the nursery. They walked away from the crib he had built, the boxes still waiting to be unpacked, and all the nerves and fears she had carried into the room.

In the quiet hallway, he kissed her again.

Then, laughing softly and breathlessly, they disappeared into their bedroom and closed the door.

Rick woke to the sharp trill of his alarm cutting through the quiet.

He didn't even open his eyes. His hand shot out on instinct, smacking the button until the room fell silent again. Only then did he blink and breathe easier when he confirmed Michonne hadn't stirred.

She was still tucked against him, warm and heavy with sleep, her forehead resting over his heart, one leg hooked lazily over his. Her hand lay curled on his chest, fingers slack. She looked peaceful and soft in the way she only ever let herself be around him.

Rick let his head fall back against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, exhaling a long, exhausted breath.

One hour of sleep. Maybe less.

God, today was gonna be rough.

He had a full schedule, a new build inspection, a groundbreaking, and the kids needed breakfast before the day could even start. His body already protested, muscles a dull throb from everything they had done earlier and from the fact he had been up half the night building that damn crib.

But then he looked down at Michonne, at the way she burrowed in, trusting and soft, the way her belly pressed against his ribs. His whole chest warmed.

Yeah. Worth it.

Not just the sex, though that hadn't been a hardship. What he had missed, what his unbelieving soul had prayed for every night at the Civic Republic, was this. These small hours where it was just them. Where she let her guard down and leaned on him. Where their life felt like it was unfolding slowly and tenderly instead of from one fight to the next.

He eased a hand down, smoothing it over the curve of her belly. The baby shifted under his palm, a slow roll, as if he knew exactly who was touching him. "Hey, little man," Rick whispered in the direction of her belly, his voice still rough with sleep. "Maybe take it easy on your mama today, huh?"

Michonne murmured something unintelligible and nuzzled closer, her face brushing his skin. Rick smiled, the kind of tired, full smile that lived more in his eyes than on his mouth.

He rubbed lazy circles over her stomach, savoring the warmth of her. "Let her sleep, alright," he added softly. "She needs it. She's doin' all the hard work here."

He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss onto her forehead before shifting carefully so he could reach her belly. He slid the hem of her tank top up and pressed another kiss there, soft and reverent, whispering against her skin, "Love you already, son."

Michonne barely stirred as he gently slipped out of bed. She settled immediately into the warm space he had left behind.

Rick stood there for a moment, just watching her breathe. His heart tugged in his chest.

Then, with a quiet sigh and one last look, he padded across the room to start the day, exhausted, aching, but feeling more whole than he had in years.

Chapter Text

Date Night

The next day

The late afternoon light slanted through the dining room windows, honey-gold, warming the grain of the old table. Rick sat hunched beside RJ, elbows braced like he was interrogating the worksheet between them.

The worksheet didn't budge.

He stared at the lines of variables and fractions, brow furrowed so hard it bordered on pain. He had rebuilt communities, survived more than anyone should—but whatever this math was? This was beyond him.

RJ tapped his pencil lightly, patient. "Dad? Did you see the equation?"

"I'm lookin' at it," Rick said, squinting as if the answer might reveal itself under pressure. "Just… takin' it in."

"I think…" RJ slid the paper closer, helpful in the way kids often are right before they humble you. "If you move the variable over here, you isolate it."

"Right," Rick said slowly. "Isolate it. Yep. Makes sense."

It did not make sense.

That tiny twitch formed at the corner of RJ's mouth—the same one Carl used to get when Rick bluffed his way through geometry. Fond. Patient. A touch pitying.

RJ finished another line with ease. "I can do the rest."

Relief washed over Rick so completely his whole posture softened. "Good. Finish it up. I'll check it when I get home."

RJ didn't even look up. "Check it how?"

Rick opened his mouth, found nothing helpful inside, and closed it with dignity. "Just make sure to finish it."

RJ grinned but let it go. "So… where are you and Mom going again?"

Rick leaned back, hand in his pockets. "On a date."

RJ blinked. "But you're married."

Rick waited for more, but apparently that was the whole question. "Yeah… And?"

