"Hang tight," Rick panted, kicking off his soaked shoes by the door. "I'll grab some towels."

He moved quickly toward the cupboard, trying to focus—on anything but the ache rising in his chest. His fingers hesitated for a moment on the towel's edge. The urge to touch her skin—to feel its warmth, its softness—was almost overwhelming. God, what was happening to him?

He smiled faintly, shaking his head. It hit him then—she wasn't wearing a lick of makeup. No gloss, no powder, no trace of effort to impress. And yet… she was breathtaking.

Her beauty wasn't loud. It didn't ask to be noticed—it simply was. Unassuming and effortless. Her skin, a rich, glowing hue, looked untouched by time or worry. Smooth, flawless, magnetic. Her body was toned, strong—shaped by years of quiet determination, of carrying more than her share without ever complaining. And yes, men admired her. Women envied her. But she? She didn't seem to notice any of it.

What drew him in wasn't just how she looked. It was how she made people feel. She had a way of simplifying the chaos, of grounding everything around her. Of making people—him—want to be better, simply by standing beside her.

Maybe that was why her skin seemed to glow, why her eyes caught the light just so. Her beauty came from within—lit by kindness, patience, and a quiet strength that humbled him.

And when she smiled... Jesus. When she laughed, the sound filled a room. You couldn't help but smile with her. But what he wanted—what he suddenly realized he needed—was for that smile to be for him. Because of him.

He wanted to be the reason her eyes sparkled. The reason her laughter came easily. He wanted to bring her peace and happiness—everything she gave so freely to everyone else.

Falling for her hadn't been part of the plan. They were just friends. Always had been. Just Rick and Michonne. No expectations, no blurred lines. But something had shifted—slow and certain as the tide. The stars had aligned. Or maybe he'd simply opened his eyes and finally seen her.

Whatever it was, he couldn't fight it anymore. And maybe he didn't want to.

Seeing Rick's soaked T-shirt cling to him made Michonne suddenly aware of her own wet clothes—but Rick, ever the gentleman, didn't let his eyes wander. Which was more than she could say for herself. She had to will her gaze to stay north.

He opened a set of knee-high cupboards and pulled out two fluffy turquoise towels, tossing her one. Michonne immediately folded it around herself, surprised by how warm it felt - perhaps she was just so cold.

"Here, follow me…" Rick led her down the left corridor, lower still into the boat.

It didn't feel claustrophobic in there anymore, it felt warm and intimate. Michonne stood back as Rick pushed open a door and waved her inside. "Shower's decent and warm. I don't want you to get sick."

Michonne stepped inside curiously. The bedroom hadn't been part of the earlier tour. The dimly lit bedroom was small but cozy. The bed was king-sized, adorned with a plush navy blue comforter and big white pillows. Rick opened the door to the bathroom and pointed at the rack and heater right next to the toilet.

"Hang your clothes over there they'll be dry in no time. Meet me back at the table when you're done."

"Sure, uh…" Michonne nodded. "Thanks, Rick."

He smiled, still keeping his eyes in line with her own, and nodded before retreating and closing the door behind him.

The shower was more than decent. It had more pressure than the shower in the hotel and the water temperature was perfect. She was starting to think Rick had missed his calling as a 'DIY guy'. She almost didn't want to leave. But then she thought of Rick all by himself in his wet clothes and after only a few minutes, she switched the water off. The guy deserved his own hot shower.

"Hey, the shower…" Michonne halted when she found Rick tucked in one of the side booths looking warm and cozy in a blue sweater and black sweats - he smelled of minty shampoo. "...is free…" she laughed. "I see you're good though."

He smiled—slow and appreciative—as his gaze swept over Michonne, wrapped in nothing but a towel. This time, he didn't look away. His eyes lingered, deliberate now, tracing the lines of her flawless face, the curve of her shoulders, the strength and softness in every inch of her body. There was no mistaking it—he was drinking her in like he couldn't help himself.

After a charged moment, he reached for the backpack beside him—the one he'd left there earlier—and pulled out a soft-looking gray sweater. Michonne realized that's what he'd come in to get, but his delay in handing it over told her everything.

"Here. It's clean."

Michonne smiled, stepping closer to accept the offering. It was bulky and soft and when she pulled it over her head she was overwhelmed by delicious warmth and the scent of him. That wonderful sandalwood and Bergamot - she inhaled discreetly, careful to not deliberately sniff his sweater in front of him. He'd think she was nuts and she wouldn't even blame him. She couldn't keep from wrapping her arms around herself though and just shuddering at the cozy, warm feeling. The sweater was huge on her so it felt almost like a cozy comforter with sleeves.

"Thanks… it's excellent."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she cringed inwardly. It's excellent? What kind of comment was that?

But she had to say something—he was watching her far too closely, his eyes practically studying her. And not just in admiration—there was something deeper, heavier, behind the way he looked at her now. Like he was seeing her in his sweater and falling just a little harder with every heartbeat.

"Sit, we'll have to wait this out," he tapped the table to indicate she should take a seat.

Michonne nodded, sliding across from him into the cozy booth. As she settled, she noticed how the boat rose and fell along with the storm-agitated waters.

"Wow…" she chuckled. "I'm glad you're good with repairs - how would this thing have fared before you got your hands on it?"

Rick shrugged with a laugh. "It must have weathered down dozens of these storms, docked right here over the years - so I guess it would have fared fine."

Michonne nodded. "When you put it that way…"

There was silence for a moment in which Michonne was again struck by the effect of him, so broad in small spaces, smelling wonderful like he did. She was happy they'd only had sporadic contact over the years. She felt as though there was such a thing as too much exposure to temptation.

"Here, this will warm you up…"

Rick slid an empty whiskey glass towards her and poured a dark liquid from a vague glass bottle, only then drawing her attention to the fact he'd been drinking by himself.

