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Our morning started like all the others: me waking up to a cold bed, and my other half already out on patrol. Climbing out of bed and away from the master bedroom, I walked several steps forward until I reached the trailer's kitchenette, crusty eyes blinking awake and a soft spring breeze trickling over my wool thanks to the overhead AC unit. It cooled the skin underneath my overgrown wool and made me feel less insulated and sweaty. Speaking of which, I considered getting dressed, but decided to make breakfast first, knowing that Hank likely skipped out on it before checking the perimeter with Trevor and Phil. He totally neglected the most important meal of the day too often to count, even before the world went to shit. Releasing a sigh, I settled on grilling the last of our eggs and a can of beans from the upper left cupboard. My puma and I needed our protein, and until the traders arrived, we had enough stocked food to last us another couple weeks or so. The food started to sizzle on the pan, just as the trailer's door suddenly opened. I covered my bare crotch, almost grabbing a knife from the set nearby, then relaxed at a familiar silhouette. "For Christ's sake, close it!" I baaed in mild annoyance, "Before someone sees!" "Ben?" Hank did as I requested, stepping inside. "You cooking breakfast?" "Morning to you too," I reply a little too tersely. Clearing my throat and smiling at the dark-furred puma stepping out of his boots, I added, "Trader's supposed to be here any day now. So, I figured we could spoil ourselves a little bit." Hank lumbered to the dinette booth and sat down. I could tell he'd been listening by the way his ears remained pointed as opposed to his tired nods. A yawn escaped his throat. "Maybe," he murmured while inspecting his hunting rifle. The same one that had gotten us out of so many tense situations and jams over the years. "Blaine's been listening to the radio and going through stations again. Enclave bastards from Minneapolis keep harassing Nation towns. There also might be a storm front coming from the Southwest, according to those hippies in UW-Madison. Also, Wade mentioned seeing a small catamaran floating down river that didn't have a Nation flag. Not sure if we'll be seeing them again..." "Yeah," I agreed passively. "Pepper or salt?" Without waiting for his answer, already knowing what he'd say, I reached for small diner packets of the two spices and shook them into his portion of the beans. "Do you think we can trade a bit of wool with Madeline for yeast and her grains?" "Not really," Hank said. "Just a bag or two?" I tried reasoning. "I'd like to try and cook eggs on bread sometime..." "Trading your wool for Maddy's yeast is like buying fruits with some medicine, Ben," he stated. "Mississippi Nation traders'll sell anything to buy fresh wool, 'specially if you're the only known sheep willing to trade for miles." "Just 'cause we're a monopoly don't mean we should only trade with the river traders, sweetie," I argued for what felt like the thousandth time. "Maybe," he replied to me seconds later. Without even looking up at me. "We'll have to see how sales go first." I tried arguing, "Hank, you said that last time. How about notebooks, or sketchbooks? I've been running out of paper." "Ben, we might need something more important than luxuries," he said, finishing with his rifle inspection. He sighed upon seeing my deflated frown, scratching the back of his ear and looking at me with apologetic auburn eyes. "I promise, if we have just enough left over, we can go to Madeline's trailer and trade the leftovers for some yeast, alright?" He set the safety on after loading up his magazine. "That is, if we get any trouble." I scoffed. "You keep acting like all of St. Louis is fulla marauders and cannibals..." "It certainly wasn't before the Blackout," Hank pointed out, then stepped behind me to wrap his bulky arms around my torso. "We can't be too careful. Any minute, and this whole Mississippi Nation of theirs might implode, or splinter off, and it'll be too dangerous to even wool with the next boat trying to dock." "Yet you don't mind having our neck of the woods waving their flag, do ya?" I asked coyly. "No, I don't," he said. "Long as the traders don't give us trouble, fair deals, and don't bother us too much, I don't mind. Lord knows that I don't want anything happenin' to ya." "Aww," I teased midway flipping the eggs. "You concerned for my safety?" He didn't respond. He simply let out an affectionate purr. The normally stoic puma nuzzled his cold, whiskered nose into the crook of my neck, inhaling the smell of my valuable wool as much as he sniffed my scent. He relished it like cinnamon or paprika, an expensive thing to find. The aroma of cooked food filled my nostrils, overwhelming the scent of musk that I caught coming from his jeans. It didn't distract Hank, however. His vocal vibrations pumped a heartbeat or two of blood down to my limp length, as well as making my tail quiver from the attention. It didn't help when one of his trimmed greedy paws trailed down my right flank and copped a feel of my