Page 18 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

We walk the property like we’re doing some kind of post-apocalypse team-building retreat, and I swear, watching them together might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen that didn’t involve rope or a kitchen counter.

Dean, Evan, and Wade, all walking just ahead of me, boots crunching over gravel, shirts slightly damp from the heat, sleeves rolled, forearms on full display. Wade’s leading the way, pointing out the slope of the land, where he wants to rotate grazing, how the sun hits just right on the far side of the fence.

Dean nods along, squinting like he’s sizing up the land as if it’s just another engine. “The tractor’s runnin’ sweet now. I tweaked the belt tension. Thing was screaming at me when I drove it back.”

Wade gives him a slow, easy smile. “Thought she felt off.”

“Oh, she’s hummin’ now,” Dean says, and then, of course, winks at me over his shoulder. “Just how you like it, babe.”

“Please don’t refer to the tractor like that,” Evan mutters.

Dean throws an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Doc. You’re still my number one. But you can’t tune an engine that purrs like she does and not talk a little dirty about it.”

Evan shrugs him off with a small, secret smile. “You fix my air yet, or just sweet-talkin’ the farm equipment now?”

They laugh. All three of them.

And my ovaries just… do something dangerous.

God, I love them. Evan being all dry and deadpan. Dean, a literal chaos gremlin with a wrench and a sex drive. And Wade? Just soaking it all in with that soft cowboy grin, easy like he’s been here forever.

We get to the edge of the animal pen and Wade leans against the post, hands on his hips, surveying his new little kingdom. The goats bleat like they’re excited to see him. The cow ambles closer and just stands there beside him like they’re old friends.

“I think she missed you,” I say.

Wade rubs her nose, voice all warm and low. “She likes routine. Knows I’m the one that scratches the sweet spot behind her ear.”

I will never know peace again.

Dean shudders and steps back. “Just keep me out of the chicken coop. I’m not going back in there. I’ve seen things.”

Evan chuckles, rubbing his wrist. “They still pecking, or do you think they’ve cooled off since the incident?”

“Oh, they remember,” Dean says grimly. “I swear the red one’s got a vendetta.”

“That one is mean,” I chime in. “She bit me through my leggings. And I was bringing snacks.”

Dean points at me. “That’s the kind of loyalty you’ve bred around here.”

I shrug. “What can I say? I’ve got a gift.”

Wade turns, looking between all of us with that deep crinkle in the corner of his eyes, the kind of smile that says he gets it. That he sees what we’re building here and doesn’t think it’s crazy.

Or maybe he does, and just likes us anyway.

Either way, he fits.

He fits so well.

I hang back a little as they walk the fence line, talking about gate repairs and water systems and which section of the field would be best for a proper garden.

I watch them move. Dean gesturing with his hands, Evan nodding as he listens, Wade taking everything in, one hand resting on the fence like he’s already claimed the whole damn landscape.

And I can’t help it.

My brain’s not built for subtlety.

All I can think is that’s mine. That’s mine. Also mine.

And holy hell, the threesome potential of this dynamic is off the charts.

Evan’s the slow burn. Dean’s the firecracker. Wade’s the slow pour of honey that melts you from the inside out.

I should be paying attention to farming logistics, but all I’m doing is imagining getting railed by all three of them in that field during a rainstorm while the goats respectfully look away.

“Maple,” Wade says, calling over his shoulder. “You good back there?”

“Yup,” I chirp. “Just enjoying the view.”

Dean smirks. Evan glances back and knows. He always knows. Wade? He just chuckles and shakes his head.

God, I love him already.

After we make our way back inside, the kitchen’s full of noise and testosterone and the smell of roasted vegetables, and honestly? If I could bottle this moment and sniff it like a candle for the rest of my life, I would.

Dean’s at the stove, shirtless, again, because apparently cooking oil is no match for his bare chest and raging ego. He’s got a spatula in one hand and his other one on my ass like I’m part of the countertop. Wade’s rolling out biscuit dough like it personally wronged him, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing. And Evan?

Evan’s chopping onions like he’s performing surgery, quietly judging everyone but still handing Dean the salt when he asks for it.

It’s all so… normal.

Except for the fact that every time I walk past Dean he tries to lick something off my neck. And Wade keeps touching my lower back like he’s claiming the real estate.

“You’re out of garlic,” Evan says flatly. “Which seems like an oversight for someone who prepped for the end of civilization.”

“I have garlic,” I say, opening the drawer beside him and pulling out a whole bag.

He stares at it, then back at me. “That’s ginger.”

I pause. Stare at the bulb. “Shit.”

Dean snorts. “We forgive you, sweetheart. You’re still the hottest warlord-slash-grocery hoarder we’ve ever met.”

“Truly an inspiration,” Evan mutters, sliding chopped onions into the pan.

Wade chuckles from the far side of the table. “You boys always this mouthy in the kitchen?”

Dean grins and bumps his hip against Evan’s. “You’ve known us for twelve hours. Yes.”

