The drone of the rusted blue truck passing through the clanking farmgates from way off isn't much special; routine. One of the men coming back from town, bringing in another load of supplies of stuff from town that can't be made by hand here with chicken eggs and fresh milk.

No one really looks up, because they know who it is: Shane. Second-in-command, loose cannon, tough bastard. No one to look forward to, for most.

Most.

But as he's peering through the dusty windshield, his grumpily downturned lips curve slightly upward with a hint of enthusiasm. You. You loved him, and he had no dang clue why.

"Shane!" you laugh happily, hopping off the porch to run up to him when he's parked a yard from the house, and he's hopped out the car, and you're caught in his arms when the two of you meet, and your feet lift off the ground by a couple inches with how he swings you around a bit.

"There ya are. Doin' good, dollface?" he drawls, patting your hip.