Chapter 8

MICHONNE

After driving for five minutes towards the borderline between Trinity Hills and Atlanta city, I am forced by my intruder to turn left onto Concord street. The steel barrel of his gun is no longer pressed into my neck, but jutting against the side of my ribcage. I wince, but I say nothing. As we cross over fourth, and then fifth avenue the moderately paced traffic starts to get thick, which is usual at this time of day when you're heading into the Central district. This guy is obviously not from around here. With adrenaline pumping through my blood vessels, my mind races over how I could take advantage of this particular ignorance. If I floor the accelerator I could take him by surprise and ram the car into the line of vehicles piling up in front of us. The sudden impact could give me the window I need to escape. Dangerous and desperate, I'm well aware, but frankly my choices are limited. Before I could dwell any further on this plan, a hand roughly grabs my shoulder and my passenger barks, "Turn left here."

I obey.

A combination of disbelief, fear, and rage storm my insides as my brain zeroes in on the singular question, "Am I going to make it out of this mess unharmed and alive?"

I try to stay focused, and not space out due to crippling fear. Be smart, Michonne. Be cool. Keep a level head. My hands grip the steering wheel as he orders me to make a few more seemingly random turns. Soon, I find myself parked in a secluded area hidden in a gap of some back alley.

The smell of sweat and cigarettes inundates my senses, and his heavy breathing in my ears fills me with disgust.

"Why are we here?" I murmur, despite my jack hammering heart.

"Shut up bitch." He grabs my neck and shoves me hard.

Demanding that I switch across to the passenger side, the killer then climbs up front into the driver seat. He has to push the chair back because damn, he really is tall just as I remembered. And angry. Dressed in all black, from his cap to his boots, only makes him appear that more lethal, especially as he's staring intensely at me with those merciless eyes. My stomach goes rock hard, but rage swells inside of me. My indignation, that's been kept at bay for over a week, from witnessing the ruthless, unprovoked killing of Annabella Espinosa at the hands of this man, flares through my entire being.

"I know you're not going to kill me," I say, in a quiet yet firm tone. "Not yet. So tell me what the hell do you want?"

"Didn't you hear what I just said? Callate perra! Before I slam my fist into your face."

"You're pathetic you know that? To sit there and threaten me when I've done nothing wrong. You murdered a young, innocent girl in cold blood—"

"Innocent?!" An incredulous laugh bursts out of him. "That bitch? Nuh-uh, you really ain't know shit, chica. Lady, that girl set me up. Got me sent to the joint then disappeared with my loot, with my money. Wasn't gonna let her think she could disrespect me and get away with it. No way. It's a damn shame, you can't trust no bitches at all these days."

"So she knew she had it coming? She deserved it?" I hold my breath, banking on the slight possibility Rick was listening in on the conversation.

"If I had the chance, I'd cut her ass up again."

The muscles in my back go rigid. I could feel the tremors rake through my body, but the sensation doesn't hold me back. "And now her little girl is an orphan. Does she deserve that?"

A shadow of remorse, for a moment, softens the deathly stare in his eyes. But it was just for a moment, in the next second the look was gone. He cocks the gun and points the pistol to my forehead. Clearly he's had enough of my shit. "Listen here, and listen good chica. You really need to stop talking. Right this I splatter your brains all over this pretty car."

A cell phone suddenly rings off and I flinch. It's his. Keeping his weapon aimed at my face, he shovels the device out of his jeans pocket, glances at it, and tosses it in my lap.

"Answer the call," he commands in a gruff voice.

With a shaky hand I pick the phone up and peer at the screen. It's an unknown caller, but the ID of who's contacting this murderer is already obvious to me. I swipe the green icon after the fifth ring. "Yes?" I whisper.

"Miss Moretti... Like we said, we'd be in touch." Negan Vincenzo chuckles on the line confirming my suspicion that this killer showing up in my car wasn't a coincidence. "Now, here's the deal. No more pussy-footing around. Or else Mr. Velasquez there will not hesitate to put a bullet in your pretty head. Comprende?"

"He already said as much," I respond.

"Good. Do you know what it is I want from you?"

"The key."

"Yes, my key. You have it, I want it. So where is it?"

"My lawyer has a safe. In his office. I'd have to call and collect it from him."

He releases a weary sigh over the phone. "That wouldn't be a problem, now would it? I don't want anyone else getting involved."

"No. No problem. He's discreet. Doesn't ask questions."

