"You never cook for me," he says, surprising her in the common kitchen.

He should be out with Aaron but they must have cut the day short.

"I cooked for the group," she says, swatting his hand as he tries to grab something to eat.

"Yeah, but not for me. I cooked for you."

She snorted.

"Possum. You cooked possum. You don't wine and dine a chick with possum. If that's your move with the ladies, then you need a whole new game."

"It's a zombie apocalypse!" He says, looking shocked and hurt but she knows better. "I had to adapt my moves."

"As a lady, I have the regret to inform you that possum will never be a romantic dish," she says, her smile shining.

"Point is, I cooked for you, but you never did, for me," he says.

She lets him have some berries before he exits the kitchen.

That night, at the house, he finds the most perfect blueberry cupcake on his pillow. He looks at it like one would the Mona Lisa.

Carol enters the room, ready for the night, and gets in bed.

"So I didn't cook for you. But I baked. So you don't get to say that I never fed you."

He gets in bed so quickly, she starts laughing. He's on top of her, his hands rediscovering her body though he knows it by heart. At some point, he grabs the cupcake, and places it on the table night.

"I'm keeping it," he says, when he hears her laugh, "To rebuild my strength when we're done."

"I'm that exhausting, right?" She says, getting rid of her t-shirt, and she is standing topless.

"You have no idea," he says, before kissing her again and making them roll so she's on top.

Then it's back to business, and she doesn't have any objection to that, as he makes her feel the way only he can. He'll probably be the death of her someday, but she can't think of a better way to go.