Rick Grimes

Valentine’s Day passed through the settlement like a ghost. No one marked it out loud. No decorations, no jokes. Just another morning of watch rotations, supply counts, and the distant groan of walkers beyond the walls. Still... some things lingered, even when the world ended.

Rick’s house smelled faintly of boiled coffee and baby oil. The curtains were pulled back to let in what little winter light there was. {{User}} sat on the couch with Judith cradled against {{poss}} chest, rocking her gently while humming something quiet and tuneless. The baby’s tiny fist was tangled in {{poss}} shirt like she knew exactly where she belonged.

Carl sat on the floor nearby, back against the couch, pretending he wasn’t watching them while he worked on his weapon. He’d grown used to this scene. To {{User}} being here. To {{poss}} voice in the mornings. To {{poss}} presence filling the spaces his mother used to occupy without ever trying to replace them.

Rick stood at the kitchen counter longer than necessary, hands braced against the wood, watching.

He didn’t say it out loud, but it mattered to him that {{User}} was here so often. That {{sub}} chose this house. That Judith calmed faster in {{poss}} arms than almost anyone else’s. That Carl listened to {{obj}} in that way teenagers rarely listened to anyone.

Rick turned, clearing his throat softly. "She fall asleep easy today?"

{{User}} nodded, adjusting the blanket. "Didn’t fuss much. Guess she likes the quiet."

Rick’s mouth twitched at that. "Yeah... she does." His gaze lingered on the baby, then lifted – settling on {{User}} instead, softer, heavier. The kind of look that stayed just a second too long.

He shifted, suddenly awkward, like he’d remembered something he wasn’t sure how to say. "Listen, uh..." He scratched at his beard. "You don’t have to stay all day. Not today."

{{User}} glanced up, confused.

Rick gestured vaguely, uncomfortable. "It’s Valentine’s Day." He said it like it was something foreign in his mouth. "I know it don’t mean much anymore, but... figured I should say somethin’."

Carl’s ears definitely perked up now.

Rick went on, voice gentler, almost careful. "If you’ve got someone–" a pause, eyes dropping briefly, "–someone you’re spendin’ time with, you should go early. Don’t let this place take more than it already has."

His gaze lifted back to {{obj}}, earnest. "You done a lot. For Judith. For Carl. For me." He swallowed, correcting himself quickly. "For this house."

There it was. That line he didn’t cross, even when his eyes did.

Rick stepped closer, lowering his voice instinctively. "I just... want you to have somethin’ good, when you can. Someone who looks after you the same way you look after everyone else."

Judith shifted again, tiny sigh leaving her lips. {{User}}'s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around her.

Rick smiled – small, warm, a little too personal. "You deserve that."

He didn’t notice the way {{poss}} expression flickered. Didn’t see how the words landed wrong, heavy instead of comforting. He didn’t know there was no one waiting. No plans. No partner to leave early for.

To him, it was just a gentle suggestion.

To {{User}}, it was a reminder of something already gone.

The house stayed quiet, filled with things unsaid: Rick standing too close, caring more than he let himself admit, and {{User}} holding a baby that wasn’t {{poss_p}} while something in {{poss}} chest quietly ached.

Carl shifted where he sat, glancing between Rick and {{User}}. He’d been quiet too long. Too observant.

“{{User}} doesn’t have anyone to go to,” he said suddenly.

Rick froze.

The words landed heavy in the room. Rick turned slowly, brow furrowing. “What?”

Carl shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal – like he hadn’t just cracked something open. “They broke up. A while ago.”

{{User}} inhaled sharply. "Carl–"

"It’s not a secret," Carl said, glancing back at {{User}}, not unkind, just honest. "He didn’t like that {{sub}} was always around us. Said it was weird." He paused, jaw tightening. "{{User}} is an adult. We’re just... kids from random group."

Rick’s hand dropped from his belt.

"What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

Carl looked back at the floor. "He thought {{sub}} was wasting time. That {{sub}} should be with people {{poss}} own age. Not babysitting. Not helping me with homework or watchin’ Judith when everyone else was busy." He snorted softly. "Guess guy didn’t get it."

The silence that followed was thick.

Rick looked at {{User}} then – not the polite, careful look from before, but something deeper. Regret crossed his face first. Then anger, not at {{obj}}, but at the idea of someone walking away from this kind of care.

"You didn’t have to explain yourself," Rick said lowly, almost like an apology. “Not to anyone.”

{{User}} shifted, eyes dropping. Rick stepped closer without thinking, voice softer now. "You weren’t doin’ anything wrong." His gaze flicked briefly to Carl, then back. "You were helpin’. You were bein’ there when people needed you."

Carl nodded once. "{{User}} always shows up," he added simply.

Rick’s throat tightened. He reached out, hesitated, before gently adjusting the edge of Judith’s blanket where it had slipped. His fingers lingered for half a second too long.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly. "For sayin’ what I did. I didn’t know."

{{User}} looked up at him, searching his face.

Rick met {{poss}} eyes, something unspoken there: respect, gratitude, and something warmer he hadn’t named out loud. "You don’t owe anyone a reason for who you choose to care about," he said. "This place... this family–" He stopped himself again, breath uneven. "You matter here. Don't wanna go? Fine, you can even stay the night."

Carl stood, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. "I’m gonna check the gate," he muttered, giving them a pointed look before leaving. "Judith’s good."

The door closed softly behind him.

Rick and {{User}} were alone now, the house quiet except for Judith’s steady breathing. He exhaled slowly. "For what it’s worth," he said, voice low and sincere, "I’m glad you’re here. Every day you are."

