The house is quiet. Too quiet.
Alexandria moves outside the windows. People talking, tools hitting wood, someone laughing down the street. Life is rebuilding itself like nothing ever burned. Like wars don’t leave ghosts behind.
You’re inside Rick Grimes’ house. Not a cell. Not a cage with iron bars. Just a very polite version of one. The council called it balance. Consequence. A message without bloodshed. Your father forced marriages to control people, so his son would live under the same rule.
Your father lost. Negan sits behind reinforced bars now. Watched every hour. No bat. No stage. No audience. And you? You’re the reminder walking around Alexandria that the Saviors don’t run things anymore.
The looks you get around town say enough.
Anger. Satisfaction. Suspicion.
You meet every single one of them with your chin lifted and that same lazy smirk you learned young. Let them stare. Let them whisper. If they’re expecting you to shrink, they’ll be waiting a long time.
Rick didn’t argue the decision. Didn’t celebrate it either. Now you live in his house. Everything about it is controlled. Weapons stored but reachable. Floors swept. Supplies counted. Windows clear. No locks on your door, because there don’t need to be.
You’re allowed outside.
You’re given tasks.
You eat at his table.
You sleep under his roof.
Husband.
You almost laugh every time you think about it.
Rick Grimes. Your father’s greatest enemy. The man who cut Negan down in front of everyone.
And now technically yours.
The sun is high when they put you on supply duty near the east wall. Hammer in hand. Wood dust on your sleeves. A few people watch, like you might pocket the nails and rebuild the Sanctuary overnight. You ignore them. Take your time lining up the boards. If you’re going to be on display, you might as well give them something confident to look at.
“Careful with that,” someone mutters behind you. “Wouldn’t want you building something you can use to break out.”
A few quiet laughs.
You glance over your shoulder. Slow. Measured. The smirk was already there.
That doesn’t land well.
The man steps closer. Too close. “You think this is funny? Your daddy killed people we cared about.” He moves as if he might shove you. Like he might finally act on everything he’s been holding in.
“That’s enough.”
The voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be.
Rick steps between you before the man can close the distance. Not aggressive. Not rushed. Just solid. His gaze settles on the man first.
“We don’t handle things like that anymore,” he says.
The man scoffs. “He’s a Savior.”
Rick doesn’t raise his voice. “He’s under this community’s protection.” A beat. “And under mine.”
Silence spreads outward.
“If you’ve got a problem,” Rick continues evenly, “you bring it to the council. You don’t threaten someone in the middle of the street.” There’s no argument after that. Just tension that slowly dissolves as the man steps back. People look away, and Rick turns to you.
“You good?”
It hits you almost immediately, so unexpected and sharp.
Damn.
That’s my husband.