Chapter 19 Waking In Warmth #2
Bear's expression softens—understanding evident without pity, sympathy without condescension.
"You want to reopen it eventually?" The question suggests he's already forming plans, seeing possibilities I haven't considered.
"Maybe?" The response remains uncertain. "Having help would be a significant factor, though. Can't imagine returning to solo operation, going back to that particular brand of loneliness."
His smirk is absolutely wicked—mischief evident in the curve of his lips, the sparkle in his half-lidded eyes.
"Why don't you open once or twice weekly, and I'll help?"
What.
I stare at him, confusion evident.
"You have the station," I point out, logic overriding the flutter of hope in my chest. "You're a firefighter with responsibilities, on-call schedules, and emergencies that don't care about café hours. Plus, you already offered to help with ranch work at Cactus Rose."
Too many commitments.
Too generous an offer to be realistic.
"Technically on-call," Bear clarifies, unbothered by my practical objections. "Normally, I go in to aid Silas and Aidric with specific situations rather than maintaining a full-time presence."
On-call rather than full-time?
That's unusual for a firefighter of his experience level.
"Why aren't you full-time?" Curiosity overrides manners, the question emerging before I can censor it.
His smirk widens—deliberately mysterious, clearly enjoying withholding information.
"You'll have to earn that story," he says with exaggerated solemnity, adding a wink that undermines any attempt at seriousness. "Maybe on a date."
A date.
He's asking me on a date?
Casual as discussing the weather, like it's the obvious next step rather than a complicated proposition.
I huff—sound that's half laughter, half exasperation—but can't suppress the smile tugging at my lips.
"Wouldn't that be excessive though? Ranch work and café assistance? That's a substantial time commitment for someone you barely know."
Bear shrugs, the gesture making my head bob slightly on his chest.
"Aidric's going to be ranch guru—man has an extensive agricultural background he's been hiding under a fire captain exterior.
Silas is exceptional with animals, has that calm energy that makes even nervous livestock trust him.
Me? I'm better with quick fixes and vehicle maintenance, but running a café sounds infinitely more entertaining. "
He's serious.
Actually, considering this rather than making an empty offer to be polite.
"You're really down for it?" I need confirmation, need to hear him commit before I let myself hope. "Like, you could try it once and bail if you hate it. No pressure, no obligation."
His chuckle vibrates through both of us, warm and genuine.
"I'm not someone who starts things without finishing them. If I commit to helping with your café, I'm there until you decide you don't need me anymore."
Until I decide.
Giving me agency, putting control in my hands rather than assuming authority.
That's—
That's rare.
Precious.
The kind of thing that makes you want to trust despite every instinct screaming that trust leads to devastation.
We share a look—extended eye contact that feels intimate beyond physical proximity, communication happening beneath words, understanding forming through attention rather than explanation.
"You're easy to talk to," I whisper, vulnerability evident in quiet admission.
"It's easy talking with you, too," Bear responds with equal softness, sincerity evident despite casual phrasing.
His expression shifts slightly—contemplative, like he's considering whether to continue.
"It's going to be interesting now, though," he adds, the words carrying weight I don't understand.
I pout—automatic expression of confusion rather than actual dissatisfaction.
"What do you mean?"
"Ah—" His smirk returns, teasing edge to his tone. "So you were too sexed up to remember?"
Remember what?
What is he talking about?
What happened that I—
Heat floods my face as implications sink in—that something occurred beyond multiple rounds of lovemaking, something significant enough that forgetting it is noteworthy.
"What do you mean, remember what?" The question emerges higher-pitched than intended, embarrassment competing with genuine confusion.
Bear opens his mouth—clearly prepared to elaborate, to explain whatever I'm missing—when my stomach interrupts with a growl so loud it echoes through the quiet room.
Traitor.
Betrayed by my own digestive system.
My entire face burns crimson—mortification at the timing, at the volume, at the way Bear's eyes absolutely light up with amusement.
His laughter is warm, fond, completely lacking in mockery despite my humiliation.
"Why don't we start with getting you fed?" He suggests, amusement evident in every syllable. "Rain check on the news until you've eaten something substantial."
News.
What news?
What am I missing?
But my stomach growls again—agreement delivered through biological demand, body insisting that food takes priority over answers.
"Deal," I concede, because apparently I'm starving enough to table my curiosity. "Because I'm seriously hungry."
Beyond hungry.
Ravenous in ways that suggest I haven't eaten in a significant timeframe.
How long was I asleep?
Bear shifts carefully, preparing to stand while keeping me secure in his arms. The movement is practiced, controlled, and involves speaking to someone accustomed to carrying weight while maintaining balance.