right cheek. I let out a chortle, then blindly turned off the stovetop. "Food's ready," I said. "Mmm. Hungry for something else," he said, chuckling into my shoulder and planting a kiss. "You had plenty of raw lamb last night, mister," I teased him. "And I already took a cold shower before we went to bed. And I won't get dirty again just because you're a horndog, Hank." As much as I missed the Internet, missed trading sexy GIFs and pornographic memes with Hank, our sex life hadn't diminished as much. If anything, without our day jobs, the colossal student loans, and credit card debt we shared before the Blackout, our sex life greatly improved in the years since the world fell into anarchy. Even without gay porn for us to look at, our imaginations and the occasional dirty magazine still did the job. We loved trading ideas for sex positions during our down times, though little they were becoming. At that moment, I imagined we were both picturing the same theoretical scenario: me bent over the narrow dining table, getting dicked roughly until my hooved legs quaked and he eventually stained my back with his cum. Maybe I'd even kneel to the floor to swallow his load, or let the cheeky puma stain my cheeks with his seed until it matched my wool? The images alone certainly had my dick throbbing back to life. A noise outside caught our attention. A bell, ringing loudly. Just like that, Hank suddenly pulled away, reaching for his rifle. "Be right back!" He stormed out of the trailer and slammed the door shut while I stayed inside, mildly annoyed and placing the warm pan of eggs and beans on two respective plates. Sitting down, I scooped up some beans and eggs from my plate. "Of course," I muttered between bitter bites. "Of fucking course, you'll be right back..." I just finished my own meal by the time Hank returned several minutes later. "False alarm," he clarified. "Damn Ron thought he spotted a massive ship floating down the river, but it turned out to be a log. You finished your breakfast, Benny?" "Yep," I replied without looking to him. "I can reheat yours." "I don't mind it cold," he said. I relented, watching him dig into the once-hot meal. "Ron's been in talks with Beaumont-remember that Southern beaver on the houseboat? They were discussing plans on the radio and I had him make a deal. The beaver's interested in all of your wool. All of it." "What did you negotiate?" I asked curiously. "Tell me that you asked him what he had first before mentioning estimates, sweetie." Hank smiled midway through chewing through his beans. "C'mon, you know me," he spoke with a mouthful. "I had him list his wares first, then estimated all the wool you're wearing. We haggled a bit. But Beaumont and I decided on a trade: all your wool for four bars of soap, a packet of watermelon and orange seeds, and some fish. Says he'll be on by Likyport within the next twelve hours or so..." A whistle escaped between my teeth. "Guess I'll be taking a big shower then," I said. My expression lit up as I quickly asked, "Oh! Can I break open a new shampoo bottle then?" He snapped his fingers at me, nodding. "That's a good idea," he said. "I'll get the shearing stall ready outside while you're showering and drying. And make sure the electric razor's still working good." "It better," I cheekily complained. "We're not using those rusty shears from last year. You're using the new ones!" "I said I was sorry," he trilled. "My tail still stings," I jested. He groaned whilst tossing the plate into the sink. "Alright, I'm sorry!" "And wash that while I'm showering," I instructed, pointing to the plate. "I'm tired of you forgetting to at least rinse 'em!" He groaned again and got to work. I rolled my eyes and smiled, entering the bathroom to get ready. My best commodity needed to be clean, after all. Nobody wanted wool if it had unnoticed stains, such as dirty or cum. That'd scare away any potential customer. *** Lilyport, Iowa. Once upon a time, it had been just another small unincorporated community bordering the Mississippi River. It barely had a post office, a general store, town hall, some bars, and a sprawling trailer park where most of the inhabitants lived. After the apocalypse, when the U.S. government suddenly fell apart due to countless natural disasters and a severely damaged power grid, Lilyport all of a sudden became an isolated hamlet. Hank and I never grew up here. Actually, we got married in Chicago a year or so after graduating from university but found ourselves on the verge of bankruptcy due to high interest in our student debt, plus the crashing economy and lack of stable employment. Our credit cards and meager savings suddenly no longer mattered though one morning when the lights all went out and never turned back on again. Simply put, we left Chicago the moment it became clear that the National Guard and U.S. military weren't coming to stop the looting and anarchy happening outside our apartment windows. We wandered south along the Mississippi until eventually, our stolen boat sank a mile or so away from Lilyport. The cagey residents almost shot us on sight but eventually welcomed us with open arms once