Then I hear the soft thump-thump of paws on wood and the low huff of a dog waking up. Bear pads into the bedroomdoorway, big head tilted, ears perked. His rich dark dark fur—black layered over warm brown—catches the faint light, gleaming like polished wood. His tail gives one slow wag when he sees me awake. He’s too polite to jump on the bed without invitation, but he drops to his belly with a dramatic sigh and rests his chin on the mattress edge, dark eyes fixed on me like I owe him breakfast.
I almost smile. Almost.
But my bladder is insistent, and the quiet is pressing in too hard. I ease out from under Calder’s arm as carefully as I can, holding my breath when the mattress dips. Bear’s tail thumps once against the floor—soft encouragement—but Calder doesn’t stir.
I pad barefoot across the cold wood, naked, skin prickling. Bear follows at a respectful distance, nails clicking faintly, until I slip into the bathroom and close the door. He waits outside, patient as ever.
The light flips on when I touch the switch.
I freeze.
The power’s back.
The little nightlight glows steady orange. The fan hums. The clock blinks 12:00. Outside the small window, the world looks ordinary again—no storm howl, no dark house, just morning.
Well. That didn’t last long.
My stomach drops like I missed a step. The blackout was a bubble—shadows and heat and his voice claiming me like it was the only truth that mattered. Now the lights are on, the world is back, and everything we did is suddenly real in daylight. Exposed. Accountable.
I stare at my reflection—hair wild, faint marks on my neck and hips, lips still swollen. I look wrecked. I look wanted. I don’t know which scares me more.
My chest tightens. Breath comes too fast. What does this mean? Does the storm ending mean this ends? Do I go back to being the girl who packs a duffel and drives until the tank’s empty? Was last night just… temporary?
Stop.
I splash water on my face, count three slow breaths. It doesn’t help much.
When I open the door, Bear is still there, sitting like a statue, tail sweeping slow arcs across the floor. I sink my fingers into his fur as I step out. He leans his whole weight against my leg, a solid, grounding wall of warmth, like he’s sayingyou’re okay, I’ve got you too. I let myself linger for a second, breathing in the clean-dog-and-pine scent of him, before I wrap the throw blanket around myself like armor and head to the living room.
Bear trails close behind, settling under the table with a heavy sigh, watching me.
The mess hits me in the daylight. Our clothes are scattered, a blanket is half on the floor, pillows are all over the place. I feel naked. Not just because I’m wrapped in nothing but a throw blanket that keeps slipping off one shoulder, but because the daylight is everywhere and I feel exposed and raw. I grab the clothes I lost last night and tidy up the livingroom. I grab the blanket and shake it out, then fold it, and drape it back over the back of the couch. The plate and glass from last night are still sitting there so I stack them together, carry them to the kitchen.
I scoop coffee grounds into the filter then flip the switch. The coffee maker gurgles to life behind me, the familiar hiss and drip filling the quiet kitchen like white noise. I turn to the sink and do the dishes filling it.
What if the daylight changes everything? What if he wakes up, sees me standing here in yesterday’s hoodie and jeans, hair a mess, and the spell just… snaps? What if I’m not the girl from the dark anymore, what if I’m just me again, the one with the emptyshoebox and the habit of leaving before anyone can ask me to stay?
Bear watches from under the table, his rich dark fur catching the morning light in soft layers of black over warm brown. He’s sprawled out, chin on his paws, impossibly thick coat rising and falling with each slow breath. Every so often his tail gives a lazy thump against the floor, like he’s reminding me he’s still here, still calm, still unbothered. I wish I could borrow some of that.
The coffee scent starts to spread and I wrap my hands around the empty mug, waiting for it to finish. Then I hear heavy footsteps coming down the hallway. I don’t turn around. I can’t face him yet, after everything that happened.
His arms slide around me from behind, warm and sure. Calder’s broad chest presses to my back, and he buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhales deep like he’s pulling me into his lungs, and lets out a low, sleepy grumble against my skin. “You weren’t in bed,” he mutters, voice thick with irritation and leftover sleep. His lips brush the spot just below my ear. “I woke up reaching for you and the bed was cold.”
Bear lifts his head at the sound of Calder’s voice, tail thumping harder now, dark coat rippling as he shifts to sit up straighter, watching us both with those calm brown eyes.
I freeze, but my mug trembles. He notices. Of course he does. He turns me around, lifts me onto the counter so we’re eye level. His hands stay on my hips. “What’s wrong?” His voice is low, serious now. “You’re acting weird. Talk to me.”
I bite my lip. Look at Bear instead…he’s watching us both with calm brown eyes, head tilted, one ear flopped sideways. “The power’s back on,” I say, like that explains it.
He blinks. “Yeah. I know.”
Frustration bubbles up. “So… when do you want me to leave?”
His face darkens with shock, then fury. “What the fuck do you mean leave?” His voice is quiet, lethal. “I told you last night you were mine.”
“I know, but… I figured you were just saying that because… you know.”
“No, Wren. I don’t know.” His hands tighten on my hips. “Spell it out for me.”
