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And somehow… somehow that all makes sense.

That’s the real crazy part.

Then she steps onto the porch, and there she is. All sunshine and sin and chaos in combat boots. Grinning like this is her wedding day and Wade is the groom she roofied for his own good.

And suddenly?

It all makes more sense.

Because that’s my girl.

A goddamn lunatic.

And I think I’m falling for her.

Hard.

Dean lets out a low whistle as she waves, holding up a bucket like she’s presenting a prize goat at the fair. “She got him and milk.”

“Of course she did,” I say. “She probably made him pack snacks for the ride too.”

Dean climbs out and heads toward the truck. “Bet he smiled the whole time.”

I stay in my seat for a second, just watching her. She’s radiant. Disheveled, insane, gleeful, and completely unstoppable. My entire life I’ve been patching up broken things, trying to hold people together long enough to survive the next emergency.

She’s out here building a future out of duct tape, pancakes, and personality disorders.

And hell if I don’t want to help her do it.

She passes Dean on her way to the back seat and stops to kiss him like she’s just getting home from work and not in the middle of a tactical farm heist. The man melts under it. I swear if she told him to pull out one of his teeth, he’d ask which one.

Then she grabs the duffle bags and heads toward the house like she owns it. Which, in her mind, she probably does.

I get out and shut the car door behind me.

Dean’s already heading toward the barn. “We’ll start on the equipment,” he says, but not before throwing a jab over his shoulder. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you packing personal shit for Wade, too. So I’m the only one who didn’t get two duffle bags of his own crap?”

She stops and smiles at him, walking back to him and tilting her head in that sweet way that makes people forget she’s a menace to society. She puts a hand on his jaw like she’s about to whisper a bedtime story. “You’re the only one who got every single thing replaced, baby. Top of the line. Don’t tell the others. I wouldn’t want them knowing I play favorites.”

Dean grins like a kid who just got the best cookie.

I snort. I don’t even try to stop it.

And just like that, she vanishes, inside the house again, condensing Wade’s entire life into carry-on luggage. She’s clearly been watching him the same way she watched us, knows what he likes, what he needs, probably what kind of damn socks he prefers. No doubt his room back at the bunker already smells like fresh hay and looks like an Etsy vision board for rugged farm life.

Dean pats my shoulder, his voice all warm pride. “She’s amazing.”

“She’s something,” I say. “That much I’m sure of.”

The equipment’s easy. Dean’s built like a wrecking ball, and I can hold my own. We knock out the big stuff fast, load the tractor trailer, tie down supplies. Smooth, efficient, almost boring, until I remember we’re doing all this while Wade is unconscious in his own living room.

Inside, it’s more of the same. She points, we carry. Food. Guns. A ridiculous stash of canned peaches. Ammo. A hand-stitched quilt she says is his favorite, like this is a summer camp and not a hostage situation.

I glance at Wade as we pass through with boxes. He’s on the couch now, knocked out cold but looking surprisingly peaceful for a guy being stolen. Dean moved him, probably tucked him in. Man’s a softie where it counts.

By the time we’ve loaded the last of it, my shirt’s clinging to me and my back is starting to ache. Which is when she says, completely serious, “Let’s take a break. We’ll have lunch.”

Because why not?