Chapter 10
Joy blinked at the ceiling in Bear’s apartment, watching dust specks dance through the thin beams of afternoon light filtering through the curtains. She hadn’t meant to sleep this long—hell, she hadn’t meant to go back to sleep at all. But her body had simply shut down the moment Bear left, and even when she’d woken once, just long enough to make and eat a sandwich, exhaustion had dragged her back under like a riptide.
She rolled onto her side, the oversized sweatshirt he’d loaned her swallowing her frame. It smelled like him—clean soap, a hint of motor oil, and something else, something uniquely, indefinably Bear. The scent wrapped around her like a second blanket. She should’ve changed into her own clothes by now. Should’ve done a dozen other things too. But for hours, all she’d managed was to sleep, wrapped in the closest thing to comfort she’d had in weeks.
Now, fully awake, she couldn’t escape the question circling in her mind: where was Bear?
Her fingers traced the loose threads at the hem of the sweatshirt as her first instinct surged—to find him, to make sure he wasn’t at her house doing exactly what she’d told him not to do. Her breath caught. No. Bear wouldn’t break his word. She trusted him.
She just hated that she’d hurt him earlier. The disappointment in his eyes at her words had twisted something inside her, a knife of regret turning slowly in her chest.
“Damn it,” she whispered to the empty room.
Could she live here with Bear?
Physically? Of course.
But as roommates, as housemates? No.
And yet, what other choice did she have?
Joy pushed herself up, running fingers through her tangled hair. Winter was coming—she could feel it in her bones, see it in the pale, thin sunlight struggling through the window. She couldn’t keep sleeping in that damn playhouse. Eventually, she’d have to make a decision.
But moving in with Bear like this felt like slamming the door on any potential future between them. It would transform what they might have into something practical. Friendly. It would make her a burden he felt responsible for rather than someone he might actually want .
A roommate instead of a lover. A problem instead of a partner.
And even if she somehow managed to work through all of that…her own mind might be the thing that destroyed them anyway. The nightmares. The panic attacks. The moments when she couldn’t breathe because memories crashed into her without warning. How could she inflict all that on him, day after day?
So what did it even matter?
The room felt suddenly too small, the walls too close. Joy pushed herself off the bed and crossed to the window, rubbing her arms against a chill that came from inside rather than out. Maybe she should leave Oak Creek altogether. Start over somewhere else. Somewhere without memories. Somewhere she hadn’t been broken.
The thought hit hard, heavier than she expected. The idea of packing up and moving away from the only home she’d ever known should’ve felt freeing, but instead, it settled in her chest like a weight she couldn’t shake. A stone too heavy to carry, but too precious to discard.
She’d never wanted to leave Oak Creek. Not for college, not for adventure, not for anything. This town had raised her, had shaped every wild, reckless part of her. She’d never even dreamed of leaving.
Joy pressed her palm flat against the cool glass, looking out at the familiar streets below. Now it felt like those same streets were closing in on her, the town whispering behind her back, watching her every move with cautious, pitying eyes.
But if she left, where would she even go? What would she do?
The answer had always been the food truck. The thing she’d poured all her time, energy, and money into. The thing she’d been so damn excited about—until she wasn’t.
Now, it was nothing. Just a rusting shell parked in a storage garage she rented just outside of town. A reminder of a girl who used to have dreams. A monument to failure.
Bear had been right. It was just sitting there, gathering dust. But the truth was, everything about her was gathering dust.
She was supposed to be the one with too much energy, always moving, always talking, always doing. Now, she could barely get out of bed without feeling like the ground was shifting beneath her.
The door creaked open behind her, and Joy turned from the window as Bear stepped inside. Her heart jumped painfully in her chest—half relief, half anxiety. She should’ve changed out of his clothes before he got back. Brushed her hair. Brushed her teeth. Done anything to look less like she’d been wallowing.
“You’re awake.” His voice came low, easy, no judgment.
She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. “Where were you?”
He hesitated, just for a second—a pause that stretched between them, loaded with meaning. “Your place.”
Her stomach dropped. A sick, sinking feeling curled through her stomach, cold and sharp as winter frost.
Damn it. He’d done it. He’d cleaned her house, despite giving his word.
She forced a breath past the tightness in her chest. “You promised you wouldn’t.”
“Joy—”
“No.” She shook her head, taking a step back. “I asked you not to. I trusted you.”
