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Multiple times.

In different disguises.

Once, I wore glasses and a hoodie and pretended to be on a phone call. Another time I carried a baby stroller with a realistic baby doll inside, because nobody ever questions a frazzled mom with a travel mug and dead eyes. The point is, I’ve done my research.

And I know three things for sure.

One: Dean is good with his hands.

Two: He’s kind to animals and old ladies, but a total dick to people who condescend to him about his work.

Three: He always, always, leaves the back door unlocked.

That’ll leave me a way in. I need him to come with me. No appointment. No paper trail. Nothing that could make someone come looking too hard.

I can’t take him from his apartment because it’s an apartment, and he has nosy neighbors who looked a little too closely the few times I followed him home.

Especially Miss James two doors down, who smiled at me like she knew something while standing in her doorway in that tired fuzzy robe and those sad little house shoes, like a puff of wind could snap her ankles.

She watches Dean’s place like it’s her part-time job. Almost as closely as the woman three doors down, who always finds a reason to take her trash out when Dean gets home, like maybe if she stands just right in the hall, he’ll bend her over it.

I don’t blame her.

But he’s mine.

She doesn’t have a plan for the end of the world. I do.

I park a few blocks away, same as with Evan. Never in front. Never where someone could pull footage. Even though the flu’s spreading and fewer people are out and about, I don’t take chances. Not with the important things.

It’s still early. The sky is pale and gray, the air sharp enough to bite.

Perfect bunker weather.

I walk the rest of the way, my steps soft and deliberate, not because I’m sneaking, God, no, but because I like the drama.

The quiet click of my boots.

The slow build.

The idea that when he turns around, when he sees me there, he’s going to feel it in his spine. That something is happening.

I reach the alley behind the shop and slide my fingers over the worn handle of the back door.

I don’t knock.

Why would I knock?

He leaves the back door unlocked. That’s basically an invitation.

Deep breath.

Smile set.

Let the games begin.

I push it open and step inside.

The air inside is warm and thick, heavy with the smell of oil, metal, grease, and man. Real man. Not the curated cologne kind, not the fake woodsy vibe of men who hike once a year and act like they survived Everest.