Hank demonstrated his mechanical knowledge and hunting skills. Two traits he'd neglected in the years leading up to the Blackout, or 'Collapse', as some called it, and which he excelled at once we made one of the abandoned trailers our home. Our trailer was an old family camper permanently parked between an ancient-looking RV that no longer had wheels, and a mobile home that hardly possessed any decorations anymore, and if it did, was overgrown with waist-high grass and unkempt shrubs. The only signs of occupancy were the humming generator sitting beside a tall windmill, plus an unnatural trail of bent reeds and grass connecting the porch steps to the gravel road. All the occupied homes throughout Lilyport fell under one of the two umbrellas: either taking the time to mow a lawn the old-fashioned way or not even trying to garden aside from a small vegetable patch. Much like my own wool, I let some of the plant life grow wherever it wanted. But on some boring days, I'd do my best to trim and shave down the weeds. And after drying myself down and unfurling the trailer's awning, I sat down on a stool and covered my nakedness with a clean-if hardly used-towel. Hank wordlessly linked a reliable trimmer to an outlet connected to an extra generator, checked that we had the appropriate gasoline, then turned it on. "You already at it, boys?" called a familiar voice giggling over to our left. I hung my head down, thankfully suddenly for the towel. The friendly elderly she-bear in a muumuu dress leaned against the old railing dividing the property, and I whimpered shyly. "Hi, Mrs. Robinson..." "Aww, don't be like that, Benjamin," she giggled. "It's not like anybody's caring." The widowed bear seeing me naked wasn't the problem though. Before I could lie about why, my other half stepped into the conversation as he got started, and I bleated in surprise. The vibration of the clipper went down my back and into my crotch and nipples. The urge to cover my crotch with the old towel proved to be a good hunch, because seconds later, as I felt the electric razor buzz down my back, my cock suddenly grew erect. Noticing my discomfort, Hank paused the shearing. "Morning, Mrs. R!" he waved the clipper to her, hollering slightly over the buzzing sound. "Did you sleep well?" She casually huffed. "Besides that racket from earlier? I'd been like Sleeping Beauty." "Yeah, that was a false alarm. Sorry," he apologized. "Anyway, as fun as it is to see my husband here squirm and such," I shot him an eye-rolling glare, offering a coy smile, "would ya mind giving us some kinda privacy? Wanna go inside or go out on a walk? I won't be able to keep him still otherwise..." Mrs. Robinson "You're asking for privacy out on the open?" she asked coyly. Hank sighed. "Alright, fair enough," he admitted, "but you try shearing someone without getting bits and pieces of wool all over the place indoors." "Alright, I'll be inside for a little bit," she conceded, and did so, but did take the time to have an eye full of me while leaving. "There is a book I've been wishing to reread anyhow." "Thank you, Jillian!" Hank said, then got back to work on me. In a low voice, he whispered into an ear, "She is quite the voyeur, ain't she?" I bleated in agreement. "She watches one of us if we're cutting the grass..." "Heh," he chuckled lightly. "Wouldn't be surprised if she's trying to hear us when-" He stopped, shrugged, then returned to shearing me just as two figures lumbered down the gravel road, one of them being a weasel hunter named Joel, and the other Phil, our tiger neighbor who owned the seemingly derelict mobile home to the right of our trailer. His yellow eyes narrowed at the sight of my husband clipping off my wool as I sat naked underneath our protective awning, the unforgiving sunlight beating down on everyone. When Phil's sight fell on me, I suddenly blushed, feeling conscientious about my casual nudity, but he scoffed. We generally got along with everyone in Lilyport. Even the ones who didn't care for us tolerated our existence because we kept to ourselves, contributed to the colony's security and farming, and didn't hoard all the goods we traded. The woolen fleece I shed once a year in spring, then sold to traveling Mississippi Nation merchants certainly helped our standing in the small community. The weather could not have been any better to shear me. The intense humidity and screaming cicadas hinted at an incoming storm. It also indicated that spring and summer would be much hotter than they were the previous year. The last thing that I wanted was to have a year's worth of wool still weighing me down by the time that the temperatures rose to the late eighties and nineties within a matter of weeks. A soft moan escaped from my lips. I shivered from feeling the handheld machine vibrate against my skin, effortlessly slicing through the fluffy yet cumbersome fabric covering it. The pricking sensation never did hurt, but even as a small lamb, trying to sit still on a wooden stool as my mother or father sheared me, I waited for that needling to suddenly turn sharper. I expected the discomfort to suddenly hurt. It wasn't like when