Not for the first time since the night began, Shane followed Rick's line of sight, and assuredly they were fixed on the same woman, perched on a stool at the bar.

It was like clockwork. Every Saturday night they'd head out to the bar in search of reprieve from the drudgery of life, soothed by cheap liquor and music they'd never listen to voluntarily, and every week Rick glanced at the door until she breezed through it, a friend on her arm, laughter spilling out of her. He would stare, transfixed, interrupted by Shane's grousing.

"Just go talk to her." Shane said finally, with a huff of frustration.

Rick rubbed his jaw, feigning innocence as he picked up his beer. "I see nothin' wrong with enjoying the view."

Shane grimaced. "Real talk man, that's creepy as hell and you know it."

Rick barked out a laugh. His friend was the opposite, more inclined to chase the object of his affection rather than fixate on the beauty of it.

Shane said wrenching out a seat across from Rick. "If you wanna get out there again, ain't no problem with it. You and Sheila have been divorced for what about six months now."

The mention of his ex-wife, and subsequently, dead marriage, still made him wince, a twinge of hurt settling in with the beer in his stomach.

Shane shrugged, oblivious. As for as he was concerned, Rick had done enough crying over his ex-wife. "Go ahead and shoot a load. Always makes me feel better."

He and Sheila hadn't spoken in two months exactly. Pathetically enough, Rick kept count since their last conversation, stilted and distant. It was so strange, loving someone and then have that love break, and you return to being strangers no matter how intimate you were.

Rick's eyes wandered again, to the woman. They traveled the length of her calf, wrapped in black strappy stilettos that he wanted to unravel, traced their way to her profile. A few weeks back he'd asked Carol, who mined the bar, what her name was, and with a knowing smirk she'd told him it was Michonne. Ever since, he'd kept it to himself, not even divulging it to Shane for fear he'd go blabbing it out loud. From what he could tell so far Michonne was unmarried, no ring encircling her finger, and a busybody, from the number of times she whisked out her phone to text or have short, animated conversation. Her favorite drink was the maitai cocktail, but on occasion she'd take a shot.

Wow, I really am creepy.

As he watched, one of her friends got up out of her seat to leave. A rarity – Michonne almost never spent time at the bar alone. Spurred by the rare moment – or maybe his own self-revelation that yes, he could let himself have this – he got up. Behind him, Shane jeered. "Atta boy."

"Vodka and rum," he announced to Carol once he was there. "Please and thank you."

"Comin' right up."

Michonne threw a cursory glance at him. "maitai, huh?"

Rick's eyebrows shot up, that she'd posed the question to him without effort on his part. "Yeah," he said, willing his voice to smooth. "Not the strongest, but it hits the spot."

"I agree but," Michonne shrugged, the movement fluid and graceful. "I'm think you're biased."

Rick crooked an eyebrow; Carol set his drink before him. "How so?"

She smiled, turning so that she faced him fully, brown eyes full of mirth. "I think your preference of drink has more to do with me than you're letting on."

Rick balked, then reddened, flickering an accusatory glance at Carol.

"Oops," she smiled, tapping her lips. "Must've slipped."

Rick shook his head, while Michonne giggled and Carol conveniently left, laughing her ass off.

"That was…" Rick struggled for words. "I'm not – "

"It's fine," she said quickly, eyes dancing around his reddened face. "I thought it was hilarious. You thought I'd never notice you eyeballin' me?"

"Tried my damn hardest to be discreet, that's for sure."

"Carol was real sweet about it, trying not to paint you in a stalkerish light. Rick Grimes, is it?"

His name sounded ten times better in her voice, that for a second he didn't want anyone else say it ever again. He smiled at her. "That's right."

She propped her face on her upraised fist. "Good to know."

"I guess this is the part where I buy you a drink," he said, and then added. "Only if you'd like."

Michonne paused for a moment before answering. He was just like the men who frequented these bars: ruggedly handsome, charm that dripped out of their mouths like honey, their intent splayed across their faces like an open book, ripe for picking. But he didn't strike her as someone with ill intentions, or worse.