RJ looked genuinely confused. "Why date someone you're already married to?"

Rick didn't answer because footsteps sounded on the stairs, slow and deliberate. He turned toward the hallway.

Michonne was coming down, one hand on the railing, the other braced at her back. She'd perfected the eight-months-pregnant walk: powerful, irritated, and completely done with gravity. The light yellow dress she wore hugged her belly and lit her skin, and something in Rick's chest tightened at the sight.

Keeping his eyes on her, he murmured to RJ, "That's a lesson for another day son." He met her at the bottom of the stairs before she could take the last step alone, hand sliding to her waist. He kissed her once. "Look at you."

"Look at you," she returned, smoothing a hand down the front of his button-down. "I like this shirt."

He glanced down at it—light blue, sleeves rolled, thrifted after realizing he couldn't keep cycling through the few shirts he'd brought back from the Civic Republic. "It's new," he said.

Her smile warmed him everywhere.

Judith stepped out from the kitchen, balancing two juice glasses. She set them down, then wrapped her arms around Rick in a quick hug before holding Michonne longer, gentler. Her hands drifted instinctively to the round of her belly, rubbing slow circles. "Have fun tonight."

Michonne brushed her fingers through Judith's hair. "Pizza'll be here soon. Daryl's bringing it over. He's gonna hang out."

RJ perked up. "Pepperoni?"

"And mushrooms?" Judith said.

"I asked for half and half," Michonne said. "If he brings the wrong thing, no complaining."

She went to RJ, bent as far as her belly would allow, and kissed his forehead. "Mind your sister."

"I always do."

Judith snorted. "Since when?"

Michonne pointed at her. "And you—let your brother pick the movie this time."

Judith sighed dramatically, which meant she'd already accepted the terms. She hugged Michonne again. "Don't forget to bring home a piece of Max's apple pie."

Michonne tilted her head toward Rick. "You got that, Daddy?"

"Got it," he promised.

"Good. Because the pregnancy brain is so real right now."

Judith leaned down toward the belly again and whispered, "Bye, No-Name."

Rick groaned. "How about we stop callin' him that?"

Judith gave him a flat look. "Give him a name and I will."

"Soon enough," he muttered, smoothing her hair and kissing her forehead.

With one last look at their kids—RJ hunched over math, Judith already negotiating movie night—Rick took Michonne's hand.

Her fingers curled around his with familiarity.

He opened the door. A warm evening breeze brushed over them. The sky was streaked pink and indigo, the kind of night made for slow walking and staying close.

Rick squeezed her hand once.

She squeezed back.

And together they stepped into the soft light of their date night.

The walk to the Mercer house was the kind of quiet Rick had learned to treasure. The air had cooled to a breeze that slightly lifted the edges of Michonne's dress, carrying the faint scent of fresh-cut grass and someone's backyard barbecue. Porch lights blinked on up and down the block, warm squares of yellow making the neighborhood glow. Crickets hummed. Gravel crunched under their shoes.

Michonne walked with a hand low on her belly—not distressed, just steadying herself as everything shifted inside her. Now and then, her breath caught, brief but noticeable.

"You good, honey?" Rick asked.

"I'm fine," she said. Not dismissive—just tired. "End-of-the-road stuff."

He stayed close. Not hovering. Just there.

Raised voices spilled through the screen door before they reached it.

Max and Mercer were mid-argument when Rick and Michonne stepped inside.

"No—that rule applies during the counting phase," Max snapped, arms crossed.

"That is exactly what the rulebook does not say," Mercer countered, voice clipped.

Max waved a highlighted rulebook overhead like evidence. "It's right here. I literally color-coded it."

Rick shot Michonne a look.

She smirked. "You knew what you were getting yourself into coming here tonight," she murmured.

Princess popped her head around the corner, curls pinned back with a constellation of mismatched clips. "Oh, good. You two made it." She gave Michonne a once-over. "Look at you, Mama. You look good." She hugged her. "Good and ready to pop."

"So…" Michonne pointed at the bickering siblings. "This—"

"Has been going on for the past hour."

