Chapter 18
BEAR
The bed was still warm beside me when I reached over.
But she wasn’t there.
For half a second, panic gripped my chest — some old reflex from a life full of people who leave. My hand landed on cold sheets, and I blinked into the soft gray of morning, heart ready to go full warpath.
And then I heard it.
Sizzling.
Humming.
That voice. Soft and low, carrying the edges of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” through the floorboards like a spell.
I sat up slow, swung my legs over the side of the bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
The woodstove downstairs was ticking — heating the cabin the way it always did in winter, slow and steady. But this morning, it felt warmer than usual.
I padded down barefoot, half-dressed, quiet like I was stalking something rare — and I was.
She was in my kitchen.
Barefoot, hair messy from sleep, standing at the stove like she’d been doing it for years.
Wearing nothing but one of my old flannel shirts — the red and black one, soft from a hundred washes. It hung halfway down her thighs, the collar wide enough to slip off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck and that skin I’d memorized in the dark last night.
She didn’t see me yet. She was too busy flipping bacon with one hand, pouring coffee with the other, hips swaying gently to the music in her head like it was just another morning.
Like she belonged here.
Like this was ours.
And I just stood there.
Staring.
Swallowed the lump in my throat so hard it hurt.
Because Lord help me... I felt something I hadn’t let myself feel in years.
Not since my mom.
Not since my brother.
Not since grief hollowed me out and I’d resigned myself to a life of leather, engines, and sleeping with one eye open.
I felt… hope.
That maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to be alone forever.
That after everything He’d taken, maybe God finally gave something back.
Someone to love.
Someone to stay.
Someone standing barefoot in my kitchen, humming Christmas songs, smelling like sex, woodsmoke, and the rest of my life.
She didn’t hear me at first.
Too busy humming, hips swaying, barefoot on my kitchen floor like she’d always been there. Like she was made for this space.
For me.
I walked up slow, silent until I was close enough to smell her — that soft mix of my flannel and her skin, warm and sweet and addicting.
I leaned in, pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. Her skin was warm from the stove, goosebumps rising under my lips.
She giggled, didn’t turn. Just wiggled the spatula and said, “Careful, tough guy. The bacon’ll burn.”
I slid both arms around her waist, pulling her back against me. My mouth grazed her ear, voice low.
“Baby… I’m the one burning.”
She let out a soft sound — half laugh, half gasp — and I didn’t wait.
I took the spatula from her hand, hit the burner off with one quick twist, and turned her in my arms.
“Back to bed,” I said, already walking her backwards, her fingers curling into my shirt. “I’ll make you real breakfast after.”
Her smile? All heat.
And when I lifted her off the floor, she didn’t argue.
Not with her arms wrapped around my neck.
Not when I carried her like she weighed nothing at all.
Not when I laid her back in my bed and made sure she knew exactly what I meant by burning.
Her legs parted for me like they were waiting, wrapping around my hips as I settled between them. I took my time, hovering just close enough to feel the heat of her, but not giving in yet. Her eyes locked on mine—dark, dilated, begging without a word.
"Missed this," I murmured, tracing my fingers down her side, over the curve of her hip, feeling her shiver under my touch.
The flannel she'd stolen from my drawer had ridden up, exposing the soft plane of her stomach, and I followed that path with my mouth.
Slow kisses, open-mouthed, tasting salt and her.
She arched into me, fingers threading through my hair, tugging just enough to make my blood roar.
I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties—simple cotton, nothing fancy, but fuck if it didn't drive me wild—and slid them down her thighs.
She kicked them free, and I caught her ankle, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, deliberate, watching her bite her lip as her breath hitched.
“Bear, please," she whispered, voice wrecked already, and that was it—I was done teasing.
I shed my shirt, shoved my sweats down, and she reached for me, nails grazing my chest, pulling me down until our bodies aligned.
Skin to skin. Heartbeats syncing. I kissed her deep, swallowing her moan as I nudged inside—slow, inch by inch, letting her feel every bit of me stretching her, filling her.
She gasped into my mouth, legs tightening, heels digging into my back. "Yes... just like that."
I rocked into her, tender at first—long, deep strokes that had her whimpering, clinging, her hands everywhere: my shoulders, my ass, urging me on. The bed creaked softly under us, sheets tangling as we moved together, unhurried but building, that sweet friction coiling tighter with every thrust.
