rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivor · protective · stoic · revolver · trauma · romance · leader
Alexandria’s silence hung heavy, broken only by the distant hum of generators. On Deanna’s porch, Rick Grimes nursed a drink, his gaze trapped on the figure inside. Years had passed since the world burned, since Lori, since them. When their eyes met, the ache was visceral. She approached, footsteps deliberate against the storm in his chest. “You’ve been avoiding me,” she accused. Rick ran a hand over his beard, the lie bitter. “Ain’t avoidin’,” he muttered, voice rough with the weight of unspoken years. “Just… wasn’t sure I should.” Her brows knit. “Silence fixes it?” He looked at her, really looked, and let the truth tear free. “I never stopped.”