Then again, they'd only exchanged a few words.

"You can buy me any drink you like," she said. "As long as you're drinking with me."

What followed in that little spot at the bar was strange and profound. Two people, having drinks, speaking with their heads bent towards each other, totally engrossed in the other person. Shane passed him with a clap to his back, which Rick only barely acknowledged.

"Crime scene investigator," Michonne raised a delicate brow, impressed. "Like on CSI?"

"Not half as exciting."

"I relate. Everyone thinks being a lawyer is some Law and Order stuff, when really it's loads and loads of paperwork." She smiled faintly. "But I love my job. I'm practically married to it."

"You ever been married?"

She shook her head. "It's never interested me."

"Why?"

She exhaled. "The whole institution of marriage just baffles me. Most of it is just one long road block to the eventual messy divorce. I don't want any part of that."

"Not even for love?"

She snorted. "What's love in the face of marriage? It's nice to daydream about but…" She shrugged, face drawn. "I know plenty of divorced couples, from the time of signing papers for marriage to signing papers of divorce. It's all the same story."

He looked to his ring finger, where the band no longer perched, soaking in her words. Michonne followed his line of sight, deflating. "Are you married?"

Rick pulled his hand back. "No. Divorced."

"Oh," she exhaled a little, and he noticed. "That's – I –I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he tapped her knee. "It was a while ago."

"Good, because I'd hate to think I was flirting with a married man."

He squinted at her. "Does this mean what I think it means?"

She reached around him and took his drink, giving him the go-ahead while she took a long sip.

"You like me?"

She plunked his drink down, running her tongue over her bottom lip. "I like a lot of people, what makes you think you're special?"

She was teasing him, a playful smile dancing on her lips.

"You never talk to any of the guys who come here."

"To your benefit."

"And," he smiled sheepishly. "You've glanced at my lips bout' seven times tonight, two times within a ten minute time frame."

She blushed, mentally kicking herself as she glanced at those same lips again. "Aren't you observant? Crime detective, huh?"

"Observant enough to know you want to kiss me. And maybe do other things. But what do I know," he shrugged. "I'm just a crime detective at a bar."

She laughed, leaning in. He met her halfway, their lips crashing together, followed quickly by their tongues. It was the sort of kiss that began hungrily, and slowed down only for them to explore, to savor the taste of one another. Rick felt his whole body tingle; his hand found their way around the waist band of her skirt.

They were pulled apart by a loud bang, Carol collecting their half-empty glasses and smirking at them. "No fucking at the bar, sorry."

Rick and Michonne straightened themselves out, suddenly aware there were still people here, openly gawking at them. Michonne cleared her throat, checking the time on her phone. "It's twelve in the morning." The words came out as mere observation.

"I've never been less tired than I am now."

Michonne nodded. "Your place? One of my friends are crashing and I don't want her to hear if we get…loud."

Rick nodded, beginning to stand. He felt every nerve, every prickle of excitement. The woman of his dreams, and he was taking her home in the span of a few hours.

They spoke little on their way there, the silence punctuated by so much tension, Michonne had the urge to straddle his lap or pull down his pants to see what he was working with nearly every second their conversation stopped. Rick felt increasingly annoyed with their Uber driver, Frank, who was one of those people who insisted on conversation with his passengers.

"There's water back there, chargers if you need them! Is everything ok?"

Rick paid him no mind, his hand making a slow ascent up Michonne's leg. She burrowed her head in his shoulder, stifling a laugh.

"We're fine." Rick mumbled, trailing kisses down her jaw.

Frank cleared his throat. "You two are certainly…active this time of night."

"Is it making you uncomfortable?"

Michonne kicked his shin; Rick winked at her.

"No, no! Go ahead, do your thing." Translation: Whatever gets me five stars.

They stumbled through Rick's door, still laughing. "He gets five stars. It's only fair."