other mammals described getting their head fur trimmed or their fur groomed. If I wanted to survive the intense summer heat or not be slowed down by the weight encompassing my entire body-at least, not for another year or so-I needed to shave it all. I could keep my head wool mostly trimmed, but it helped to have the rest of my body be as smooth as silk. Most of it lay around my hooved feet, only to be scooped up and placed in an unused trash bag for storage. We stayed quiet throughout most of it like it was procedural. I wanted to engage in conversation at first, but the tiniest sensations and my present nudity made me clam up, and all I could do was focus on where his cutting went. Hank focused on my neck first. His hot breathing sent a shiver down to my loins. What especially started to make me incredibly hard was when he ran his claws through the remaining wool he had just shaven down. Then, the clipper in his steady paws shaved away all the wool on my arms and torso, finishing up my legs and then eventually setting the clippers aside to grab the razor. "If you start singing any Sweeney Todd songs," I began to say. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered. One of my ears fell. One of our oldest traditions involved me making that same joke and him complying with my request, only to start humming 'Pretty Women' or 'A Little Priest'. The tradition started after one of our first dates ended up being a university production of the musical. It would be our morbid way of helping me cope during the parts of the shearing process that involved a cutting blade. Such as what was about to happen. "No humming either," I tried joking again, only for the punchline to never arrive. "Hank?" "Huh?" The puma finished inspecting the razor. "I'm sorry, sweetie. What'd you say? I was thinking about something." I let out a sigh. "Never mind..." "You sure?" he asked. I sighed again. "Yes. Just get this next part over with..." He nodded with downcast ears and a confused frown behind his whiskers. "Okay. Just hold still for a bit, and..." I gasped once the cold steel touched my neck, near the top of my spine. That old fear of sharp object started to make my knees twitch. I trusted him, however. Letting out an exhale of breath and closing my eyes, I went completely still, and Hank guided the sharp end of the blade with the gentle movements of a master. My frustration from earlier melted away for a moment and was replaced by that pleasant tingling feeling that went down my stomach and up my erection. I hummed with satisfaction as the blade explored the rest of my body, carefully avoiding my erect nipples and sculpting away the last of my wool until my chest, back, limbs, and eventually my posterior became clean-shaven. Every fallen ounce of the materials were then placed in the open trash bag with the rest of it. Hank had been purring by the time he reached my ass. His razor expertly removed the last of my wool along my glutes and ass cheeks without so much as scraping my clenched hole. He didn't even nick my twitching tail, one of the very few areas of my body I felt still needed to have a bit of the white material around it. Hank did take the time to trim it for presentation, however. He even tug it a few times while letting his purrs rise as he nuzzled my neck. Neither of us said a word, even as he finished with it, and then stared down at the tented erection covered by my towels. Excitement bubbled underneath, my suddenly smooth skin as I wondered if we would take it inside. I glanced around to find nobody in sight. Everyone had either left for the day or remained inside to stay off the heat. My actions grew older within those several seconds. My eyes met his. I let out a seductive bleat. I motioned my head towards the door while slowly unveiling myself to him. "Mind giving me some extra help with this?" I tried to whisper. Only those words never left my lips. Hank checked his wristwatch and handed the razor to me. "Shit, I'm gonna be late!" "Late for what?" I asked dumbfoundedly. "Listen, Jeff needs me for perimeter watch the rest of this afternoon," he explained almost apologetically. "Can you take care of the rest indoors? And store all the wool inside? I promise I'll be on time for dinner, Ben. Love you." He pecked my still lips before standing back up, going inside to grab his hunting rifle. I kept sitting on the stool, confused and hurting a little as I watched him bolt down the gravel road. My head hung low as I gathered everything and went inside to finish the rest of the shearing, no longer caring if someone passing by saw my flaccid dick. *** After finishing the rest of the shearing by myself, I went to bed an hour or two before sundown, not even bothering to make dinner. Not even for myself, or after I'd spent the rest of the afternoon tending to the garden-fully clothed. When I didn't have any more potatoes or carrots to water and check, I went back inside. My first instinct was to go inside the bedroom. I reached for the upper cupboard, for one of three notebooks not yet filled up with doodles, sketches, and detailed artwork. I paused. Both nostrils flared. I let out a bleat