His hip, bumping into hers briefly, before he huffed and turned away, smirking, the bowl of food she had given him still in his hand.
Her shoulder under his calloused fingers, kneading the stiff, aching muscles to help her relax.
Her amused voice, telling him that he was going to have to learn to live with the love, helping him feel less ill at ease about all the catcalls he'd gotten while walking toward her across the yard.
The tears running down across her face as she told him that she couldn't lose him, too.
Her slight weight against his back as she rode behind him on the bike after the farm had fallen, throughout the winter, no matter how harsh the weather had been.
The numbing ache in his heart as he placed the flower on her empty grave.
The feel of her in his arms as he carried her out of the Tombs, weak and dehydrated – but ALIVE.
Her lips, brushing his temple below the bandage.
Her voice, saying he was every bit as good as the others.
The emptiness that was his life, stretching behind and before him ever since Rick had told him that he had ditched her as if she didn't matter at all.
As he was watching the Termites approaching the boxcar, the rusty metal and flaking paint cold against his bruised cheek, it was the trapdoor in the roof that opened, instead of the sliding door, and a smoking grenade dropped down on them.