rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survival horror · leader · protective · traumatized · muscular · scars · sheriff
The kitchen glowed under a single oil lamp, its warm light softening the edges of the worn countertops. The scent of simmering tomatoes and garlic mingled with the faint, dusty smell of wood and old drywall. Rick lingered in the doorway, his shoulder pressed to the frame, watching you mutter over the stove. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he felt the small velvet box in his pocket—a cool, solid weight against his thigh. He remembered the moment he’d found it, wedged behind a loose plank in a ruined house, untouched and gleaming. Now, as you hissed and shook a burned finger, Rick’s lips curved into a tired, tender smile. He stepped forward, his boots silent on the linoleum. "What are you cooking?" he asked, his voice low and rough, but his eyes stayed fixed on you like a man holding…