Page 59 of Bunker Down, Baby

His nostrils flare. “You kidnapped a farmer, didn’t you?”

“I rescued a farmer. From isolation. And loneliness. And potentially rabid squirrel people.”

He opens his mouth, probably to call me deranged, but I cut in first.

“His name is Wade. He’s incredibly sweet and smells like hay and hard work. You’re going to love him. I know you’re growly right now, but wait until you try the milk. It’s raw.”

He makes a strangled sound. “You’re a lunatic.”

“First of all,” I say, sitting on the edge of his bed and stealing a bite of his pie with a grin, “You are still being rude. And second, you’re not exactly winning gold in people skills yourself, Brock. I’ve watched you talk to other humans. It’s like watching someone give a bear a tax form.”

He stares at me, furious and baffled, and somehow that just makes me grin harder.

“You’ll feel better after lunch,” I say, nudging the tray closer. “Also, when you’re done screaming, we can go for a walk. Maybe meet Dean and Evan. Pet the cow. Talk about your feelings.”

“Feelings?” he chokes. “You think I…”

“Oh, I know you don’t want to,” I say sweetly. “But I also know once you stop fighting me and start using that energy to wreck me instead, everything will start making a lot more sense.”

His jaw drops.

I wink and pop the door closed behind me before he can form an actual sentence.

Next stop, Holden. Then Wade. Then world domination. Probably.

Holden’s quiet when I step in with his lunch.

Of course he is. That’s his whole vibe, silent, watching, like a wilderness panther who hasn’t decided yet if I’m prey or his mate. Either way, I’m thrilled. I close the door behind me and carry the tray over like I’m not one wrong word away from getting lasagna’d with it.

“Sorry it’s late,” I say, setting it on the little table near his bed. “I was out stealing a farmer. Long story, ten out of ten worth it. You’re gonna love Wade. He’s like if a golden retriever could milk a cow and carry you to safety during a barn fire.”

Holden doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me with those quiet, unreadable eyes, tracking every move like he’s cataloging me for some future hunt.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, because I don’t spook easy. “We got livestock now. Goats. Chickens. A cow who might be smarter than Brock, honestly. Milk, eggs. Actual food that doesn’t come in a can or scream when you catch it.”

Still nothing. Just a slight twitch of his brow.

I grin. “C’mon. You’ve been listening to the radio. You know what’s happening out there. The meds made it worse. Rabid, squirrel-brained rage monsters. And not in a sexy way.”

His jaw flexes. Just slightly.

“And you.” I gesture toward him with a smile that borders on reverent. “You are end-of-the-world pornography. You were made for this. Scarred. Quiet. Survivalist eyes. You’ve probably eaten raccoon jerky without blinking. I need that energy here. You were the final piece.”

He finally reaches for the fork.

Score.

“You’re the only one I can’t read,” I admit, because why lie to the hot, knife-hardened, post-apocalypse cryptid in your guest room. “Dean loved me before I fed him. Evan screamed. Brock is still screaming. Wade practically offered me a glass of sweet tea before I knocked him out. You? I have no idea what you’re thinking.”

He takes a bite. Slow. Thoughtful. Like he’s taste-testing me more than the food.

I tilt my head. “I’m not just here to bang all of you senseless, you know.”

One brow rises.

“Okay. That’s a big part of it,” I admit, grinning. “But this bunker? This setup? It’s good. It’s safe. You’re not just some pretty survivalist trophy I plan to chain to my bed and ogle. I mean, I do plan to do that, but I also need your brain. Your know-how. Your instincts.”

He chews another bite. Then looks at me like he sees something. I don’t know what. But it’s there, under the surface.

---