Page 72 of Bunker Down, Baby

I keep staring.

She smiles. “Evan made soup. Dean roasted vegetables. Wade baked fresh bread. We’ve had a hell of a day moving livestock, reinforcing fences, and fixing everything that might break if the world keeps going down the toilet.” She pauses then adds, “The men picked you.”

That makes me blink.

“Dean said it would be more fun. Evan sighed. Wade said something thoughtful and sincere that made me feel things I don’t want to examine. So,” she shrugs, “I didn’t veto it. Because I’m not a monster.”

I snort before I can stop myself.

Goddammit.

Her eyes light up like I just handed her a rose.

“Also,” she adds casually, “Things are getting bad. Real bad. You heard the reports.”

I nod once.

She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re here because I needed someone who could keep us safe. When the rest of the world forgets how to be people and starts breaking into places like ours, I need someone with a gun. Someone who doesn’t freeze. Who doesn’t fold.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Someone who understands that survival isn’t just about staying alive, it’s about protecting what’s worth staying alive for.”

I swallow that down. Because damn it, she’s right. And I hate that she’s right again.

“And maybe,” she continues, softer now, “Dean was right. Maybe you’re less of a murder-risk than you were yesterday.”

I raise a brow. “You keeping score?”

“Always,” she says brightly. “I’m a very organized psychopath.”

She stands, smooth and sure, and walks to the door. She rests a hand on the doorframe.

“I appreciate you not threatening me today,” she says without turning around. “I know that wasn’t easy for you.”

“It wasn’t,” I admit, before I even know I’m going to.

She glances over her shoulder, and her smile this time is softer. Warmer. Like I just passed a test. “You coming to dinner, Brock?”

I don’t answer right away.

I should say no. Should stay here, stew in my pride, keep the walls up. But the truth is, I’m tired of the walls.

I want to see what she’s built.

I want to know why they stayed.

I want to see if I can sit at a table and not feel like a ticking bomb.

And yeah, maybe I want to see if she really made cookies.

I shift on the bed, testing the cuff.

Maple lifts the key from her pocket, and holds it up. She’s still smiling.

And I think I might be, too.

She doesn’t rush.

There’s a tension in the air, not the sharp kind that crackles before a fight, but something slower. Thicker. Like the moment before a first real storm when everything smells electric and off, and you know something’s about to shift.

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