His fingers curled at his sides, his pulse steady but hard. She was supposed to be here. So, why did it feel like she wasn’t?
He reached for the light switch and flipped it on. The glow flooded the small living room—and his stomach fucking dropped.
The house waswrecked.
Not destroyed, not vandalized, but forsaken. Neglected. Trash littered the floor, empty takeout containers stacked on the coffee table, some with forks still sticking out, dried sauce caked to the edges.
The sink overflowed with dirty dishes, plates crusted with food that had long since dried. A vase of flowers—dead, brittle, shriveled—sat untouched on the counter, the water inside murky, the petals curled in on themselves like they’d given up.
Bear’s pulse kicked up hard, a vise tightening around his chest.
Joy was not a neat freak, but she wasn’t like this. She was messy in a way that made a place feel alive—jars of ingredients left out on the counter mid-recipe, her jacket slung over a chair, a pile of books she’d been reading stacked next to the couch. Not this.
Not—he looked around again—this.
Unopened mail sat in a heap on the entryway table, weeks’ worth, judging by the pile. Some envelopes had slipped to the floor, half buried under a kicked-off boot. Boxes lined one wall, some still sealed, others half opened like she’d started something but lost the will to finish.
A cold unease slithered through him, tightening around his ribs. This wasn’t just a mess. This wasabandonment. This was someone who’d stopped living here while still going through the motions.
“Joy?” His voice came sharper now, cutting through the thick silence, bouncing off walls that seemed to have forgotten her presence.
Nothing.
Jaw tight, he strode toward her bedroom, pushing the door open with more force than necessary. The bed was made—perfectly. Too perfectly. Hospital corners, not a wrinkle in sight. Joy’s bed had never looked like that in her life.
She hadn’t been sleeping here.
His jaw clenched as he scanned the room again. No clothes strewn about, no books on the nightstand, no glass of water half emptied. This wasn’t just tidy. This was untouched. Where the hell was she?
Then something caught his eye through the window. A flicker of dim, golden light outside, barely visible through the back window, a small beacon in the darkness of the yard.
His breath stilled.
The playhouse.
Another memory surfaced—Joy at ten, her hair in two messy braids, her arms spread wide, showing him the space she and her dad had built.
It’s my hideout, Bear. My place where I can think and dream and be me.
His chest went tight, something between fury and heartbreak rising in his throat.
He was moving before he’d fully processed it, striding toward the back door and stepping into the cold night air. The playhouse sat at the far end of the small yard, a tiny structure barely big enough for a kid, much less a grown woman.
And yet, as he neared, he heard her. A soft, broken murmur. Words he couldn’t make out, but unmistakably Joy’s voice. His gut twisted hard.
He knocked on the small wooden door, keeping his voice low, steady. “Joy? It’s me.”
Inside, something scraped against the floor. A shuffling sound. A pause. Then the door creaked open an inch, just enough for Joy’s face to appear. Her eyes were wide, shadowed, so fucking tired. Her hair was tangled around her face, and even in the low light, he could see her pallor.
“Is something wrong?” Her voice was small. Too small.
Bear’s heart damn near cracked in half. He forced himself to keep steady, to keep his tone even, to not reveal the maelstrom of emotions churning inside him. “Yeah, something’s wrong. Why are you out here?”
She flinched as she opened the door farther. He took a slow step forward, keeping his hands at his sides. He didn’t look inside—not yet. Didn’t need to, because he already knew.
She wasn’t just out here at the moment. She waslivingout here.
Joy’s fingers clenched around the edge of the door, knuckles white with tension. She wasn’t going to answer his question honestly; that was already clear.
