Page 41 of Grizzly's Grump
The sky is that pale Northern California blue that always makes me feel like the trees are taller here, closer to something that lies beyond our mere mortal selves. The ley lines hum faintly beneath my clogs—no longer intrusive, but present, like they’re watching over us.
My hands move over the counter in practiced motions, a damp cloth sweeping flour into neat piles, but there’s a faint tremble in my fingers I can’t quite suppress. It’s not fear—more like anticipation buzzing through me, a heightened awareness that everything feels new again. The reopening, the way people are looking at me differently now, the quiet claim Calder makes just by being near. It’s the sense that this morning is more than routine—it’s a turning point. I try to keep my breath steady, not wanting to show how much I want this to last.
Calder is only a few yards away, sanding something enormous and timbered under the awning of his shop, shirt off, sawdust clinging to his chest like it’s trying to stake a claim. He hasn’t looked away from me since I stepped out of the truck. Not once. Which would be sweet—if he weren’t working with a belt sander powerful enough to take off a hand. I should be used to this by now—the way he looks at me like I’m everything—but part of me still flinches, waiting for the moment the world reminds me it never lasts.
I shoot him a look, mouthing, 'Watch your fingers,' but he just grins like I’m the distraction he’s willing to risk everything for.
His presence is grounding, even when he’s scowling—and right now, he’s doing it less, which is saying something. Maybe it’s because he’s still carrying the weight of that claiming ritual. Or maybe it’s just because he knows we're both where we belong.
The line at the food truck grows slowly, people arriving in twos and threes. Some faces are familiar from around town—like Marcy, who pretends she’s here for a latte but keeps sneaking amused glances Calder’s way—more curious than coy, like she’s enjoying some private joke at his expense. June appears next, clipboard in hand, but it’s just an excuse to stand and talk while she sips chai tea and eyes the forest. There’s even old Mr. Greaves from the hardware store, grumbling about the price of scones before asking if I have any left.
They don’t ask questions about the tendrils of mist that came from the ley lines or anything else that happened last week. But I can see it in the way their eyes linger, in the sidelong glances they think I don’t catch. They’re curious, maybe even suspicious, but no one wants to be the one to ask the question out loud, and maybe I’m grateful for that.
Because I don’t know what I’d say if they did. Not because they don’t know—but because they do. Everyone in this town grew up with the ley lines in their bones, with shifting as a reality woven into their lives. But I’m still a new variable—the human-turned-shifter, the outsider drawn into something ancient and wild. Maybe they’re watching to see if I’ll stay steady. If I’ll break. Or maybe they’re wondering if I already have. Their silence isn’t ignorance—it’s consideration. I’m quietly grateful for their restraint, the way they offer space without prying.
Beau is the first of Calder’s brothers to come by, with Fen—Redwood Rise’s sharp-eyed wolf-shifter seer—right on his heels. There’s something sharper in Fen’s gaze than usual—like she’s searching for a sign, an answer, maybe even a warning only she can see. They all pretend it’s for coffee, but I’ve got half a trayof cherry crumble bars cooling in the window, and I see the way Fen’s eyes lock on them like a predator. Beau says almost nothing as he takes two and slips them in a napkin before walking off with a quiet nod.
“Subtle,” I call after him.
Beau just shrugs. “We’re bears. We're not wired for subtle. We’re wired for sugar.”
Then Sawyer strolls up, bold as anything, and taps on the edge of the counter with a grin. “So this is the famous food truck, huh? Thought it would be bigger.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Thought you’d be taller.”
That gets a laugh out of Calder, low and grudging, and it’s like the entire atmosphere lightens—eases. Sawyer eyes the crumble bars, then snatches a cupcake when I pretend to look away.
“Calder’s been a bear, but at least now he’s a bear who smiles.”
“Grunts,” Fen corrects from the side.
“Smiles,” Sawyer insists, through a mouthful of chocolate buttercream. “Don’t get mad. I’m pretty sure this frosting has healing properties. You want him grumpy again?”
Calder glares. “Keep stealing cupcakes and you’ll find out exactly how much smiling I do.”
Sawyer grins. “Oh look, he growled. That’s practically a love song for Calder.”
They all scatter eventually, back to their corners of town, or the forest or wherever they spend their days. And I’m left in the golden haze of afternoon with a quiet truck, a warm oven, and a man who hasn’t stopped watching me like I’m something sacred.
When I finally flip the sign toCLOSEDand sweep out the last of the flour, I hear the workshop door creak open behind me. Heavy boots on wood. The unmistakable energy of Calder when he’s done being patient.
“You wore yourself out feeding my brothers,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind.
“They fed themselves... kind of like wild animals.” I lean into him, the scent of cedar and steel on his skin curling into me.
He palms my hips, thumbs circling. “You gonna feed me now?”
“I don’t think you came out here for cupcakes.”
“I didn’t.”
He turns me gently, presses me back against the warm metal of the truck, and for a second, everything inside me stills. The cold of the metal seeps through my clothes, contrasting the heat of his body pressing close, and it sends a ripple up my spine.
My thoughts scatter under the weight of his closeness—memories of the first time his hands were on me, the way his kiss rewired everything I thought I knew about want. This isn't just chemistry anymore. It's gravity pulling me into him, into something that feels more real than anything I’ve ever known.
I’m not scared. I don’t hesitate. I just let go, because when he touches me like this, I believe in everything—the claiming, the bond, the forever we don't speak about. He kisses me slow and deep like we’ve got nothing but time. His hands are rough with the day’s work, and mine still smell like vanilla extract and lemon zest. It’s messy and sweet and anchors me in the most unexpected way.
His hands slide down to my thighs, lifting me onto the counter like it’s instinct. My knees fall open around him, the apron I forgot to take off bunching at my waist. The heat of him seeps into me, his breath ragged against my throat.