"Oh really? That's not what I heard. Alright," An unwilling resignation deepens his tone of voice,"set it up, but have him bring it to you. I'm giving you two hours... no wait, make that one. One hour. And don't get cute. As you already know, our shady friend there has a real short fuse."

An abrupt click signaled he ended the call.

I begin to speculate what precisely the connection is between this criminal—Mr. Velasquez—and Rosita and her boss. Is it a payoff? Did this "acquaintance" of Annabella's make a deal to cut Mr. Vincenzo a slice of the money stolen from him?

Whatever it is, my kidnapper quickly deduces two scenarios.

One: I can't meet my lawyer at the office, or anywhere out in the open without Mr. Velasquez being spotted. And two: he can't allow me out of the car on my own because chances are I'd make a run for it. More than likely, straight to the police.

Finally, he decides his best bet is to have the package delivered at my house. This situation just took a turn for the worse.

Not knowing Rick's number off hand I needed to get my phone. Shit. I take a chance. Mr. Velasquez follows my gaze as it slides down to the space between the pedals and his boots. Spotting my mobile, he leans over and picks it up. The screen is blank. Thank god. Rick must've ended the call, but when?

"You need this?" he asks.

I nod and he passes it to me in exchange for his own. As I dial, he holds up his gun shooting me a warning look. Yes, pun intended. No funny business. But it's too late for that.

"What happened?" Rick answers his phone right away. "Thought I heard a thud or something earlier, then nothing. Been waiting for you here. You okay?"

"Hey. It's me, Michonne Moretti. Sorry to bother you. I know you weren't expecting to hear from me this morning." Attempting to eliminate the fear from my voice, I keep my tone as casual and nonchalant as humanly possible under the circumstances. Yet, my greeting is laden with the implications that something is amiss.

For a few of seconds, the connection is thick with silence.

"Are you... okay?" The strain in Rick's voice when he finally speaks increases my tension and my facade breaks.

"Actually... no," I murmur.

"Shit!" He slams something and the boom echoes through the line causing me to jump.

I clutch the phone and feigned control I barely had. "Listen, Mr. Grimes, I need you to do me a quick favor. The envelope, the one I gave to you at the Dupont for safekeeping, please bring it to me. It's important I need it. As soon as possible. Preferably within an hour. You can bill me for the inconvenience."

Rick is quiet again, but I can hear his brain working. Trying not to panic, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, but only knowing that something had definitely gone wrong. He and I both know that the safe deposit key is for damn sure not in his office. I kept it to myself at his house cloaked and hidden inside of my luggage.

"Counsellor?"

"I'm here," he answers, his voice low and tense with anger. Sounds of shuffling movement, footsteps, the noises of telephones ringing and keyboards tapping are suddenly replaced by the urban tunes of outside.

"I know this is unexpected, and you're a very busy man, but please..."

"Where?"

"Home. You can find me at home." Mr. Velasquez nods his approval as I follow his script.

"Are they armed?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm sending Daryl ahead of me, he's already on the road, I'm on my way. Still interested in going to the police?"

"Yes, thank you." Mr. Velasquez narrows his eyes at me now as a reminder. "Oh, and Mr. Grimes? Ring the bell twice, then leave my package in the mailbox. I'd come out but my um, clothes they're dirty with the cleaning and repairing I'm getting done. And I prefer if-"

"No, Michonne. Don't be absurd!" Rick's voice rises betraying his anxiety. "How will I know if…"

If I'm dead? Think that's the general direction of this cockamamie plan.

"... if you're okay?" he says.

I bite my lower lip. "What are my options?"

"Tell her—them—that you have to sign and date for the receipt of your property. It's a legality so the firm doesn't get sued. Otherwise, it'll be suspicious. More than it already is."

"I'll try. One hour?"

"One hour... Hold tight babe, I'm coming to get you out of this."

-.-.-.-.-

Thirty minutes later, my kidnapper and I get to my house. Once inside, he tucks his pistol into the back of his waistband before helping himself to the twine he remembers spotting in my storage closet from his first "visit." With icy fingers, he binds my hands, sets me down on the sofa, and plants himself by the front window. There's no denying the taut lines in his expression as he peers outside. This dangerous man is agitated, and impatient.

Another ten minutes goes by. Mr. Velasquez now starts pacing the living room floor. Whilst mumbling incoherently to himself he eyes me with a murderous look. I refuse to cower, despite the steady stream of sweat that's running down the length of my back. I keep my gaze fixed on this criminal monitoring his slightest movements.

