I lean my forehead against the cold glass and watch the snow fall. Somewhere out there, Tolin is driving through this mess to deliver firewood to his clan. Risking the roads, the weather, his own safety, because that’s his responsibility.
He’s an asshole. I know that. I’ve experienced it firsthand.
But he’s also a man who makes sure his clan hasenough wood to stay warm through the winter. A man who keeps brown sugar in every form in his pantry. A man with a scar on his face and old wounds he won’t talk about.
I don’t want to be curious about him. Curiosity leads to caring, and caring leads to hurt. I learned that lesson a long time ago.
But as the wind rattles the window and the darkness closes in around the cabin, I can’t stop wondering.
What happened to him?
Why is he like this?
And why, underneath all that hostility, did he look at me like that?
I shake my head and push away from the window. Enough wondering. Time to be practical.
The bathroom is small but has good water pressure. I wash my hands, scrubbing away the grime from unpacking and mopping, watching the soap suds swirl down the drain. My reflection in the spotted mirror looks tired. Hair escaping its bun, shadows under my eyes from the long drive up the mountain.
I look like someone who’s had a day.
My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the granola bar I scarfed down somewhere around noon. That was hours ago. And Tolin has been out in the cold even longer, making deliveries in a snowstorm.
He’ll be hungry when he gets back.
The thought surprises me. Why do I care if he’s hungry? He’s been nothing but rude since I arrived. Derrick’s advice was to eat in my room, stay out of his way, avoid interaction.
But something nags at me. Maybe it’s the way he looked when he left, shoulders rigid against the cold, heading out into a storm because his clan needed him. Maybe it’s thebrown sugar in the pantry, that small hint of sweetness in an otherwise bitter man.
Or maybe I’m just not built to hide in my room when there’s a kitchen full of groceries and a man coming home to an empty table.
I head back to the kitchen and open the refrigerator.
I pull out the steaks I bought earlier. Good cuts, thick and well-marbled. I grabbed them specifically because I know what bear shifters like. Rare meat, minimal seasoning. They want to taste the blood, the iron, the animal. It’s instinct more than preference.
I’ve cleaned enough shifter cabins to pick up a few things.
I set two steaks on the counter. One for him, one for me. His will be rare, barely kissed by heat. Mine will be medium-well, the way I’ve always liked it.
The potatoes I leave plain. No butter, no salt, no herbs. Just scrubbed clean and roasted until the skin is crisp and the inside is fluffy. Simple. Unadorned. The way his kind prefers.
As I work, I tell myself this is practical. He needs to eat. I need to eat. Cooking two meals separately is a waste of time and resources.
But there’s another reason, one I don’t want to examine too closely.
I want to understand him.
Not in a romantic way. Not in any way that matters. I just want to know what’s underneath all that hostility. Is there a person in there worth knowing? Or is he exactly what he appears to be: a bitter, angry man who pushes everyone away because he likes being alone?
Dinner might tell me. Sharing a meal has a way of lowering defenses, creating space for conversation. Maybe ifI show him I’m not afraid, that I’m not going to run just because he growls, he’ll ease up a little.
Or maybe he’ll hate the gesture and use it as another reason to be cruel.
Either way, I’ll have a good steak.
I heat the cast iron skillet I found in the cabinet, letting it get smoking hot before I lay his steak down. The sizzle is satisfying, the smell of searing meat filling the kitchen. I give it ninety seconds per side, just enough to develop a crust while leaving the center cool and red.
The way a bear would want it.
