Page 23 of Bunker Down, Baby

Holden

She drifts off fast, her breath steady and deep, cheek pressed into the pillow like she belongs there, like I didn’t just wreck her for the better part of an hour. I watch her a moment. Not because I’m sentimental. But because I don’t take peace for granted.

Not anymore.

I’ve seen too many people sleep like the world’s still safe, and never wake up again.

But her?

She sleeps like she knows I’ll keep watch.

And she’s right.

I close the door behind me. Quiet. Clean. No click of the latch to wake her.

She’s wrecked in the best way. Loose-limbed and soft-mouthed, stretched across the bed like she doesn’t remember how to hold herself together. And I’d take credit for that, but the truth is, she let me.

Asked for it. Begged for it.

And I gave it to her with all that locked-down, years-too-tight control that I’ve been holding onto like armor. And now?

I’m not letting anyone near her who doesn’t understand what that means.

Because she’s not just the unhinged brain behind this operation anymore. She’s not the woman who drugged me, restrained me, and fed me steak like a bribe.

She’s mine.

So when I step into the main room of this half-sinful, half-military fever dream of a bunker and find men at the pool table, shirtless, barefoot, laughing about something involving Wade’s cow and ‘questionable suction dynamics,’ I don’t start with a threat.

I start with observation.

Dean’s the first to spot me. Of course. Eyes always scanning, even when his mouth is moving at a hundred miles an hour. The kind of man who jokes right up until he breaks a nose or a rule.

He grins wide, tipping his chin in greeting. “Look who finally put his big ol’ survivalist rifle to good use,” he says, waving a pool cue at me like it’s a sword.

Evan doesn’t even look up from lining up his shot. “Are we pretending you didn’t spend days locked up like an angry feral mountain cat and then immediately took her to bed the second you got released?”

“I didn’t pretend,” I say, stepping toward the table. “I made a decision.”

And I did.

Thought I’d wait. Thought I’d stay sharp, let the others lose their edge while I calculated my exit strategy.

But then she kissed me like I was oxygen. Touched me like she already knew every scar and didn’t flinch at a single one. Whispered my name like it was safe in her mouth.

Now? Exit plan’s dead.

Wade chuckles low and easy, already up and grabbing a plate of food from the counter like this is his house and I’m a guest who needs feeding. Which, to be fair, I am.

“I made sausage,” he says. “And eggs. Toast too. Figured you’d be hungry after all that… thinking.”

I take the plate from him with a nod. He buttered the toast all the way to the edges. It’s small, but it’s telling. Wade doesn’t talk much, but he sees people. Anticipates needs before you know you’ve got them.

That’s a good man.

Brock’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like he’s still weighing whether I’m an asset or a liability. I give him a look.

We’ve both seen what happens when shit hits the fan. We’ve both had to make decisions the rest of the world would call monstrous. And we both know this, this fucking harem bunker fever dream fantasy thing, it only works if the walls hold.

Brock gives me a slow nod.

Yeah, he’s in too.

That’s when Dean slaps the pool table with his cue like he’s declaring war. “So, Daddy’s out of the bedroom and ready to give us a safety briefing?”

I stare at him.

He smirks harder. “What? Don’t act like you’re not the clipboard and codeword type.”

Evan finally sinks his shot. “He’s not wrong.”

I watch them for a beat longer.

The men. The room. This weird-ass domestic war camp she built out of concrete and charisma.

I didn’t plan to stay.

Thought maybe I’d fuck her, get my bearings, and slip out while the rest of them were still flexing at each other over chicken feed and cock size.

But I felt the shift in the air, that low electrical hum of the world unraveling just a little faster than before.

And now I’m looking around, cataloging everything. Not just the exits, not just the blind spots. But the men. Who’d take a bullet. Who’d hesitate. Who’d charge into a burning room without asking why.

We’re five strong. Which means we’re vulnerable in five directions.

I sigh. Because they’re idiots. But they’re her idiots. And now they’re mine too. If this is gonna work, someone needs to tighten the screws.

“Look,” I say, setting the plate down and leaning against the edge of the table. “We’ve got one of the best stockpiles I’ve ever seen. Defensible positions. Redundant power. Food. Water. And the only woman in a hundred miles with a plan that isn’t just ‘cry and hope the CDC shows up.’”

Dean raises his hand. “Don’t forget the weapons and the endless sex.”

I stare at him.

“What? Balance is important,” he says.

“Jesus Christ,” Brock mutters.

