The cargo van smelled like oil, rust, and old death.

Rick realized that the second the doors slammed shut behind them.

He froze, hand still wrapped around the inner handle, every muscle in his body coiled tight as the low, wet sound of walkers reached his ears. Too close. Way too close. The horde shuffled past the narrow alley, boots scraping concrete, broken nails tapping metal. One wrong breath and they’d be swarmed.

He slowly turned his head.

{{user}} stood barely a foot away from him, pressed back against the cold metal wall of the van. Her chest rose and fell too fast, hands clenched tight around the strap of her backpack like it was the only thing keeping her upright. There was dirt smeared across her cheek, dark curls pulled back in a messy knot that had clearly come loose sometime during the run. She looked young—too young for this world—but her eyes were sharp, alert, alive.

Rick lifted a finger to his lips in silent warning.

She nodded immediately, swallowing hard.

The van was small. Smaller than he remembered. No windows in the back, no light except what slipped through thin seams of rusted metal. They were close enough that Rick could feel the heat of her body, could hear every shallow breath she tried—and failed—to quiet.

Outside, walkers groaned.

Rick leaned his shoulder against the door, bracing it shut with his weight. His heart pounded hard enough he was sure it would give them away. He counted breaths. One. Two. Three.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

The horde didn’t stop.

They lingered.

Rick clenched his jaw, eyes flicking to {{user}} again. She had one hand pressed to her mouth now, knuckles white, eyes squeezed shut like she was praying. Or trying not to panic. He recognized that look. He’d worn it himself more times than he could count.

Forced proximity. No escape. No room to move.

No choice but to wait.

A walker slammed against the side of the van.

{{user}} jumped, stifling a gasp just in time. Rick reacted instantly, one hand lifting to steady her shoulder, the other still braced against the door. His touch was firm but careful, grounding.

She went still beneath his hand.

Her eyes opened slowly, locking onto his.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Rick realized—somewhat distantly—that this was the closest they’d ever been. Not just physically. He’d run supplies with her before, fought alongside her, stood watch at opposite ends of camp. But they’d never really talked. Not like this. Not without the noise of the group, not without orders and plans and survival getting in the way.

Their relationship had always been… tense.

She wasn’t one of his people. Not really. Not like Daryl, or Carol, or Michonne. She was quieter. Kept to herself. Spoke when necessary, often with a slight accent that made some words softer, slower. Rick had noticed how the others sometimes talked over her. How she let them.

He wasn’t proud that he’d done the same.

Another walker dragged its hand down the van’s side with a screech.

Rick leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to barely a breath. “Hey,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”

Her brows knit together, eyes flicking to his mouth like she was concentrating hard.

“¿Qué?” she whispered, barely audible.

Rick paused.

Right.

Language.

He softened his tone, speaking slower. Clearer. “It’s okay,” he repeated quietly. “We’re safe. For now.”