There was nothing sharp about him. No hooks, no edges that cut. Being near him was soft, easy, elemental. Bear carried his heritage inside him, the land, the quiet, the still strength of it, and he honored that without even thinking. That ease, that simple truth of who he was, was sweeter than anything in the bowl. She loved that about him: that his honesty and simplicity could hold so much complexity.
She hesitated, the scent tugging at places in her she hadn’t touched for years. Indian pudding.
“I’m honored that you did this.” She reached out without thinking, slipping her hand around his, squeezing it hard and strong. He returned the gesture and settled next to her at the table. She pressed her shoulder against him, reaching for his grounding, his strength to bolster her.
Her grandmother had served a version of it every winter, thick, humble, full of patience. It was a dish that didn’t rush but needed time and watching, the way medicine did. Back then, she’d thought the stirring was a kind of prayer, her grandmother’s way of asking the old spirits to stay near through the long nights.
“So this was a family thing for you,” she said quietly, breathing him in.
“Yeah,” Bear said. “Comfort food. It always meant we’d made it through something hard.”
She didn’t trust her voice, so she reached for the spoon instead. The first bite nearly undid her. Sweet and dark, grounded in corn, vanilla, and heat. The flavor was honest, the kind her grandmother would have called earth-born. It belonged to firelight and stories, to kitchens scented with sage and cedar.
The taste filled her chest until she couldn’t breathe right. This was what tradition felt like, steady, waiting, unchanged by distance or failure. It reminded her that even when she’d turned away from the path her grandmother had marked for her, the traditions themselves had never turned away. They’d waited, patient as the stirring of a pot, ready for her to remember who she was.
“Damn,” Fly said. “That’s brilliant, Bear.”
Shamrock sighed in bliss. “I’m going to need this recipe.”
Than smiled, looking like he never wanted to be anywhere else. “Told you. My big bro is amazing.”
Bailee couldn’t argue with that.
The boys were still laughing, Fly arguing with Shamrock over who had burned what, but the sound had softened at the edges. She looked at Bear. His eyes caught hers, warm and steady, and she knew he’d made it for her, even if he hadn’t said so. She reached for his hand again and met his gaze. His eyes, dark as fertile soil, caught the light and turned it to heat that collided with her. They were the kind of brown that held the world together, steady, patient, full of life waiting to bloom. Everything just stopped moving, sound, the earth, even the breath in her chest. Something pulled her closer to him, that intangible essence that called to her, uncontrollable, and she marveled at how miserably she failed to control anything when it came to Dakota Locklear.
Leaning in and pressing her face against his, she whispered. “Thank you for that.” She broke the gaze, but she kept hold of his hand.
Later, when the dishes were stacked and the night grew quiet, Than found her old guitar by the bookshelf. He asked, polite and soft, if he could use it.
Bear’s voice held that low, steady pride that always made Bailee’s chest ache. “He organized a rock band in high school. They played a few venues around town. I didn’t even know he could sing until I went to one of his gigs after graduation. Kid’s got a hell of a voice.”
Than ducked his head, the praise both humbling and bolstering. “Cut it out, Kota.” Bear’s nickname was said with fierce affection.
Bear chuckled. “Nope.”
Than shook his head, grinning. “How about I turn the tables and tell you all the truth? He made my singing, my studies, my life…everything...better. He used his bonuses and hazard pay to build us a new house, so Mom didn’t have to work double, sometimes triple shifts just to get by. While he was out risking his life for the country, I was getting everything I needed. Not so with him?—”
“Than,” Bear said softly before he revealed anything else.
Bailee’s throat tightened. The tenderness in that one word wrapped around her, steady and unguarded. It was Bear being humble, a quiet reflection of everything Than had just said about him.
She wanted him alone, not only to wrap herself around him, but to reach into the still water beneath his surface, to see the currents that had shaped him. To hear the story of the boy who’d had less and still found a way to give his family more.
She hadn’t thought she could melt any further, but she did. The truth of him undid her, the fierce strength, the quiet compassion, the man who carried love like duty.
Unable to sit still, she reached up and slipped her fingers into his hair, her touch trailing to the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes for a moment, restraint warring with the need that pulsed between them.
Damn, she wanted him. Not just that gorgeous, ripped body, but his core unraveling in her hands.
Than stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled faintly. “You can’t stop me from being honest, or from telling everyone who you are. But I’ll honor you by shutting my trap.”
Bear chuckled again and looked away, a flush creeping up his neck. Fly and Shamrock watched in silence, their easy smiles gentling into respect.
Than sat on the edge of the sofa, tuning the guitar by ear. “I’ve had the great privilege to have strong men in my life,” he said. “Not just my brothers and my Lala, Grandfather Ray, but my mom’s boyfriend, Chayton Akecheta, poet and songwriter, former Marine, and a Lakota son. He wrote this song, and I love singing it. I’ll carry it with me as I go on my journey and find my path. It’s called Wolakota.”
The word hit Bailee like a slow drumbeat, deep and familiar. Her breath caught.
It had chased her through the fevered edges of the crash, burning in the jungle smoke, murmuring through the leaves. Sometimes she still heard it when she drifted toward sleep, her mind not quite healed, her skull still tender where the concussion pulsed. The doctors had called it trauma, the brain replaying fragments of memory. But she knew better. The word hadn’t been in her head as much as it had been in her bones. Now here it was again, in a quiet living room thousands of miles away, coming from the lips of a boy she’d only just met.
