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I beam at them both. My boys.

“Brock’s still sleeping,” I say, licking ice cream off the corner of my mouth with a very purposeful flick of my tongue. Dean notices, his pupils dilating like someone just handed him a gun and said ‘run.’ “He’ll be out until morning. He’s an early riser, though. Which gives us two options.”

Dean cocks his head, curious and already dangerous. “Lay ‘em on me.”

I stir my spoon through the melting mess in my bowl. “Option one: group sex and a nap. Option two: we go get Holden before he panics and locks himself inside his DIY tin can bunker. Which would be tragic, because yes, he has some supplies worth taking, but his setup is basically ‘doomsday chic by Home Depot.’ Not cozy. Not curated. Very sad-man-alone-in-the-woods energy.”

Dean smirks, wide and wicked. “If we have group sex, I might not be able to carry Holden to the car.”

Evan chokes on his next spoonful.

“Come on,” Dean says, grinning at him. “You fucked her. Don’t tell me that wasn’t a full-system reboot. You needed a defrag and a software patch after that one.”

Evan very nearly drops his bowl.

I laugh, delighted. “So we’re thinking: Holden first, then group sex, nap, and a hearty breakfast for our new boys before we snag Wade?”

Evan stares at me. Like long, dark-eyed, ‘what the fuck is my life’ staring. Then, because he’s such a little menace, he slowly licks a bit of ice cream from his spoon, lips parting like he knows exactly what he’s doing with that mouth. “Poor Brock doesn’t get a personal fucking before you bring in the next?” he asks, deadpan.

My knees knock together.

I lean across the table, grip his chin, and lick the smear of ice cream from the corner of his mouth, slow and messy and claiming. “Brock needs to be romanced. He’s a feral loner with trust issues and a sniper’s glare. That kind of man takes a little finesse.”

Dean slides his hand up my thigh under the table, palm warm and possessive. “She’s adorable and adaptable,” he says, voice thick with pride. “Do we lock up your moody boyfriend before we go?”

Evan scowls. “You the daddy in this little family now?”

Dean snorts. “Hell no. I’m the black sheep. Brock or Holden’ll end up daddy. You? You’re the broody one. The emotional support criminal.”

Evan opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns. “You want me to talk to Brock if he wakes up?”

I shake my head. “No, baby. You just rest. You’ve already done so much by not stabbing anyone. He’s locked in. It takes time to earn an open door. What do you want for breakfast?”

“It didn’t take time for Dean.” He sighs and stares at me a few seconds. “French toast,” he says slowly, like he’s testing me. “Maple syrup. Fresh fruit. Sausage links.”

Dean whistles. “Damn, he’s upping the ante.”

“I have all that,” I say sweetly, practically vibrating with joy. “Behave, go to your room like a good boy, and that’s exactly what we’ll have. Brock’s not too fussy about food as long as it’s not store-bought crap.”

Evan mutters something under his breath but stands. “I’m only behaving because the world’s literally on fire.”

“Whatever works, sweetheart,” I say, blowing him a kiss as he heads back to his room.

Dean wraps both arms around me once he’s gone, chin on my shoulder, mouth brushing my ear. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

“I know,” I say, turning to kiss him, sweet and slow and already thinking about Holden.

Because it’s a family-sized apocalypse, and I still have two seats left at the table.

It’s a long drive to Holden’s.

The woods are quiet this time of morning, quiet in that unnerving kind of way. Like the world is holding its breath. Not even the birds are singing. Just the crunch of my boots on the dirt path and the soft hum of my own excitement thrumming beneath my skin.

Dean stayed behind at the ridge, eyes on me, waiting for the signal. Good boy. I blew him a kiss before I left. He knows his cue.

But this part? This is all me.

Holden’s bunker is tucked away in a valley like a secret he doesn’t want to share. I can see the glow of solar-powered lights along the eaves, dim enough to not draw attention, bright enough to say ‘I’m still home, motherfucker.’ His place is neat, disciplined. Traps disarmed. I memorized his patterns weeks ago. He only sets the trip wires when he’s leaving for a hunt. This morning, he’s still here. Alone. And probably listening.