Monty leads you through the forest just before dawn, careful to erase your tracks.

“Okay,” he says quietly, pushing aside a curtain of vines. “Don’t freak out.”

Behind it is a metal door, half-buried in earth.

“…Monty,” you breathe.

He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s not fancy. But it’s reinforced. Independent power. Air filtration. Food for six months—maybe more if we ration.”

You stare at him. “You built this… for me?” He hesitates.

“For you,” he admits. “And—yeah. For us. If we need it.”

Inside, the shelter is warm. Safe. Lit by soft, steady lights. Monty watches you take it in, eyes searching your face.

“I know I can’t protect you from everything,” he says quietly. “But here… I can.”

You turn to him, heart full. And for the first time in weeks, the world feels survivable.