Inside that light.
Five years of distance collapsed to a few snowy yards.
I rest my hand on the cold glass and let my forehead touch it for a second.
The bond never really went away. I’d managed to dull it, bury it under work and routine and emptiness.
But it was always there, roaring back the second she said my name.
Lila.
I close my eyes and the years slide backward.
Her in that diner uniform, laughing at some stupid joke of mine. Her sitting on the hood of my truck, kicking her heels against the metal, talking about getting out of this town like it was as easy as getting in the car and driving.
Her looking up at me that night on the old logging road, eyes vulnerable, lips pursed.
I’d meant to walk her home. That was all.
Then she slipped her small hand into mine, and every good intention burned away.
I drew her into a secret clearing among the fir trees. Her hair damp from the lake, moonlight on her skin. She was so young, barely eighteen, but there was nothing unsure in her eyes. She looked at me like she already knew what I was, and it didn’t scare her.
Her scent filled my nostrils—honey sweet and ripe. Calling to every instinct I had no business letting loose. I remember how close she stood, trembling, waiting for me to close the distance.
I did.
One heartbeat, and our mouths were touching. My hands cupped her face; she leaned into it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then everything went wrong.
The beast started to emerge.
I can still feel it. The lurch inside my chest. The way the bear surged up too fast, too hard, pounding against my ribs like it wanted to tear through. For a split second it didn’t matter that she was human, that she was young, that she was off limits to a beast like me. All that mattered was how right she felt in my arms.
I pulled back because the alternative was changing right there, with my mouth still on hers.
But I remember the look on her face when I stepped away.
Shock.
Confusion.
Horror?
I ran like a coward, all the way into the trees, all the way into my other skin.
I stayed away after that, told myself I was doing the noble thing. She deserved better than a man who could barely hold himself together. Better than a beast who spends half his life battling with himself.
So, I stayed here. Worked. Helped my sisters out when they needed it. Fixed what needed fixing. Slept through the worst months and kept my distance.
And thought of her more often than I wanted to admit.
I exhale, breath fogging the glass. The bear stirs under my skin again, restless, unwilling to accept the version of the story where walking away was kindness.
It never saw it that way.
To the bear, she was simply mine.
