Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
CAL
Time became meaningless.
Cal drifted in and out of consciousness, never fully awake but never deeply asleep. His bear held the reins, keeping him in shifted form, forcing his body to rest in a way his human mind had refused to allow for months. Maybe years.
Dahlia moved around him like water around a stone—seamless, unhurried, unbothered.
He heard her footsteps, light and sure. Smelled the changing scents as she worked: bread rising, pastry baking, sugar caramelizing.
Felt the brush of her hand across his fur when she passed, casual touches that grounded him to the present.
She talked to him.
Not demanding conversation—she seemed to understand he couldn’t respond. Filling the silence with the mundane details of her day, her voice a constant thread in the quiet storeroom.
“Mrs. Powers came in this morning wanting comfort croissants for her sister’s divorce party. I had to talk her down from a dozen—the surge has made them too strong. One croissant, max. Otherwise, poor Sandra will be sobbing into her champagne instead of celebrating her freedom.”
Cal’s ear twitched. His bear was listening, even if his human mind was barely conscious.
“Beck stopped by. Asked about you.” The sound of jars clinking, ingredients being organized.
“He looked rough. I don’t think he’s sleeping either.
Rosemary’s boat is somewhere in the Pacific, and I think the distance is eating at him.
” She shook her head. “Wolves are terrible at waiting. At least bears have hibernation built into the programming.”
She laughed softly at her own joke. The sound washed over Cal like sunshine, bright and unexpected.
“Marzipan is extremely put out that you’ve taken over her favorite napping spot.” Dahlia’s voice moved closer, and then her fingers were in his fur again, scratching that perfect spot behind his ears. “She’s been glaring at you from the doorway for the past hour. I think she’s plotting revenge.”
Cal cracked one eye open. Sure enough, a cream-colored cat sat in the storeroom doorway, golden eyes fixed on him with profound disapproval.
He made a huffing sound—the bear equivalent of a chuckle.
“Oh, don’t encourage her.” But Dahlia was smiling; he could hear it in her voice. “She’ll never let either of us live this down.”
Hours passed. The light through the high windows shifted from afternoon gold to evening purple to the deep black of night.
Dahlia brought him more honey, more water.
She read aloud from her recipe journals—experimental combinations she’d never sold, midnight creations born from insomnia and inspiration.
“Rosemary lavender with a hint of black pepper,” she murmured, turning pages. “I tried that one last winter. It was... not a success. Though Cassia said it tasted like ‘confused weather,’ which honestly might have been a compliment coming from her.”
Cal’s bear made a huffing sound of amusement.
“Oh, you like that one?” Dahlia’s smile was audible. “Wait until you hear about the time I tried to make courage cupcakes with ghost pepper. Narla said the bravery was real, but the hospital visit afterward sort of defeated the purpose.”
Later, when the moon had risen high enough to cast silver light through the windows, she told him about her grandmother.
Dawn light filtered through the windows when he finally shifted back.
It happened without warning—one moment he was bear, the next he was human, curled naked on the flour sacks with every muscle aching and his head pounding and his heart feeling strangely, unexpectedly light.
“Morning.”
Dahlia’s voice. Cal turned his head, blinking against the pale light, and found her sitting in the same spot she’d been in when he first woke. She’d changed clothes at some point.
She’d stayed. Through the whole night, she’d stayed with him.
“How long?” His voice came out rusted from hours of disuse.
“Twelve hours, give or take.” She stood, moving to a shelf where a folded stack of fabric waited. Clothes, he realized. She’d found him clothes. “Theo dropped these off last night. Said you’d need them more than he would.”
She set them beside him without looking at his naked body, though a faint flush crept up her cheeks. Cal grabbed the jeans, pulling them on with movements that felt clumsy, disconnected. His body was heavy with exhaustion even after all that sleep—wrung out from pushing too hard for too long.
“I’m—” He stopped. Sorry hovered on his tongue, but it felt wrong. Insufficient. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t.” Dahlia cut him off, her voice gentle but firm. She picked up a thermos from the table, poured steaming coffee into a mug, and pressed it into his hands. “You needed that. Don’t apologize for letting yourself rest.”
Cal stared at her.
She’d stayed awake all night watching over a bear shifter in her storeroom. She’d fed him honey and talked to him and scratched behind his ears like he was a particularly large house cat. She’d given him what no one had offered in longer than he could remember: permission to stop.
“Why?” The word scraped out of him. “You could have made my bear go back to the brewery. You could have left me alone. You didn’t have to—”
“No, I didn’t.” She sat on the crate again, close enough that her knee almost touched his.
“But you came here, Cal. Your bear brought you here, of all the places it could have gone. And I—” She paused, her face gentling.
“I wanted to be here when you woke up. I wanted you to know that someone was watching over you.”
His ribs constricted. Gratitude. Terror. Hope so sharp, it hurt. All of it pressing against his bones at once.