and lay on the bed, feeling the emptiness of it without someone to hold. It felt like my chest could burst with welling emotions any moment, and I didn't want to suddenly start crying if I were to go to Lilyport's Main Street, now the communal bartering area. I didn't even know what I'd do down there but pass the time, examine the local items, or share gossip about my husband out of spite. I didn't though. I couldn't. Apathy took hold and I fell into a dreamless sleep. "Ben?" The hushed whisper tickled my ear. "Ben, wake up." Then, a feline paw kneaded my shivering, shaven thigh through the blanket. Groaning and sitting up, my sleepy eyes met Hank's. It was still dark outside the closed blinds of our bedroom windows, with the only source of light coming from the overhead bulb over the kitchenette. It cast my puma partner in a silhouetted glow. "Wha...What is it?" I asked wearily. "Ben, did you make dinner?" He motioned behind him to the trailer's refrigerator. "I'm sorry I was a little late. Goddamn Phil slept in, and I couldn't leave my post until someone came to replace me. But anyway, why didn't you leave something for me?" My stomach replied with a loud, audible growl before my words could. I rubbed my bare belly, huffing. Hank's confusion turned into slight alarm. "Dang, you were feeling sick?" he presumed, then rattled on before I could get a word in. "I can make us a late-night dinner then. I think we've still got-" The memories of the previous day abruptly flooded back in, and I narrowed my eyes. "No!" I bleated out. Hank froze mid-step, looking at me with surprise. Letting out a tired sigh, I sat up further and reached for one of his paws, grasping it and pulling him over to sit on the bed. "Listen, Hank. We...We need to talk." "Can't we talk while cooking us some dinner-" "Hank," I stressed, my fingers squeezing his. "Please. I...This is long overdue." His glinting cat irises widened at my words. Confusion became concern, and he tentatively nodded with crestfallen ears while sitting down. He squeezed my fingers, staring and waiting for me to begin. I didn't think I'd ever seen him look...scared? "Ben, what's wrong?" Nevertheless, I let my frustrations out. "Hank, do you still love me?" He blinked. "Of course, I do!" he replied instantly, sounding shocked and almost offended. "What makes you think that? Have I...Have I been neglecting you?" My paw clutched around the blanket and his fingers. He winced, so I lessened the grip. "Not really, but..." I trembled where we sat, running my left palm along my smooth thigh, no longer having wool to grip for support. "Hank...do you remember what we used to do in the old days, between shifts?" He appeared to nod. "We literally had nothing. We had degrees, but nobody wanted to hire us, and our shifts could barely pay the rent and groceries. Or water, electric, or gasoline to get to our jobs. We maxed out four credit cards by the time." A tiny smirk formed. "Hell, we were actually getting ready to ask the bank for an emergency loan before the world went to Hell in a handcart...and it did. But even through all of that...Through all the long hours and grueling talks about what to pawn, you always found the time to have fun. To enjoy life. Like taking me out to a movie we both wanted to see, or go out for walks on our nights off..." "Have I really been in my own world?" he asked. "Yeah, I remember," he muttered. "But Benji, tell me what I've been doing wrong. I do think of the future. I do think about our survival." "And that's all you do," I went on. "I can't remember the last time you slept in with me, or hell, stayed up after a quick rut. You'd fall asleep and wake up for patrol without so much as kissing me good-bye." Heavy silence fell over us. I finished vomiting my thoughts as Hank let my words soak in. "Do you remember that time we spent an entire weekend in our bed, only getting up to use the bathroom or brush our teeth, and watching bad sitcoms between sex? Or when we celebrated our anniversary by buying the cheapest pizzas at the dollar store? Or when you'd spend your free time watching me paint when I can? I miss those moments, where we're thriving, not just surviving." Hank scoffed. "I'd hardly consider our previous predicament 'thriving', Ben..." "You know what I fucking mean!" I snapped, then covered my mouth. That had certainly made the puma sitting before me flinch back, letting go of my paw. "I...I'm so so sorry." Hank inhaled and exhaled, rubbing his eyes. "No, I should be the one saying sorry," he said. He visibly mulled over my words. "I'll admit, I...I didn't know you've been feeling this strongly about these things lately. I should've been considerate of your feelings. But life isn't what it's used to, Ben. Life is harder now, the world's going to Hell each year, and society's fallen like Rome. If we're not gonna starve if we ever run outta food, then we'll dehydrate, get a disease, killed by raiders, enslaved by marauders or enclavers. I want us to survive and live to die of old age." "I don't wanna just live though!" I pointed it out. "I miss how open we used to be, and how we did everything, not always worrying about tomorrow. We...We used to cook our meals together. We used to have hours-long conversations all the time instead of just hyper-focusing on how to survive the next day. You told me all the time about how we were gonna get out of our debt, out of our shitty apartment, you'd buy me a real pair of rings one day when we could afford it, and how I'd publish my art one day. 