"Do you have anything to eat? I'm kind of hungry," Michonne asked shyly, her voice barely above a murmur.
Rick smiled, brushing a loc behind her ear with tender fingers. Her face flushed from the touch, her skin buzzing where he'd lingered.
"Do you like stale cornflakes with no milk?" he teased, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.
She blinked at him, waiting for him to follow up. He waited for a snarky comeback—but for once, none came.
"I know a place," he said after a pause, still holding her in his arms, reluctant to let go. She was soft, warm, real—and he wanted to commit this moment to memory.
Eventually, with great reluctance, he released her.
In Rick's car, they returned to the Concorde Crab-Shack.
Michonne gave the building a skeptical look. Internally, she sighed. She wasn't exactly thrilled about the deep-fried everything on their menu.
"It's wow-time," Rick grinned, opening the passenger door with a flourish.
She stepped out, giving him a dry smile as she tried to be a good sport. Please let them have decent coffee, she prayed.
To her surprise—and relief—the breakfast buffet inside was actually…amazing. There were fresh fruits, buttery pastries, steaming coffee, and omelets made to order. The place was quiet, save for a dozen early diners and a trio of elderly waitresses hustling between tables with practiced grace.
"This is good," Michonne admitted, scooping up a heaping portion of Greek yogurt with honeyed granola and berries.
Rick leaned over with a crooked grin. "So… you're telling me you weren't a fan of the fried jumbo shrimp platter?"
She crinkled her nose. "How'd you guess?"
He chuckled. "You ate three just to shut me up—then stuffed your face with fries so I couldn't sneak you another one."
Michonne shrugged unapologetically. "I was being polite. Barely."
"I'm paying attention now," he said, voice low, thoughtful. His eyes softened as they locked on hers. "I guessed wrong before. About a lot of things."
"Like what?" she asked, intrigued.
He smiled, a little wistfully. "Like us."
Michonne tilted her head. "Us?"
"I didn't think there could be an 'us,' back then. But Maggie… she always said…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Anyway. She was right. As usual. Annoyingly."
Michonne grinned. "We've gotten past the hardest parts. We're both taking a break, sorting through it all."
"How long do you have before work calls you back?"
"Two weeks. Paid leave. The doctor might recommend more," she added, her voice quieter. The thought of returning to routine… to pressure… it twisted something in her stomach.
"What about you?" she asked. "When are you heading back to L.A.?"
He shrugged. "That all depends."
"On what?"
"How things go… while you're here."
His voice was light, but his eyes—those blue eyes—were anything but. They searched hers, hoping. Longing.
"Are you really asking me to stay?" she asked, lips curving, biting her lower lip with a mix of nerves and hope.
Rick's heart stuttered. For a moment, he didn't speak. Then: "Yes. Stay, Michonne. For as long as you can. On my boat."
She laughed softly. "Are you afraid Maggie or Sasha are gonna show up and drag you back into the spotlight?"
"I do expect one of them to show up eventually," he admitted with a chuckle. "But no—that's not why I want you here."
There was something in his tone that hit her deep. It wasn't about escape. It was about wanting. Her.
"I did sleep well," she said quietly, reaching for something lighter. "Your bed is better than the hotel."
He listened like her words were a treasure.
"I'll pick you up at the inn," he said. "We'll check out and plan for tomorrow over dinner."
She nodded, heart hammering. "I can stay another night. My rental's due back tomorrow afternoon. I've got to be in DeKalb by two."
He was already plotting the next steps—she could see it, gears turning behind those eyes.
Over breakfast, they ironed out the basics. When they were finished, Rick paid the bill and reached for her hand.
As she took it, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it gently.
Electricity. Instant. Intense.
"Need me to pick anything up?" he asked, still holding her hand.
His casual kindness, the natural way he showed care—it hit her in a way she wasn't ready for. That, she realized, was the most attractive thing about him.
She smirked. "Maybe some coffee or tea, if you don't have any. And milk. For your stale-ass cornflakes."
Rick laughed, eyes crinkling. "I'll get all that."
They parted soon after—fed, glowing, hearts dangerously close to crossing a line they both wanted to cross.
Rick drove to the supermarket for boat supplies—mostly food, a few cleaning essentials. Nothing glamorous. But everything felt charged. Every item he placed in the cart felt like a silent question: How do I make her stay?
He couldn't imagine waking up without her anymore.
Rick Grimes kept his soul in a bottle. He'd tucked it away years ago, the only way he knew how to survive. But now—now she was here, and when she looked at him with those beautiful, discerning eyes, it was like she could see right through the glass. Like she might one day pick it up and uncork it without meaning to. And that terrified him.
He caught himself imagining it again—her standing close, the room quiet, his hand slipping to the small of her back. Would she tense? Would she step away? Or would she lean in—willing, wanting, his?
The thought alone electrified him, and made him dizzy with want. He wanted to taste her breath, feel the rhythm of their bodies moving in unison, lose himself inside the calm and chaos of her. But how could he say that? How could he show her all this fire without scaring her off?
So he waited. He cared for her. He watched her without pressing. And in the quiet spaces between them, his hidden inferno grew, unruly and aching.
The moment he'd seen her in the lobby—grief-worn, but graceful—something inside him lit up. Not like a flicker. Like a wildfire. Every day since, it had only grown stronger. Brighter. More undeniable.
But he still wondered… If he told her how he felt—if he laid it all bare—would she believe him?
He never thought she'd be within reach. And now that she was, the thought of losing her felt like trying to breathe underwater.
He stood in the checkout line, half-aware of the items in his basket: coffee, milk, tea, cornflakes… and an unspoken hope that they'd share mornings. Not just a few—but many.
