Page 32 of Befriending the Bear
I didn’t even dare to say that part aloud.
“We don’t have to do anything. We can get up right now, pretend this didn’t happen, go back to coffee and book discussions.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? I didn’t want to pretend. For the first time in seven years, I’d woken up feeling safeinstead of empty. I’d woken up happy rather than alone and sad. The thought of going backward, of reinstating all those careful boundaries, made my lungs clench painfully.
“What if—” I stopped, gathered courage. “What if I d-don’t want to pretend?”
Something flickered in Fraser’s eyes. Hope, maybe, though carefully controlled. “Then we take it slow. Day by day. No pressure, no expectations.”
“I’m s-scared.”
“Me too. Terrified. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe being scared together is better than being scared alone.”
A laugh bubbled up, surprising me. “That’s either the most r-r-romantic or most d-depressing thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Fraser grinned, and my heart did something complicated. “I’ll work on my pillow talk.”
Pillow talk. Like this might happen again. Like we might have mornings and conversations and the slow negotiation of two lives learning to intertwine. The possibility terrified and thrilled me in equal measure.
“We should g-get up,” I said, though I made no move to leave the warm circle of his arms. “Check the d-damage. Make coffee.”
“Coffee would be awesome, yes. Hate to admit it, but I can’t function without it.”
The practical concerns of post-storm life began to intrude on our bubble. There would be trees down, possible flooding, the whole town pulling together to clean up. Real life, waiting outside this bedroom door.
“Five more minutes?” I asked, feeling young and foolish and brave all at once.
Fraser’s smile was answer enough. He pulled me closer, and I let myself melt into him, storing up warmth against whatever came next. Five minutes to be two people who’d found eachother in a storm. Five minutes before we had to figure out what that meant in the light of day.
The power came back on with a sudden hum of appliances returning to life, making us both jump. The spell broke, reality reasserting itself with electric insistence.
Fraser cleared his throat. “I should…”
“Y-yes,” I agreed, already missing his warmth as we carefully disentangled ourselves.
We moved around each other with exaggerated politeness. Maybe he was as hyperaware of the shift in our relationship as I was. Fraser borrowed my bathroom while I started coffee with shaking hands. When he emerged, with droplets of water clinging to his bald head from washing his face, he looked more like the contained man I’d met in the parking lot and less like the soft, sleep-rumpled version I’d woken up next to.
The coffee maker gurgled to life, its familiar sound both comforting and strange in the post-storm quiet. I focused on the ritual—measuring grounds, filling mugs—anything to avoid thinking too hard about the way Fraser’s presence had transformed my kitchen from a place of solitude to something that felt almost like home again.
“Smells good,” he said, accepting the mug I offered. Our fingers brushed, and I couldn’t even pretend it was accidental.
“We should ch-check outside,” I said, needing movement, needing to not stand here drowning in the domestic intimacy of sharing morning coffee with someone who’d held me through the night.
Fraser nodded. “I’ll fix your front door first, then check your roof and gutters while you assess the garden damage.”
The separation was both a relief and a loss. I pulled on boots and a jacket, grateful for tasks that required action instead of words. Outside, the world looked scrubbed clean and slightly broken. Branches littered the yard, and my carefully tendedgarden beds were waterlogged and scattered with debris. The old maple in the front had lost a major limb, but it had fallen away from the house, which was a small mercy.
“Calloway,” Fraser called out, and I walked around to find him studying the oak tree in my backyard.
“What’s w-wrong?”
He pointed. “See that limb? It needs to come down. It’s compromised, and if it breaks off, parts of it will hit your roof.”
I sighed. “I’ll c-c-contact a tree c-company.”
And by contact, I meant message. Calls were a terror I rarely subjected myself to.
“No need. I can do it.”