His jaw flexed, muscles rippling beneath tanned skin. “Just come with me.”
“I don’t need to see it.” Her voice shook with something that felt too much like betrayal. “I already know what you did.”
His brows pulled together, dark eyes studying her. “Do you?”
He wasn’t even denying it. That hurt worse than anything.
But what had she expected? That Bear—who fixed everything, who never sat still when someone needed help—would just leave it alone? Of course he hadn’t. He was Bear. It was literally what he did. Fix cars, fix people. Whether they wanted him to or not.
Her throat burned with unshed tears. “I told you I wasn’t ready.”
He exhaled, running a hand over the back of his neck, the gesture so familiar it made her heart ache. “Just come with me, Joy.”
She stared at him, at the steady determination in his eyes. If she refused, he’d push.
And even if she was furious, even if she wanted to shove him out the door and tell him to stay out of her life—she couldn’t. Because beneath the anger and hurt, she still needed him. Still wanted to believe in him.
“Fine,” she whispered.
Because he was still Bear. And deep down, despite everything, she still wanted to trust him like she’d been able to her whole life.
She grabbed her own clothes and disappeared into the bathroom to change. When she emerged, she walked out the door in front of him, shoulders tense, head high.
The walk to her house stretched between them, silent and heavy with unspoken words. The wind cut through her jacket, but she barely felt it, too focused on steeling herself for what was coming.
Joy clenched her fists, trying to prepare herself for the moment she stepped inside and saw how he’d stripped away the wreckage—how he’d erased every last trace of what she’d been through. The piles of unwashed dishes. The unopened mail. The half-empty tea mugs scattered on every surface. The physical representation of how her life had shattered.
She already felt like a ghost of herself. Now, she was afraid she wouldn’t even have proof she existed at all.
Explaining why she hadn’t wanted him, or anybody, to clean the house yet felt impossible. Joy wasn’t sure she understood it herself. All she’d known was she wasn’t ready. That mess was hers—tangible proof of her struggle, of the pain she was still working through.
And Bear hadn’t trusted her to make her own decision about when to clear it away.
She braced herself as they approached her house, every step tightening the knot in her stomach. But then he walked right past the front steps.
She blinked. “Bear?”
He didn’t answer, just tilted his head, silently telling her to follow.
Her pulse skittered as he led her around the side of the house, past the overgrown flower beds, toward the backyard. Why the backyard?
And then she saw it: her playhouse.
She stopped short, confusion rolling through her like fog.
It looked the same—sort of. But different, too. Aside from a fresh coat of paint a couple years ago, it hadn’t changed much since she and her dad had built it when she was ten.
But now…
The tiny structure sat on a raised wooden slab, no longer sinking into the damp ground. The flimsy toy windows had been replaced with real ones, glass instead of plastic. The edges of the roof were sealed tight, no gaps for water to seep through. And something about the walls?—
“Did you—” Her voice faltered. She took a step closer, reaching out, touching the side.
Insulated .
Bear had insulated the damn thing.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
He finally spoke. “I told you I wouldn’t clean your house. And I didn’t.” His voice was calm, steady, like he knew exactly what she’d been thinking this entire time. “But you needed somewhere warm, somewhere safe. So I worked the problem.”
“I-I…” Her throat was tight, the word barely making it past the lump there.
He exhaled, breath fogging in the cold air. “It’s not perfect, but?—”
“Bear.” Her fingers traced the newly insulated wall, her touch light, reverent.
She could see the changes, feel them. The sturdy foundation beneath her feet, the secure way the windows were set into the wood. It wasn’t just a patch job—it was carefully done. Thoughtfully done.
For her.
She swallowed hard, still unable to form words past the emotion swelling in her chest.
He exhaled, shifting his weight, his boots crunching against the cold grass. “I know you’re not ready to go back into your house. And I know you didn’t want to move in with me. So, this…this is the best I could do.”
Joy turned to him, but he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was locked on the playhouse, like he wasn’t quite sure if what he’d done was enough. Like he was braced for her to reject his offering.
She let her eyes drift back to the structure, her childhood sanctuary now transformed into something more. The outside still looked basically the same, but it was stronger now. A place that could protect her, hold her. A place where she didn’t have to feel so damn exposed.
