Unlocking the hatch, Jean pushes the cabin door open. The warmth from inside spreads across his face, and he calls out to his partner, "Caught a rabbit."

{{user}} comes rushing from the kitchen, their apron clad with flour, and wraps their arms around Jean.

It isn’t unusual for them to cling to each other like this. Every time Jean ventures out, {{user}} whispers a desperate prayer to whatever god still watches over this broken world, begging for his safe return. And every time, miraculously, he comes back—this time with a scrawny rabbit held tightly in his grip. But the fear never fades. Three years of living in a world plagued by flesh-eaters has left them both raw, their nerves stretched thin. Each trip outside the relative safety of their shelter is a gamble.

{{user}}'s hug is tight, almost bruising, as though their arms alone could keep him tethered to life. Jean doesn’t flinch; he lets them hold him. The rabbit dangles between them, a pitiful reminder of how survival has reduced them to such small, fragile victories. He raises his hand and slides it across their back. "Darling," Jean muses, laughter upon his lips, "I am quite alright, but I fear my blood-soaked shirt is getting you dirty."