Page 6 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

It’s ridiculous how excited I am.

Like, full-body, giddy-sick butterflies kind of excited. I’m standing by the generator with a chilled La Croix in one hand and a syringe of mild tranquilizer in my back pocket like it’s a damn accessory. Fashion but make it felony.

I double-check everything. The cord is unplugged just enough to simulate a problem, nothing dramatic, nothing that’ll make him suspicious. Just a loose wire and a confused damsel with damp lips and big eyes.

The sun is barely up, but the lights in the hallway flicker just enough to make this feel like a horror movie. Or a seduction. Honestly, same vibe.

And then I hear truck tires on gravel.

I squeal. Literally squeal. And then I take a deep breath and settle. Not too giddy. Just casual. Cool. Sweet but flustered. He’ll like that.

When he knocks, I open the door like I wasn’t waiting right behind it.

“Hey,” I say, all smiles and sunshine and probably way too much cleavage for seven-forty in the morning. “Come in, it’s right this way.”

He steps inside like he owns the place. No hesitation. Of course not. He’s a man who handles things. Men like Dean don’t hesitate. They stride in with their big boots and broad shoulders and they fix things like they were born for it.

His eyes flick down my body again, subtle, but definitely there, and my toes curl in my shoes.

“Still got power in the main room,” he says, glancing at the lights. “So I’m guessing this is an isolated setup?”

I nod like I totally didn’t sabotage it myself. “Yeah, just the generator that handles the fridge and freezer side. I keep a lot of bulk food. You know, in case of another shortage.”

He whistles low as I lead him to the back. “Smart. More people oughta think ahead.”

They should. They really, really should.

We reach the generator. He crouches automatically, like a lion sinking into its kill. His jeans stretch over thighs that should be illegal, and his shirt rides up just enough to show the waistband of his boxers and a sliver of lower back.

I’m about to faint. Or combust.

His fingers brush over the disconnected wire. “Ah, yeah. Looks like this one just came loose.” He starts tracing the line, hands working fast, distracted.

Now.

I slide closer.

He glances back at me, grinning. “You didn’t do this just to get me over here, did you?”

I smile. Sweet. Innocent. A total fucking liar. “What, me? Of course not.”

He laughs, eyes back on the wires. “Thought not. You don’t seem like the type.”

Oh, baby. I’m exactly the type.

He leans deeper into the machine, and I step behind him. Quiet. Calm.

And put one hand on his shoulder.

He freezes just a little, just enough.

“I really do appreciate you coming,” I say softly.

His voice is quiet too, a little confused. “No problem, I…”

Then quick, practiced, and gentle, I jab the needle into the thickest part of his shoulder and press the plunger down smooth and easy.

He starts to rise, and I guide him gently back down.

“Just hold still for one second, okay?” I say.

He tenses. “What the f…”

I shush him. “Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay. Just relax, Dean.”

He twists to look at me, muscles jerking, but it’s already working. The sedative I chose is mild enough to make him woozy, compliant, not hurt him.

I’m not a monster.

His hazel eyes find mine, stunned and foggy and so goddamn beautiful.

“What... the hell...?” he says.

“You’re okay,” I whisper, brushing my fingers over his hair. “I just need you to lie down for a little nap. You’ve been working so hard. You deserve a rest.”

He tries to say something else, but his mouth isn’t cooperating. His body sways.

I catch him.

His head tips against my shoulder, and I stroke his back as he sinks.

“There you go,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”

And I do. I always will.

Getting him into the wheelchair isn’t easy, but I’m not exactly a damsel and I manage. He’s heavy, but worth it. Like expensive furniture or emotionally unavailable men.

Once he’s settled, I triple-lock the main bunker door and seal it up tight. Just the way I like it.

Dean’s still slumped in the wheelchair, his head lolled slightly to the side, all long limbs and unconscious masculinity, like someone sedated a Roman statue.

“I bet you’re even more stubborn than Evan,” I murmur as I steer him down the hallway. “That’s okay. I like a challenge.”

I wheel him past Evan’s room, still locked, still quiet. He’s probably still sleeping. Last night did wear him out, after all. Sweet thing.

Dean’s room is right next door, of course. Same layout. Same high-end mattress. Only the best for my boys. I invested, okay? It’s not kidnapping if you provide premium memory foam.

I wrestle Dean’s body onto the bed, he groans a little, soft and barely conscious, his breath warm against my cheek as I lower him down.

“Shhh. You’re fine. You’re home,” I whisper, brushing his hair off his forehead.

Once he’s settled, I secure one wrist to the cuff at the side of the bed. Just one. I want him to wake up slow. Confused. Curious. A little vulnerable.

Delicious.

I pause, just taking him in.

The rise and fall of his chest. The curve of his inked arms, muscles twitching beneath the skin as the sedative wears down.

I sit beside him on the edge of the bed, one hand drifting down his bicep. His tattoos are warm under my fingers, his skin slick with sweat and the faint smell of engine oil and danger.

