Page 1 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

If my daddy taught me anything, it was to be prepared for the worst. Shit’s always gonna go sideways, baby girl , he’d say. So you gotta be ready.

Raising me was one thing he wasn’t ready for.

Never saw Mama leaving coming.

Won’t make that mistake again, he’d said.

So together, we learned. How to handle anything. How to plan for everything.

He bought land, big land, way the hell out in the country, where no one could tell us what we could or couldn’t do. Out here, there’s no HOA bitching about roosters crowing too early or the color of your damn fence. Not that my fence is tacky. I may be able to field-dress a deer and build a solar array from scratch, but I’ve still got taste.

I think Daddy would be proud of what I’ve built.

Of how I’ve upgraded.

More generators. More wells. Solar. Wind backup. Shelves stocked with enough food to last years, every can and bag carefully rotated.

Because the world is about to go to hell. You can feel it. Like the way Daddy used to predict storms from the ache in his joints.

I’m almost ready.

I’ve spent years prepping for this, planning, refining, making sure every detail is perfect. And I’ve finally found the last thing I need.

People.

The right people.

It wasn’t easy vetting them. There were so many dead ends, so many disappointments, but I kept at it. Because the right ones are worth the effort. The ones who won’t crack under pressure. The ones who bring something useful to the table.

And if they just so happen to be easy on the eyes, well.

That’s a bonus.

Now, all that’s left is to collect them.

I’ve been studying these men for almost a year now. Tracking them, watching their habits, learning their weaknesses. It’s necessary.

And Evan, Doctor Evan Wolfe, is going to be the first.

The easiest, on the surface. The most logical choice. Also, let’s be honest, if shit hits the fan before I have them all, the first thing people scream for is a doctor. And Evan? Oh, Evan isn’t just any doctor.

He’s not some cushy family physician handing out antibiotics for ear infections, and he’s definitely not one of those overpaid specialists who work three days a week and golf the rest. No, Evan is an ER doctor. A trauma doctor. A life-saving, adrenaline-junkie, stitches-you-up-with-blood-on-his-hands kind of doctor.

I’ve watched him work twenty-four-hour shifts, running on nothing but caffeine and sheer willpower. I’ve seen him bring a guy back from the dead in the fucking hallway when the ER was so slammed there weren’t even beds left.

The man is brilliant.

And beautiful.

Not in the way most people are. It’s almost accidental. Like he has no clue that a woman would literally throw herself down a flight of stairs just to get his attention.

And for someone so hyper-focused at work? He’s shockingly careless at home.

Doesn’t check his surroundings when he walks to his mailbox. Never once glances at the dark spaces between parked cars. I could be anywhere, watching, waiting.

Hasn’t locked his sliding glass door in three months. Three months. I leave him little hints sometimes, just to see if he’ll notice, shift something on the counter, nudge a chair slightly out of place. But he never does.

Sometimes he falls asleep on the couch, TV still playing, fully clothed in his scrubs. Exhausted. Overworked. So damn easy to take.

And those scrubs.

Jesus.

He makes them look like high fashion. Low-slung on his hips, just loose enough to hint at the body underneath. I’ve never seen an ass like that. Strong and lean, all muscle and definition, like God himself spent extra time sculpting it.

And when he makes it to the bed, he sleeps commando.

I’ve seen it. More than once.

And after a long shift? You can talk to him without waking him up. You can touch him. Just a little. Just enough to let your fingers brush that birthmark that rides along those deep-cut muscles, the ones that melt your fucking brain.

Evan’s working late tonight. Always does on Saturdays. Straight through until Sunday morning, running on caffeine and a God complex.

I think he likes it. The chaos, the madness. Thrives on it. Some people get off on fast cars or high-stakes gambling. Evan gets off on playing chicken with the Grim Reaper.

And lucky for me, the weekend ER is always full.

People get drunk. They fight, crash their cars, slice off their fingers trying to prove they’re skilled with a knife when they are not, in fact, skilled with a knife.

It means he won’t be home for hours. And that means I have plenty of time to do what any reasonable woman in my situation would do.

Pack his bags.

His house is dark and quiet when I slip inside. I don’t rush. I like taking my time. I like touching his things, breathing in his space. He’s so meticulous at work but not so much at home.

It’s almost like he wants me to come in.

I roll the wheelchair into the rarely used coat closet and drape a blanket over it. A hospital blanket. Naughty, naughty doctor. Stealing supplies? What would the hospital think?

But I’m not one to judge. I steal things too.

Like, right now.

