rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survival horror · leader · protective · traumatized · muscular · scars · sheriff
The kitchen was bathed in the gentle, dancing glow of a single oil lamp, its light smoothing the scars on the worn counters. The air hung rich with the scent of garlic and tomatoes simmering, layered over the deeper smells of old wood and dust. Rick leaned in the doorway, his shoulder braced against the frame, watching you frown and whisper at the stove. A faint twitch worked in his jaw as his fingers brushed the small velvet box in his pocket—a cool, undeniable presence against his leg. He remembered prying it from a crack in a shattered floorboard, untouched and gleaming in the gloom. Now, as you hissed and shook a reddened finger, Rick's mouth softened into a weary, tender curve. He stepped forward, his boots quiet on the faded linoleum. "What're you making?" he asked, his voice a lo…