“God, you’re perfect,” I whisper. “You don’t even know yet, but you’re going to thrive here.”

I trace one line of ink slowly with my nail, watching it rise under his skin like a promise.

“You’ve got these big, rough hands,” I murmur, dragging my fingers down the side of his forearm. “I bet you’re good at so many things. You’re going to be so helpful.”

I lean down, breathing him in. He smells like leather and sweat and that gorgeous metallic tang of grease. Dean Mercer, freshly abducted and freshly irresistible.

My nipples tighten. My thighs clench. I could stay here all day. Just watching him sleep.

But I have a schedule. And breakfast to make.

I press a gentle kiss to the inside of his wrist and whisper, “Rest up, handsome. I’ll come check on you later.”

Then I slip out of his room and head to the little kitchenette like it’s just any other morning in the bunker. Like I didn’t just sedate and strap down a mechanic with forearms that could snap me in half.

I put on ABBA. Something cheerful and vintage. It’s important to keep spirits high.

I start frying eggs, the sizzle a sweet little symphony as I toss some bread into the toaster and hum to myself.

Because this is going to be a very good day.

And Evan is going to be so excited when he hears the news.

Once everything is ready, I balance the tray carefully in one hand, nudging Evan’s door open with my foot.

He’s still asleep, spread out on the mattress like he owns the place, one arm slung over his head, the other curled toward his chest, chest rising and falling in soft, even breaths. The restraint’s still latched to the bedframe, untouched. Such a good boy.

“Wakey-wakey,” I coo, voice sweet as syrup as I set the tray down on the little bedside table.

He stirs, eyes scrunching, nose wrinkling at the scent of bacon.

“There he is,” I murmur, brushing his hair back gently, nails skimming across his scalp. “Come on, Evan. It’s breakfast time.”

His eyes flutter open, still hazy with sleep, but already narrowing in suspicion. God, he’s cute like this. Ruffled and grumpy and shirtless in my bed. Well. His bed. But everything here is mine, so… semantics.

“You made bacon,” he mumbles.

“I always make bacon.” I perch on the edge of the bed, lifting the tray and setting it across his lap. “Crispy. Just the way you like it. Eggs soft, toast buttered. No crusts.”

He blinks at the plate, then back at me. “You cut the crusts off.”

“Of course I did.” I beam. “You’re mine. I take care of what’s mine.”

He’s silent for a second. Then, because he knows better than to push back, he picks up a piece of bacon and takes a bite.

He groans softly. “Goddamn it.”

“I know. Perfect, right?” I hug my knees to my chest, watching him eat like it’s a damn rom-com and not a psychological horror flick with a breakfast budget. “So. You’ll never guess what I did this morning.”

His brows lift slightly. He’s learning. Expect the unexpected.

I bounce a little on the bed. “I got us a mechanic.”

He pauses mid-chew. “You what?”

“A mechanic,” I say brightly. “Dean Mercer. Strong hands. Gorgeous arms. Tattoos. Smells like engine oil and poor decisions. You’re gonna love him.”

Evan just stares at me.

“I went to his shop early. Caught him before opening. Told him I had a problem with the generator.” I waggle my brows. “Which, technically, I did. In that I unplugged it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Evan says.

“He followed me home like a good boy. Didn’t even ask that many questions.” I sigh, dreamy. “You should’ve seen the way he looked at me. Like he knew. Like deep down, he already belongs here.”

Evan slowly sets the toast down. “You knocked out a grown man and dragged him into the bunker. Again.”

“Oh please, I wheeled him in. And you’re being dramatic. He’s fine. Comfortable. Cuffed. And the mattress is just as nice as yours.”

His face is a mixture of disbelief and dread. “Maple. He’s a mechanic. Built like a brick wall according to you. Covered in ink and testosterone. How exactly do you plan on keeping him under control once he wakes up and realizes he’s been abducted by a batshit prepper with trust issues and a Pinterest board full of bunker layouts?”

I smile, wide and easy. “He’s already in love with me.”

Evan chokes slightly on his orange juice.

“He doesn’t know it yet,” I continue, patting his knee. “But he will. Just like you. Just like the rest of you.”

“There’s a rest of us?” he says.

“Eventually.” I hum, grabbing a piece of toast and nibbling the edge. “Dean doesn’t have any close family. No ties. Just like you. Just like all of you. That’s part of what makes this work. It’s clean. Cozy.”

“Cozy,” he echoes flatly.

“Yes. Cozy. No strings. No one looking for you. Just us. A little family. You, me, Dean. And maybe two or three more, depending on the virus mutation curve.”

Evan puts his head in his hands. “I need more bacon.”

I pass him another strip, proud as hell. Because this is going exactly how I planned.

He’s eating.

Dean’s sleeping.

And the world outside is falling apart.

But in here?

In here, everything’s perfect.