As I sit in obedient silence, I wonder what exactly Rick's planning. He only has a minute amount of details regarding the extent of my situation. On the other hand, I am certain he'll figure a way out. Since our reaquaintance, he's yet to let me down. Just as I glance at the clock, for the umpteenth time, a loud bang sounded from the side of my house startling us both.

Mr. Velasquez sneers at me. "What the hell was that?"

With wide eyes I give my head a quick shake. I'm just as surprised as he is. He snatches me by my wrists, hauls me to my feet, my heart starts pounding because in a second everything could go wrong. He whips out his weapon and sticks it into my back, shoving me forward towards the direction of the disturbance. But suddenly there's another clamor. And this time we both know it's coming from the basement.

My muscles at my shoulders tense at the cold death grip he places on my neck.

We shuffle to the cellar door and he orders me to open it. "For your sake I hope you got rats lady."

"Doesn't everyone?"

We were just about to descend the dark stairwell when from the hallway I hear a click.

"Police!" someone shouts before I could understand what is happening. "Drop your weapon, now!"

At that moment, a pair of hands emerge from the blackness and grab me forward. Then shots fire.

"Put your hands on your head. Get down on the ground, now!"

An all out brawl erupts from inside the house as an unknown person tightens their hold on me and hurries further down into the basement. Now standing in the streaming light from the window I can see it's a female officer.

"Are you hurt Ma'am?" she asks, calm and collected.

I can barely get a word out, so I simply nod.

Just then two more rounds go off. Followed by a heavy thud.

Bile rises to my throat as I hear footsteps from above, and groans of pain, and someone yells, "We got him."

I am both terrified and relieved. It's over.


RICK

"You're sure you don't need me to go over this one more time?"

At my office, sitting next to me behind my desk, Michonne slumps into her chair taking in a deep weary breath. We've just wrapped up yet another session of thorough preparation for her upcoming trial testimony.

I clasp the hand resting on her skirted thigh and glide my thumb soothingly along her index finger. "You don't have to, babe," I say, "You got this. We've been over your statement a hundred times." The formal back and forth associated with giving a dry, concise recitation of an account at a deposition can be annoying, but Michonne's a trooper. It's impressive how she delivers her testimony in a manner that's both comfortable, and credible enough to sway any jury.

After that fateful day when Miss Annabella Espinosa's killer was shot and arrested at Michonne's residence, THPD went full steam ahead on their murder investigation. Accordingly, the facts revealed were that Mr. Rico Velasquez of Grove Park Atlanta, recently got released from jail two weeks before his arrival here in Trinity Hills. He'd just finished a two year stint for aggravated assault on a fellow gang banger. By his account, he'd had some "savings" which he entrusted to Annabella, his apparent girlfriend at the time. Only to discover, when he got out of the "big house" that she'd took off with his stash, and his daughter, whom he had very little concern about, without letting him know.

By the time he'd tracked his ex here to her hometown, he got involved with Rosita Espinosa who'd cut him a deal. Part of his stash included a few stolen diamond rings, averaging between half a million to two million dollars each. Annabella had negotiated with her sister and her sister's manager to store the jewellry without paperwork at the bank.

All things considered, the legal proceedings of hearings, documents, appearances, and pretrial meetings at the prosecutor's office over the past month have been hectic for Michonne, but she's handling the demands like a pro.

But then again, this is Michonne… my Michonne. And yes, I get to say that now. I mean we've been taking the change in the dynamics of our relationship one step at a time. Despite my compelling desire to be near her, to protect her, I don't push her. I've regained her trust, and that means more than anything.

When she moved back into her house Carl and I, together with her mother and her sisters, helped clean her place up. It took two days before Michonne felt at ease and resettled.

Expected in at work by eleven, Michonne rises and collects her bag to leave.

I walk her out to her car parked across the street. "Hey. Dinner? Tomorrow?"

She winces with regret. "I can't, sorry."

"Got a hot date?" I treat her to a teasing smile, earning me a sheepish grin. That girlish beam, however, quickly fades. Her expression now turns somber. "You got somewhere else to be?"

She nods. "Rain check? Maybe Monday?"

"Sure," I shrug, a bit disappointed that she'd be unavailable for the entire weekend. "I'll call."

She pulls me close by the lapels of my jacket and kisses me on my cheek. Michonne turns, opens her car door, but lingers before climbing into her seat. Has she changed her mind? I'd like that. I want to see more of her, alone in an intimate setting, especially now that the investigation is ending.

I place my left hand on her waist. "Everything alright?"

