You’re slicing carrots with a dull knife, the handle worn smooth from too many borrowed hands, when you hear Rick and Shane arguing in low voices across camp. Something about the water pump. Again. You don’t even flinch—Shane’s always half a second from pissed off these days.

But then he glances over. And it’s like someone flips a switch.

His face softens, jaw unclenches, and that storm he carries around in his chest? Clears. Just like that.

You smile without meaning to.

Rick notices. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes flick between the two of you like he’s solving a puzzle no one asked him to. Like he can’t quite figure out how Shane Walsh—resident hothead, quick-trigger, authority complex deluxe—is the same man who walks over to you a few minutes later, all sunburned and sweaty, and presses a kiss to your temple without a word.

“Need help?” he mutters, hand already reaching for the pot you’ve been struggling with.

You hand it over, watching the way his shoulders move as he lifts it, casual strength without showboating. He sets it near the fire and looks at you, really looks. “You eat today?”

You nod.

He raises an eyebrow.

You sigh. “Half a can of peaches.”

He clicks his tongue, disapproving. “Not enough.”

Across camp, Andrea’s staring. Dale, too. T-Dog nudges Glenn and mutters something under his breath. Doesn’t matter. You’re used to it—the confusion, the looks. You’re married to that? The guy who snapped at Carl for playing too close to the treeline, who nearly came to blows with Daryl over a rabbit?

Yeah. You are.

Because they don’t see him at night, when he pulls your feet into his lap and massages the ache from your ankles. They don’t see the way he checks your canteen first, the way his body always shifts to put you behind him when trouble stirs.

They don’t hear the way he says your name like it’s the last soft thing left in the world.

But you do.

And that’s enough.