Page 42 of Bear and Book

It also had a bottle of that tea he liked that tasted like flowers. My bear had insisted on the offerings, calling it “mate provision,” which sounded weird but also kind of right.

When I got to his street, I spotted him sitting by the window, a book open in his lap. The sight made my chest go warm in a way I didn’t have words for.

But when I waved, Elias gave a little smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. That was the first flicker. I told myself maybe he was tired, maybe he’d had a long day at the shop.

But when he let me in, I noticed other things like the way he lingered a beat too long before meeting my gaze, the slight hesitation before he took the pastries from me.

Small things. Things someone else might have missed. But my bear caught them all. I didn’t push, not yet. Instead, I set the food on the counter and asked about his day.

I let him talk about some book shipment that had come in late, a regular customer who’d spent thirty minutes talking about her cat.

Elias was relaxed when he spoke, but every so often, his gaze would flick away like he was guarding something.

We ended up curled on his couch, my arm around his shoulders, the light from the lamp casting everything in gold. He let himself lean into me, but there was a subtle tension there under the surface.

I wanted to ask. My mouth almost did, twice. But the thing about potentially being mates was sometimes you didn’t need to ask. You could feel it.

So instead of prying, I kissed the side of his head.

“You smell like books,” I murmured.

That got me a small laugh. “Occupational hazard.”

“You smell like mine,” I said, and yeah, maybe it was a little possessive, but it came out before I could stop it.

His hand stilled where it had been resting on my chest. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t answer, either.

There it was again. That shadow.

I tightened my hold, pressing my cheek to his hair. My bear was restless now, pacing, wanting to nudge, to reassure. He was ours, and he needed to know it.

We sat like that for a while, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside. Eventually, he shifted, turning toward me with a faint smile that looked more genuine.

“I have something for you.”

Elias got up and disappeared into the bedroom. When he came back, he was holding a worn, leather-bound book. The cover was faded, the spine cracked in that way only well-loved books had.

“This,” Elias said, setting it in my hands, “is a first edition of a collection I think you’ll like. Short stories about old shifter folklore.”

I looked at it, then at him. “Elias, this is this is amazing,” I whispered.

“It’s just a loan,” he said quickly, but there was a faint color in his cheeks.

I traced the cover gently. “Still. You don’t just hand something like this to anyone.”

“No,” Elias agreed, voice quiet.

I met his gaze. “Thank you.”

Something in his expression shifted then, like I’d brushed up against a part of him he didn’t show often. He sat back down beside me, closer this time, and when I leaned in to kiss him, he didn’t hesitate.

It wasn’t urgent, not like last night. Just slow and deep, the kind of kiss that sank into your bones. His fingers curled in my shirt again, and my bear made a low, content sound that might have been audible.

When we pulled apart, I rested my forehead against his.

“I like this,” I said. “Being here with you.”

“I like it too,” Elias murmured, but there was something in his tone.