His bear lunged toward the surface, desperate for her. For her touch, her voice, her understanding. Cal had spent years building walls, protecting himself from anything that might make him vulnerable. And here was this woman, dismantling those walls brick by brick, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to let her.
“Dahlia...”
“Don’t.” She shook her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “Don’t say something sensible. Don’t remind me that you’re leaving or that we barely know each other or that this is complicated. I know all that.”
“Then what should I say?”
“Nothing.” She stood, squeezing his arm before letting go. “Show me how to work the extractor. We have honey to process.”
Cal watched her cross to the equipment, her back to him, her shoulders set with determination. She was giving him space. Time. The grace to figure out what the hell he was doing.
His bear disagreed with the space. His bear wanted to close the distance, press her against the nearest surface, claim her mouth and her body and everything she was willing to give.
Instead, he pushed off the workbench and walked her through the extraction process. Professional. Controlled. The opposite of everything he was feeling.
But when their hands brushed over the equipment, he didn’t pull away.
And neither did she.
They drove backto Haven Shores with three full jars of honey secured in the back seat.
The afternoon sun slanted through the windshield, turning everything golden. Dahlia had kicked off her boots and curled up in the passenger seat, drowsy from the early start and the physical work. Her eyes kept drifting shut, then snapping open as she fought to stay awake.
“You can sleep,” Cal said. “It’s another forty minutes.”
“Mmm.” She shifted, turning toward him. “I’m okay. Comfortable.”
His bear stirred with satisfaction at that.Comfortable. With us. Safe.
“Thank you.” Her voice was soft, sleepy. “For today. For the honey. For...” She waved a vague hand. “All of it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I mean it.” She shifted again, and her hand landed on the center console between them. Casual. Unintentional. “Nobody’s ever just done something for me without me asking first.”
Cal understood that more than he wanted to admit. The discomfort of receiving after years of only giving. The vulnerability of letting someone else carry part of the load.
“Maybe we both need practice at that.” His hand moved before he’d consciously decided. Found hers on the console. Covered it.
Dahlia’s breath caught. But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned her hand over, laced her fingers through his.
Her palm was soft against his. Her fingers were smaller than his, calloused from years of kitchen work. Perfect fit.
Neither of them spoke.
Cal drove one-handed, his other hand wrapped around hers, and felt a knot inside him loosen. The constant mental chatter that had driven him for years—the voice sayingmore, faster, prove yourself—went quiet. His bear sank into a contentment so profound, it felt almost foreign.
This was dangerous. He knew that.
But sitting here, holding Dahlia Moon’s hand while the mountain roads unspooled beneath them, Cal couldn’t remember why any of that mattered.
“Cal?” Her voice was barely a murmur now, more asleep than awake.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you couldn’t sleep.”
She drifted off before he could respond. Her hand went slack in his, her breathing evening out into the steady rhythm of sleep.
