Page 38 of Bunker Down, Baby

Dean kisses the back of my neck, laughing. “Damn. You want me to choke you while you say his name or something?”

I giggle, breathless. “Don’t tempt me.”

He groans like it’s actually tempting. I love that for us.

But before I can get him all worked up again, the radio crackles from the corner. Always on, low volume, feeding me scraps of the world unraveling.

“…Shelter-in-place order expanded to the following counties…”

Dean tenses slightly behind me, then exhales slow. His hand slides up my ribs, grounding. “Sounds like things are getting dicey out there.”

I hum, not worried. I’m prepared. Always prepared.

“We’ll be fine,” I say, turning in his arms to face him, pressing a slow kiss to his jaw. “I have everything we need.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Except Brock.”

I grin. “Exactly.”

Dean’s hand slides down to squeeze my ass, hard. “Well, then,” he says, voice going low and dark, “We better go get your wilderness boyfriend before some other psycho puts him in a cage.”

My laugh turns into a moan as he bites my neck.

God, I love him.

And Brock? Brock’s going to love us.

Eventually.

A few hours later and we’re in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hands moving in sync like we’ve done this a hundred times.

Me, slicing vegetables.

Dean, shirtless and barefoot, rubbing seasoning into the chicken thighs like the man was born to manhandle meat.

There’s something almost romantic about it.

Not the candlelight kind, or the boring wine-and-pasta kind. The kind where you’re whispering about abducting a man while folding napkins and roasting root vegetables with love.

The real kind of romance.

I glance over at him as he smirks down at the spice jar, biceps flexing just a little harder than necessary. He’s doing it on purpose. Tease.

My insides purr.

“I’ve got a plan for Brock,” I say, tossing chopped carrots into the pan. “It’s elegant. Clean. No blood. Very little struggle.”

Dean doesn’t even look up. “You mean I don’t get to wrestle him into the trunk?”

“Not unless something goes wrong. Which it won’t.” I pause, lick a smear of oil off my finger. “He always goes to bed early before a hunt. Like clockwork.”

Dean slides the chicken into the oven. “What’s early? Like old-man-reads-a-paper early?”

I grin. “I mean eight-thirty early.”

Dean laughs. “Jesus.”

I shrug, setting the timer. “Discipline. Routine. It’s part of his charm.”

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