Page 2 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

Evan has been such a good sleeper.

Honestly, I knew he was exhausted, but he’s really outdoing himself here. Twelve solid hours. Not even a single toss or turn, just deep, steady breathing, his body sprawled on the very comfortable mattress I provided for him.

I mean, sure, he’s still in his dirty scrubs, and yes, one wrist is chained to the bedframe for his own safety, but otherwise? This is a five-star experience.

I made sure of it.

Fluffy pillows, high-quality sheets, the best mattress I could find. There’s no reason to be uncomfortable just because we might have to live down here for an extended period.

But he does need to wake up before his food gets cold. While he was sleeping, I made burgers and fries.

He’ll be hungry.

I know I was.

I’m dying to see his face when he realizes he’s home.

I plop onto the chair beside the bed, crossing my legs, licking salt from my fingertips as I pop another fry into my mouth.

So damn good.

Almost as good as the sight of Evan Wolfe all stretched out, muscles relaxed, his dark hair a rumpled mess against the pillow.

He’s gorgeous when he sleeps. And filthy in a way that really works for him, scrubs wrinkled, the faintest hint of sweat at his hairline, just enough stubble to make my brain short-circuit.

God, he needs a shower.

I could help.

He might need help.

I take another bite of my burger and grin as his breathing changes, a deeper inhale, a slight hitch as his brain starts booting up.

Oh, here we go.

The bed creaks as he shifts. His fingers flex, his wrist tugs just slightly against the restraint.

Then, finally, he lets out a soft groan.

I love that sound.

He turns his head, brows furrowing, lips parting slightly before he licks them. So dry. Poor baby. I should have gotten him a drink, but in my defense, I was a little distracted picturing him naked in the shower.

He blinks, slow at first. Then again.

Then he freezes.

Ah.

The moment of realization.

He tugs his arm. The chain clinks softly.

Another blink. A slow turn of the head as he takes in the unfamiliar walls, the dim bunker lighting, me.

I give him a little wave. “Morning, handsome.”

He stares.

Like he’s not entirely sure if he’s dreaming or if his worst nightmare just materialized in front of him wearing an oversized hoodie and eating his fries.

His Adam’s apple bobs. He wets his lips again. Then, finally, his voice, low, raspy from sleep, utterly confused, “What the fuck?”

I nod, chewing happily. Great first words. Strong start.

“I know, right?” I say brightly. “Bet you’ve never had someone do something this thoughtful for you before.”

His lashes flutter. “I.” He clears his throat, shifting again, testing the chain. “Where… what the fuck is this?”

I set my burger down, wipe my fingers on a napkin, and lean forward with my most reassuring girlfriend smile. “Evan, sweetheart, I need you to stay calm, okay?”

His nostrils flare. “I am literally chained to a bed.”

“Yes,” I agree. “For your own safety.”

There’s silence. A very loud silence.

Then he says, “For my what?”

I sigh, scooting to sit on the bed beside him. “Listen. I know this is a lot to take in, but the world is really bad right now. Hospitals are overrun. The flu is absolutely out of control this year. So, I did what any reasonable, caring person would do. I took you out of that germ-infested nightmare and brought you somewhere safe. Home.”

His pupils are huge. His breathing is heavier now, like he’s trying really hard not to panic.

I grab his hand.

He flinches.

Okay, rude.

“I made sure you were comfortable,” I remind him. “I even made burgers and fries. Your favorite.”

His brows knit together. “You… you brought me home?”

“Our home,” I correct.

He pauses. Then, slower this time, he says. “You drugged me.”

“Only a little.” I smile. “You were already so tired. I just helped.”

His chest rises and falls in uneven breaths. He doesn’t speak for a second. “Where the fuck are we?”

I squeeze his hand. “My bunker. Our bunker.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. Exhales hard. “You kidnapped me,” he says.

I tilt my head. “That’s a really negative way of looking at it.”

His head snaps toward me, eyes wide with sheer, disbelieving horror. “There is no positive way to look at kidnapping.”

I giggle. “Not with that attitude.”

