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Together we carry Brock to the car like two proud new parents lugging a very unconscious baby. My men. My future. My little bunker-bound family.

God, this is going so well.

The drive back is smooth and quiet, just the hum of the road and the weight of Brock’s body in the backseat, breathing nice and steady under the sedative. Dean has one boot on the dash, like we’re just heading home from the hardware store instead of abducting a whole man in the middle of the night.

He turns to me with that grin, half mischief, half menace, and says, “So, you already know who’s next?”

My heart does a little flutter. God, I love how on board he is.

“I do,” I say, eyes on the road but smiling so hard my cheeks ache. “Sort of. There are two left. Wade, who is a farmer and Holden.”

He whistles low. “Wade. Let me guess. Big guy, calloused hands, all organic eggs and doomsday beans?”

“That’s him,” I nod. “He’s got a tractor, farm animals, and three working water pumps. The kind of man who could keep a whole community fed without even trying.”

Dean stretches, cracking his knuckles. “And Holden?”

I sigh, dreamy just saying his name. “A survivalist. Doesn’t trust anyone, keeps to himself. But he’s got gear like you wouldn’t believe. Satellite phones, MREs, solar panels. Hell, I think he built a whole bunker before it was trendy. He’s suspicious of everyone, but also, fun twist, he’s got a hero complex a mile wide. Total protector instincts.”

Dean grins. “So farmer boy or lone wolf vigilante. Which one’s the bigger flight risk?”

I tap the steering wheel, thinking. “Holden’s more paranoid, so he’ll be harder to get near. But if Wade figures out something’s off, he’s got enough land to bury us both before lunch.”

He laughs, low and dark. “We need to snatch them both before either one gets spooked.”

“Exactly,” I say, delighted. “Things are falling apart out there. The flu’s in every major city now. If we wait too long, they’ll go underground or off-grid. And I really don’t want to dig Wade out of a bunker too. Holden is enough.”

Dean winces, like he’s imagining the effort. “Yes, ma’am. That sounds like a proper nightmare. You think Holden’s got traps?”

“He’s definitely got traps,” I say cheerfully. “That’s why I’ve been mapping them out for months.”

He chuckles. “Jesus. You really have been planning this.”

“I told you,” I say, glancing over at him. “This isn’t kidnapping. This is logistics.”

Dean laughs so hard he has to wipe his eyes. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

I beam. “I’m building a family.”

He leans over and kisses my temple, all warm and proud like a partner in crime should be. “Yeah, baby. And I’m gonna help you build it brick by brick.”

God, I love him.

Brock’s heavier than he looks. Dean has one of his arms slung over his shoulder like they’re old drinking buddies, and I’m holding his feet, trying not to giggle every time we bump into a wall. It’s hard to steer when your heart is doing cartwheels in your chest.

Because he’s finally here.

We get him into the room on the other side of Evan’s. Another soft mattress. Matching warm lighting. Everything just right. Dean lays him down with care, he really is good at this, and I get to work locking the cuffs around Brock’s wrists. Nothing too tight. I’m not a monster. Just snug enough to keep him here until he sees how perfect everything is.

He’s still out cold, head turned to the side, mouth slightly parted. God, he’s beautiful. Not the polished kind of beautiful. He’s rough and raw and built for work, the kind of man you find on the edge of the world doing something dangerous and solitary. His chest rises slow. Heavy. Thick with muscle. His scars are jagged and real. His face slack with sleep but still so him, strong jaw, long lashes, that slight furrow like even unconscious, he’s not quite at peace.

I brush a hand down his chest. Slowly. Reverently. His skin is warm and solid and smells like pine needles and something primal. My fingertips trace one of the longer scars that disappears under the blanket and I just know I want to learn the whole story.

Behind me, Dean presses close, his hand slipping around my waist. “Jesus, you’ve got a type, sweetheart.”

I hum, leaning back into him, and tilt my head toward Brock. “You can’t tell me he’s not perfect.”

“Oh, he is,” Dean murmurs, his other hand sliding up under my shirt to palm my breast. “But you touching him while I touch you? That’s a new level of twisted.”