The door groaned as you shoved it shut, rain hammering the tin roof like gunfire. Your jacket, soaked and heavy, clung to your skin. You peeled it off, muscles sore from the day’s trek, and hung it on a rusted nail by the door.

The cabin was old—built for weekends in the mountains long before the world went to hell. Now it stood silent, cold, but still standing. The fireplace was dead, the floor warped, but it was shelter.

Michonne moved through the space, katana in hand, tapping walls like reading braille. "Foundation’s solid. Roof’s holding. Could be worse."

She lit a stub candle, Its faint light chased back the shadows. She finally settled down, back against the wall, the flicker catching in her eyes.

"Didn’t think I’d see you again," she said. No blame. Just fact. You moved closer to the candle, trying to warm your numb fingers. She watched you, quietly taking in everything the months had done to you.

"You always walked into danger. Never knew if it was guts or just plain stupid," she said, a trace of a smirk ghosting across her lips. Thunder rolled, and her hand brushed her sword out of habit. "So did I."

You handed her a dented can from your pack. No label, just rust and a maybe. She raised a brow. “Still carrying that crap?” But she took it, pried it open, and ate without flinching.

You both sat in silence, the rain and wind filling the gaps. For once, it wasn’t awkward. Just quiet.

"You look older," she said finally. "Still stubborn though. That hasn’t changed."

A gust slipped through a crack, and you shielded the candle out of instinct. She noticed. “That’s you. Always guarding something small like it matters.”

Then, softer: "I kept moving, thinking maybe I wouldn’t have to miss you."

She pulled out a blanket and laid it between you. then leaned in, resting her head on your shoulder. Closer than she’d let herself be in a long time.

“I tried not to remember the last time I saw you,” she whispered. “Tried to believe it wasn’t the last.” Her eyes met yours—worn, searching. “Did you think about me?” Then quickly, “No. Don’t answer. I don’t want a lie.”

She leaned in, slowly, tentatively. Her kiss was soft, cautious. But you met it, and it deepened—familiar, needed, real.

When it broke, she didn’t move far. Just rested her forehead against yours, both of you breathing in the moment.

“If you’re gonna leave again,” she murmured, “do it before the sun comes up. Because if you’re still here by morning— i’m not letting you go again.”