His head thumps back against the pillow. He stares at the ceiling, a muscle in his jaw ticking. Processing.

He’ll get there.

Eventually.

But right now, he needs to shower. And based on how groggy he still looks, I should probably help.

I pat his thigh. Solid. So nice.

“Okay,” I say, hopping up. “Time to get you cleaned up.”

His brows knit together. “I… what?”

“You’re still a little out of it,” I say cheerfully, unhooking his wrist from the chain. “I’ll help.”

He yanks his arm to his chest like I’m about to chop it off.

“No,” he says immediately. “Absolutely not.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t be shy. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

His entire body tenses. He looks one second away from combusting. “Excuse me?”

I sigh dramatically. “You do sleep commando.”

He goes completely still.

Like a deer who just realized the hunter is right behind him.

His voice is slightly strangled when he finally speaks. “How long have you been watching me?”

I smile. “Oh, Evan. Long enough.”

Evan takes the burger with slow, measured movements, like he’s worried I’m going to stab him the second he lets his guard down.

Which is ridiculous.

If I wanted to stab him, I already would have.

Instead, I just watch, chin propped on my hand as he lifts it to his mouth, eyes locked onto mine like I’m a snake and he’s waiting to see if I’ll strike.

The first bite is small, hesitant. He chews. Swallows. Waits.

“I didn’t poison it,” I assure him.

His jaw ticks. “You drugged me.”

I sigh, waving that off. “That was different. I needed you to relax.”

He takes another bite. This one bigger.

He’s hungry, whether he wants to admit it or not.

God, even eating, he looks good. Sharp jaw, those full lips closing around the straw as he takes a sip of his soda, plain cola, his favorite, obviously.

“I still don’t understand what you want,” he finally says, voice quieter now. Not quite calm, but not outright hostile anymore either.

I smile. “I already told you. The world’s going to shit. Hospitals are full of disease, and I needed to get you somewhere safe.”

“Safe.” His brows lift. “Right. You chained me to a bed.”

“For your own good,” I say brightly. “You could have hurt yourself waking up confused.”

“Waking up confused because you drugged me,” he says.

God, he is really fixated on that detail.

I wave a fry at him. “You’ll thank me later.”

He exhales sharply, taking another bite of his burger, chewing like he’s imagining it’s me.

Which is hot, honestly.

I lean forward. “So?”

He pauses mid-bite, wary. “So what?”

“Do you like it?” I ask. “The food, I mean.”

Another tense pause. Then, begrudgingly he says, “Yes.”

I beam. “I knew it. I even made extra fries, because I know you always steal them from the nurses when you think no one’s looking.”

His lips part, like he’s about to argue, but he stops and narrows his eyes. “You watch me,” he says slowly.

I blink. “Of course.”

He leans back, lips pressing together in that thinking way, like he’s trying to read me.

“Okay,” he finally says. “So… do I get a safe word, or are we just skipping that part?”

Heat zings down my spine.

Oh. Oh, this one’s dangerous.

Because he’s still mad, still trying to figure me out, but he’s playing now.

I smile, slow and sweet. “That depends.”

His brows lift. “On?”

I prop my chin on my hand. “Do you need one?”

He holds my gaze for a beat too long. Then, finally, he exhales, shaking his head with a soft laugh that he doesn’t mean to let out.

He’s cracking.

Good.

But he’s also still covered in hospital filth, and I’m not about to let my prize be anything less than pristine.

I pop another fry into my mouth. “Okay, now that you’re fed, let’s get you cleaned up.”

His head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You need a shower,” I say.

He frowns. “I can do it myself.”

I hum, considering. “Mmm… I don’t know. You’re still a little groggy.”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

I stand. “Better safe than sorry.”

“I don’t…” he starts.

I grab the hem of his scrub top.

He tenses.

I start pulling it up.

His hands fly to mine, gripping my wrists tightly. “Absolutely fucking not.”

I tilt my head, feigning innocence. “You’re really going to be shy now? After everything?”

His jaw clenches. “This isn’t shyness,” he grits out.

