Page 102

The radio drones from its usual place on the counter, the voice low and crackling and halfway lost in static until one sentence punches clean through the fog of afterglow and leftover maple syrup lust.

“… and in light of the latest antiviral breakthrough and improved civil stability, martial law is expected to lift in all remaining zones by the end of the month…”

I sit up.

Like, bolt upright. Every nerve in my body says what the actual fuck.

Wade pauses mid-sip.

Dean, who I didn’t even realize was behind the couch, leans over and whispers, “Did the government just say it’s time to go back to brunch?”

And then I feel panic. Real panic. Not about the world collapsing, not about survival or safety.

But about them. About whether they’ll want to leave.

Wade turns back to me like I just dropped a match on his barn. “You… you’re not gonna let us go, right?”

It’s so pure. So earnest.

Like I’m about to wake up one day and decide to just unlock the doors, hand everyone a can of peaches and a new pair of shoes and send them skipping into the sunrise.

Dean’s already halfway through climbing over the back of the couch. “Don’t you fucking dare let this mean we go back to pants and taxes and waiting in line for cold brew.”

Evan walks in holding a bowl of fruit like a man who’s still annoyed that he missed out on the Wade worship session. “Well,” he says coolly, “It does change some things.”

Dean turns, betrayed. “Oh, shut your mouth, Doc.”

“It changes the national Pop Tart shortage,” Evan says, deadpan.

I blink at him.

Dean gasps. “You think we can get more of the cherry ones?”

“Maybe even the brown sugar cinnamon,” Evan says.

“We have to go out,” Dean says.

“No we don’t,” Brock says from the hallway, arms crossed, already looking like he’s ready to start boarding up exits. “The virus was just a test run. Society collapsed on a Tuesday. You really think that was the final act?”

Holden joins him, tightening his ponytail like a man preparing to build fortifications and emotionally distance himself from everyone except me. “We need to gather more supplies. Reinforce the fencing. This lull? It’s bait.”

“Exactly,” I say, pointing at them both. “That’s why I got all of you. The world may look better, but it’s not. It’s just catching its breath. The real end is coming.”

Dean nods solemnly. “And we’re gonna meet it with canned peaches, a fuckable matriarch, and fortified joy.”

Evan picks a strawberry out of his bowl and pops it in my mouth.

I nearly moan.

“We could use a pastry chef,” Wade offers. “If this is gonna be long-term. Just saying. A guy who can make croissants and fix a busted kitchen pipe? That’s the dream.”

“I could collect one,” I murmur, licking the juice off my lip.

“You gonna stalk him through a bakery?” Dean asks. “Please tell me you already know what brand of yeast he prefers.”

“I don’t think pastry chefs are really my style,” I say, tilting my head. “Too… flaky.”

Wade mutters something that might be a chuckle.