The boy of my dreams is holding me now.

Skin on skin. His forehead on my chin. He tenderly turns my arm over to inspect it. I'd like to stay here forever. But the condemnation of my conscience is too much. I step back, breaking contact and offer him the shirt.

'You were talking in your sleep, you know?'

Sam smiles. 'Again? Make any sense?'

Perhaps not the best topic I could choose. 'Uh, something about getting water?'

'Oh, yeh. I remember something. We were outside, I think?'

I head to the kitchen. Actually, the whole living space is really just the one large concrete room. No windows when you're underground.

Sam looks from wall to wall. 'What's for brekky?'

'Same,' I answer.

'Oh, same old recycled piss and shit, you mean? And beans!'

He's teasing. I won't fall for it. Well okay, I probably will. But not without giving back. I chuckle and thrust the beans and can opener into his hands.

'Here, open this. I'll cut the salad.'

I go to continue but his hands linger on mine for a moment. It's new. It's full of meaning that until yesterday, I dismissed as the wild stray hopes of Mr Pathetic.

I allow myself an extra moment of giddy excitement, before heading to the growing wall.

Row upon row of hydroponic leafy greens and other veggies greet me, fed by our composted 'humanure'. It's not the prettiest aspect of #BunkerLife.

I hear Sam mutter under his breath. 'Spouts and beans. Eating like rabbits.'

'Well, that's the way of it. For now.' I take the scissors and start trimming the rocket.

'Trapped, like animals,' Sam states. He's irritated. I can tell.

'We're people, not animals.'

I turn back and see Sam struggling with the can opener. He looks up at the ceiling.

'What do you think they're actually doing out there?' he asks.

'Who?'

'The survivors.'

This again. 'There hasn't been a new radio message for more than a year.'

The can still won't open for him. 'You never check it any more!'

I hate when we argue. It's not often, but this subject is one I like to avoid.

'The last one was just some looped recording,' I counter.

I admire the healthy bowl of greens and head back to Sam.

'The point is-'

'-Want me to open that,' I ask.

Sam grunts in frustration and hands over the can. He turns to the shelves for plates and cutlery.

'The point, is that we can't stop trying. Or we might as well be dead.'

In the middle of his seriousness, I notice him put back two smaller plates and pick up a larger one for us to share. It makes it almost impossible not to cave in to him. Almost.

'Dead? I mean is it really that bad in here?'

He puts the plate down on the coffee table and broods at me. Hands on hips.

'Come on, Sammy.'

'Don't "Sammy" me,' he says.

But then he sits beside me on the sofa, closer than normal. I guess this is our new normal. It's totally familiar. But it's new at the same time. Is this intimacy?

I shuffle awkwardly in case he wants to scooch away. He doesn't.

In front of us, the plate consists of beans, tack bread, and a heap of salad greens. It's not exactly appetizing. But the goal is survival.

Sam picks up a handful of mustard greens, mashes them in the beans and starts chomping on them. I just watch.

Halfway through his mouthful, he turns and glares at me.

I shrug. 'You're funny. When you eat.'

'I am?'

I nod. 'Funny.' I can't help but giggle myself. People are most alive when they don't know someone's watching them be themselves. At least Sam is.

'Hah.' He snuggles in a little closer as I reach forward for some food myself.

I reach around his shoulders with my other arm and gently pull him closer. My fingers, finally allowed to roam, begin to trace the curves of his neck.

'Bull, you know though?'

"Hmm?'

Sam turns onto his back and rests his head in my lap, searching the ceiling again.

'Sometimes, I think you made this place for two.'

My stomach tightens a little. This boy never lets up.

'Huh? Well yeh. There's enough here for a whole family,' I shrug.

'But why didn't you save some girl then? I would'a picked a girl.'

'Ohhh,' I joke while feeding him another mouthful. 'You would, huh?'

'Of course. Girls and babies and a future. I don't reckon you were being...' Sam pauses to sit up and face me openly.

'-And I mean, you and me, we're becoming, us. Am I like, some conquest?'

'What!'

He looks at me, scared to be hurt by my answer.

'No. I never, I would never-'

'-I know,' he sighs. 'That's the sweet genius of it. Maybe you played hero and hoped?'

My eyes flicker down to the plate again.

'It worked. But these walls, this ceiling. Does whatever happen in here actually count?'

What are you saying, Sam?

'What about-'

Sam senses the fear in my voice. He softens.

'No. Yes. This counts,' he assures me. But in very the next moment he jumps off the sofa and starts pacing.

'But ugh! Okay. You never said why. Why me? My place was on the other side of town. I'd seen you at the cafe a few times-'

My eyes remain on the plate. I can't look at him right now.

'-But that day, you kicked down my front door. To get to me. Just. Me. Were you like, watching me or something, before everything ended?

Answers always lead to more questions.

'Bull? I came down here thinking I'd been saved. And I was! But was it really for my survival skills?

I glance up at him, guilty as heck.

'See! That look, right there in your eyes,' he says. 'It's been there right from, I dunno. But something doesn't add up and you know it.'