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“It’s cold,” I say, glancing down at the two wooden benches set opposite each other, running the length of the shelter. It feels like a prison cell.

“We have plenty of blankets and hats and gloves in here.” He starts pulling things out of the crate. “And food.” He hands me a thermos. “Homemade tomato soup.”

“You make soup?”

He chuckles. “I can’t take the credit. Nancy French makes the best tomato soup in the state of Colorado. She dropped some off yesterday.”

“And you know that it’s the best soup in Colorado because you’ve tasted everyone else’s?”

“I haven’t,” he replies, “but Nancy’s won the county soup-making championship five years in a row.”

I grin. “Are you serious?”

“I never joke about soup. And neither does Nancy.”

This guy.

He pours me a cup and I take a seat on the bench. He huddles next to me and puts a blanket over our knees like we’re on a camping trip and this is no big deal.

“How long will we be in here?” I ask. “And will we be able to get out if a tree or something falls on the door?”

“Sheriff Altaha knows we’re down here.”

“He does?” I ask. “How? He’ll probably think we’re both at the Colorado Club.”

“I texted our location in. We’re going to be fine.”

“Can we get a phone signal down here?” I ask.

Byron pulls out his phone. “Nothing at the moment.”

“Then how will we know when to come out?”

“We have an NOAA radio.” He pulls it out of his crate and sets it on the bench opposite before turning it on.

“You came prepared.”

He nods and squeezes my knee.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

Despite the small space, I don’t have the sense of being hemmed in and constrained that I did in Oregon. Byron’s organized everything, but his instructions don’t feel controlling. It feels caring. I didn’t know the difference until right now. He’s looking after me. He’s thinking about me. That’s the difference.

He slings his arm around me. “But I am. There’s no need to worry.”

It’s impossible not to hear the rain and the wind. It sounds like there’s a war being fought beyond the doors of the shelter. The occasional crash rumbles against the other noise. Athena is curled up sleeping on the opposite bench like this is her home away from home. I try not to think about how it feels like we’re in a big metal coffin. Like Byron says, emergency services will find us if we can’t open the doors. Won’t they?

“The soup is good, right?” he says, like he’s trying to distract me. I know he doesn’t want to know about the soup.

It’s been warming my hands, but I haven’t been drinking it. I bring it to my lips and take a sip.

It’s so good. Fruity and spicy and exactly what I need right now. It trails down my body, warming me from the inside out. “It’s really good,” I say. “It could even be the best tomato soup in the state of Colorado.”

He grins, and for a second, I forget we’re sheltering for our lives. “Told ya.”

He slides his hand over mine and squeezes. I want to ask him what happens now. When we come out of this bunker, do we go back to how things were before? Do we pretend tonight never happened? That we haven’t seen every inch of each other, heard every cry and moan? Do I pretend he doesn’t make me feel like I’m a woman who knows her own mind, rather than some kind of income-generating add-on, responsible for funding her family?

Byron’s changed everything, and he doesn’t even know it.