"So they're improving." Michonne laughed.

"You could say that." Princess smiled at Rick. "Beers on the counter. Soda too."

"Thank you." Rick stepped aside to grab the drinks, thoroughly entertained as Mercer gestured at Max, exasperated.

"Multipliers stack immediately. It's strategic sequencing," Mercer said.

"They stack after the count," Max insisted. "Designer intent."

Eugene, hunched over the scorecards, didn't look up. "Designer intent was very clearly post-count stacking. Obvious from any of his early interviews."

"Thank you," Max said sweetly.

Mercer stared at the ceiling like he regretted every life choice up to this moment.

The living room smelled faintly of apple pie and Princess's aggressively applied lemon cleaner. Blankets draped the couch, half-finished snacks littered the table—cozy chaos.

After greeting the others, Rick eased Michonne onto the couch, and she lowered herself down with a soft exhale.

"Girl, you good?" Princess asked, concerned.

"Baby's sitting low," Michonne said, waving her off.

Princess clapped once. "Okay! Couples' charades. Couple versus couple. Think we can handle that?" She shot a pointed look at Maxxine, then Mercer.

Michonne slid her hand down Rick's thigh and squeezed his knee. "We gonna win tonight?"

"Oh, yeah," he said simply.

They drew cards.

Michonne acted out the first clue with barely a flick of the wrist.

"Fishing pole," Rick answered instantly.

Second clue. She lifted her brows and did a whirling motion with her arms as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"Tornado," Rick said

Princess groaned. "Oh my God, she barely even moved."

Third card. Michonne sighed and made a motion with her hands.

"Laundry," Rick said.

Maxxine dropped her face into her hands. "We're playing against freakin' telepaths."

Michonne smirked, reaching for another card—

And froze.

Not dramatically. Just a sudden, stilling pause. The card slipped away, and she pressed her hand to the underside of her belly, brows knitting tight.

Rick was at her side immediately. "Hey," he said softly. "What is it?"

She inhaled a sharp breath. "Just… there's a lot of pressure."

"Okay." Rick ran his hand over her back. "You feel like we need to go to—"

"Uh… guys?!" Princess's voice cut in, startled. She was staring at the floor.

Rick followed her gaze to a small, growing puddle that glistened on the hardwood.

Michonne's breath hitched.

Rick froze. Blinked once. Twice. And then the world sharpened. This was it. The moment he'd run through his mind a million times since Michonne had told him she was pregnant, and with the entire room frozen in place, it was him and only him who was ready for it.

His head snapped up. "Mercer, we need a transport vehicle."

"Got it." Mercer pulled his radio from the charger in the corner of the kitchen. "EMS, this is Mercer requesting a medical transport at—"

A contraction hit Michonne mid-sentence. She gripped Rick's forearm, holding her breath through gritted teeth. "Rick, he's coming." He heard panic begin to rise in her voice. "I'm not ready. I don't even—"

He placed his hand on the side of her face and held her gaze. "Breathe, baby. Breathe." He waited until she pushed the air out between her lips. "We're getting you to the hospital." Rick took her hand and pulled her into his side, so she was leaning on him.

"Princess," he said.

She shot up so fast her chair squeaked. "What can I do?"

"Go to the house. Get Michonne's hospital bag."

"Judith'll know…" Michonne said through labored breaths. "Where it is."

"And bring the kids to the hospital with you?" Rick asked.

"Got it." Princess disappeared.

Max moved to Michonne's other side and draped Michonne's arm around her shoulder. "I've got her too."

Eugene hurried to clear the doorway. "I'll radio the hospital staff so they're prepared to welcome us."

Michonne leaned heavily into Rick as they made their way outside, her fingers locked around his, her forehead pressed briefly to his shoulder as another wave took her.

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and warm linen. Machines hummed their steady rhythm. Outside, the night pressed dark over the Commonwealth, but in here the world had narrowed to one bed, one rhythm, one center.

Michonne.

Rick stood beside her, his hand locked in hers. Sweat dampened her locs, her breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls. Each contraction rippled through her with fierce precision, leaving her trembling.

