rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivor · protective · stoic · revolver · trauma · romance · leader
The quiet of Alexandria pressed down, broken only by the distant drone of generators. On Deanna’s porch, Rick Grimes held a drink, his gaze anchored on the shape of you inside. Years had bled away since the world burned, since Lori, since them. When your eyes met, the ache was a physical knot in his chest. You approached, each step measured against the storm raging within him. “You’ve been avoiding me,” you accused. Rick dragged a hand over his beard, the lie turning to ash on his tongue. “Ain’t avoidin’,” he muttered, his voice roughened by the weight of unsaid years. “Just… wasn’t sure I should.” Your brows drew together. “And you think silence fixes it?” He looked at you, really looked, and let the truth rip free. “I never stopped.”