"Kitchen's this way," he murmurs, already moving with me still cradled against his chest.
Not going to let me walk, apparently.
Treating me like I'm precious cargo rather than a grown woman capable of independent locomotion.
I should probably protest—assert my capability, maintain independence, refuse to be carried like a damsel requiring rescue.
But his arms are warm, his scent is comforting, and honestly, I'm not entirely confident my legs would support me reliably given the persistent exhaustion making my body feel heavy.
Just this once.
Let someone else handle logistics while I gather strength.
Temporary surrender that doesn't establish a permanent pattern.
Right?
As Bear navigates through the unfamiliar space, I let my head rest against his shoulder, breathing in the maple-chestnut scent while my mind cycles through fragments of missing memory.
Something happened.
A significant event?
That apparently changes everything, and yet I can’t recall.
But what?
The question nags, frustration building at the gaps in my recollection. Because I remember dawn, remember Calder, remember the desperate connection that felt like goodbye—
And then nothing.
Blank space where memory should exist.
Like someone edited out crucial scenes from my consciousness.
My fingers clutch Bear's shirt unconsciously, seeking an anchor while confusion spirals.
"Hey," he murmurs, noticing my tension. "It's okay. We'll explain everything once you've eaten and feel more coherent. No rush, no pressure."
His reassurance helps.
Marginally.
But I still want to know what I'm missing, what significant event occurred while I was apparently too exhausted to form lasting memories.
The kitchen comes into view—familiar now, recognizable as my rental cottage despite initial disorientation. The afternoon light slants through windows differently than morning, casting the space in a golden glow that makes everything look softer, warmer, and more welcoming than remembered.
Bear sets me carefully on the counter—positioning me like I'm a decorative element rather than a functional participant, though his attention remains focused as he assesses my stability.
"You good there? Not going to topple over if I turn my back?"
"I'm fine," I assure him, though I appreciate his concern. "Just hungry and confused, but physically stable."
Mostly stable.
Stable enough to sit on the counter without supervision.
He moves with efficiency through my kitchen, locating ingredients with surprising ease for someone who shouldn't know where anything is. Eggs, bread, butter—breakfast foods, despite the evening hour, are appropriate choices for someone who apparently hasn't eaten in a questionable timeframe.
"French toast okay?" He asks, already heating pan. "Figure you need something substantial but not too heavy, comfort food that won't upset your stomach after an extended fast."
Extended fast.
How long has it been since I ate?
"Perfect," I confirm, watching him work with practiced efficiency. "You cook regularly?"
"Grew up in a household where everyone contributed," he explains, whisking eggs with casual competence. "Learned early that size doesn't excuse incompetence in the kitchen. Plus, cooking is meditative—gives hands something to do while the mind processes."
Unexpected depth.
Layers beneath the teddy bear exterior.
Making me increasingly curious about this Alpha who references soft girl eras and cooks French toast, and offered to help run café like it's a simple decision.
The food comes together quickly—golden bread sizzling in butter, cinnamon and vanilla scenting the air, a domestic scene that feels simultaneously foreign and achingly familiar.
When was the last time someone cooked for me?
Not counting restaurants or Calder's occasional breakfast contributions.
When did someone last prepare food specifically because they cared about my well-being?
The answer is depressing—years ago, before Gregory's pack, before foster care even. Some half-forgotten moment from childhood that exists more as an impression than an actual memory.
Bear plates the French toast with unexpected artistry—arranged presentation rather than casual pile, dusting of powdered sugar adding visual appeal, fresh berries from my fridge providing color contrast.
"Voilà," he announces with theatrical flourish, setting the plate before me with genuine pride in his creation.
It's beautiful.
Ridiculously beautiful for breakfast food prepared in my mediocre kitchen.
I pick up the fork, cutting into perfectly cooked bread, bringing the first bite to my mouth—
Heaven.
Absolute heaven.
The combination of textures and flavors makes my eyes actually close in appreciation, an involuntary sound of satisfaction escaping before I can suppress it.
Bear's answering chuckle suggests he caught my reaction, satisfaction evident in the sound.
"Good?"
"Amazing," I confirm once I've swallowed. "Seriously, this is restaurant quality. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Practice," he says simply, leaning against the counter opposite me. "Years of feeding myself and occasionally pack mates who think cereal constitutes adequate nutrition."
I continue eating—each bite confirming the first impression, hunger making everything taste even better than objective quality warrants.
But between bites, the question returns:
What am I forgetting?
What happened that's significant enough that Bear mentioned it?
What changed while I was unconscious?
My intrigue builds with each passing moment, curiosity intensifying despite—or perhaps because of—Bear's obvious intention to delay explanation until I'm fed.
What could I have possibly forgotten?