Page 16 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

This place is chaos, and not the good kind. Not the I just wrangled a sexy farmer and a dairy cow kind of chaos. No, this is the kind where I haven’t even made lunch for two-thirds of my bunker husbands and one of them is still cussing loud enough to scare the cheese off the damn lasagna. Okay, it’s shepherd’s pie, but that felt more poetic.

Dean and Evan helped tuck Wade into bed like the precious apocalypse treasure he is. He’s tied up, sure, but in a gentle ‘welcome to your new home, here’s your blanket and your personal harem leader’ kind of way. He’ll wake up soon, and I’d really prefer not to sedate him again, because that’s three and eventually one of them is going to build up a tolerance.

So now I’m speed-cheffing in the kitchen like the end of the world is still happening, which it is, and assembling three trays of shepherd’s pie. Wade gets extra cheese because he’s earned it. Sharp cheddar. None of that mild bullshit. Holden’s is neatly cut and portioned like he’s in a five-star bunker bistro. And Brock? Well. Brock gets fed first.

Because Brock is still screaming.

Loudly.

I think he saw me and Evan walk down the hall with our shirts half on and our dignity long gone, and now he’s throwing a full tantrum. I can hear him all the way in the kitchen, hurling insults like a man on fire who doesn’t realize the fire is made of feelings he doesn’t know how to process yet.

Honestly, I admire his stamina. I really do.

I slap his tray together with a flourish and march it down the hall, fully prepared to charm the rage right out of him with carbs, protein, and my winning personality.

I open the door and boom, instant shouting.

“You absolute psychopath! What the fuck is wrong with you?” he says.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I say, chipper as a morning news anchor hopped up on espresso and delusion. “I brought you shepherd’s pie.”

He’s panting. Hair wild. Eyes furious. Cuff chain taut as he strains against it like he’s auditioning for the role of ‘Most Likely to Snap a Steel Bolt with His Bare Rage.’

I set the tray down on the dresser and point to it. “Extra meat. Real cheese. And a fresh roll.”

He glares at the food, then at me, then back at the food like it might be poison. “You left me tied up here for hours. I could’ve died.”

“You were fine,” I say, waving that off. “You had water. And a pillow. And your temper tantrums are honestly great cardio. Plus, I was out getting us milk. And eggs. Do you know how hard those are to come by?”

His nostrils flare. “You kidnapped a farmer, didn’t you?”

“I rescued a farmer. From isolation. And loneliness. And potentially rabid squirrel people.”

He opens his mouth, probably to call me deranged, but I cut in first.

“His name is Wade. He’s incredibly sweet and smells like hay and hard work. You’re going to love him. I know you’re growly right now, but wait until you try the milk. It’s raw.”

He makes a strangled sound. “You’re a lunatic.”

“First of all,” I say, sitting on the edge of his bed and stealing a bite of his pie with a grin, “You are still being rude. And second, you’re not exactly winning gold in people skills yourself, Brock. I’ve watched you talk to other humans. It’s like watching someone give a bear a tax form.”

He stares at me, furious and baffled, and somehow that just makes me grin harder.

“You’ll feel better after lunch,” I say, nudging the tray closer. “Also, when you’re done screaming, we can go for a walk. Maybe meet Dean and Evan. Pet the cow. Talk about your feelings.”

“Feelings?” he chokes. “You think I…”

“Oh, I know you don’t want to,” I say sweetly. “But I also know once you stop fighting me and start using that energy to wreck me instead, everything will start making a lot more sense.”

His jaw drops.

I wink and pop the door closed behind me before he can form an actual sentence.

Next stop, Holden. Then Wade. Then world domination. Probably.

Holden’s quiet when I step in with his lunch.

Of course he is. That’s his whole vibe, silent, watching, like a wilderness panther who hasn’t decided yet if I’m prey or his mate. Either way, I’m thrilled. I close the door behind me and carry the tray over like I’m not one wrong word away from getting lasagna’d with it.

“Sorry it’s late,” I say, setting it on the little table near his bed. “I was out stealing a farmer. Long story, ten out of ten worth it. You’re gonna love Wade. He’s like if a golden retriever could milk a cow and carry you to safety during a barn fire.”

Holden doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me with those quiet, unreadable eyes, tracking every move like he’s cataloging me for some future hunt.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, because I don’t spook easy. “We got livestock now. Goats. Chickens. A cow who might be smarter than Brock, honestly. Milk, eggs. Actual food that doesn’t come in a can or scream when you catch it.”

Still nothing. Just a slight twitch of his brow.

I grin. “C’mon. You’ve been listening to the radio. You know what’s happening out there. The meds made it worse. Rabid, squirrel-brained rage monsters. And not in a sexy way.”

His jaw flexes. Just slightly.

“And you.” I gesture toward him with a smile that borders on reverent. “You are end-of-the-world pornography. You were made for this. Scarred. Quiet. Survivalist eyes. You’ve probably eaten raccoon jerky without blinking. I need that energy here. You were the final piece.”

He finally reaches for the fork.

Score.

“You’re the only one I can’t read,” I admit, because why lie to the hot, knife-hardened, post-apocalypse cryptid in your guest room. “Dean loved me before I fed him. Evan screamed. Brock is still screaming. Wade practically offered me a glass of sweet tea before I knocked him out. You? I have no idea what you’re thinking.”

He takes a bite. Slow. Thoughtful. Like he’s taste-testing me more than the food.

