Chapter 9
Joy blinked against the morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains, her brain sluggish as it tried to place where she was. The sheets were warm against her skin, the mattress firm—too firm to be her lumpy cot in the playhouse.
Then it all came rushing back. She was in Bear’s bed.
She pressed her face into the pillow. Last night, he’d found her curled up in the playhouse like some broken thing. His quiet insistence that she come back to his apartment still echoed in her ears.
The worst part wasn’t that he’d seen her hiding. It was that she’d just followed him without protest, walking beside him like a lost child while he murmured reassurances that felt like the only thing keeping her from shattering.
Heat burned up her neck as she realized what he knew now. Not just that she hadn’t been staying in her house or that it was such a disaster, but that she’d been sleeping outside like some damn stray cat, too afraid to face her own four walls.
“Great job proving you’re not a total wreck, Davis,” she muttered into the pillow.
The smell of coffee and bacon curled through the air, making her stomach growl loud enough to drown out her self-loathing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten a real breakfast.
Or lunch. Or dinner.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, tightening the waist string of the sweatpants and tugging at the hem of the oversized T-shirt Bear had loaned her. She hesitated at the doorway of his kitchen, her bare toes curling against the cool hardwood.
Bear stood at the stove, his broad back to her, moving with an easy confidence that made something deep in her chest tighten. Morning sunlight streamed through the window above the sink, catching in his dark hair, illuminating the strong line of his shoulders beneath his worn Henley. The familiar aromas of breakfast wrapped around her like an invitation.
His head turned slightly, though he didn’t fully face her. “Morning.”
She cleared her throat, trying to ignore the way warmth coiled low in her belly at the roughness of his voice. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
Bear flipped the bacon onto a plate with practiced ease, then turned, watching her with those steady brown eyes that always seemed to see right through her. “Took the day off.”
Her stomach clenched. She knew what that meant without him saying another word. He wanted to talk. And that didn’t make her feel cared for—it made her feel cornered.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quickly, crossing her arms protectively over her chest.
He raised an eyebrow, holding her gaze. “Yeah, I did.”
“Bear,” she sighed, frustration edging into her voice, “I don’t need a babysitter.”
His expression didn’t change. “Didn’t say you did.” He set a plate on the small kitchen table with a decisive thunk. “But you do need to eat.”
Joy shifted her weight, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “I eat.”
“Not enough.” He crossed his arms, eyes locked on her like he could see straight through her defenses. “When’s the last time you cooked in your own kitchen?”
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I don’t know.”
“Try.”
“Bear—”
“When’s the last time you actually made a meal for yourself?” His voice remained calm but firm. He wasn’t going to let this go.
She blew out a frustrated breath and gave the only answer she had. “Not since…before.”
Something flickered in his gaze, something sharp and knowing. He didn’t say “since the attack,” but they both knew that’s what she meant.
“Where have you been eating?”
She shrugged, trying to appear casual even though they both knew this conversation was anything but. “I pick something up at work when I get hungry.”
Bear’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking along his temple. “That’s not enough.”
“I’m fine.” The words sounded hollow even to her ears.
“No, you’re not.”
His words landed like a hammer, heavy and final. She wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t get to decide what fine looked like, but the determined set of his shoulders told her it wouldn’t do any good.
He gestured toward the plate. “You’re going to eat every damn bite of that.”
Joy hesitated, pride warring with the hunger gnawing at her insides. She hated that he noticed. Hated that he cared enough to call her on her bullshit. But most of all, she hated that the biggest part of her wanted him to.
She sank into the chair at the small kitchen table, glaring at the plate in front of her like it had personally insulted her. Scrambled eggs flecked with herbs, thick-cut bacon with crispy edges, golden toast slathered in butter. It smelled amazing, making her mouth water despite her stubbornness.
Bear slid into the chair across from her, watching expectantly, arms crossed like he was prepared to sit there all day if she didn’t start eating.
With a sigh that bordered on dramatic, she picked up the fork and took a bite. The eggs were stupidly good—fluffy, seasoned perfectly, still warm. Of course they were.
Her eyes flicked toward the stove, where the pan still sat, bits of egg clinging to the edges. Bear had cooked like it was second nature, like he belonged there creating something nourishing just as much as he belonged under the hood of a car or wielding some massive wrench at the garage.
It wasn’t just that he knew how to cook—plenty of guys did. It was how he did it. With the same quiet focus, the same steady, unshakable presence he brought to everything else.
Like he was made for this. For taking care of people.
For taking care of her.
The thought made something twist inside her chest—something that felt dangerously close to hope, to longing, to need.
She shoveled another bite into her mouth before her brain could leave the station with that train of thought.
“Good,” Bear murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as he watched her eat.
She shot him a glare but kept chewing, unable to deny how good it felt to have real food in her stomach.
He stood, moving back to the stove, and cracked more eggs into the pan. She almost protested that she couldn’t possibly eat more, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to stop until he was satisfied that she wasn’t going to wither away in front of him.
“Bear, I get it,” she muttered after swallowing a bite of perfect bacon. “I need to eat. Message received.”
He didn’t look at her, just stirred the eggs with slow, methodical motions. “It’s not just about eating, Joy.”
She set her fork down, suddenly wary. “What, then?”