Michonne darted her eyes around his condo. Modern, a little sparse, definitely fit for the bachelor look Rick was probably going for. "I would've kicked us out."

"Make yourself comfortable." Rick said, motioning to the wide living room.

Instead, she went over to the piano, smiling as she pressed a key. "You play?"

He came back into the room, handing her a bottle of water. "A little bit. Don't think I'm any good."

He had such nice hands. She could imagine them treading gracefully on each key.

She shook her head, a little somberly. "I've always wanted to learn."

"I can teach you." He was eyeing the wistful way she looked at the piano.

Michonne paused on a key, considering. That implied they'd be seeing each other again after this.

So she switched the conversation, picking up a photo of him between two green eyed girls, one brunette and the other blonde. "Sisters?"

"Half-sisters – different fathers, but they hate when I say we're half-siblings." He smiled fondly at the photo. "Mags and Beth."

There was another, of Maggie sidled up with another man. Glenn, Maggie, and his nephew Hershel Jr. There was one of Shane, and a guy named Morgan, and Shane and his wife Lori. Michonne found it so adorable how animated Rick got when he spoke about the people he loved.

She noticed, but didn't mention, there were no pictures of his ex-wife.

He toured her around every room in his house, which wasn't much, but considering the grandeur of the entire place, felt like it. When at last they reached his bedroom, Michonne felt those familiar tugs of nerves on her stomach. "This bed is really…neat. I almost hate to mess it up."

Rick began undoing his watch, chuckling. "'Almost.'"

Michonne studies him, perching on the edge of his bed to unwind the straps on her heels. "How often do you do this?"

"Sleep with someone I actually like?"

She smiled. The first shoe off, the watch off. "Yes."

Rick swallowed as he watched her undo the buttons on her blouse, fumbling on his own. Michonne laid her shirt on the chair sidled next to the bed, and promptly walked over to him. Rick traced the curve of her breasts, the abs on her stomach.

"I don't do this often." She said, a bit timidly.

"That's fine," he tilted her chin up. "Just follow my lead."

She kissed like she knew what she was doing, taking the lead herself, just fine. Again, their kisses grew fervent, and they fell back on the bed, at the leisure to make as much noise as they wanted. With Michonne on top of him, Rick unclasped her bra with one hand while he worked her skirt with the other, speaking in-between kisses. "I don't – want you – to think – this is all I wanted."

Michonne slinked down, tugging his pants. "What?"

"I mean that I like you," he was panting slightly, trying to catch his eyes. "More than I think I should."

Michonne didn't want to tell him that she felt the same way, but no matter the sentiment, they were two people who barely knew each other, who felt an attraction strong enough to warrant a one night stand. Nothing more, nothing less.

So she didn't answer, just kissed him good enough to make him forget anything but her body on his, their bodies together, and this one splendid night that would never see them again.

She woke up sore, with a headache pounding the side of her head. Rick snored next to her, his face mushed into the pillows, hair mussed. They'd had quite the night, and lucky for the bed, they'd switched locations, alternating between the floor, Rick's dresser, his bathroom counter, his shower, and his bathtub. (To Michonne's delight, he had both).

Quietly, she dressed, padding into the living room with her phone balanced in her hand and shoes in the other, jumping when she saw a figure standing in the middle of the living room. "Oh!"

The woman jumped too, on the verge of putting a potato chip in her mouth. She was short and square, wearing a maid's uniform and a name tag.

"I'm sorry," Michonne breathed. "I didn't see you there. Are you the maid?"

"Are you Mr. Grimes new girlfriend? I swear this is the first time I've eaten his chips."

Michonne smiled sourly. "It's fine. I'm just," she pointed to the door. "Heading out."

She nodded dutifully. "Would you like me to leave a message with Rick?"

That gave her pause. "Tell him…tell him I said it was good. It was nice, being with him."

It felt strange; she should've been the one to tell him directly, but she figured it was better this way. In five weeks, they'd be over whatever they felt had happened.