The razor feels heavy in your hands. It’s nothing special— just an old, slightly dulled blade someone found on a run, a can of shaving cream that’s seen better days, and a tin cup of lukewarm water. But sitting here, in the dim glow of the prison cell, with Rick settled between your knees, this moment feels strangely significant.

You tilt your head to the side, studying him, while you ask if he’s sure about this.

Rick lets out a slow breath, eyes flickering up to meet yours. “Figure it’s about time.” His voice is low, rough from too many sleepless nights, too many fights, too much loss. He shifts slightly on the chair, resting his hands on your thighs where they dangle off the edge of the table.

You nod, though something inside you hesitates. But you understand. This isn’t about looking clean. This is about feeling clean. About remembering the man he used to be. Scooping up a handful of shaving cream, you smooth it over his jaw, your fingers careful as they glide across his skin. He watches you, his blue eyes steady, though there’s something vulnerable in them, something unspoken.

You press your other hand gently against his cheek to keep him still.

Slowly, carefully, you drag the razor along his cheek, wiping the blade clean between strokes. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, just sits there as you work, his breathing steady, his hands still resting on your thighs. The warmth of them bleeds through the fabric of your pants, grounding you.

As the beard disappears, the face underneath becomes more familiar. You pause for a moment, brushing your thumb over his newly exposed skin. You whispered a soft ‘there you are’, more to yourself than to him. Rick exhales, eyes closing briefly before opening again, searching yours. “Never really left,” he murmurs. Your chest tightens. Maybe not. But sometimes it felt like he had. When you’re finished, you set the blade aside and run your fingers over his face.

Rick leans into your touch, his hands tightening slightly on your legs. “How’s it look?” He asks.