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“I know. Perfect, right?” I hug my knees to my chest, watching him eat like it’s a damn rom-com and not a psychological horror flick with a breakfast budget. “So. You’ll never guess what I did this morning.”

His brows lift slightly. He’s learning. Expect the unexpected.

I bounce a little on the bed. “I got us a mechanic.”

He pauses mid-chew. “You what?”

“A mechanic,” I say brightly. “Dean Mercer. Strong hands. Gorgeous arms. Tattoos. Smells like engine oil and poor decisions. You’re gonna love him.”

Evan just stares at me.

“I went to his shop early. Caught him before opening. Told him I had a problem with the generator.” I waggle my brows. “Which, technically, I did. In that I unplugged it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Evan says.

“He followed me home like a good boy. Didn’t even ask that many questions.” I sigh, dreamy. “You should’ve seen the way he looked at me. Like he knew. Like deep down, he already belongs here.”

Evan slowly sets the toast down. “You knocked out a grown man and dragged him into the bunker. Again.”

“Oh please, I wheeled him in. And you’re being dramatic. He’s fine. Comfortable. Cuffed. And the mattress is just as nice as yours.”

His face is a mixture of disbelief and dread. “Maple. He’s a mechanic. Built like a brick wall according to you. Covered in ink and testosterone. How exactly do you plan on keeping him under control once he wakes up and realizes he’s been abducted by a batshit prepper with trust issues and a Pinterest board full of bunker layouts?”

I smile, wide and easy. “He’s already in love with me.”

Evan chokes slightly on his orange juice.

“He doesn’t know it yet,” I continue, patting his knee. “But he will. Just like you. Just like the rest of you.”

“There’s a rest of us?” he says.

“Eventually.” I hum, grabbing a piece of toast and nibbling the edge. “Dean doesn’t have any close family. No ties. Just like you. Just like all of you. That’s part of what makes this work. It’s clean. Cozy.”

“Cozy,” he echoes flatly.

“Yes. Cozy. No strings. No one looking for you. Just us. A little family. You, me, Dean. And maybe two or three more, depending on the virus mutation curve.”

Evan puts his head in his hands. “I need more bacon.”

I pass him another strip, proud as hell. Because this is going exactly how I planned.

He’s eating.

Dean’s sleeping.

And the world outside is falling apart.

But in here?

In here, everything’s perfect.

Chapter Seven

Maple

I hear the shift of weight before I see the flutter of his lashes.

The bed creaks, a groan of protest under six feet of tattooed, musclebound mechanical perfection, and I pop a pepperoni in my mouth, watching from the little armchair in the corner. My legs are curled under me, plate in my lap, another slice on standby. I made him lunch. Of course I did.