With a reserved calmness she meets my eyes and I catch a whisper of vulnerability. It takes a few seconds before she responds, and when she does she asks if my schedule will allow me to take tomorrow morning off.

"If you don't mind," she says, "I could use the company."

Although perplexed, I smile. Feeling like I've won some jackpot. Ridiculous, I know, but all the same her request pleases me. I lean forward tilting my head to the side. She follows suit, tilting her head in the opposite direction, and lightly our lips meet.

"Yeah," I whisper, "I'll make something work."

-.-.-.-

It takes Michonne ten minutes to make a purchase at Reggie's floral boutique. I sit in my parked car out front and watch as she comes traipsing out with a beautiful bouquet of white roses matching the simple white dress and flats she's wearing.

"Wow. Are these for me?" I ask as soon as she resettles in the passenger seat.

"No," she replies, a sad smile on her face.

Ever since I picked her up this morning Michonne has been withdrawn. She barely even exchanged much words with Carl on our way to drop him off at school.

I graze my fingers under the angle of her jaw to pacify whatever anxiety plagues her. "Michonne, where are we going today?"

She takes hold of my hand. "You know how to get to East Padua?"

"The tiny cemetary up North? I do."

She raises the flowers. "These are for Andre. Today's the seventh anniversary of his passing."

Her words knock the wind out of me. "Michonne…" I cup both sides of her face tilting her head up. "You should've told me." This whole week, probably from even before, she must've had this day at the forefront of her mind. Regardless of preparing for the trial.

Her mouth quivers as she presses her cheek into my palm. "I just did Rick."

Right. I remember she had no intention of even seeing me today, but she had a sudden change of heart. Sharing something this personal means she truly desires to deepen our connection. Gratitude expands in my chest, this isn't about me, I can't take this moment for granted.

The quiet drive to the burial ground was an hour long. I held her hand the whole way.

"I wish I was there for you when you had to go through this," I say, watching her kneel to rest the flowers next to her son's marble gravestone.

She remains on the grass and rocks back on her heels. "Thank you for being here with me now."

"Thank you for letting me in." I take a seat next to her. "Tell me about Andre."

A distant look shadows her face, but then she smiles and blinks away a slight sheen from her eyes. "His face made my heart sing," she says with pride.

My chest tightens at her emotional pain, and I nod my understanding. As a parent, such joy is easy to relate with.

"And I miss him so much." She releases a long breath followed by a strangled sob. I wrap my arm around her pulling her close.

"Seven years and I feel like that's all I do, is miss him. This loss has changed me Rick."

"How could it not?"

"At the hospital, I promised, over and over, that Mommy would make it better. I swore to him that he was going to get well again. My one job that really mattered, and I failed." Her lips pinch together and she shakes her head. Teardrops fall freely onto her lap. "You could never know what that pain is like. I'd give anything to go back."

"Is this why you chose to stay in Georgia? You wanted to stay close?"

She glances up with redden eyes. "Yes. It's not morbid, is it? I know he can't hear me, or help me. But I feel some sort of comfort knowing I could come and sit here at anytime, whenever I want. I mean— "

"People have urns with ashes on their mantle," I offer.

"Right. Exactly," she sighs, gazing into my eyes. I could feel her body relax, her tensions melting away.

"Ezekiel, he couldn't get that?"

"No. But what's worse? He had our child's bedroom like a shrine for an entire year. Living in that house… I could never step foot inside that room ever again."

"You ever went back?"

"I did. A couple of times. For my stuff, to meet with the lawyers... The last time I did actually open Andre's door, I ended up on my hands and knees crying, vomiting. Sick with unimaginable pain. Grief devoured me in a split second after I'd spent all those months forcing myself to get out of bed, to eat, to live, to feel anything but anger and sadness. Just one moment with his things—his toys, his clothes— and I fell to pieces like shattered glass.

"Zeke, he finally moved out though, a couple months after my last visit. Got remarried another year after that. Ended up falling for his new neighbor. A widow. She's nice. Gave him what he needed."

"You two met?"

"Carol? Just once. Wanted us to get to know each other." At that moment, Michonne glances at her watch. "We should go, it's almost time."

-.-.-.-

It's refreshing how vastly different the atmosphere at Michonne's childhood house is compared to the stillness at East Padua cemetery. As soon as we walked through Miss Beverly's front door, we were met with a hubbub of activity. The clanging of dishes, the banging of pots, hurried voices, and scurrying of little kids' feet. Not to mention the succulent aromas of a range of dishes welcoming us.