Rick's heart hammered so hard he felt it in his throat. He brushed his thumb over her fingers—soft, grounding. "You're doing so good," he murmured. "Just breathe. One breath at a time."

Her jaw clenched. "I… can't…"

"You can," he said, steady even as something in him cracked open. "You absolutely can. You're doing it, honey." He leaned his forehead to hers. "You were made for this."

A contraction tore through her, and her eyes squeezed shut. A cry left her throat.

"Okay..." she breathed out when it was over, steadying herself. "Okay."

Rick brought her hand to his chest. "Hey. Look at me." His voice was soft but unwavering. "Breathe with me."

Shaking, exhausted, but anchored to him like always, she nodded. Staring into each other's eyes, she held his gaze as they breathed in unison.

The doctor cut in, calm and focused. "Michonne, he's right there. Next contraction, give me a big push."

Michonne nodded, jaw tight, grip fierce enough to grind Rick's bones. He didn't flinch.

"Okay, baby," Rick whispered, his lips practically touching her ear. "This is it."

The contraction hit. She bore down, teeth gritted, body trembling.

"That's it… keep goin'… you got this." Rick's voice was steady in her ear.

"One more!" the doctor called. "He's right there, Michonne—one more push!"

Michonne let out a sound—pain and fear and determination braided tight. She pushed.

And then—

A vibrating cry. Tiny. Raw. Alive.

Rick froze, chest seizing, breath catching between disbelief and joy. His hand trembled when his gaze broke away from Michonne, and he looked over as their son was lifted into view—squirming, slick, furious, perfect.

Rick stared, speechless. His eyes welled, blurring his view. He wiped at them with the back of his hand.

The doctor placed the baby on Michonne's chest, still damp, still wailing. Michonne's hands rose immediately—one cradling his head, one bracing his back. Tears streamed down her face as she brought him close to her heart. And after a moment, her eyes cut up to meet him.

"I know," he said, reading the utter awe on her face.

Rick leaned in, kissing her temple. "You did it."

Michonne let out a trembling laugh, tears streaking down her cheeks.

Rick leaned close, brushing a gentle finger over their son's arm, and when his barely cracked open eyes found Rick, Something inside Rick rearranged forever.

Rick sat beside the narrow hospital bed. Their newborn slept against Michonne's chest, tiny fingers curled into her gown, his breath warm and uneven, still learning its rhythm.

Michonne traced a fingertip down his back, eyes heavy with exhaustion and awe. "He's so cute," she whispered.

Rick leaned closer, studying the little face he couldn't stop staring at. "Yeah," he murmured, almost in disbelief. "He's just perfect."

She glanced sideways, a smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you."

Rick shook his head gently, brushing a damp loc from her forehead. "No," he whispered. "This was all you. Every bit."

Her hand found his, fingers threading through his, thumb brushing across his knuckles. "I'm glad you were here," she breathed, her voice trembling.

Something warm and painful rose in Rick's throat. He pressed a slow kiss to her temple, then to her lips—full of every emotion he didn't have a name for.

A knock broke the quiet.

"Mom? Dad?"

Judith peeked in first, bright-eyed and cautious, shoulders drawn like she wasn't sure they were allowed. RJ hovered behind her, gripping her arm. They stepped forward and froze—not in fear, but wonder. Their mother, tired but radiant. Their father, undone. And the tiny new member of their family curled against Michonne.

Rick stood, a tired grin shaping his face. "Hey," he said. "Come meet your brother."

Judith approached first, slow and careful. "Does he have a name?" she said, cheekily.

"He does," Michonne said, looking up at Rick. Giving him the honors.

"This is Noah," he said.

"Noah?" Judith repeated.

Michonne nodded. "Noah Grimes. After someone your dad and I knew back when we first got to Alexandria. A good kid. Brave. Kind. Just like your brother will be."

RJ edged in, eyes wide. "He's… tiny."

"Yeah," Rick said softly. "He's supposed to be."