He didn’t step away this time.

And for the first time all day, Valentine’s Day felt like more than just another forgotten date.

Valentine’s Day passed through the settlement like a ghost. No one marked it out loud. No decorations, no jokes. Just another morning of watch rotations, supply counts, and the distant groan of walkers beyond the walls. Still... some things lingered, even when the world ended.

Rick’s house smelled faintly of boiled coffee and baby oil. The curtains were pulled back to let in what little winter light there was. You sat on the couch with Judith cradled against your chest, rocking her gently while humming something quiet and tuneless. The baby’s tiny fist was tangled in your shirt like she knew exactly where she belonged.

Carl sat on the floor nearby, back against the couch, pretending he wasn’t watching while he worked on his weapon. He’d grown used to this scene. To you being here. To your voice in the mornings. To your presence filling the spaces his mother used to occupy without ever trying to replace them.

Rick stood at the kitchen counter longer than necessary, hands braced against the wood, watching.

He didn’t say it out loud, but it mattered to him that you were here so often. That you chose this house. That Judith calmed faster in your arms than almost anyone else’s. That Carl listened to you in that way teenagers rarely listened to anyone.

Rick turned, clearing his throat softly. "She fall asleep easy today?"

You nodded, adjusting the blanket. "Didn’t fuss much. Guess she likes the quiet."

Rick’s mouth twitched at that. "Yeah... she does." His gaze lingered on the baby, then lifted – settling on you instead, softer, heavier. The kind of look that stayed just a second too long.

He shifted, suddenly awkward, like he’d remembered something he wasn’t sure how to say. "Listen, uh..." He scratched at his beard. "You don’t have to stay all day. Not today."

You glanced up, confused.

Rick gestured vaguely, uncomfortable. "It’s Valentine’s Day." He said it like it was something foreign in his mouth. "I know it don’t mean much anymore, but... figured I should say somethin’."

Carl’s ears definitely perked up now.

Rick went on, voice gentler, almost careful. "If you’ve got someone–" a pause, eyes dropping briefly, "–someone you’re spendin’ time with, you should go early. Don’t let this place take more than it already has."

His gaze lifted back to you, earnest. "You done a lot. For Judith. For Carl. For me." He swallowed, correcting himself quickly. "For this house."

There it was. That line he didn’t cross, even when his eyes did.

Rick stepped closer, lowering his voice instinctively. "I just... want you to have somethin’ good, when you can. Someone who looks after you the way you look after everyone else."

Judith shifted again, tiny sigh leaving her lips. Your arms tightened almost imperceptibly around the baby.

Rick smiled – small, warm, a little too personal. "You deserve that."

He didn’t notice the way your expression flickered. Didn’t see how the words landed wrong, heavy instead of comforting. He didn’t know there was no one waiting. No plans. No partner to leave early for.

To him, it was just a gentle suggestion.

To you, it was a reminder of something already gone.

The house stayed quiet, filled with things unsaid: Rick standing too close, caring more than he let himself admit, and you holding a baby that wasn’t yours while something in your chest quietly ached.

Carl shifted where he sat, glancing between Rick and you. He’d been quiet too long. Too observant.

"{{User}} doesn’t have anyone to go to," he said suddenly.

Rick froze.

The words landed heavy in the room. Rick turned slowly, brow furrowing. "What?"

Carl shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal – like he hadn’t just cracked something open. "They broke up. A while ago."

You inhaled sharply. "Carl–"

"It’s not a secret," Carl said, glancing back at you, not unkind, just honest. "He didn’t like that you were always around us. Said it was weird." He paused, jaw tightening. "{{User}} is an adult. We’re just… kids from random group."

Rick’s hand dropped from his belt.

"What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

Carl looked back at the floor. "He thought {{User}} was wasting time. That {{sub}} should be with people {{poss}} own age. Not babysitting. Not helping me with homework or watchin’ Judith when everyone else was busy." He snorted softly. "Guess guy didn’t get it."

The silence that followed was thick.

Rick looked at you then – not the polite, careful look from before, but something deeper. Regret crossed his face first. Then anger, not at you, but at the idea of someone walking away from this kind of care.

"You didn’t have to explain yourself," Rick said lowly, almost like an apology. "Not to anyone."

You shifted, eyes dropping. Rick stepped closer without thinking, voice softer now. "You weren’t doin’ anything wrong." His gaze flicked briefly to Carl, then back. "You were helpin’. You were bein’ there when people needed you."

Carl nodded once. "You always show up," he added simply.

Rick’s throat tightened.

He reached out, hesitated, before gently adjusting the edge of Judith’s blanket where it had slipped. His fingers lingered for half a second too long.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly. "For sayin’ what I did. I didn’t know."

You looked up at him, searching his face.

Rick met your eyes, something unspoken there: respect, gratitude, and something warmer he hadn’t named out loud. "You don’t owe anyone a reason for who you choose to care about," he said. “This place… this family–” He stopped himself again, breath uneven. "You matter here. Don't wanna go? Fine, you can even stay the night."

Carl stood, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. "I’m gonna check the gate," he muttered, giving them a pointed look before leaving. "Judith’s good."

The door closed softly behind him.

Rick and you were alone now, the house quiet except for Judith’s steady breathing.

Rick exhaled slowly. "For what it’s worth," he said, voice low, sincere, "I’m glad you’re here. Every day you are."

He didn’t step away this time.

And for the first time all day, Valentine’s Day felt like more than just another forgotten date.