Page 35 of Hero Mine

She forced a breath past the tightness in her chest. “You promised you wouldn’t.”

“Joy—”

“No.” She shook her head, taking a step back. “I asked you not to. I trusted you.”

His jaw flexed, muscles rippling beneath tanned skin. “Just come with me.”

“I don’t need to see it.” Her voice shook with something that felt too much like betrayal. “I already know what you did.”

His brows pulled together, dark eyes studying her. “Do you?”

He wasn’t even denying it. That hurt worse than anything.

But what had she expected? That Bear—who fixed everything, who never sat still when someone needed help—would just leave it alone? Of course he hadn’t. He was Bear. It was literally what he did. Fix cars, fix people. Whether they wanted him to or not.

Her throat burned with unshed tears. “I told you I wasn’t ready.”

He exhaled, running a hand over the back of his neck, the gesture so familiar it made her heart ache. “Just come with me, Joy.”

She stared at him, at the steady determination in his eyes. If she refused, he’d push.

And even if she was furious, even if she wanted to shove him out the door and tell him to stay out of her life—she couldn’t. Because beneath the anger and hurt, she still needed him. Still wanted to believe in him.

“Fine,” she whispered.

Because he was still Bear. And deep down, despite everything, she still wanted to trust him like she’d been able to her whole life.

She grabbed her own clothes and disappeared into the bathroom to change. When she emerged, she walked out the door in front of him, shoulders tense, head high.

The walk to her house stretched between them, silent and heavy with unspoken words. The wind cut through her jacket, but she barely felt it, too focused on steeling herself for what was coming.

Joy clenched her fists, trying to prepare herself for the moment she stepped inside and saw how he’d stripped away the wreckage—how he’d erased every last trace of what she’d been through. The piles of unwashed dishes. The unopened mail. The half-empty tea mugs scattered on every surface. The physical representation of how her life had shattered.

She already felt like a ghost of herself. Now, she was afraid she wouldn’t even have proof she existed at all.

Explaining why she hadn’t wanted him, or anybody, to clean the house yet felt impossible. Joy wasn’t sure she understood it herself. All she’d known was she wasn’t ready. That mess was hers—tangible proof of her struggle, of the pain she was still working through.

And Bear hadn’t trusted her to make her own decision about when to clear it away.

She braced herself as they approached her house, every step tightening the knot in her stomach. But then he walked right past the front steps.

She blinked. “Bear?”

He didn’t answer, just tilted his head, silently telling her to follow.

Her pulse skittered as he led her around the side of the house, past the overgrown flower beds, toward the backyard. Why the backyard?

And then she saw it: her playhouse.

She stopped short, confusion rolling through her like fog.

It looked the same—sort of. But different, too. Aside from a fresh coat of paint a couple years ago, it hadn’t changed much since she and her dad had built it when she was ten.

But now…

The tiny structure sat on a raised wooden slab, no longer sinking into the damp ground. The flimsy toy windows had been replaced with real ones, glass instead of plastic. The edges of the roof were sealed tight, no gaps for water to seep through. And something about the walls?—

“Did you—” Her voice faltered. She took a step closer, reaching out, touching the side.

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