He raised an eyebrow, holding her gaze. “Yeah, I did.”
“Bear,” she sighed, frustration edging into her voice, “I don’t need a babysitter.”
His expression didn’t change. “Didn’t say you did.” He set a plate on the small kitchen table with a decisive thunk. “But you do need to eat.”
Joy shifted her weight, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “I eat.”
“Not enough.” He crossed his arms, eyes locked on her like he could see straight through her defenses. “When’s the last time you cooked in your own kitchen?”
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I don’t know.”
“Try.”
“Bear—”
“When’s the last time you actually made a meal for yourself?” His voice remained calm but firm. He wasn’t going to let this go.
She blew out a frustrated breath and gave the only answer she had. “Not since…before.”
Something flickered in his gaze, something sharp and knowing. He didn’t say “since the attack,” but they both knew that’s what she meant.
“Where have you been eating?”
She shrugged, trying to appear casual even though they both knew this conversation was anything but. “I pick something up at work when I get hungry.”
Bear’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking along his temple. “That’s not enough.”
“I’m fine.” The words sounded hollow even to her ears.
“No, you’re not.”
His words landed like a hammer, heavy and final. She wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t get to decide whatfinelooked like, but the determined set of his shoulders told her it wouldn’t do any good.
He gestured toward the plate. “You’re going to eat every damn bite of that.”
Joy hesitated, pride warring with the hunger gnawing at her insides. She hated that he noticed. Hated that he cared enough to call her on her bullshit. But most of all, she hated that the biggest part of herwantedhim to.
She sank into the chair at the small kitchen table, glaring at the plate in front of her like it had personally insulted her. Scrambled eggs flecked with herbs, thick-cut bacon with crispy edges, golden toast slathered in butter. It smelled amazing, making her mouth water despite her stubbornness.
Bear slid into the chair across from her, watching expectantly, arms crossed like he was prepared to sit there all day if she didn’t start eating.
With a sigh that bordered on dramatic, she picked up the fork and took a bite. The eggs were stupidly good—fluffy, seasoned perfectly, still warm. Of course they were.
Her eyes flicked toward the stove, where the pan still sat, bits of egg clinging to the edges. Bear had cooked like it was second nature, like he belonged there creating something nourishing just as much as he belonged under the hood of a car or wielding some massive wrench at the garage.
It wasn’t just that he knew how to cook—plenty of guys did. It was how he did it. With the same quiet focus, the same steady, unshakable presence he brought to everything else.
Like he was made for this. For taking care of people.
For taking care of her.
The thought made something twist inside her chest—something that felt dangerously close to hope, to longing, to need.
She shoveled another bite into her mouth before her brain could leave the station with that train of thought.
“Good,” Bear murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as he watched her eat.
She shot him a glare but kept chewing, unable to deny how good it felt to have real food in her stomach.
