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“Hazel?” he called, stepping into the twilight-laced sitting room that always smelled like sugarplums and mint.

“In the grove,” came the singsong reply from somewhere behind the house.

He followed the voice out through a crooked back door and into the garden that never stayed the same shape twice.

Hazel Fairweather stood at the center of it all, barefoot and serene, tendrils of blooming lavender twisting through her silver-streaked curls. She turned slowly, her pale bark-brown skin glowing faintly in the shade of the oaks.

“Well, well. The bear comes out of his cave,” she said, eyes twinkling.

Rollo gave a sheepish shrug. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

“That’s usually when folks find their way here.”

Hazel walked to a moss-covered bench shaped like a crescent moon and patted the space beside her. “Come. Tell me what’s gnawing at your gut.”

He sat heavily, resting his elbows on his knees, watching the way the vines curled protectively around the base of Hazel’s skirts.

“It’s Delilah,” he said after a moment.

Hazel’s lips twitched. “Of course it is.”

“She’s back… working part-time at the sanctuary when she isn’t taking care of Wren. Said she doesn’t trust me but wants to.”

“Mmm.” Hazel plucked a violet from behind her ear and twirled it. “And how does that make your bear feel?”

“Unhinged,” Rollo admitted. “He’s pacing. Restless. Every time she walks by, it’s like I’m breathing again.”

Hazel’s expression softened. “You never stopped loving her.”

“I did everything to forget her,” he muttered. “Thought I had. But one look and it was like… no time passed at all. Like my body never got the memo that she left.”

Hazel laid a hand on his shoulder. It felt like being steadied by roots.

“And now you’re scared,” she said, not unkindly.

He nodded, jaw clenched.

She tilted her head, flowers blooming between the strands of her silver-touched curls. “Because loving her means letting her in again. And letting her in means risking the pain.”

“And losing her again would wreck me.”

Hazel nodded slowly, then looked at him like she saw not just the man but the boy he used to be—the one who had loved Delilah with everything he had, and still bolted when it got too big.

“But you didn’t lose her, Rollo,” she said gently. “You pushed her.”

He flinched, just a little. But didn’t deny it.

“She was yours,” Hazel continued, voice steady. “Fated. Chosen by something older than blood and wiser than soul. But you ran from it. Didn’t trust it. Didn’t trustyourself.”

“I wasn’t ready,” he muttered, shame threading through the words. “I thought if I claimed her, I’d lose myself—or worse, I’d lose her.”

“So you broke her first,” Hazel said softly, not accusing—justtruthful. “Hurt her before she could hurt you.”

He exhaled, rough and sharp. “I thought I had time. To figure it out. To grow into what she needed.”

“She didn’t ask you to be perfect, Rollo,” Hazel said. “She just wanted you to stay.”

“I didn’t know how,” he whispered.