Bear wanders in and stations himself at her feet like he’s appointed himself her assistant. She nudges him gently with her socked foot and keeps working.
I sit at the table and watch.
The storm still rages outside. The world beyond the windows is a blur of white and wind. But in here the air is warm and smells like coffee and butter. Wren stands at my stove in my clothes, making breakfast like she belongs in this space.
And it feels right.
Not temporary. Not fragile.
Right.
The certainty settles deep in my bones. Stronger than the doubts that tried to surface earlier. Stronger than the voice that tells me I’m moving too fast.
I’m not letting her leave.
The thought isn’t about control. It’s about protection. About the quiet, consuming need to keep her safe and close and wrapped in the security of this place. She fits here in a way I didn’t know I was waiting for.
Wren pours batter onto the hot pan and looks back at me, smiling when the pancakes start to bubble.
“You’re going to love these,” she says.
I meet her gaze and feel something steady lock into place inside me.
“I already do,” I tell her.
And I’m not talking about the pancakes.
Chapter Nine
WREN
The storm sounds louderin the daylight.
It roars around the house like the mountain itself is trying to shake us loose. Wind howls through the trees and snow slams against the windows in thick bursts that blur everything beyond the glass. It should feel scary.
Instead, wrapped in Calder’s blanket with Bear’s heavy head resting on my thigh, it feels… cozy.
After breakfast, Calder disappears down the hall.
“I’ve got some work to do,” he says, pausing at the entrance to what I assume is his office. “Yell if you need anything.”
“I will,” I promise.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the house settles into a quiet rhythm. The fire crackles softly. The storm hums in the background. Bear sighs like he’s perfectly content to spend the rest of his life exactly where he is.
I reach for the book sitting on the coffee table. It’s a mystery novel with a worn spine and dog-eared pages. I run my fingers over the cover for a second, a little thrill of excitement sparking in my chest.
I love reading.
I just… never have time. Or I didn’t. Between work and trying to stay out of Alex’s way and saving every spare second and dollar, books always felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford.
I curl deeper into the couch and open to the first page.
The story pulls me in fast. A missing woman. A detective with too many secrets. The world outside the book fades until it’s just me and the words and the steady warmth of the fire. Bear shifts occasionally, pressing closer, like he’s making sure I don’t drift too far away.
A couple of hours pass without me noticing.
My stomach growls loud enough to pull me out of the story. I blink at the page, disoriented, and glance at the clock on the wall.