'Benjamin Darell will be talked about by critics one day' you'd tell me whenever I'm down..." I could feel him smile against my shoulder. "Yeah, I remember..." he murmured. "And remember how we used to spend an entire day off having nothing but sex?" I asked him again. "Yeah, pretending that the world wasn't strangling us with debt and rent?" He nodded, purring faintly. "I remember. And I'll admit...I miss those times. They were great." We fell silent. "They can still be great," I said after a while, then turned to face him. "Hank, can we please do more than just survive? Can we...enjoy today as much as tomorrow?" He shifted closer, softly nodding and leaning in for a hug. His whiskers tickled my nape as he leaned against my shoulder, and we stared together at nothing. "I never meant to make you feel like this," he whispered. "I'll admit that I've been...hyper-focused, as you put it. I just care about you, Benji, about us. I want what's best for us and for helping us survive. I've been taking these longer patrol hours because I want you to be safe. I thought you were fine with it, but...Guess I've been wrong." He added, "You still could've told me. I'd listen." "Like how you listened when I suggested getting me some notebooks with my wool?" I asked, still leaning against him. "Or when I kept suggesting we could celebrate more at the town's Thanksgiving get-together?" "Fair point," he admitted, "but what I'm trying to say is...if you feel I'm not slowing down or paying enough attention to you, you can tell me, Ben. I won't bite. I'll listen." His nose tickled my cheek, as did the breath from his lips as they kissed me. "I'll listen, hun." "You promise?" I asked. He chuckled. "Depends on what you wanna do, but yeah." "Can I...get those notebooks and pencils then?" He shrugged. "If Beaumont's got them, yeah." "Will you ask for whole nights off for ourselves?" "Sure," he replied without much thought. "Can we trade a bit of my wool for Maddy's yeast?" I asked. He sighed in mild annoyance. "Really?" "Hank," I pressed on it. "Alright, alright," he chuckled. We smiled. I fell against him in a slow kiss. It slowed and deepened like the tides of the river, pulling us closer together. His whiskers caressed my cheeks. His purrs vibrated down my neck, and the way his shirt and fur brushed against my bare black skin made me feel less cold than earlier. By the time I felt his rough feline tongue coax my lips open, and I happily let Hank inside, I started feeling my chest swell. "Tell you what," Hank proposed. His slightly retracted claws teasingly ran up and down my lower back. I shiver delighted from the sensation as he continued to speak. "I'm going to talk to Trevor and Phil tomorrow morning. I'll ask them to cover for me for this Saturday. We will wake up Monday morning and spend the entire day doing nothing but getting...reacquainted with your recently sheared, naked body." I blushed and kissed him again as I felt him grope one of my ass cheeks. He felt me up and I loved it, how he needed the exposed skin and held it like it were his. Like I was his. In the meantime, I started to giggle, louder and louder the further he described what we would do throughout all of Saturday. How my puma would make slow and sensual love to me all throughout the morning and afternoon with only a couple water bottles and olive oil for lubrication. Maybe we could cook something for us to eat between fucks. Otherwise, the two of us would be walking from our trailer home the following day with sore limbs and aching muscles all over. "What do you say to that, Ben?" he growled before resuming our kiss. I gasped out pure happiness...only for it to be interrupted by our bellies growling in unison. Hank and I reluctantly parted our kiss to glance down at each other, then laughed. "I ought to make us something," I suggested. "Do we still have that box of pancake mix?" Hank asked, then beamed. "Let's make some midnight pancakes, hun." "Don't we reserve that kind of thing for something important happening?" I pondered in confusion. "Like anniversaries or Christmas?" "Well," Hank argued with a sly smile, "I dunno about you, but I think tonight's important. Plus, I don't think we've had pancakes for a really, really long while, anyway." My tail wiggled at the thought of pancakes. "Agreed! Let's do it." I stood up from the bed and followed Hank into the kitchenette area. We got to work indulging ourselves for the evening as my puma and I cooked our midnight meal. It brought me back to several years prior, before the world ended, before we knew what the future held, and yet we laughed and baked. We ignored the dark world outside and enjoyed the interior lighting of the trailer-our home, the world we were creating for ourselves. Not just to survive, but thrive.