Her breaths came faster, ragged, and I shifted my angle, grinding just right against that spot that made her eyes flutter shut. "Look at me," I said, voice rough, cupping her face. She did—lips parted, cheeks flushed—and the trust there, the raw need, it undid me.
I slipped a hand between us, circling her clit with my thumb, steady pressure matching my rhythm. She shattered first—body bowing off the bed, a cry tearing from her throat that echoed through me. Her walls clenched tight, pulsing, pulling me under.
I followed seconds later, burying deep, spilling inside her with a groan that felt like it came from my soul. We rode it out together, trembling, sweat-slicked, until I collapsed onto my elbows, not wanting to crush her but not ready to let go.
She smiled up at me, lazy and sated, tracing lazy patterns on my back. "Best wake-up call ever."
I chuckled, kissing her forehead, her nose, her swollen lips. "Told you I'd make it worth it."
Her laugh bubbled up, soft and warm, as she pulled me closer. And just like that, the morning stretched out—endless, ours.
She was still stretched out in my bed, hair a damn mess, my flannel sliding off one shoulder, a lazy smile curving her lips like she’d won something.
Maybe she had.
Hell—maybe I had too.
“Stay,” I ordered as she stretched like cat. “I’ll fox breakfast.”
She smiled warmly and snuggled back under my covers. “Damn straight,” I growled.
I finished cooking the bacon. Fixed her coffee the way she liked.
Next came scrambled eggs, extra soft. I toasted some bread McDaniels had baked the day before. Cut up an apple, threw in a little container of peanut butter on the side. Napkin. Fork. Mug. Tray.
By the time I walked back into the bedroom with the whole setup, she was propped up against the headboard, one knee bent, hair in a loose mess around her shoulders.
She blinked at the tray like I’d just handed her diamonds.
“For me?”
“Nah, for the other half-naked woman in my bed,” I smirked. “Eat up.”
Her laugh was low and sleepy. I set the tray in her lap and climbed in beside her, tugging the blanket up over both of us.
She took a sip of the coffee, eyes closing like she was actually about to melt. We ate quiet for a few minutes. Peaceful. Her knee knocked into mine every so often, and neither of us pulled away.
“So,” I said, brushing a crumb off her lip with my thumb. “What do you say we take the truck into town later? I need to get the men gifts.”
Her eyes lit up.
“Definitely, but I have to work the holiday craft fair, it starts at five.”
“Course. I’ll pretend I know what I’m doing and hand you stuff while you boss me around.”
“That sounds dangerously domestic,” she teased.
“Only if we add matching pajamas,” I shot back.
She snorted into her coffee.
But when she looked up at me again, her eyes were soft. Full.
“Okay,” she said. “Can’t wait.”
I sipped my coffee, leaning back against the headboard. Just… watching her. Taking in the quiet. The calm.
She glanced over at me, chewing the corner of her lip like she was working up to something.
And then she asked it.
“Do you have any family, Bear?”
It wasn’t dramatic. Just a soft question dropped in the middle of scrambled eggs and snow-dusted windows.
I set my mug down slow.
“No,” I said. “Not anymore.”
Her face shifted. Not pity, exactly. Just that kind of quiet understanding that comes when someone’s lost their own people, too.
She nodded once, looked down at her tray. I thought she might press, but she didn’t.
Then her voice was soft. “Do you have holiday plans?”
“The Club,” I said. “I’ll be at the Clubhouse just like every year.”
She didn’t ask what that meant. Didn’t have to.
It meant cold beer and too much food. Loud voices. Firepits. A crew of rough men who'd bleed for each other, even if they’d never say the word family out loud.
It meant staying busy enough to not think too hard about the ghosts.
She poked at the toast on her tray, nodded again, but this time it was tight. Like maybe I wasn’t the only one with ghosts pulling at the edges of the holiday.
“You?” I asked. “What’s your big Christmas plan?”
She shrugged, but the air shifted.
“Work, mostly. The community center's got more going on than they know what to do with. Margie’s hosting something for her book club. I’ll be around. My mom and her plus one will arrive with Stanley, her dog.”
She said it like it there were no expectations.
I didn’t push.
Neither of us did.
Some things don’t need to be dragged into the light all at once.
But I made a mental note anyway.
Christmas was going to be different this year.
Even if I had to strong-arm fate to make it happen or pop a few xanax.
I wanted to tell her.
Every damn time she looked at me with those eyes—bright, trusting, open—it scraped against the part of me I’ve spent years burying. The wreckage. The truth.
How broken I really am.