The bunker was never meant to feel like home—but somehow, with Joel, it did. Maybe it was the way he always found me in the crowded corridors, like some invisible thread pulled him in my direction. Or how his hand would brush against mine in passing, lingering just a second longer than necessary, as if reassuring himself I was still there. Still alive. Still his. “Hey,” Joel murmured one evening, ducking into the small corner we’d claimed as ours. His hair was a mess, his clothes smudged….