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She didn’t say no. She didn’t say yes either, but she didn’t say no . It wasn’t much. But I knew it was more than I deserved. Shit, seeing her cry. It hurt.

I had never seen her break down like this.

I take full responsibility for that. Yes, she cried when I broke things off, but it hadn't been like this.

Not these gut-wrenching sobs as if I'd torn the soul from her.

Was that how she had cried when I wasn't there?

Alone? Was anybody there to comfort her?

Carol, I hoped, because her mother… let's just say Lisa was different. And I’d been a fucking coward.

I hid behind the nurses, telling them not to let Ella back into my room.

I worried that seeing her upset would make me change my mind, and I couldn't risk that.

Back then, I thought I was doing the right thing—protecting her, setting her free.

She had a future ahead of her. I had a list of spinal surgeries and a wheelchair with my name on it.

She wasn’t meant for hospital rooms and endless PT.

She wasn’t meant for a man who couldn’t shift anymore—at least not then.

At least not without pain and complications.

And she’d never asked about that part of me, not really.

She knew I was a shifter. She accepted it, sure.

But there was always a hesitancy when the subject came up. A pause. A nervous flick of her eyes.

I told myself it was better not to push. That maybe she’d come around. But when I lost the use of my legs for that year, that pause haunted me. I couldn’t imagine asking her to live with a crippled man who turned into a bear—one she seemed a little afraid to meet in the first place.

So I ended things.

I let her believe I didn’t love her enough to stay.

Watching her cry like that again—folded in on herself, choking on sobs she tried to muffle—nearly broke me in half. I wanted to take it all back. Every year of silence. Every excuse I made in the dark. Every time I told myself she was better off.

Unfortunately, I couldn't rewrite the past. So I did the only thing I could.

I showed up now.

Every day since, I’ve shown up early. Made sure her favorite coffee was waiting when she walked in—four creams, five sugars, extra hot, just the way she used to drink it when we crammed for finals and she stole half my thermos.

I didn’t mention the coffee. Just left it near her sketches and acted like I had no idea what kind of magic that cup held. She never said a word about it. But she drank it.

That was enough.

She’d asked for time, so I gave it to her.

I helped her carry tile samples even though she stubbornly insisted she didn’t need help.

I followed her around the kitchen space, listening while she debated counter heights and stove placements like the fate of the world depended on it.

I took notes. Actual notes. Me, Patrick McCloud, who once forgot an entire final paper in high school because I’d been too busy trying to impress her with grilled cheese experiments.

I listened. And I learned.

And I waited.

That day, I picked her up for our supplier run. She said she could drive herself, but I offered, holding my breath. When she hesitated for just a second too long, I knew I had a yes.

Gracefully, as usual, she slid into the passenger seat of my truck. The set of her stiff shoulders told me that she was still guarded around me. Not that I faulted her for it. No, this was on me. All of this was on me. Her lips pressed into a line as she buckled in.

Thorne stirred the second she shut the door. There she is. Sparkles in all her stubborn glory. She smells like lemons and judgment.

Ignore him , I told myself.

“Seat warmers still work,” I said casually, adjusting the dial for her. “But the air’s a little weird in here lately. Might smell like sawdust and regret.”

Her lips twitched slightly, and I congratulated myself for small progress. The drive was quiet at first. Until she started asking about hood vents and fire suppression systems. I felt myself smiling just listening to her. I had forgotten how fired up she could get about something she cared about.

I parked the truck outside the industrial supply warehouse, rushing around the front to open the door for her. When she was out, I passed her a folded paper bag I had grabbed from the center console.

She looked at it warily. “What’s this?”

“Breakfast. We’ve got a few minutes to kill before they open.”

“You made me food?”

“Technically, my dad did. I just stole it from his kitchen before he could eat it. But it’s that egg sandwich you like. The one with the spicy aioli?”

Her eyes flicked to mine, surprised. It was a thirty-minute drive from Cedar Hollow to the town we grew up in, and she knew that my dad usually left for work around five.

I could see when she worked out that I must have left my place at four, just to drive there and stalk around long enough to snag the sandwich.

The smallest smile danced around the edges of her lips.

I used to do this a lot for her, steal my dad's egg sandwich.

It had been a bit harder this morning, but her little smile made the inconvenience all worthwhile.

I didn’t say anything else. Just let her open it. Her fingers paused briefly on the warm wax paper. "Did your dad ever find out it was you who took all his lunches?"

I chuckled. Dad would get all wound up about it, accusing the dog, mom, Gabe, me.

Sometimes he even went on a search, looking behind the fridge, in the garbage.

It had been fun. I chuckled even more when I imagined the look on his face when he returned from the bathroom this morning, only to find his sandwich gone, once again. For the first time in ten years.

"He has no idea," I confessed, watching, mesmerized, as she took her first bite and moaned. It was enough to make my blood thrum, and Thorne grunted in appreciation. If she moans like that over a sandwich, we are so back in.

Shut up , I growled.

"I need to put this on my menu. I never did figure out how he makes this." Ella said between bites.

"Just say the word, and I’ll install a spy camera, then we can eat popcorn while we watch him make it."

Ella cough-snickered, "Oh my God."

I petted her back with a grin on my face. This was us . We used to always have so much fun together. We would laugh at the silliest things. Why hadn't I remembered that in the hospital bed? God, I could have used her laughter then.

"Remember when I tried to make my own version of that sandwich junior year, and I nearly set my mom’s toaster oven on fire?” She grinned. “The whole kitchen smelled like burnt sriracha for two days.”

I chuckled, "How could I forget that? You blamed it on me."

"I did, didn't I?" she replied, laughing as she chewed. “I maintain the instructions were unclear. Also, that toaster was already on death’s door.”

“You put the aioli in the oven,” I said, chuckling. “ In a paper bowl. ”

“I was experimenting ! ” she said through another bite, eyes sparkling now. “That’s how great recipes are born.”

“That’s also how kitchen fires start.”

She nudged my arm with her elbow, like she had done a hundred times before.

A jolt moved through me, part nostalgia, part electric shock from the contact with her.

She was still grinning; it was a good grin.

A real one. The kind I hadn’t seen in too long.

But then her eyes clouded over, and I watched reality sink back in.

I didn't want to ruin the moment completely, so I asked, "Ready? "

I placed my hand on the small of her back and led her toward the large entryway.

She walked a bit stiffly, and silence enveloped us once again while we wandered the aisles together.

Soon, however, her excitement took back over, and she started pointing at things that caught her eye.

I made bad jokes about stove brands and groaned when she spent twenty solid minutes comparing two mixers that looked exactly the same to me.

I liked the way she lit up when she talked about prep flow and walk-in coolers. And when she nearly crawled into an industrial-sized oven. God, I could’ve stood there all day, just watching her. Wondering what the hell was wrong with me to have given her up.