“You should’ve seen them with the chickens,” I say, grabbing a tray of vegetables to roast. “It was like watching two men lose a war to sentient feathered demons.”

“I won,” Dean argues.

“You got pecked in the face and nearly cried,” Evan deadpans.

“Cried from laughter,” Dean insists. “I was laughing tears.”

“I still have the video,” I say sweetly. “And I’ll show Wade.”

Dean whips around. “Delete it and I’ll let you win at strip poker.”

“Oh my god,” Evan mutters, wiping his hands on a towel.

Wade laughs, that low belly laugh that makes my spine tingle. “You folks playin’ strip poker for real?”

“We’ve suggested it,” Dean says, setting down the spatula to wrap an arm around my waist. “But someone keeps insisting she has to feed the rest of her harem first.”

“I like that you just said that like it’s a totally normal sentence,” I say, leaning into him as Wade brushes flour off my cheek with his thumb and plants a kiss on my temple.

Evan turns the radio up a notch, maybe to drown us out.

Which is how we catch it.

“…all non-essential travel is now banned. Local authorities are urging citizens to shelter in place. Multiple treatment centers have been overrun. If you are not already in a safe location, it is advised you remain where you are and do not attempt to flee populated areas…”

The kitchen quiets.

Just for a second.

Dean’s hand stills on my waist. Wade looks over at me, jaw ticking slightly. Evan doesn’t move, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.

I take a slow breath. “Sounds like we made it home just in time.”

“Damn right we did,” Wade murmurs.

“We’re safe,” I say, firmer now. “The place is locked up. We have supplies, water, power, and a fully stocked farm. We’re going to be okay.”

Dean kisses my shoulder. “Hell yeah we are.”

“You built a fortress,” Evan says quietly. “And filled it with experts.”

And God, that does something to me.

I blink fast. Turn back to the table. “Okay. Back to biscuits. Someone has to feed Brock and Holden before Dean tries to play strip poker with Wade.”

Wade snorts. “I wouldn’t bet against me. I’m real good at poker.”

Dean eyes him. “Do not make me fall in love with you faster than I already am.”

Wade winks. “Too late.”

Evan keeps chopping. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

I beam. Because these are my idiots.

And if that news report reaches Holden and Brock? If they hear that staying here is the only safe option now?

They’ll come around.

And if not… well, I’ll just keep feeding them.

No one can resist my biscuits forever.

We’re halfway through slicing tomatoes for tonight’s Very Important Apocalypse Dinner when Dean says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “You know what we should do?”

Oh god. That tone.

Evan doesn’t even look up. “No.”

Dean grins. “Dinner party.”

Wade raises a brow. “I thought this was a dinner party.”

“No, no,” Dean says, spinning a knife between his fingers. “I mean we invite one of the hostages to dinner.”

“They’re not hostages,” I say immediately. “They’re family in transition.”

Evan snorts. “You literally sedated and abducted all of us.”

“Yes,” I say cheerfully, “But now we have a cow and emotional support sex, so you’re welcome.”

Wade coughs into his hand, grinning. “Not wrong.”

Dean slaps the counter like he’s cracked a code. “Exactly. So why not let one of the grump twins come sit at the big kid table? A nice little meet and greet. Controlled setting. Soft lighting. Knives out of reach.”

I pause. Actually consider it.

It would be nice to start warming them up to group life. And strip poker. But mostly group life.

“They’re both still chained to their beds,” I say. “Brock did say he was going to murder me with a garden trowel.”

“Dinner might help that,” Dean says. “Or at least distract him with carbs.”

Wade leans back against the fridge, arms crossed, lips twitching. “Let’s be real, who’s less likely to stab someone with a spoon?”

“Holden,” Evan says immediately.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Holden has silent ‘I’m calculating my escape route’ energy. But he’s not rage-vomiting threats.”

Dean points a tomato slice at me. “Brock’s loud, sure. But he’s fun. Like if we gave him a burger and a beer, he might just glower into the mashed potatoes and call us all freaks, but at least it’d be entertaining.”

“You want to invite the human feral cat to dinner because he’d add spice?” Evan asks.

“Yes,” Dean says. “That man brings spice.”

Wade’s laughing now, arms shaking with it. “What are we voting on? Who gets parole for mashed potatoes?”

“Basically,” I say. “It’s between Controlled Quiet Menace and Raging Bear in a Cage.”

“I don’t think either of them deserves mashed potatoes,” Evan mutters, reaching for the salt. “Also, if either of them comes to dinner, that cancels strip poker.”

Dean looks personally offended. “Why?”

Evan raises a brow. “Because I don’t want to flash my dick to someone who still has ‘murder’ in his eyes.”

Wade’s eyes sparkle. “What if we want him to?”

“Okay, that’s a little hot,” I admit.

Dean shrugs. “Let Brock come. If he tries to bite someone, I’ll hold him down. Wade can stroke his hair and whisper affirmations.”

“I will,” Wade says, completely serious.

Evan sighs. “We’re all going to die.”

“I’ll make cookies,” I offer.

Dean points at me. “She gets it.”