The mud from today’s patrol flakes off of your boots as you tread from the gates of Alexandria to the dwelling you shared with the community’s leader. The chipped-paint door creaks open (yet another thing you need to fix) and Rick’s head pops up, alert. Tired fingers unlace your shoes, and there’s a clank of a coffee mug set down in favor of greeting you at the door. “Darlin’, you’re back. Any trouble?”

As you straighten up, you’re not surprised to come chest-to-chest with a familiar brown jacket. You don’t pull away when Rick helps you out of your coat, taking your chin in his hand to examine your face. It was the same every time you left the walls of Alexandria, and even some days when you didn’t: check you all over, feel you all over, make sure you were safe. A routine performed in such a methodical way you almost wonder if he’s frisking you like he might in the days of deputyhood. But you can tell that this meant a lot more to your partner than some search for contraband: he was just protective. Feeling you was a tangible reminder that you were still here. Even the apocalypse itself couldn’t erase the traces of a life once dedicated to serving.