Chapter 8
Hours after his dad left, Bear lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his body still but his mind a fucking battlefield. The old clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence, marking the minutes he wasn’t sleeping. Wasn’t even close.
He was back to thinking about Joy. Hell, who was he kidding? He was almost always thinking about Joy.
He could still hear his dad’s voice from earlier tonight, calm but firm. Maybe you don’t need her permission to help.
Damn it. Maybe he was right.
Because, this? Lying here, pretending he didn’t know Joy was drowning— alone —wasn’t who Bear was. He didn’t leave people behind. Not in the Marines. Not in Oak Creek. And sure as hell not when it came to Joy Davis.
He exhaled sharply and shoved the blankets off.
Enough.
He yanked on his jeans, tugged a thermal over his head, and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. The November air bit through his clothes the moment he stepped outside, but he barely felt it, his boots crunching against the frozen ground as determination propelled him forward.
Joy lived only a few blocks away, but the walk felt longer with the weight pressing on his chest. His breath puffed out in small clouds that dissipated into the night. The streetlights cast long shadows across the empty sidewalk as he pulled out his phone and shot off a text.
I’m coming over.
He didn’t expect a reply. And he didn’t get one.
Not a surprise—she hadn’t been answering him since the Polar Plunge last week. Probably hadn’t been answering anyone. But he was done waiting for her to reach out.
The houses in this part of town were dark, their occupants long since gone to bed. Only the occasional porch light illuminated his path. By the time he reached Joy’s front steps, his heart was pounding—not from the cold, but from the storm brewing in his gut.
He knocked hard, the sound echoing in the still night.
Nothing.
He knocked again, louder, his knuckles stinging against the solid wood.
Still nothing.
His pulse spiked. She was in there. She had to be.
He wasn’t leaving until he saw her with his own eyes.
Jaw tight, he called through the door. “Joy, open up. Or I’m knocking this damn thing down.”
Still, silence.
His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. That was it. He hadn’t been bluffing. Kicking in a door probably wasn’t what his dad had meant with his little pep talk, but Bear was a bit beyond reason.
Just as he braced to kick the door in, another memory surfaced—Joy’s voice, light and teasing, years ago. Side door key. Under the rock. Just in case I ever lock myself out.
A key would certainly be better than property damage. He walked around the side of the house, the frozen grass crunching beneath his boots. The darkness was deeper here, away from the street, and he had to rely on memory to guide him to the right spot. He crouched down, his fingers digging under the familiar rock by the side door. Cold dirt scraped against his skin before his fingers closed around metal. Still there.
Relief washed through him as he slid the key into the lock. The door creaked open, reluctant on its hinges, as if warning him away. The air inside was cool from the November night, carrying a stale, forgotten scent. His gut tightened as he stepped over the threshold.
“Joy?” His voice was steady, but tension pulled tight through his chest. He didn’t want to scare her, but also, she needed to know he wasn’t leaving just because she was hiding.
No answer.
He stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him. The house was too quiet. Too still. A place Joy had once filled with sound—her laughter, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the off-key singing she never cared to fix—was now silent as a tomb.
His boots echoed against the hardwood as he moved deeper inside, each step deliberate, careful. “It’s me, Joy. I’m coming in.” Once again, he pitched his voice loud enough that he wouldn’t startle her.
Nothing.
He took another step forward, listening, waiting. Where the hell was she?
His fingers curled at his sides, his pulse steady but hard. She was supposed to be here. So, why did it feel like she wasn’t?
He reached for the light switch and flipped it on. The glow flooded the small living room—and his stomach fucking dropped.
The house was wrecked .
Not destroyed, not vandalized, but forsaken. Neglected. Trash littered the floor, empty takeout containers stacked on the coffee table, some with forks still sticking out, dried sauce caked to the edges.
The sink overflowed with dirty dishes, plates crusted with food that had long since dried. A vase of flowers—dead, brittle, shriveled—sat untouched on the counter, the water inside murky, the petals curled in on themselves like they’d given up.
Bear’s pulse kicked up hard, a vise tightening around his chest.
Joy was not a neat freak, but she wasn’t like this. She was messy in a way that made a place feel alive—jars of ingredients left out on the counter mid-recipe, her jacket slung over a chair, a pile of books she’d been reading stacked next to the couch. Not this.
Not—he looked around again— this .
Unopened mail sat in a heap on the entryway table, weeks’ worth, judging by the pile. Some envelopes had slipped to the floor, half buried under a kicked-off boot. Boxes lined one wall, some still sealed, others half opened like she’d started something but lost the will to finish.