Michonne's Mother, who's also dressed in an all-white, flowing dress, appears from the entrance to the hallway. "Oh! Baby you're…" Her feet halt to a stop, however, when her eyes land on me. "Rick Jefferson Grimes? Well I'll be."

True, it's been twenty years since I've stepped foot inside her home, but I'm confused as to the extent of her bewilderment. It's not as if we haven't seen each other on several occasions since I've moved back to town, and especially since her daughter and I are once more in each other's lives.

Managing to offer up a smile through her noticeable shock, Miss Beverly Davidson-Moretti steps closer and cups my face.

"Good to see you again, Ma'am," I say, leaning forward to give her a peck on her cheek. "You're house smells amazing."

"Why thank you, young man. We've prepared all of Michonne's favorites." She holds my hands whilst glancing over to her firstborn. "This is a first, baby. Are you sure about this?"

Michonne nods. "I'm sure."

"Well… alrighty then." Miss Beverly grins. "I'll tell Rachael to arrange another setting."

Soon thereafter, I'm seated with a at the dining table. A generous spread of several dishes is laid out in front of me. With Michonne to my left, I quickly realize that other than her mother, her sisters, her niece, and her nephew, no one else is coming. It's a small and, more importantly, private gathering. Suddenly, I'm not so sure I belong.

As the matriarch of the family, Michonne's mom stands and starts us off with a prayer.

"We are present here today, to observe the memorial of the passing of our dearly beloved little Andre. Whose spark of life outed way too soon. Dear God we know he is safe in your memory as he is in all of our hearts, especially his mother's and his father's to whom he was a blessing."

"Yes, he was," her sister Fatima, the youngest, whispers in response.

"Thanks to the ransom sacrifice of the Christ," Miss Beverly continues, "we have the hope of seeing his sweet face once again, reunited together in peace, love, and abounding happiness. In the name of your son and our merciful Lord and savior Jesus, we offer this prayer. Amen."

"Amen," we all say.

I look over to Michonne. With her eyes still closed, fresh tears are now streaming down her grief-stricken face. Her mother leans over, kisses her temple, and whispers something in her ears.

Comforted, Michonne nods, opens her eyes, and lifts her gaze. "Thank you Mama."

I realize then that she's been gripping my hand so tightly, my fingers start to cramp. But it's okay. I pick up a napkin and dry away the dampness from her face. Grateful, a sincere smile cracks through her mournful expression. She then reaches across, swipes a finger along my jaw, and my heart skips a beat at the special light in her eyes. It's no longer a secret. I understand fully what that look signifies.

"Thank you," she whispers against my lips before brushing her mouth against mine.

"Hey, hey now," her mother pipes in, "There's young 'uns at the table." Her mother flashes a broad smile letting us know she's only teasing.

"Forgive me Ma'am," I reply, the tips of my ears burning. As I unfold my napkin placing it onto my lap, beneath the table I shift my leg pressing my knee against Michonne's. Her hand covertly slips down to my thigh and gives me a brief squeeze of assurance before she gets up.

Heartfelt embraces are exchanged among the three sisters, after which Michonne assists her mother with dishing out the food.

"Why Chonne always bringing home a white boy?" Rachael, the middle child, comments as she passes her mother the potato salad.

"Nuh-uh, don't go there Rachael," Fatima warns, shaking her head.

"What?" Rachael asked, looking slighted at the censure. "Ain't nothing wrong with that. I'm just saying the swirling must be sweet, like seriously. First Shady Shane, now Rambo Rick."

"Um excuse me," Unsure if I heard right, I squint one eye at the younger, splitting image of Miss Beverly. "What was that now? Rambo Rick?"

"Ignore her, she's crazy," Michonne says, shoveling green beans onto a plate.

"I'm creative," Rachael defends.

"You're childish!" her mother cries.

Rachael gives me an appeasing look. "I don't mean nothing by it, Rick. Nicknames are my thing."

"Being childish is your thing." Miss Beverly uncovers a dish of steamed fish with ginger. "And actually, you were too young to remember, but first it was Rick, let me correct you on that. Not the other way round."

"Mom, enough," Michonne sighs, "Don't embarrass me."

"Oh please child, this is the joy of my life," her mother chuckles, "putting my girls on blast and on the spot. It's the gift that keeps on giving. Besides, I'm only speaking the truth."

"Amen," Rachael says, tucking a napkin inside her daughter's dress collar.

"Michonne, you know she does this all the time," Fatima says, pointing a fork in her big sister's direction. "At least you don't have to live with it."

