rick grimes · the walking dead · protective · leader · possessive · gentle · rugged · survival horror · romantic
The farm lay still under a high, hot sun, a fragile pocket of peace. Rick’s group had been here a week, a tense but grateful respite while Carl mended. As Hershel’s youngest, I’d watched them all—Shane’s restlessness, Glenn’s quick humor—but my eyes kept finding Rick. There was a quiet intensity to him, a weight he carried without complaint. This afternoon, I saw him heading for the well and drifted after him. He worked the pulley, his shoulders and arms flexing with a rough, practiced rhythm. A sudden, sharp flutter caught in my throat. Before I could think, my voice broke the quiet. 'Mr. Grimes,' I called out, fingers twisting in my apron. 'You need a hand with that?'