Judith stepped closer and hesitated. She rested her fingers lightly on Noah's back. "He's so soft," she murmured. "Oh, and he smells so good."

"Doesn't he?" Michonne rested her nose against his blue beanie.

RJ leaned close, curiosity winning out. "Can we hold him?" RJ whispered.

"Not yet," Rick said gently. "Let him settle. You have all the time in the world to hold him."

"Yup." Michonne shifted, so RJ could see his brother better. "You're a big brother now," she said. "It's gonna be up to you to help take care of him." She looked at Judith. "Just like your sister, who helped take care of you.

Judith's eyes shone. RJ's shoulders straightened with pride. The four of them watched Noah in quiet fascination for what felt like hours.

Outside the room, the world kept moving—machines humming, doors clicking, nurses passing, people going about their day—but in here, the Grime's family was quietly changing forever.

One Week Home

Dinner was finished, and the kitchen held the warm quiet of a long day winding down. Plates were stacked in the sink, the air still thick with garlic and roasted vegetables. Rick stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up, running warm water over a pan. Upstairs, Michonne and Noah had finally drifted off after a long stretch of fussing that had left the whole house walking on eggshells.

"Go on," Rick said, waving RJ away as the boy reached for a towel. "I got it. Y'all get ready for bed. School tomorrow."

Judith lingered in the doorway, a novel tucked against her chest. "Can I read a little before bed?"

"Course," Rick said. "But lights out in thirty minutes."

She nodded and headed upstairs.

RJ hovered. "Can I play Mario Kart?"

"Yeah," Rick said. "Get it loaded up. I'll come play a round in a minute."

RJ lit up and sprinted down the hall.

A knock sounded at the front door.

Rick dried his hand and opened it.

Ezekiel stood there with a steaming foil-covered dish, wearing jeans and a gray hoodie. "Evening," he said. "Brought something. Cajun shrimp scampi. Michonne's been hinting about it ever since I brought leftovers to work."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I absolutely did," Ezekiel chuckled. "Newborn in the house? One cooked meal is worth its weight in gold."

"You figured right," Rick said. He nodded upstairs. "She's sleepin'. Baby too. I'd bring him down, but—"

"No need," Ezekiel said, waving it off. "I know enough to know you don't wake a sleeping baby. I'll meet him when he's ready."

He shifted, something tentative crossing his face.

"Rick… can I ask you somethin'?"

"'Course. Come in."

They sat on the couch. Ezekiel leaned forward, hands clasped, anxious in a way Rick rarely saw.

"It's Carol," he said. "When it ended, a long time ago, she said we weren't gettin' back together. I accepted that. I mean, as much as I could while still being head over heels for her." He cleared his throat. "But that's neither here nor there." He rubbed his palms together and exhaled. "But ever since she came back from Europe… She's been different. Closer. Like somethin's there again. Or maybe I'm imagining it. If I'm wrong… I don't wanna lose her again."

Rick let the moment settle before answering.

"We learned real quick how fast things disappear," he said. "People. Chances. The good stuff." He rested his arm along the couch. "If you think somethin's there… don't sit on it. Life's too damn short to wait scared."

Ezekiel nodded, breath shaky. "Yeah. Alright. I'm gonna talk to her. Thank you."

"Anytime."

They stood, and Rick walked him to the door.

Ezekiel paused halfway out and huffed a small laugh. "And Rick? For what it's worth… you're a good man."

Rick raised a brow. "How do you figure that?"

"For not letting… you know… what happened with me and Michonne get in the way of our friendship."

Rick blinked. "Right," he said easily. "Yeah."

Ezekiel nodded gratefully. "Night, my friend."

Rick closed the door behind him.

Stood there a beat. "…the hell?"

Upstairs, after a humiliating Mario Kart loss to RJ, Rick padded into the bedroom.

Michonne was awake, propped on pillows, their son latched at her breast. She was utterly focused, the way she always looked when she studied something important. Noah's tiny fist clamped her thumb. The sight hit Rick square in the chest.

She lifted her head at the sound of him. "Hey," she said.

"How long you two been up?" he asked, shrugging off his shirt.

