Page 19 of Bunker Down, Baby

Brock

The radio crackles low in the corner.

I’ve got it tuned just right, volume turned down low enough that if you’re not listening for it, you won’t even notice. Static rolls under the woman’s voice, shaky, like she’s been reading the same warning for hours.

“…all travel restricted… emergency response systems overwhelmed… fatalities linked to aggressive behavior following vaccine reaction… stay in place, do not engage…”

I stare at the ceiling.

Not because I’m relaxed. But because I’ve already counted every screw, seam, and shadow in this room twice, and I’m trying not to snap the restraint just to feel something break.

My wrist aches where I’ve tested the cuff. Repeatedly.

It’s welded into the bed frame. Reinforced. This place wasn’t built on a whim.

I hate that I noticed that. Hate more that I respect it.

She planned this. Her. Maple.

Her voice is sugar-dipped steel, her smile two inches from unhinged, and the way she talks like she’s already won? It should piss me off more than it does.

And I guess it does. But not for the reasons I expected.

I don’t hate her for being crazy. I hate her for being right.

Footsteps pass my door. Low voices. Laughter.

I close my eyes and listen.

Dean’s voice is loud and cocky. That mechanic fucker sounds like he thinks this is fun.

Evan is quieter. Precise. He’s annoyingly calm. I can hear the eye rolls in his voice even when I can’t see them.

And Wade. That one’s dangerous in a different way. Easy-going voice, big heart, deadly hands. The kind of man who’ll hug you and break your neck if you hurt someone he loves.

And then there’s her.

Maple Grace Monroe.

She’s laughing like she didn’t kidnap all of us and chain us to beds like some kind of twisted survival romance starter pack.

They’re in the kitchen now, laughter and pots clattering. I swear I hear the words ‘strip poker’ and ‘cookies’ in the same sentence.

What the actual fuck.

Then the conversation shifts.

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

Without a beat Wade says, “I will,” sounding like he’s serious.

Jesus Christ. He’ll draw back a nub if he tries.

“We’re all going to die,” Evan says.

Yeah. You might.

I stare at the ceiling harder.

They’re talking about me like I’m some kind of wild raccoon they’re trying to coax inside with a bowl of tuna.

They’re not wrong. If someone handed me a spoon right now, I would stab them. Probably Dean. Maybe Evan, just for fun. But under the irritation, something’s scratching at the inside of my skull.

They’re not afraid of me. Not really.

They should be, but they’re not.

And worse, they’re not playing. They’re serious.

Dinner. Conversation. Strip poker. Like this is just how the world works now.

I’m still chained to a bed, half-listening to a radio that says people are turning into animals out there. And in here they’re baking, laughing, and making plans.

And I hate, hate, that some part of me wants to know what they’re cooking.

I hear footsteps stop outside my door and I sit up. I don’t say anything. Just wait.

Because I don’t know if it’s her or one of them, but someone’s about to step in that door.

And the second they do, we’ll see if I’m the raccoon with a spoon, or if I’m the motherfucker they actually need.

I can tell it’s her before I see her.

There is no hesitation in her steps. They are not loud, not soft. Just confident. Like she owns the place.

Which, to be fair, she does. It’s her bunker. Farm. People.

Me.

The door swings open, and there she is. Maple Grace Monroe, the cheerful little warlord with a casserole dish and a delusion.

But she’s not carrying food this time, though. Just herself. Calm, collected, smile resting easy on her lips like this is casual.

Like I didn’t wake up shackled to a bed in her underground end-of-the-world Barbie bunker.

She sits in the chair across from me, same one she’s used before. Doesn’t say anything right away, just tilts her head, looking at me like I’m one of her livestock.

But not in a bad way. In a fond way.

“You hungry?” she asks after a beat.

I raise a brow. “You bringing me more food?”

“Nope,” she says. “I’m inviting you to come eat at the table. With the others.”

I stare at her.

She doesn’t flinch. “Everyone but Holden,” she adds.

I let that hang in the air a second. Then I say, “Why not him?”

She sighs, dramatically, folding one leg over the other like this is a parent-teacher conference and not a hostage negotiation. “Because he’s crotchety. Not as much as you, but close. And frankly? Both of you in the same room would ruin the whole meal.”

I keep staring.

She smiles. “Evan made soup. Dean roasted vegetables. Wade baked fresh bread. We’ve had a hell of a day moving livestock, reinforcing fences, and fixing everything that might break if the world keeps going down the toilet.” She pauses then adds, “The men picked you.”

That makes me blink.

“Dean said it would be more fun. Evan sighed. Wade said something thoughtful and sincere that made me feel things I don’t want to examine. So,” she shrugs, “I didn’t veto it. Because I’m not a monster.”

I snort before I can stop myself.

Goddammit.

Her eyes light up like I just handed her a rose.

“Also,” she adds casually, “Things are getting bad. Real bad. You heard the reports.”

I nod once.

She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re here because I needed someone who could keep us safe. When the rest of the world forgets how to be people and starts breaking into places like ours, I need someone with a gun. Someone who doesn’t freeze. Who doesn’t fold.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Someone who understands that survival isn’t just about staying alive, it’s about protecting what’s worth staying alive for.”

I swallow that down. Because damn it, she’s right. And I hate that she’s right again.

“And maybe,” she continues, softer now, “Dean was right. Maybe you’re less of a murder-risk than you were yesterday.”

I raise a brow. “You keeping score?”

“Always,” she says brightly. “I’m a very organized psychopath.”

She stands, smooth and sure, and walks to the door. She rests a hand on the doorframe.

