"We'll sort that out," Raylan promises softly, smile spreading at how cute that was. It's just frying chicken. Cook it until it's done. But he understood - everyone learned differently and not everyone grew up in the south where, inarguably, the art of it had been perfected.

He squeezes Ben gently, nodding into the crook of his neck. "I hope that's an opinion that doesn't change."

The few times they'd talked about Winona, Raylan had been as frank as he could be. Best he figured it, she left because she couldn't handle staying up at night, worrying about if she was going to get a call that he'd been shot. Again. He didn't blame her. He wouldn't blame Ganymede either. It was a lot to shoulder.

"And thank you," he follows in a half whisper, kissing his neck again before slipping around him to get the rest of his things, ready to go.