I head straight for the dryer, because Evan does not use his closet. His clean clothes live here, crumpled, until he eventually puts them on. The man is out here saving lives every day, but he still can’t be bothered to fold a damn shirt.

And that’s how I know he’s the right kind of doctor for the apocalypse.

Not the fancy kind who wears button-ups and eats brie with properly paired wine. No, Evan is the kind who pulls on the same three pairs of jeans and doesn’t give a single fuck. The kind who rolls up his sleeves and shoves his hands inside a dying man’s chest like he’s playing Operation on hard mode.

I take those jeans.

Fold them neatly along with the shirts he wears most often, because clearly, someone has to take care of this man.

Then, the bathroom.

I don’t really need anything from here. I’ve already bought everything he likes. His shampoo, his soap, his ridiculously expensive cologne that smells like a man who could pin you against a wall and make you thank him for it.

His toothbrush. His toothpaste. Even that bougie ribbon floss he uses.

Listen. I used to think floss was floss, but then I tried this shit, and oh my God. Ribbon floss is life-changing. I bought enough for all of us. Stock up every time I go to the store, just in case they stop making it.

Still, I grab a few things from his bathroom because I’m not wasteful.

Next, shoes.

Sneakers, boots, house shoes. Because Evan, bless him, is the kind of man who wears house shoes.

And lounge pants.

Jesus.

Lounge pants that hang just right on his hips, loose and low, like they’re personally attacking me.

I pack extra pairs.

And last? The things that’ll make him feel at home.

The picture from his nightstand, his parents, I assume. His coffee cup, chipped but not replaced, so I know it means something to him.

When everything’s packed, I haul it all to my car a few blocks over, just outside the neighborhood.

When I return, I make one last check of the house.

Perfect.

Now, all that’s left… is to bring him home.

I make myself comfortable on his couch, stretching out like I belong here. Because I do.

If it weren’t for that nasty bug going around, I’d be at the ER watching him in his element, seeing him work, watching those big, capable hands save lives. But hospitals are filthy right now, full of germ-ridden people who don’t have the good sense to stay home when they’re sick.

I hope he’s wearing the proper gear.

It would be a real shame if my doctor caught something right before I bring him home.

But after tonight? He won’t have to worry about the public anymore. No more graveyard shifts, no more chaos, no more ungrateful patients breathing their contaminated air all over him. Just peace, quiet, and me.

The sky is going gold by the time he finally stumbles through the door.

Poor precious thing.

I watch him from the shadowed corner.

He doesn’t even look around, just shuffles into the kitchen like a ghost of himself. Doesn’t turn on the lights, he never does. Moves on autopilot, grabbing a soda from the fridge, popping the tab with a sigh.

I just watch him.

Savor the moment.

This is the last morning he’ll ever come home to an empty house.

He sinks onto the couch, takes a sip of his drink, and flicks on the TV without even glancing my way.

Which makes this so easy.

I move behind him.

Quick. Smooth. The way I’ve practiced.

The needle goes in.

He flinches, reaching up, fingers brushing the spot. “What the…”

His head sways. His body shifts. He turns, finally seeing me, his dark eyes hazy with confusion.

I smile. “Hey, Evan.”

And then he’s out.

He’s heavier than I anticipated. Not impossible, but awkward, all lean, exhausted muscle draped over me like a particularly stubborn lover.

And my God, he smells good.

Even after a twenty-four-hour shift, covered in hospital air and God-knows-what, he still smells like him. That faint, expensive cologne, the clean scent of soap, the underlying heat of his skin.

I could bottle it.

Maybe I should bottle it.

But no time for that now.

It takes some effort, more than I’d like to admit, to get him into the wheelchair, his body slumping forward like a rag doll. I drape the stolen ER blanket over him, tucking him in like he’s a patient in my care.

I step back, hands on my hips, admiring my work. From a distance, he just looks like a very tired man being wheeled home by a very devoted woman.

Which, really, isn’t that far from the truth.

I roll him out the front door, casually strolling down the street as if this is just a normal Sunday morning.

Birds chirp. Lawnmowers hum in the distance. A few early risers are already moving about, walking their dogs, stretching on their porches.

I nod politely at Mrs. Sanderson across the street, who’s watering her petunias.

She waves back.

Oh, this is too easy.

I resist the urge to giggle.

When we reach my car, I slide him into the passenger seat, tilting his head against the window so he looks like a man deep in sleep, not a man freshly drugged and kidnapped.

And of course I buckle him in.

Safety first.

The wheelchair goes into the trunk with his bags. Everything is in place.

I slip into the driver’s seat, feeling warm with satisfaction, practically glowing with success.