A cold unease slithered through him, tightening around his ribs. This wasn’t just a mess. This was abandonment . This was someone who’d stopped living here while still going through the motions.
“Joy?” His voice came sharper now, cutting through the thick silence, bouncing off walls that seemed to have forgotten her presence.
Nothing.
Jaw tight, he strode toward her bedroom, pushing the door open with more force than necessary. The bed was made—perfectly. Too perfectly. Hospital corners, not a wrinkle in sight. Joy’s bed had never looked like that in her life.
She hadn’t been sleeping here.
His jaw clenched as he scanned the room again. No clothes strewn about, no books on the nightstand, no glass of water half emptied. This wasn’t just tidy. This was untouched. Where the hell was she?
Then something caught his eye through the window. A flicker of dim, golden light outside, barely visible through the back window, a small beacon in the darkness of the yard.
His breath stilled.
The playhouse.
Another memory surfaced—Joy at ten, her hair in two messy braids, her arms spread wide, showing him the space she and her dad had built.
It’s my hideout, Bear. My place where I can think and dream and be me.
His chest went tight, something between fury and heartbreak rising in his throat.
He was moving before he’d fully processed it, striding toward the back door and stepping into the cold night air. The playhouse sat at the far end of the small yard, a tiny structure barely big enough for a kid, much less a grown woman.
And yet, as he neared, he heard her. A soft, broken murmur. Words he couldn’t make out, but unmistakably Joy’s voice. His gut twisted hard.
He knocked on the small wooden door, keeping his voice low, steady. “Joy? It’s me.”
Inside, something scraped against the floor. A shuffling sound. A pause. Then the door creaked open an inch, just enough for Joy’s face to appear. Her eyes were wide, shadowed, so fucking tired. Her hair was tangled around her face, and even in the low light, he could see her pallor.
“Is something wrong?” Her voice was small. Too small.
Bear’s heart damn near cracked in half. He forced himself to keep steady, to keep his tone even, to not reveal the maelstrom of emotions churning inside him. “Yeah, something’s wrong. Why are you out here?”
She flinched as she opened the door farther. He took a slow step forward, keeping his hands at his sides. He didn’t look inside—not yet. Didn’t need to, because he already knew.
She wasn’t just out here at the moment. She was living out here.
Joy’s fingers clenched around the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She wasn’t going to answer his question honestly; that was already clear.
Bear exhaled through his nose. “I went inside, looking for you.”
Her entire face drained of color. Shit.
“You—” Her throat bobbed. “You went in the house?”
“I did.” He let the words settle. Let her process. “I remembered the key being near the side door.”
She didn’t speak. Just stood there, gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
He couldn’t do this gently. Not anymore.
“Joy.” His voice was firm but quiet. “How long have you been sleeping out here?”
Her fingers tightened on the doorframe, her whole body stiff like she was bracing for a blow. She didn’t answer right away, her throat working like she was swallowing back the truth.
He wasn’t about to let her choke on it.
“How long, Joy?” His voice was low but unyielding, pressing in on her like the cold. Like he wasn’t letting this go. Because he wasn’t.
If he had known this was happening, he would’ve been here much, much sooner.
She wet her lips, gaze flicking somewhere past his shoulder, focusing on the dark silhouettes of trees at the edge of her property. “Since…since that night.”
Bear went still, the words hitting him like a physical blow. The words settled deep, a slow burn of realization that turned into something heavier. A whole damn month. Since the attack. Since the Kozak brothers had broken in, beaten her, taken Sloane.
Jesus Christ.
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, trying to process what she was telling him. She’d been out here in the November cold, sleeping in a child’s playhouse, for weeks.
“Bug—”
“I know what you’re thinking.” Her voice sharpened, defensive now, a glimpse of the old Joy flaring up. “That I’m being ridiculous. That I should just get over it.”
“That’s not what I’m thinking.”
She huffed, shaking her head, but her hands trembled where she still gripped the door.
He could push. Wanted to push. But there was a fragility in the way she stood there, like she was strung together by a thread and he was holding the scissors.
Instead, he nodded toward the inside of the tiny space. “Let me see.”
Her eyes snapped back to his. “What?”
“Let me see where you’ve been staying.”
She hesitated, conflict written across her face. Then, slowly, she stepped back.
He didn’t know what he expected. But it wasn’t this.
The playhouse was immaculate. The small cot in the corner was neatly made, the blanket tucked tight. A small battery-powered lamp glowed on the ground, casting warm light across the child-sized space. A book sat open, spine cracked from repeated reading. A single mug rested on the table in the corner. A tiny stack of clean clothes was folded on a chair.