I push off the table and fold my arms. “We’re not running a fantasy camp. This shit outside? It’s escalating. Fast.”

“I heard,” Wade says, quieter now. “Radio said another safe zone failed. National Guard pulled back from three cities.”

“Shelter-in-place is now indefinite,” Evan mutters, grabbing a drink. “Hospitals are closing their doors. No one’s getting treated anymore. We’re on our own.”

“Which means this place, her bunker, our bunker, has to hold,” I say. “And we need to act like it. If someone comes knocking, we don’t want them finding the front door. I’m setting up false entries. Dead-end trails. If they want in, they’ll get lost in a loop before they even find the bunker mouth.”

“Love that for us,” Wade murmurs.

“We should rotate patrols,” Brock adds. “Two outside, two on gear and systems. Rotate daily.”

“And medical drills,” Evan says. “Supplies inventory. Isolation protocol if anyone shows symptoms.”

I look around the room, and it hits me. Not a single one of them is pushing back. They’re listening. They’re here. They’ve all made the same decision I did.

“Rotations,” I nod. “Schedules. Surveillance review. Secure the perimeter. Start assigning skill sets to zones.”

Brock pushes off the wall, rolling his shoulders. “And we test every man here. Prove you can shoot, fight, reinforce a breach. No dead weight.”

Dean whistles. “I knew Daddy Holden would bring the discipline.”

“Is that really gonna be a thing now?” I ask, flat.

“Yes,” Wade, Evan, and Dean say in unison.

Brock shakes his head. “God help us.”

But I see it. In the way Evan’s already calculating. In the way Wade’s nodding to himself, probably planning meals for when things get rough. In the way Dean’s suddenly pulling out a notebook and jotting down gear checklists like he’s not a mechanic but a fucking supply sergeant with boundary issues.

They’re all in. And so am I. I didn’t ask for this. Didn’t want it. But now that I’ve got it, I’ll kill to keep it.

We’ve got five men. One woman. A fortress disguised as a bunker. And a world outside the door that wants to burn.

Maple brought us together through sedatives and unholy levels of libido, but we’re the ones who’ll hold the line.

We’re not just surviving anymore.

We’re preparing for war.

We’re building something.

By the time morning nears, we’ve got a plan drawn up, nothing fancy, not yet, but it’s tight enough to hold. Rotations. Patrols. Reinforcement routes. Inventory lists. Everyone’s assigned, and no one argued. Even Dean, though he grumbled about his new title of “Nighttime Chicken Enclosure Supervisor,” which Wade gave him after Evan teased him about losing a standoff with one of the feathered bastards yesterday.

Dean swore it was a tactical retreat.

Once it’s all sketched out, once the grit and gears of survival settle back into place, we make breakfast.

Not because anyone said to. Not because it was planned. Just because it felt like the next right thing to do. A thank you. A show of loyalty. Or maybe just a peace offering from a pack of violent men to the woman who somehow made us a family.

Evan takes point on the eggs. Doesn’t say a word, just rolls up his sleeves and gets to work like he’s in an OR cracking ribs instead of a kitchen cracking shells.

Wade’s already got bacon going, laid flat and neat and flipped with the kind of precision that only comes from loving something enough to get it just right.

Dean raids the pantry like a man possessed. Comes out grinning with frosted cherry Pop-Tarts and announces he’s buttering them ‘because he read once on the internet it makes them slutty.’ Then proceeds to make us all try one, eyes wide and wild like he’s invented flavor itself.

“It’s crispy on the outside and smooth on the inside,” he says, already licking melted frosting off his thumb. “Like sex. In a sad, desperate, childhood-regression sort of way.”

I hate to admit it, but the damn thing is good.

Even Brock mutters, “We need more of these,” like he’s just discovered the true cost of the apocalypse wasn’t water or antibiotics, it was frosted pastries.

Dean points his butter knife like a general giving orders. “We raid corner stores after perimeter drills. Priority one: cherry. But I’ll accept brown sugar in a pinch. Frosted. Keep it fancy. I’m not a savage.”

Wade snorts. Evan doesn’t even argue. And me?

I just pour the coffee and listen to them banter, the weight in my chest lighter than it’s been in years.

We might not make the fluffiest eggs or fold the napkins the way Maple does, but when she wakes up to the smell of bacon and chaos and half-dressed men plotting a pastry heist just for her?

She’ll smile.

And that’s enough.

God help anyone who thinks they can take this from us.