His shoulders tensed slightly, the only visible sign of his frustration. “You’re not taking care of yourself. Yes, not eating right. But also, not sleeping. Not living in your own damn house.” He scraped the eggs onto a clean plate and slid it in front of her, his voice softening. “You can’t keep doing this.”
She swallowed, her appetite shrinking despite the food in front of her. “I’m handling it.”
“No, you’re avoiding it.”
She flinched at the truth in his words, her fingers tightening around the fork until her knuckles turned white. “Bear?—”
“Just listen,” he said, his voice gentler now. He sat across from her again, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table. “You can’t just stop living, Joy.”
She stared at him, frustration curling tight in her chest alongside the undeniable knowledge that he was right. “You don’t understand?—”
“Then help me understand.”
Her throat closed up. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Admitting how broken she still was after all this time—especially to him—felt impossible.
Instead, she pushed her plate away, suddenly feeling trapped in her own skin. “I can’t?—”
He exhaled slowly, his jaw working like he was biting back words he knew wouldn’t help. He glanced at the abandoned plate, then back at her, concern evident in the slight furrow between his brows.
And she picked up the fork again. Because it was easier than looking at him. Meeting his eyes meant acknowledging what they both knew—that Bear Bollinger saw through every defense she’d constructed. That while everyone else accepted her forced smiles and hollow reassurances, he refused to let her sink beneath the weight of her own lies.
She shoveled food into her mouth until it was gone, then pushed her empty plate away and stood, needing to move, needing to shake off the tension curling around her ribs like a vise. But as she turned toward the sink, he spoke.
“You’re not ready to live in your house yet, are you?”
She inhaled slowly, keeping her back to him. “I don’t know,” she muttered, though they both knew that was a lie.
He sighed, the sound heavy with a frustration that seemed directed not at her, but at the situation. “Joy. I’ve been inside. I’ve seen it. You obviously don’t live there. Nobody could live there.”
She closed her eyes, gripping the edge of the counter until her fingers ached. She hated this. Hated that he knew.
“No,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not ready.”
There was a long pause, then, “You can’t keep living in that playhouse.”
Her fingers curled tighter against the counter, nails digging into her palms. She knew that.
She knew it every time the temperature dropped at night, making the blankets useless. She knew it when the wind howled through the cracks in the wood, leaving her shivering. She knew it when she woke with dew dampening her hair because the roof leaked just slightly in the corner above her makeshift bed.
But knowing it and fixing it were two different things.
“I don’t have a lot of other options,” she said, forcing her voice to stay even.
Bear pushed his chair back, the scrape of wood against tile making her shoulders tense further.
“Stay here,” he said simply.
Her head whipped toward him. “What?”
“You don’t have to go back. Stay here at my place,” he repeated, eyes steady on hers. “For as long as you need.”
Something in her chest twisted— hard . God, she wanted to say yes. She wanted to let herself fall into the safety of his space, into the warmth of his presence. Wanted to wake up to coffee and bacon and Bear’s steady gaze every morning.
But not like this. Not with him offering out of pity or obligation or whatever misplaced sense of responsibility he felt toward her.
She forced a short laugh, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to live with you, Bear.”
His jaw tightened, just barely.
It was fast—so fast, she almost missed it. The tiny flinch, the flicker of something like hurt in his eyes before his expression smoothed into careful neutrality.
“I see,” he said after a beat.
Guilt hit her like a truck, squeezing the air from her lungs. She hadn’t meant it like that.
“I just meant?—”
He didn’t let her finish. “Fine. Then let me help you clean your house. Or, hell, I’ll do it myself if being in it is too much.”
“ No .” The word came out harsher than she intended. “I don’t want you going back inside my house.”
He threw up his hands. “Then what’s your plan?”
She clamped her mouth shut, frustration bubbling up her throat.
“If you won’t stay here and you won’t live in your house, what are you going to do?” he pushed. “Do you want me to talk to my parents? They’d invite you to stay, no question.”
“No,” she said again quickly, horrified at the thought. The last thing she wanted was for people—especially his family—to feel obligated to take her in like some stray dog they found shivering in the rain.
Bear sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Then what?”
She had no answer. Because she didn’t know.
She swallowed hard against the knot in her throat. “I’ll figure it out.”
Bear let out a sharp breath, clearly frustrated. “That’s not an answer.”
“Well, it’s all I’ve got,” she snapped, her voice rising as her chest tightened painfully. “This is my mess. I have to figure it out. I can’t let others solve it for me.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. He didn’t argue. Didn’t push.
He just studied her, his jaw tight, something unreadable in his eyes.
Then, without another word, he grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and shrugged it on.
“I need to run some errands,” he said, voice clipped.
Guilt curled inside her, sour and sharp. She hadn’t meant to drive him away, but she also couldn’t make herself take back what she’d said.
“I won’t clean your house,” he added as he reached the door. “I won’t talk to my parents. But just… Stay here today. Rest. Eat. Let yourself breathe for once. I’ll be gone most of the day.”
She swallowed, nodding because speech felt impossible past the lump in her throat.
He lingered for half a second longer, like he wanted to say something else. But in the end, he just left, the door closing with a soft click that somehow felt louder than if he’d slammed it.
For the first time in a long time, Joy was alone in a place that wasn’t the playhouse.
And she had no idea how to feel about that.