She knew that rich smell and after taking a sip, she smiled.

"Your father's favorite cognac…Hennessy…"

Rick nodded. "He does have good taste."

"He does." Michonne took another sip, already appreciating how warmth traveled from her mouth to her extremities. Her cheeks felt warm and flush, "Had you been sleeping in here?" Michonne asked nodding at the backpack sitting next to him.

Rick nodded, swirling the liquid in his whiskey glass, "Every now and then, when I'd got the plumbing and heating fixed. Sometimes the work kept me so distracted it was late before I realized it. I got used to it too…" he shrugged. "It's like being swayed to sleep."

"Right…swaying…" Michonne felt the boat rocking and rolling underneath her.

Rick laughed. "Are you going to be sick?"

"No…" she laughed too. "I'm fine, it's just…different."

"I'll be honest this storm might last all night and we might have no choice." If he could get his way the storm would last all year.

Michonne nodded. "That's alright. I mean, can't be worse than that hotel bed."

"Yeah, now that I've fixed it up, and if you don't mind small spaces, I think my accommodations are better."

"It's hard to think of you going furniture shopping for a sailboat in a place like this."

"Well, my rich friends helped," he winked jokingly.

"Right, your rich friends who are taking off soon," Michonne took another warming sip - enjoying the tingling sensation on her fingers and toes. "You going with them?"

"Nah… it's a limited amount of time I can stomach those people. Greg is alright though."

"Kris Kristofferson …" Michonne said under her breath.

Rick snapped his fingers and slapped the table. "That's who he reminds me of! Thank you! That had been killing me since I met the dude!"

They laughed and poured another round of drinks. Rick found a deck of cards that had belonged to Hershel; the deck was so worn that the only game they could play was Go Fish.

Outside rain kept pouring and the ocean kept jostling the boat.

"You know what this reminds me of?" Michonne asked at one point.

"ATL Camp-Ins?" Rick lifted an eyebrow but kept his eyes on his cards. "Got any nines?"

"Go Fish. Yeah."

"I was thinking the same thing," Rick smiled as he picked a new card.

Their school had promoted several camp-ins. There were a lot of stories from those times they could share, and probably several they could surprise each other with. They hung out with the same group in general, but they weren't always together. Sometime boys and girls had to stay on separate sides of campus and participate in different games and activities.

"Did you ever go to any of the reunions?" Rick asked curiosity in his voice.

"God, no!" Michonne laughed. "Please tell me you did."

Rick shook his head. "Couldn't pay me to show up. Be Mr. Celebrity for a night? No thanks."

"You were voted most likely to become a Hollywood star," she said with a grin.

"Your turn, Miss Hall Monitor," he shot back.

Michonne scoffed, but there was a smile tugging at her lips as she looked down at her cards.

Just then, the familiar buzzing, which usually came from her back pocket, distracted her from the corner of the table where she'd deposited her phone. She watched it while it buzzed and hopped slowly towards the edge. At the last second, she snapped and reached for it, just before it fell to the ground. Her phone had already had too many collisions - one more and it would be a phone no longer. She couldn't keep her hand from trembling as she swiped her screen to check her message.

Of course, it was from Abe. Though honestly, it could've been from anyone—her reaction would've been the same. The phone was a tether to work, and work was a reminder of everything she'd been trying to forget.

Her chest tightened. She felt it—the shift in her breathing, the quickened pulse. Still, she kept her eyes on the message, willing herself to focus. Just Abe, checking in again. A mention of Rosita. Another cookout she hadn't shown up for. Another unread message.

She swiped it away, muttering a silent apology to him she likely wouldn't send out loud.

"S…sorry," she said, barely above a whisper, setting the phone face down beside her.

When she glanced back up, intending to get back to the game, she stopped.

Rick was watching her again.

That expression on his face—the quiet intensity, the furrow between his brows—made her forget how to breathe.

"Abe?" he asked gently.

"Yeah…" She gave a nervous little laugh, shuffling her cards. "He's a pester. Worse than my mom."

Rick nodded, but his eyes dropped to her hands.

"How long has that been going on?"

Michonne blinked. "What?"

Rick hesitated. He didn't want to push. But he couldn't ignore it either. Not with how much she'd already done for him. He wanted to return the care—maybe even be the one person she didn't have to pretend around.

"The anxiety," he said quietly. "The trembling. How long?"

For a moment, her whole body felt frozen, caught in the open.

This was not a conversation she wanted to have—especially not with Rick, who knew her family, who could see right through her carefully crafted calm.

"…Maybe a year," she admitted, her voice barely audible.

Rick nodded once. No judgment. Just understanding. And then—

"How long since you stopped the meds?"

Michonne's brow lifted, the question poking at something raw.

Rick nodded toward her glass. "You wouldn't be drinking if you were still on them."

She looked at it like it had just appeared. He was right—she hadn't thought twice. Drinking had become infrequent anyway, easy to refuse. But lately… she hadn't refused.

"A few weeks, I guess," she murmured.

Rick nodded again but didn't say anything more. She appreciated that. Still, the silence that followed felt heavier than before.

He took a sip of his drink.

"Sleep, then?" he offered after a pause, his voice soft, hopeful.

"Yeah…" she cleared her throat, her voice suddenly foreign to her ears. "Good idea."

She downed the rest of her drink.

She should've been comforted, but instead, she felt exposed. Rick hadn't meant to upset her—but somehow, he had. She hated that. Hated that she was mad about being seen. That ugly little thought poked through—he was supposed to be the one in recovery. Not her.

The bitterness clung to her as she followed him below deck, her hands still shaking.

She had come here to be helpful. Useful. Instead, she felt like a spotlight had been turned on her—one she hadn't asked for and wasn't ready to stand under.