“I appreciate you not threatening me today,” she says without turning around. “I know that wasn’t easy for you.”

“It wasn’t,” I admit, before I even know I’m going to.

She glances over her shoulder, and her smile this time is softer. Warmer. Like I just passed a test. “You coming to dinner, Brock?”

I don’t answer right away.

I should say no. Should stay here, stew in my pride, keep the walls up. But the truth is, I’m tired of the walls.

I want to see what she’s built.

I want to know why they stayed.

I want to see if I can sit at a table and not feel like a ticking bomb.

And yeah, maybe I want to see if she really made cookies.

I shift on the bed, testing the cuff.

Maple lifts the key from her pocket, and holds it up. She’s still smiling.

And I think I might be, too.

She doesn’t rush.

There’s a tension in the air, not the sharp kind that crackles before a fight, but something slower. Thicker. Like the moment before a first real storm when everything smells electric and off, and you know something’s about to shift.

Maple moves to the side of the bed, no hesitation in her body. No caution either. Which is either brave or deeply stupid. Probably both. She kneels beside the frame and twists the key with the same ease I’ve seen people flick open a lighter.

“This won’t hurt a bit,” she says, voice light, lilting.

The cuff unlocks with a soft click, and that’s it.

I’m loose.

Free.

One twist of my wrist, a breath, and the metal falls away like it was never there.

She steps back, not far, just enough to give me space, but not enough to signal fear. Her chin’s up. Her eyes never leave me.

And I sit there, not moving.

Because the wild part of me, the one that’s been tracking exits, calculating angles, cataloging everything that could be used as a weapon, isn’t in a rush anymore.

I could hurt her.

That’s not bravado. It’s fact. She’s five steps from the door, maybe less. I could pin her before she even blinked. I could break her wrist, shove her against the wall, demand my gear and keys and whatever the hell else I need to disappear into the hills.

I don’t.

Because the thing no one ever tells you about freedom?

It’s a little overwhelming when you actually get it. When it’s handed back to you like it wasn’t a fight. Like it wasn’t earned with blood and broken rules.

She just gave it and stood there like she knew I wouldn’t run.

And that’s the part that fucks with me.

That confidence. That unnerving calm. That strange little smile like she sees straight through me and still thinks I’m useful. Worth feeding. Worth keeping.

“I’m gonna walk out,” I say, voice rough from too much silence. “See what you’ve built. Meet the men.”

Maple tilts her head. Her lips twitch, just barely. “You’re not gonna stab anyone with a spoon, are you?”

I look at her. “Not unless they give me a reason.”

“Fair,” she says. She turns like she’s already assumed I’ll follow, and god help me, I do.

Not because I’m tamed, but because I’m curious.

Because the world outside that bunker door is burning, and this woman built something underground that’s warm and alive and completely, irreversibly insane.

And maybe I just want to see what kind of man stays.

Maybe I want to see if I’m one of them.

The hallway’s quiet. Not tense. Just... still. Like the walls are waiting.

Maple walks ahead, hips swinging like she doesn’t know I’m watching.

She does. She always does.

The smell hits first, something savory and warm and way too nostalgic for a concrete bunker in the ass-end of a dying world. Bread. Spices. Meat. The kind of smells that make your stomach do stupid things, like forget you were planning to stay pissed all evening.

She turns into the main room, and suddenly I’m standing in the middle of the strangest goddamn family dinner I’ve ever seen.

The table’s already set. Plates. Drinks. Napkins. Like this is a real meal and not the opening scene to a psychotic breakdown.

Dean’s got his chair kicked back on two legs, fork in his mouth, hair a mess, sleeves rolled up like he’s been building a new world one screw at a time. Wade’s next to him, calm and golden, arms folded, smiling like he’s known me for years. Evan’s across the table. Straight-backed. Quiet. Watching.

Maple slips between Wade and Dean like it’s choreographed. Dean immediately throws an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Wade presses a hand to her thigh under the table, like it’s reflex. Neither look at each other, but both touch her like it’s just part of how they breathe now.

I sit at the open spot across from her.

They don’t say anything at first. Just look, assessing me.

Dean grins. “So this is the grizzly.”

Wade chuckles. “More like a wolf. Wild. Might snap if you reach too fast.”

Evan sips his water and says, completely deadpan, “Please don’t eat anyone. The rest of us are adjusting fine.”

Maple beams like someone just handed her a baby goat. “See? They’re so welcoming.”

Dean leans in and forks a piece of roasted carrot into Maple’s mouth. She takes it like that’s normal, lips closing slow, tongue flashing just enough to make me stare longer than I should.

Wade immediately cuts a bite of meat, lifts it to her lips, and raises a brow like ‘beat that, asshole.’

She takes that bite too.

Evan sighs. “Is this dinner or a fertility ritual?”

“Depends on who finishes their plate first,” Dean says.

Wade smirks. “She likes a man with an appetite.”

“I swear to god,” Evan mutters, but he’s hiding a smile behind his glass.

I keep my face blank. But I’m watching.

Dean’s all swagger and heat. Talks like his mouth runs on caffeine and sin.

Wade’s quiet fire. Easy, slow-moving, but you can tell, poke too hard, and he’ll break something in half.

Evan’s the danger you miss until it’s too late. That stillness, that patience. That’s not calm. That’s calculation.

And Maple? She’s eating it all up. Literally.

She catches me watching and raises her glass in a mock toast. “To new beginnings.”

I raise mine back.

Not because I’m sold, but because this is not what I expected.

And maybe, just maybe, I don’t hate it.