"Did you find everything okay?" the clerk asked.
"Actually… I forgot something," Rick murmured. He turned to the woman behind him. "Excuse me, please."
He backed out of the narrow lane and wheeled his cart fast down the aisle.
He grabbed a package of scrunchies, tossed them in. A few aisles over, he found a travel kit: shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, razors, facial wipes, toothpaste, even a nail file and a loofah. Things she might not ask for but might need. Things he hoped would make her feel at home.
He returned to the line, his chest tight. He wasn't just gathering supplies. He was trying to build something soft around them—something safe. Something that said stay without saying a word.
Michonne surprised herself again—she was glad to be back at the Concorde Inn.
The moment the door shut behind her, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. Hot water poured over her like release. She scrubbed hard, letting steam loosen the tight knots in her shoulders. Conditioned her hair. Shaved everything. She took her time moisturizing every inch of skin, the ritual oddly intimate.
She brushed and flossed, her hands steady, movements slow. It had been a long time since she'd done this for anyone. Or even for herself.
Anxiety had carved out so much of her world. Made room for survival—but not for softness. Not for romance. Not for the quiet yearning she was starting to feel again when Rick was near.
She didn't pack for attraction. No lacy bras, no cute nightgowns—just jeans, sweaters, and practical underwear.
She'd have to make do.
But then again, Rick had looked at her like she was beautiful in his oversized sweater, sleeves swallowing her hands. Like it didn't matter what she wore.
She dried her hair and tried to tame it without her best products. Still no sign of Rick. Her mind wandered, unspooled into memory.
Conversations with Maggie floated back.
"Just give him a chance," Maggie had said once. "He looks at you like you're the whole damn sky."
Back then, Michonne had dismissed it. She'd buried herself in grief, in guilt, in fear. She hadn't dared to want.
But now… she wasn't so sure.
Could Maggie have seen something she couldn't?
Undisclosed desires. Was that what people saw when they looked at them? Did Rick feel it too—that hum under the silence, that pull that had nothing to do with logic?
She wasn't ready to call it love. Not yet.
But she was done pretending she didn't want to find out.
She sat and reclined against the headboard and stretched her legs, with the remote in her hand. After flicking through the half-dozen channels for a bit, she found something worthy of a smile.
It was one of Rick's first movies – Hotel Hottie, a romantic comedy where he worked next to Naomie Harris, a pretty young actress who today was an A-lister herself. It was probably the movie that put Rick on the map as a heartthrob and helped build his career.
Michonne put the remote aside and just watched him.
It was funny.
She remembered going to the movies with her girlfriends at the academy to watch this when it came out. They were all tickled by the fact that Michonne had grown up with the star of the movie and asked her all sorts of questions.
Back then, she had been completely over her teenage crush – but it was still weird to be surrounded by female peers who wanted a piece of him – not that she could blame them.
If she hadn't moved on back when she did, watching her handsome neighbor smooch Naomie Harris on-screen about fifteen times probably would have either cured her or killed her. Bizarrely, watching her friend even pretend-kiss other women felt invasive. It would have been parallel to stalking him in school every time he met with one of his girlfriends for some action behind the bleachers or something like that.
It was a different sort of weird now – because she had kissed the older version of that guy on-screen just a few hours ago and she could tell practice made perfect. She was so engrossed in the teen drama she nearly jumped out of her skin when there were knocks at the door.
Michonne laughed at herself, one hand to her chest. "It's open!"
Rick popped his head inside. "Hey."
"Hey. Did you get everything you needed?" she asked, waving him inside from her seat on the bed.
"Yeah, it's all in the trunk. God, what are you watching?" he stood next to the bed, staring at the screen with an adorable look of disgust.
"Look it's you!" she gestured to the screen unnecessarily.
"Christ, I look like I'm seventeen," Rick sat down next to her, staring at his younger self with a cringe.
"You didn't have a career when you were seventeen," Michonne laughed, watching his reaction to himself instead of the movie because it was so much more entertaining.
"I didn't have a career then, either!" Rick mumbled, gesturing with his chin towards the screen. "Look at that guy!" he scoffed. "She's so out of his league."
Michonne arched an eyebrow, looking back at the screen. Naomie Harris was pretty. But she knew what he meant. She already looked like a woman, while Rick, well he looked like a wiry boy with abs tight curly hair, and a sexy smile.
At twenty-two, he was marketable-man-meat for teenage girls though – and, well, possibly older women as well.
That was the way it went. It was funny how it could be said Naomie was too much woman for him at twenty-five, but now, they'd probably never be paired together in a movie again, because how could a forty-something woman be hot enough to be the lead's romantic interest?
Preposterous! She snorted at the idea and shook her head, thinking she wouldn't be paired with Rick in a movie either, since she was, you know, the exact appropriate age.
"I don't know she looks really into you!" she teased.
"What the hell is he doing with his arms?" Rick continued commenting on his younger self's performance. "It's like they're not attached to his body."
"Yeah, it's kind of cute though. Boys, that age always look a little lost in their stretching limbs, don't they?"
Rick eyed her funny. "Cute? It was a nightmare."
She laughed. "Well, you eventually adjusted, didn't you?"
"Sometime around thirty," he admitted with a smirk.
Michonne's eyebrows went up higher. The thought Rick would have been uncomfortable in his majestic skin into his thirties was crazy! Well, it showed her what she knew – not a damn thing.
"I'm packed up and checked out…You want to get out of here?" she suggested as she observed his profile – Rick continued to look at his younger self disapprovingly.
"I thought you'd never ask!" he perked up, turning to her. "Where's your bag?"
Michonne nodded as they started scooting out of bed. "It's by the door...Let's go!"