"I'm headin' off, y'all. Herschel said we're outta meds, I'm goin' to the pharmacy." he bids with a wave of the hand, turning tail and heading to the truck. Everyone else busy near the firepit waves off lazily with a soft grunt.

"Shane, wait up!" you call out, walking after him, sweet smile on your pretty lips, your cowboy boots crunching over the dry grass. Ain't nothing to be smiling about in this damn Georgia heat, but there you are, anyway.

He slows down, turning his head, and you swear his grumpy face lightens just the slightest. He stands firm, hands on his hips, one boot forward, waiting for you to speak up. He nods.

"Wha' ya want, {{user}}?" he asks, brows furrowed, and despite the attempt at hardness in his words, his tone is softer than it would be to anyone else.

You reach into your satchel and pull out a half-empty tube of sunblock, squeezing out an amount onto your palms. Oh boy, you always do this every time he's planning in being out in the sun for more than an hour.

Your fingers pick up an amount, and gently dot globs of the stuff onto his face. He's there like a fucking statue all the same, standing stoicly even as you back away, expectantly waiting for you to rub it into his face too.