I smirk. “Are you sure?”

His nostrils flare.

I give his shirt another tug.

He yanks it back down.

God, this is fun.

I lean in, lowering my voice. “Evan, baby. I know what you look like naked.”

His entire body locks up.

I grin. “Get in the shower,” I purr. “Or I’ll put you there myself.”

He glares, muscles coiled so tight I can feel the frustration radiating off him.

But then he smirks. Just the barest twitch of his lips. Like he almost enjoys this.

His fingers flex at his sides, still gripping the hem of his shirt like it’s his last lifeline.

“I don’t even know your name,” he finally says, voice low, cautious. “Shouldn’t that be a prerequisite for communal showering?”

I step closer, tilting my head. “We’re so far past prerequisites.”

His throat bobs. But he doesn’t step back.

“My name’s Maple,” I purr. “Maple Grace Monroe.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, watching me like I’m something wild, something dangerous.

I like that.

“Are you going to wash me?” he asks dryly.

My grin turns wicked. “Do you want me to wash you?”

He scowls.

I roll my eyes. “You’re still groggy. I’m just being helpful.”

“Uh-huh.” His voice is flat, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Right. Just being helpful.”

I nod, all innocence. “You don’t want to slip, do you? Hit your head?”

He blinks slowly. “I think I’d rather hit my head.”

I laugh. “Oh, you are so dramatic.”

His shoulders rise with another deep inhale, but he doesn’t argue this time. Just stares at me, lips pressing together like he’s bracing himself. Then, finally, he peels his scrub top over his head.

Oh, fuck yes.

It’s so much better up close.

Broad chest. Lean muscle. Abs that look like they’ve been through some shit, not the sculpted, gym-rat kind, but the kind you get from actual work, from running on adrenaline and caffeine and pure survival instinct.

A few faint scars.

Strong arms.

Those goddamn V-lines.

And he knows he looks good. I can tell from the way his fingers flex at his sides, like he’s hyper-aware of my eyes dragging over him.

And then, oh, baby, and then, he yanks off his scrub pants.

No hesitation.

No warning.

Just drops them like this is some casual Tuesday morning routine.

My brain malfunctions.

I knew. I watched him sleep commando. I knew. But this is different. Awake and participating.

He turns toward the shower, stepping inside with zero shame, like we didn’t just have a whole-ass hostage negotiation, over fries, in the middle of a concrete bunker.

And I… well. I follow.

Because duh.

The water is already hot, steam curling in the air. Evan tilts his head under the spray, muscles shifting, shoulders rolling, tension melting just slightly.

He exhales.

And for a split second, he forgets I’m here.

Until I reach past him for the soap.

His whole body locks up.

I hum, rubbing the bar between my hands, lathering up as my gaze drags over him.

“Relax,” I purr. “You’ll enjoy it more.”

He makes a low sound in his throat, half a scoff, half something else. “Not happening.”

But then I step closer.

So close I can feel his heat, the barest brush of his skin against mine, the water sliding between us.

I tilt my head, dragging my gaze up his bare chest, trailing suds over my palm.

He swallows.

I smile. “Want me to get your back?”

His nostrils flare. “No.”

I laugh. “Aw, you’re shy.”

His jaw flexes. His muscles tense.

And then, oh, and then, he makes the mistake of shifting, just an inch, pressing fully into me.

Every hard, very male inch of him.

And oh, baby, he’s not unaffected.

I let out a slow, wicked hum. “Well, well, well.”

His whole body stiffens.

I grin.

I knew he’d crack.

Even a good doctor can’t hide biology.

I smooth my soapy hands over his shoulders, squeezing, sliding over tense muscle.

“See?” I whisper. “Told you you’d enjoy it.”

His breath shudders.

“This does not mean I’m on board,” he says, low, rough, almost gritted through his teeth.

I purr, pressing closer, mouth near his ear. “Oh, baby.” I squeeze his arms, dragging my fingers down his biceps. “Your body says otherwise.”

And that?

That’s when he finally breaks.