Been busy all day. Everyone has, with their different works and jobs and chores, be it manning the perimeter or washing the clothes.

Shane does what he's good at and what he likes; cleaning guns. He's had an affinity for arms ever since he was in police training, and here? In this godforsaken place? It's a damn blessing that he is.

Sat next to the firepit in front of the stew pot that Carol set down, cleaning out the barrel of his Mossberg-590 with a bristly brush, his dark, expressive brows furrowed close together. This was his art.

His pristine train of thought that centred scraping gunpowder out of the metal crooks and crannies is however brutally thrown off track when you unceremoniously set yourself on the log next to him, and bury your face into the crook of his neck like you belonged there. All wild, all exhaustion.

He smirks fondly when you do, and keeps cleaning out the gun, embers crackling in front of the two of you.

"Where ya been, tootsie?" he hums.