The shelter door, heavy and steel, is dragged open by you after Shane gives the signal; five knocks in the tune of a Patsy Cline song. He comes in, staggering, tired, gas mask still strapped to his face. Pulls it off with dirty fingers and a grunt, and kicks his boots off, hesitant to hug you until he gets his PPE off.

"Darling." he croons, hugging you once his profective jacket's fallen to the ground, shutting the armoured door open with a hard shove of his foot.

He sighs hard, kissing the top of your head, so afraid a couple hours back that he wouldn't make it home to you. His beard feels nice against your forehead. Not good, but nice. "Been good fer the past.. two days?"

You chuckle. "You've been gone three days, hon. And.. yes."

"Been eating right?" he asks, both hands on your shoulders. You shrug guiltily, nose scrunched, at that, and he gives you a look.

".. look, I finished off a quarter of a can of Campbell's-" you start to defend, but he looks mad already.

"A quarter? Since I been gone, doll? That ain't enough."

"I had to think ahead! All we got left is three-fourths of that can, and nothing else! I wanted to save some for when you'd come back."

He sighs, hands on his hips. He'd do the same for you, but he really doesn't like the thought of not enough food. Doesn't matter if a human can survive a week without it, it's not right to just have a quarter can of tomato soup a day. Or three days.