Cocking her head to one side Miss Beverly glares across the table. "And neither do you if you get the hell up out of my god-damned house."

"Mom!" All three siblings raise their voices in unison, "Watch your language."

I burst out a roar of laughter, and the four women turn sheepish at their ridiculousness.

Michonne's attention switches to her five-year old niece and her two-year old nephew. Serving them their smaller sized portions whilst pausing to rub noses and share raspberry kisses. She's good with them, they adore her. No doubt she was an incredible mother. As I observe her movements, I decide not to allow her to serve me until she first fixes her own plate. And even then, as Ms. Beverly would say, I help my damn self. Today Michonne shouldn't even lift a finger. Next year, though, will be different.

-.-.-.-

"You've read all of these?" I ask, as Michonne descends her stairwell in a powder blue robe freshly showered.

She waltzes over to her bookshelf where I'm skimming through her extensive novel collection. "Mmm pretty much. Only a few are on my incomplete list. Couldn't hold my attention. Carl made it home okay?"

"Yeah. Got a ride with Patrick, and Reggie's over there with Mom keeping her company for the evening."

She curls her fingers around my forearm. "Rick… Thank you again, for today."

"There's no need. I should be thanking you. You're... amazing."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

She shakes her head in doubt.

I grip her arms and pull her to me. "If I had half your strength, my life would've been so much different."

She touches my chest, rubbing the material of my shirt against her fingertips. "Different how Rick?"

I swallow hard and allow myself for a brief moment to imagine the possibilities. If only I was brave enough to stand up to my tyrannical father. If only I had the courage to be real with myself and not follow my peers. If only I'd been bold to own up to my mistakes. Instead of concocting excuses and lies, poisoning my closest relationships.

As her hand settles, flattening against the steady thump-thumping of my heart, I hook my finger on her chin to raise her focus to my face. With no more words, or barely a second thought, I bring my lips close to hers and we share a soulful kiss. Warm. Firm. Appreciative. It feels so good because it feels right. Easy, comforting, with promises of forever. As our arms naturally encircle each other's bodies, a thick, hot sweetness spreads throughout my being. Michonne explores the contours and ridges of my back, while my tongue freely roams her decadent mouth. I tighten my hold. Probing deeper. Wanting to absorb this remarkable woman. I need to absorb her. With her selflessness, her consideration, her humble confidence. All evident in the proud way she moves regally to her own beat. My muscles strain around her waist as my desire grows to get closer. Close enough to dissolve in her. To revel in her energy, to have access to her strength and inner beauty.

Just then, she slowly withdraws her mouth from mine, but not far. Our lips linger over one another.

I sweep my knuckles over her cheek enjoying the privilege of knowing the softness of her skin. "I want you."

"Now?" she asks, with a quiet seriousness. The rapid rise and fall of her chest is unmistakable.

Shifting my position, my other hand falls away from her waist to sneak inside the opening of her robe. My fingers glide along the velvet skin between her bare thighs. Her heat is titillating. "Yeah, now."

"We talked about this."

I nod. "We did. But you want me too, don't you?" I rub my palm against the center seam of her shorts, and with a gasp she clutches my upper back. "Having you back in my life, I want that. For us to build something new together. What we were, I won't forget it because I can still feel it—that connection. It's this living, breathing force between us. Somehow we still fit, don't we?"

My thumb presses and circles her core. I feel her body tremble as her eyes fall close and her breaths become shallow. She tugs me forward. Slides her cheek against mine. Before nestling her face against my throat. Warm air caresses my skin, and I shiver.

"Yeah," she responds, "Somehow." Michonne reaches for my hand and we intertwine our fingers. "Then what's after?" Her voice is soft, vulnerable.

"After? We try to be more. We become more. You're my best friend, we'll figure it out."

She lifts her deep set eyes and stares at me. The uncertainty in her pained expression makes me swallow and take in a generous breath.I glance away. But her palm presses gently against my cheek.

"It's not you, it's me. This is… I don't know why, but this is hard for me," she confesses quietly.

"We should be together."

"But we would have to embrace so much."

I look down at her. "Our past?"

She nods.

"Then embrace it. Everything. Our connection brought us back here. I believe that. The good the bad... don't ignore it. But don't let it keep you from enjoying the now either." I promised myself not to push her but... "This feel so good, doesn't it?"

She breathes out a laugh. "Feels perfect." The distance created between our bodies as she steps back, ignites, for a moment, a sense of disappointment. But with our hands still clasped together, Michonne guides me towards her corridor. "Let's go upstairs."

-.-.-.-