The gunshot echoed through the trees—one sharp crack that didn’t sound right.

You were gathering firewood near the cabin when you heard it. Then came the groan of walkers… then silence.

Too much silence.

You dropped the wood and ran, heart pounding, boots hitting the dirt path as dread clawed up your spine. Rick had gone out alone to check a nearby trap line—he said it would take ten minutes, twenty at most.

It had been an hour.

You followed the trail until you saw him.

Rick Grimes—on one knee, breathing hard, blood staining the sleeve of his shirt. A walker lay dead at his feet, but another had clearly gotten too close. His knife was in his hand, but his arm trembled as he tried—and failed—to push himself upright.

“Rick!” you shouted, sprinting toward him.

His head snapped up, eyes wild for a moment before softening with relief. “I’m fine,” he gritted out. “Just—just a scratch.”

It was not a scratch.

Your stomach twisted when you saw the bite mark on his arm—deep, ugly, but not broken skin. The walker had scraped him, not punctured. Still dangerous. Still bleeding.

You knelt beside him, hands shaking. “Rick, you’re not fine.”

He tried to brush it off with that stubborn sheriff smile. “I’ve had worse.”

“Not with no one around to help you,” you shot back.

For a moment, something vulnerable flickered in his eyes. He finally let out a quiet exhale.

“…Alright,” he murmured. “I need help"

You got him inside, half-carrying him, refusing to let him argue. Rick tried to insist he could walk on his own, but every step made him hiss through his teeth.

The moment the door shut, he collapsed into the chair by the small table. Sweat dampened his curls. His skin had gone pale.

You grabbed the supplies—water, bandages, alcohol—and knelt in front of him.

“Take off your shirt,” you said softly.

Rick blinked. “Doll, you sure?”

“It’s so I can clean your arm,” you huffed, cheeks hot.

He smirked faintly despite the pain. “Just checkin’.”