The contrast of this neat space to the disaster inside her house was a punch to the gut. She hadn’t just been staying out here. This was home. This was where she felt safe.
Bear turned back to her, his voice steady but edged. “This has to stop, Joy.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, her fingers gripping her sleeves like they were the only things holding her together. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, her whole body drawn tight, her breath barely visible in the freezing air.
He forced himself to stay calm, to push down the frustration burning in his chest. He wasn’t mad at her. He was mad at the situation, at the fact that she’d been out here for a damn month and no one had known. That he hadn’t known.
“Joy,” he said, his voice steady, “you can’t keep living out here.”
She flinched, just barely, before lifting her chin. “I can handle it.”
He exhaled sharply. Stubborn. Always so damn stubborn. Even now, when she was clearly falling apart, she couldn’t admit she needed help.
“I’m not saying you have to go back inside,” he said, gentler this time, “but you can’t stay here tonight.”
She swallowed, her fingers curling tighter into her sleeves. “I don’t?—”
“Come to my place.”
Her head snapped up, startled.
Bear stepped in front of her, softening his voice. “It’s too cold here. You don’t want to sleep in your house, fine. My place is warm. You’ll sleep. That’s all.”
She hesitated, her throat working. He could see the battle in her—pride, fear, exhaustion. But she was already shivering, her lips taking on a bluish tinge that alarmed him.
“Joy,” he murmured, “let me help.”
She nodded slowly, a tiny, jerking movement. He crouched in front of her, reaching for her shoes lined neatly by the door. His hands found her socked feet. He could feel the cold even through the material.
She tensed but didn’t argue as he slid her feet into the worn sneakers, tying the laces securely. She was already wrapped in a coat and blankets, but she wasn’t okay.
And he should’ve seen it sooner.
He stood, holding out a hand. She hesitated, then took it. The grip was light, barely there, but it was something.
He led her out into the cold, his grip tightening just enough to steady her. They walked in silence, their breath misting in the freezing air, the hum of Oak Creek settling into its late-night quiet.
As they reached the steps to his apartment, her voice broke through the stillness.
“I’m sorry.”
Bear’s jaw clenched. He was pissed as hell but not at her. Never at her.
He was pissed at himself. Pissed that he hadn’t seen how bad this had gotten.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice rough. “Just—don’t.”
She didn’t say anything else. She followed him up the steps silently until they reached his door, then followed him inside.
He didn’t say much as he shut the door firmly behind them. The warmth of his apartment wrapped around them, a sharp contrast to the bitter cold outside, but she was still shaking, tiny tremors running through her body.
He didn’t hesitate. “Shower,” he said, his voice low but steady.
Joy blinked at him, like she was trying to process the word.
“It’ll help warm you up.”
She hesitated, her arms wrapping tighter around herself, but then she gave a small nod and disappeared into the bathroom.
Bear exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. Jesus. How had it come to this? How had she been out there alone for weeks, freezing, barely sleeping, and he hadn’t seen it?
He grabbed the first clean things he could find—a soft, worn T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that would absolutely drown her. He knocked on the bathroom door, leaving them outside. “Clothes are here.”
A muffled thanks came through the wood.
He busied himself while he waited, filling a glass of water, setting out a pack of crackers in case she’d actually eat something. Small comforts. Things she needed.
The door creaked open, and she stepped out, his clothes way too big as he’d expected, her damp brown hair curling at the ends. The shirt hung to her knees, the sleeves rolled up multiple times.
She looked at him, silent. Too silent. Not a trace of the usual sparkle in her eyes, the impish smile that usually danced on her lips.
He didn’t ask. He just nodded toward his bed.
She didn’t argue. Didn’t crack a joke or roll her eyes. She just went.
That was what really fucking got to him.
He pulled back the blankets, waiting until she climbed beneath them before tucking them around her small frame. Too small. Too fragile.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, her voice catching on the words.
Something snapped in his chest. He crouched beside the bed, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. He traced his fingers over the freckles she used to hate, the ones she’d complained about when she was younger.
“We’ll figure it out later,” he murmured. “Right now, just sleep.”
She barely nodded before her eyes slipped shut, exhaustion pulling her under almost immediately.
Bear stood there for a long moment, watching her breathe, the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath his blankets. In sleep, some of the tension left her face, making her look more like the Joy he knew—the one with the ready smile and the endless energy.
Then he walked over to his couch and sank onto it, scrubbing a hand over his face. His mind was still racing, replaying the night’s discoveries, planning what needed to happen next.
There was no way in hell he was sleeping tonight. But at least now, Joy was safe. She wasn’t alone.
And that was all that mattered.