He stood, moving back to the stove, and cracked more eggs into the pan. She almost protested that she couldn’t possibly eat more, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to stop until he was satisfied that she wasn’t going to wither away in front of him.
“Bear, I get it,” she muttered after swallowing a bite of perfect bacon. “I need to eat. Message received.”
He didn’t look at her, just stirred the eggs with slow, methodical motions. “It’s not just about eating, Joy.”
She set her fork down, suddenly wary. “What, then?”
His shoulders tensed slightly, the only visible sign of his frustration. “You’re not taking care of yourself. Yes, not eating right. But also, not sleeping. Not living in your own damn house.” He scraped the eggs onto a clean plate and slid it in front of her, his voice softening. “You can’t keep doing this.”
She swallowed, her appetite shrinking despite the food in front of her. “I’m handling it.”
“No, you’re avoiding it.”
She flinched at the truth in his words, her fingers tightening around the fork until her knuckles turned white. “Bear?—”
“Just listen,” he said, his voice gentler now. He sat across from her again, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table. “You can’t just stop living, Joy.”
She stared at him, frustration curling tight in her chest alongside the undeniable knowledge that he was right. “You don’t understand?—”
“Then help me understand.”
Her throat closed up. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Admitting how broken she still was after all this time—especially to him—felt impossible.
Instead, she pushed her plate away, suddenly feeling trapped in her own skin. “I can’t?—”
He exhaled slowly, his jaw working like he was biting back words he knew wouldn’t help. He glanced at the abandoned plate, then back at her, concern evident in the slight furrow between his brows.
And she picked up the fork again. Because it was easier than looking at him. Meeting his eyes meant acknowledging what they both knew—that Bear Bollinger saw through every defense she’d constructed. That while everyone else accepted her forced smiles and hollow reassurances, he refused to let her sink beneath the weight of her own lies.
She shoveled food into her mouth until it was gone, then pushed her empty plate away and stood, needing to move, needing to shake off the tension curling around her ribs like a vise. But as she turned toward the sink, he spoke.
“You’re not ready to live in your house yet, are you?”
She inhaled slowly, keeping her back to him. “I don’t know,” she muttered, though they both knew that was a lie.
He sighed, the sound heavy with a frustration that seemed directed not at her, but at the situation. “Joy. I’ve been inside. I’ve seen it. You obviously don’t live there. Nobody could live there.”
She closed her eyes, gripping the edge of the counter until her fingers ached. She hated this. Hated that he knew.
“No,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not ready.”
There was a long pause, then, “You can’t keep living in that playhouse.”
Her fingers curled tighter against the counter, nails digging into her palms. She knew that.
She knew it every time the temperature dropped at night, making the blankets useless. She knew it when the wind howled through the cracks in the wood, leaving her shivering. She knew it when she woke with dew dampening her hair because the roof leaked just slightly in the corner above her makeshift bed.
But knowing it and fixing it were two different things.
“I don’t have a lot of other options,” she said, forcing her voice to stay even.
Bear pushed his chair back, the scrape of wood against tile making her shoulders tense further.
“Stay here,” he said simply.
Her head whipped toward him. “What?”
“You don’t have to go back. Stay here at my place,” he repeated, eyes steady on hers. “For as long as you need.”