I tilt my head. “I’m not just here to bang all of you senseless, you know.”

One brow rises.

“Okay. That’s a big part of it,” I admit, grinning. “But this bunker? This setup? It’s good. It’s safe. You’re not just some pretty survivalist trophy I plan to chain to my bed and ogle. I mean, I do plan to do that, but I also need your brain. Your know-how. Your instincts.”

He chews another bite. Then looks at me like he sees something. I don’t know what. But it’s there, under the surface.

God, I want to climb on him so bad.

But patience. He’s a slow-burn. A simmer. You don’t force a man like Holden. You tempt him. You show him the storm and invite him to stand in it with you.

“Look,” I say, softer now, “I know you’ve been watching. I know you know I planned this. And maybe it’s all a little nuts, but… it’s working. Isn’t it?”

His eyes flick to me. Just a flick. But something’s there. A crack in the glacier.

I stand, because if I stay, I’m going to do something reckless and heroic and probably get bit. I brush my hand across his shoulder as I pass, and feel how solid he is. All quiet strength and survival heat.

“Let me know if you’re ready to help,” I murmur, pausing at the door. “No rush. But I think you will. Soon.”

I step out before I can press harder.

Because that man is definitely going to wreck me one day.

And I am so, so ready.

Wade’s out cold, laid up in the softest bed in the whole bunker, mine.

Not on purpose, it just kind of happened. Like how he kind of happened. Just… poof, six feet of sun-warmed farm god with a laugh that makes you feel like you’ve been wrapped in a flannel blanket and then thrown down on a hay bale in the best way.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare. Not like a normal person. Like someone who’s already claimed him via full-body imprinting.

He smells like clean sweat and hay and something stupid like safety. His lashes are thick, a crescent against his skin. He’s got that faint crease between his brows, like he’s dreaming about how to build me a chicken coop and make me scream into a pillow at the same time.

I reach out and brush my fingers over the stubble on his jaw. It’s coarse and warm and perfect. I drag my knuckles down the side of his face, to the little dip in his chin, then up again.

God, I’m gonna ruin him. Slowly. Lovingly. Like a homemade peach cobbler.

I lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth. Just because I can. And because he’s mine.

He stirs. Blinks. That slow, southern kind of blink that lets you know he’s still booting up. His eyes land on me, soft brown, all warm and crinkled at the corners like he’s just woken from a nap he earned with hard labor and emotional availability.

Then he smiles. “Well, ain’t this somethin’.”

My heart literally sighs.

“You’re up,” I say like I haven’t been watching him sleep for twenty full minutes while contemplating the logistics of my legs bracketing his hips.

He gives me a once-over, then the room. No panic. No shouting. Just Wade about it. “Darlin’, there are easier ways to get me alone, y’know.”

I grin. “Yeah, but none of them include your goats and a tractor.”

His laugh is low, soft, and I swear I feel it somewhere indecent. He tries to sit up.

I put a hand on his chest, firm but gentle. “Easy. You’re safe. I just didn’t want to risk the drive home with you doing something heroic. You’ve got that noble jawline. I could tell.”

That gets me a full smile. “You think I got a noble jawline?”

“I think you’ve got a jawline I want to ride,” I say, because honesty is important in a relationship.

He blushes. Actually blushes. And my ovaries light up like the 4th of July.

“I brought you food,” I add, and grab the tray from the nightstand. “Shepherd’s pie. Extra cheese. Welcome to the team.”

Wade sits up, careful, and takes the plate like I just offered him my hand in marriage. He’s looking at me like I hung the moon and know how to season meat properly.

I pluck a bite with the fork and hold it up to his mouth. “You gonna let me feed you?”

He leans forward, lips parting around the fork. Eats slow. Like he’s tasting more than just potatoes and cheese. “Mmm. Damn. That’s good.”

“I told you at the farm, you don’t have to worry about a single thing,” I remind him. “I’d take care of everything.”

“You did.” He nods. “And I believe you.”

“Good,” I say, and this time, my voice goes soft. “Because I really thought you’d be the one. The one who’d just… come with me. No fight. No shouting. But you were too precious to risk losing.”

His whole face goes tender. His gaze drops to my mouth.

And I can’t help myself, I lean in.

That first brush of lips is a slow burn, gentle and reverent, like we’re both trying to memorize the exact shape of this moment. His breath catches, and mine does too, and then he kisses me back.

Really kisses me.

His mouth is warm, soft at first, then firmer when he tilts his head just slightly and opens for more. There’s the faint taste of sharp cheddar on his tongue, something earthy and familiar beneath it, and I moan into his mouth because of course he tastes like comfort food and sex.

One of his hands, big and calloused, all strength and patience, lifts to my thigh where it’s braced on the mattress beside him. His fingers curl around it, anchoring me like he’s already claiming space on my body. He kisses like he means it. Like he’s got nowhere to be but here. Like he’s already mine and he knows it.

My pulse trips. My whole chest aches with it.

When I pull back, his breath follows mine, shallow and uneven, lips still parted, kiss-drowsy and completely wrecked in the best way.

And the look in his eyes is devoted.

I may never recover.

“You ready to hear the plan?” I ask, my voice a little hoarse.

He nods, slow, like he’s still tasting me on his tongue.

I explain it to him in detail.

Then he sits up. “Guess we better get to work. You’ll need to uncuff me. I’ll let you put them back on later if you want.”

And just like that, I’ve got another one.

God bless America.

And goat theft.