Page 99 of Bunker Down, Baby

We’re thriving.

The garden’s popping off like it’s trying to impress someone. The goat population has stabilized after the Great Chicken Escape Incident, which we still don’t talk about because Evan’s eye still twitches when someone says ‘cluck.’ The power runs clean, the solar’s humming, and no one, and I mean no one, has made it past the perimeter since Brock and Holden turned it into a goddamn fortress with motion sensors and enough firepower to make a small militia rethink their life choices.

Evan’s even figured out how to collect eggs without getting assaulted.

Dean has not.

But he can milk the cow like it owes him money, and honestly? That’s hot in a very specific, very inappropriate way I still haven’t figured out how to process without getting kicked out of a Tractor Supply.

And just when I think I’ve learned everything there is to know about these five walking orgasms I’ve hoarded like my own personal end-of-the-world starter pack, Wade does something that hits me right in the ovaries with absolutely zero warning.

I’m halfway to the barn with a tray balanced on my hip, fresh water, a little snack, something slutty in a mason jar, because I believe in hydration and rewards, when I hear it.

Low. Smooth.

A voice.

Not just humming. Not some mumbled country bullshit about trucks and heartbreak and fried catfish.

No. He’s singing.

Like, full-on crooning. That deep, rich, Southern drawl that wraps around each note like it’s stroking the syllables into submission. Like he knows exactly what his voice is doing to the air. And to my thighs. And to my fragile sense of stability.

And let me be very clear, he is not singing to an audience. He is not singing to himself. He is singing to my entire reproductive system with the precision of a man who’s done this before and liked the results.

It takes everything I have not to just drop the tray, fall to my knees in the barn dust like some thirsty little prairie bride, and shout ‘take me, cowboy, I’m ready to forget my name.’

Because that voice?

It’s wet dream incarnate. It’s sex and sunflowers and Sunday morning pancakes with a side of oh-my-god-destroy-me.

And then, as if the universe is actively trying to murder me with arousal, I get close enough to see him.

Wade. Shirtless. Sweaty. Tool belt hanging low on his hips. One hand holding a wrench, the other adjusting his hat like the filthiest Marlboro ad I’ve ever seen. And he’s just... singing. Like he doesn’t know he’s breaking the sound barrier of hot.

I stand there.

Frozen.

Mouth dry. Brain empty. Knees morally compromised.

Because apparently this is my life now. This is what I’ve built. I stole five men for the end of the world and accidentally created a daily highlight reel of pornographic Americana.

And I am not sorry.

I stand there, sweating like a sinner in church, thighs clenched tighter than the lid on a bunker-grade pickle jar, just watching him.

Wade doesn’t know I’m here. Not yet. And that’s dangerous.

Because now I’m seeing it raw. That little groove at the base of his spine when he bends over. The way the muscles in his back ripple with each breath like God hand-chiseled him out of sun-drenched labor and weaponized sweat. The way his jeans hang low, just barely containing the miracle of engineering that is his ass, like gravity itself is trying to seduce me.

And that voice. Jesus. He’s still singing. Low. Dirty. Like each note is a promise he’s already halfway fulfilled.

I think I black out for a second.

Because the next thing I know, I’m inside the barn, tray abandoned somewhere near the door like it offended me, and I’m marching straight up to him like I’ve been possessed by the ghosts of every thirsty pin-up girl who ever licked her lips at a war poster.

His back is to me, and for one brief, perverted moment, I just… watch. Let myself absorb the vision of him, shirtless and bronzed and glistening. And then I reach out, because I’m not strong enough to not, and drag my nails slowly down the line of his spine.

---