Page 5 of Bear and Book

I could practically hear Jason’s voice in my head.

“It's just stuff, Elias,” he’d say with that damned easy shrug of his. “You worry too much. Things can be replaced.”

Yeah? Well, maybe if he were here instead of halfway across the continent doing whatever the hell he wanted, he could help replace a few things for once.

I stepped over a collapsed stack of mystery novels, careful not to smear the ink that was already bleeding across the floor.

My back twinged as I knelt by the damaged fiction section, pressing a hand to one of the books like I could will it dry.

This shop was supposed to be ours.

He’d said that. He’d promised that. We were in our twenties, reckless, stupid, and full of dreams. I had the books. He had the charm. Together, we were supposed to build something lasting.

Instead, I built it. I stayed. I sorted books by genre and author and condition. I wallpapered the back office with pages from broken spines and handwritten notes left by customers.

I scrubbed the coffee counter until it gleamed. I ran the place like it mattered, like it was a future worth having. And Jason?

Jason left. No real goodbye. Just a vague text. “You’ll be fine. I need something else.”

What a coward.

My fingers reached for the chain around my neck before I could stop them.

Cold metal met my skin, and I pulled it out from under my sweater: the ring, still looped on its thin gold necklace, catching the dim gray light from the broken window.

He’d given it to me when we were barely adults, still pretending we weren’t mates yet, still talking about forever like it was a road trip we hadn’t planned yet.

The ring had been his version of a promise. A “we’ll get there eventually.” And like a fool, I believed him. I wore it every damn day, even after he left.

Couldn’t tell if it was out of habit or hope or just plain stupidity anymore. I hadn’t taken it off when he said he needed space. Or when space turned into weeks. Then months. Then years.

We’re not ready, Elias.

I don’t want to screw this up.

We’re still figuring things out.

Excuses. That’s all they ever were.

Now I was thirty-nine. Alone. Grumpy. A little too bitter to be charming, and a little too proud to admit I’d ever really loved him.

I ran a secondhand bookstore that smelled like water damage and broken dreams. And today? Today I didn’t even have the energy to lie to myself about how any of this was going.

I tucked the ring back under my shirt and stood, wiping my damp hands on my jeans. My knees cracked as I straightened up.

“Where the heck do I even start?” I muttered.

Books were everywhere. Not just water-damaged but scattered, like the storm had reached a hand inside and flung them into chaos.

A whole shelf had tipped over, toppling into another and leaving a crooked mess in the corner by the poetry section. I couldn’t tell yet if the ceiling was going to cave in, but it didn’t look good.

The worst part? I couldn’t do it alone. I hated needing help. It rubbed me raw in the worst way.

Still, I had to admit there were too many boxes to move, too many leaks to patch, too much cleanup for one stubborn old fox with a bad back and too much pride.

I rubbed at the back of my neck, then walked behind the counter and flipped the power switch on the register. Nothing. Of course. Probably a blown fuse or a fried circuit. Or both.

I stared at the dark screen for a long time before leaning both hands on the counter and letting out a long, low breath.