Page 2 of Bunker Down, Baby

Hasn’t locked his sliding glass door in three months. Three months. I leave him little hints sometimes, just to see if he’ll notice, shift something on the counter, nudge a chair slightly out of place. But he never does.

Sometimes he falls asleep on the couch, TV still playing, fully clothed in his scrubs. Exhausted. Overworked. So damn easy to take.

And those scrubs.

Jesus.

He makes them look like high fashion. Low-slung on his hips, just loose enough to hint at the body underneath. I’ve never seen an ass like that. Strong and lean, all muscle and definition, like God himself spent extra time sculpting it.

And when he makes it to the bed, he sleeps commando.

I’ve seen it. More than once.

And after a long shift? You can talk to him without waking him up. You can touch him. Just a little. Just enough to let your fingers brush that birthmark that rides along those deep-cut muscles, the ones that melt your fucking brain.

Evan’s working late tonight. Always does on Saturdays. Straight through until Sunday morning, running on caffeine and a God complex.

I think he likes it. The chaos, the madness. Thrives on it. Some people get off on fast cars or high-stakes gambling. Evan gets off on playing chicken with the Grim Reaper.

And lucky for me, the weekend ER is always full.

People get drunk. They fight, crash their cars, slice off their fingers trying to prove they’re skilled with a knife when they are not, in fact, skilled with a knife.

It means he won’t be home for hours. And that means I have plenty of time to do what any reasonable woman in my situation would do.

Pack his bags.

His house is dark and quiet when I slip inside. I don’t rush. I like taking my time. I like touching his things, breathing in his space. He’s so meticulous at work but not so much at home.

It’s almost like he wants me to come in.

I roll the wheelchair into the rarely used coat closet and drape a blanket over it. A hospital blanket. Naughty, naughty doctor. Stealing supplies? What would the hospital think?

But I’m not one to judge. I steal things too.

Like, right now.

I head straight for the dryer, because Evan does not use his closet. His clean clothes live here, crumpled, until he eventually puts them on. The man is out here saving lives every day, but he still can’t be bothered to fold a damn shirt.

And that’s how I know he’s the right kind of doctor for the apocalypse.

Not the fancy kind who wears button-ups and eats brie with properly paired wine. No, Evan is the kind who pulls on the same three pairs of jeans and doesn’t give a single fuck. The kind who rolls up his sleeves and shoves his hands inside a dying man’s chest like he’s playing Operation on hard mode.

I take those jeans.

Fold them neatly along with the shirts he wears most often, because clearly, someone has to take care of this man.

Then, the bathroom.

I don’t really need anything from here. I’ve already bought everything he likes. His shampoo, his soap, his ridiculously expensive cologne that smells like a man who could pin you against a wall and make you thank him for it.

His toothbrush. His toothpaste. Even that bougie ribbon floss he uses.

Listen. I used to think floss was floss, but then I tried this shit, and oh my God. Ribbon floss is life-changing. I bought enough for all of us. Stock up every time I go to the store, just in case they stop making it.

Still, I grab a few things from his bathroom because I’m not wasteful.

Next, shoes.

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