"Not long," she said. "He got hungry."

Rick tossed the shirt into a chair. "How hungry?" he teased.

She smiled without looking up. "Not hungry hungry. Just needed a snack, I think."

Rick sat beside her and kissed Noah's forehead, brushing a finger along his curls. "You hungry?" he asked Michonne. "I'll make you a plate."

She shook her head. "I'm good for now."

He leaned back, scratching the back of his neck in that familiar, awkward gesture. "Ezekiel stopped by. Wanted to see the baby. Brought some food."

"Oh yeah?" Michonne asked. "Anything good?"

"Apparently, your favorite," Rick said.

Her eyes brightened. "Shrimp scampi?"

He nodded. "Looked so good, might even steal a bite if you let me."

She laughed quietly. "That might make me reconsider."

He fell quiet then, the kind of quiet that pressed at the edges of a room.

Michonne glanced up. "What?"

"He said something strange," Rick said. "Said I was a good man for not lettin' what happened with you two get in the way of him and me bein' friends."

Michonne froze for half a breath, then lifted Noah to her shoulder and patted his back. Once he burped, she held him a moment longer. Finally, she looked at Rick and said plainly, "We kissed—he kissed me."

Rick blinked. His reaction wasn't anger or heat—just surprise, like learning something that mattered but didn't change the shape of home. "You kissed," he echoed.

"Yeah."

"Interesting." He crossed his arms. "Were you gonna tell me?"

"No," she said, honest as ever. "Because it didn't mean anything."

Noah let out another small, wet burp.

Michonne handed him over with one word, the shorthand of days: "Diaper."

Rick laid him on the blanket at the foot of the bed. He moved with steady, practiced ease—wipes, creases, tabs. His stump held Noah steady while his other hand worked. He'd lost things along the way, large and small, but never the muscle memory of caring. No matter if he had to work twice as hard to do it.

"So," Rick said lightly as he finished, "anybody else I should know about?"

Michonne crossed her arms and shot him a mock-offended look. "Really?"

He fastened the last tab. "All that time I was in the Republic, pining after you and your kissing kings and…" He gave her a side eye. "Teachers. "

She scoffed. "You really want to go there?"

"We can go there," he said, voice gentle, nudging her into their familiar sparring.

"All right then," she countered, crossing her legs and facing him. "Let's talk about how I had to watch you almost burn down Alexandria for a woman."

Rick froze, then huffed a laugh. "Now that's low."

"You started it," she said.

He scooped Noah up, kissing the baby's cheek, before cradling him.

"That woman," he said, settling against the headboard, "was me tryin' to hold onto somethin' already gone. She was what I thought I needed to keep the past alive. But you—" he looked at her fully, voice softening, "you scared the hell out of me."

"Why?" she asked, leaning in.

"Because I knew," he said, "that if I let myself fall for you, my whole world would change; everything from before and who I was, that'd be officially gone. I was afraid of that. And I was right. You changed my life for... the better. But I just… wasn't ready back then."

Michonne nodded, satisfied with the clarity. She slid closer, resting her chin on his shoulder. "I was only joking."

"I know," he murmured. "But I'm serious."

She kissed his jaw. Their breathing aligned. Noah's tiny chest rose and fell between them. The whole room felt small and full and right.

"It was always you," Rick said quietly. "Back at the prison. First time I saw you. Nobody else ever stood a chance after that."

"It was always you," Michonne said.

They kissed—slow and sure, a quiet period at the end of a sentence they'd never thought to intentionally have, but somehow both needed.

Noah blinked once at them, then sighed and settled back into sleep.

Michonne looked down at him, eyes soft with awe. "God," she whispered, smiling. "We're good at making beautiful babies."

Rick looked at her, at Noah, and felt his chest ache with fullness. "We are, but not as good as we are at makin' a beautiful life," he said, and meant every word.

He meant the trust she let herself have now. The way she let herself be loved. He meant the long nights, the math he still didn't understand. He meant a future that looked chaotic and bright.

They sat in the dim lamplight, hands linked over their youngest, as the house settled around them.