Page 60 of Bunker Down, Baby

God, I want to climb on him so bad.

But patience. He’s a slow-burn. A simmer. You don’t force a man like Holden. You tempt him. You show him the storm and invite him to stand in it with you.

“Look,” I say, softer now, “I know you’ve been watching. I know you know I planned this. And maybe it’s all a little nuts, but… it’s working. Isn’t it?”

His eyes flick to me. Just a flick. But something’s there. A crack in the glacier.

I stand, because if I stay, I’m going to do something reckless and heroic and probably get bit. I brush my hand across his shoulder as I pass, and feel how solid he is. All quiet strength and survival heat.

“Let me know if you’re ready to help,” I murmur, pausing at the door. “No rush. But I think you will. Soon.”

I step out before I can press harder.

Because that man is definitely going to wreck me one day.

And I am so, so ready.

Wade’s out cold, laid up in the softest bed in the whole bunker, mine.

Not on purpose, it just kind of happened. Like how he kind of happened. Just… poof, six feet of sun-warmed farm god with a laugh that makes you feel like you’ve been wrapped in a flannel blanket and then thrown down on a hay bale in the best way.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare. Not like a normal person. Like someone who’s already claimed him via full-body imprinting.

He smells like clean sweat and hay and something stupid like safety. His lashes are thick, a crescent against his skin. He’s got that faint crease between his brows, like he’s dreaming about how to build me a chicken coop and make me scream into a pillow at the same time.

I reach out and brush my fingers over the stubble on his jaw. It’s coarse and warm and perfect. I drag my knuckles down the side of his face, to the little dip in his chin, then up again.

God, I’m gonna ruin him. Slowly. Lovingly. Like a homemade peach cobbler.

I lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth. Just because I can. And because he’s mine.

He stirs. Blinks. That slow, southern kind of blink that lets you know he’s still booting up. His eyes land on me, soft brown, all warm and crinkled at the corners like he’s just woken from a nap he earned with hard labor and emotional availability.

Then he smiles. “Well, ain’t this somethin’.”

My heart literally sighs.

“You’re up,” I say like I haven’t been watching him sleep for twenty full minutes while contemplating the logistics of my legs bracketing his hips.

He gives me a once-over, then the room. No panic. No shouting. Just Wade about it. “Darlin’, there are easier ways to get me alone, y’know.”

I grin. “Yeah, but none of them include your goats and a tractor.”

His laugh is low, soft, and I swear I feel it somewhere indecent. He tries to sit up.

I put a hand on his chest, firm but gentle. “Easy. You’re safe. I just didn’t want to risk the drive home with you doing something heroic. You’ve got that noble jawline. I could tell.”

That gets me a full smile. “You think I got a noble jawline?”

“I think you’ve got a jawline I want to ride,” I say, because honesty is important in a relationship.

He blushes. Actually blushes. And my ovaries light up like the 4th of July.

“I brought you food,” I add, and grab the tray from the nightstand. “Shepherd’s pie. Extra cheese. Welcome to the team.”

Wade sits up, careful, and takes the plate like I just offered him my hand in marriage. He’s looking at me like I hung the moon and know how to season meat properly.

I pluck a bite with the fork and hold it up to his mouth. “You gonna let me feed you?”

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