“I lifted it,” Bear continued, scratching the back of his neck in that way he did when he was uncertain. “So the cold wouldn’t seep up through the floor. Reinforced the roof, too. The insulation’s under the paneling, so it still looks the way it did before.” He glanced at her, searching her face. “I didn’t want to take that away from you.”
Her throat burned with unshed tears. “Bear…”
“There’s power.” He nodded toward a thick, heavy-duty extension cord running toward the house. “You’ll have enough for a hot plate, the microwave. Battery-powered lights are already strung up inside.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s probably a fire hazard, so be careful. But it’s something.”
Joy pressed a hand to her chest, the reality of what he’d done crashing over her like a tidal wave.
Not just fixing something.
Not forcing her to go back into a house that still felt haunted.
Not demanding she take steps she wasn’t ready for.
Instead, he’d met her where she was.
She curled her fingers into the sleeve of her shirt. “You…you really did all this?”
His mouth twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or not. “Yeah. Couldn’t do anything about plumbing,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the ground. “No running water. Almost got you a porta potty to put out back, but that felt like too much.”
A startled laugh escaped her, unexpected and sharp. “A porta potty?”
He glanced at her, a sheepish smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah. Figured that was crossing a line.”
She shook her head, pressing her fingers to her mouth to stop another laugh. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the weight of everything pressing in on her at once. But for a second, the absurdity of the situation almost broke through the suffocating tightness in her chest.
Then Bear shifted his stance, running a hand through his dark hair, and his expression turned hesitant—almost uncertain.
“Maybe all of it was an overstep,” he muttered, his voice rough. “Maybe I should’ve?—”
“No.” The word shot out of her before she could think, before she could let herself spiral into the guilt that was already creeping in. She stepped toward him, her hands fisting at her sides. “Bear, this—this isn’t an overstep.”
He tilted his head, watching her, eyes dark and warm and full of a hope he was trying to keep in check.
“It’s perfect.” Her voice cracked, because God help her, she meant it.
He had given her something she didn’t know how to ask for. He hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t tried to force her into anything. He’d just given .
Bear nodded, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “It’s not permanent.” His voice was careful, like he needed to remind her. “I don’t want you thinking this is where you have to stay forever. Or even can stay forever. Once winter hits for good, this thing won’t be habitable.”
“I know.” And she did.
Her throat burned as she looked around at everything he’d done for her. Every single detail screamed that he knew her. That he saw her.
This told her she wasn’t alone.
She turned back to him, her hands trembling at her sides. “I—I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words scraping out of her. “For what I said earlier. About not moving in with you.”
Bear’s brows pulled together. “Bug?—”
“No, let me say it.” She forced a breath past the knot in her chest. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I didn’t want you to think I was some kind of charity case.”
His gaze darkened, something flashing through his eyes—something fierce and deep. “Is that what you think I think of you?”
She swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
Bear exhaled sharply, then suddenly, his hands were on her face, his callused palms warm against her chilled skin. “You’re not a burden, Joy.” His voice was quiet but firm, unshakable. “You never were. And even through this difficult chapter, you’re not a burden.”
She barely had time to process the words before his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was deep, steady, grounding—everything Bear was, everything she’d always craved from him. He wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t trying to fix her. He was just there, solid and present in a world that had been tilting under her feet for too long.
Their other kisses had been different. Years ago, when she hadn’t quite been eighteen and had tried to seduce him, the kiss had been over almost before it began. Bear hadn’t let it progress to anything inappropriate and never let it get as passionate as Joy desperately wanted.
Then their last kiss—that night… It had been passionate, but incomplete. Both of them hadn’t wanted to rush anything. They’d known it was the beginning for them. The beginning of something important that would change their lives forever.
Instead, the attack had happened, and they’d never found their way back to the promise of that kiss.
This kiss was different all the way around. This kiss held the weight of the fact that no one was promised tomorrow and things didn’t always end up the way you imagined them.
She clutched at his jacket, holding on as her world tilted, and something inside her sparked to life—a flicker of the woman she used to be, the woman she might be again.
It was a long minute before he pulled back and rested his forehead against hers.
“You’ll find your way back,” he murmured, breath warm against her skin. “And if this playhouse helps?” He brushed his thumb over her cheek, his voice rough with emotion. “I’d build you a dozen more.”
Her breath hitched.
Because for the first time in a long time, she believed him.