Page 42 of Bear Naked Truth
“No.” Her hand landed lightly on his arm, just above the elbow. “Not tonight. I think... they’re watching. But not ready to act.”
He studied her face, searching for cracks in her calm, but found none. There was a steadiness there he hadn’t seen before. Not peace, exactly, but purpose. She belonged here, whether she believed it or not.
“Thank you for coming out of your room to be here tonight,” he said, voice gentler now. “I know this kind of thing ain’t your usual scene.”
“I was bribed with free tea and the promise of no matchmaking spells.”
He smiled. “Those might still be in effect. Hazel hasn’t denied it.”
Autumn glanced around, eyes sweeping the room trying to take it all in. “This place… it feels different tonight.”
He nodded. “It’s breathin’ again.”
“Because of you,” she said.
“No,” he said firmly. “Because ofus.You being here, working with me, not running when it got hard. That changed everything.”
She looked down at her mug, quiet for a moment. Then she whispered, “I feel like I belong here. For the first time in possibly ever.”
Dorian didn’t say anything.
He just reached out and brushed his fingers down her arm, slow and grounding. She leaned into the touch, just slightly, and it was enough. More than enough.
They stood together near the hearth for a few moments, silence shared like a story too sacred to say aloud, both pretending it was due to the facade they had to play into.
Then, from the hallway, Markus emerged with a tray of enchanted honeycakes and a dramatic flourish. “Alright, youcozy lovebirds, who wants to try a dessert that tastes like first kisses and forest air?”
Autumn blinked. “I don’t know whether to be intrigued or concerned.”
Markus grinned. “Both. Always both.”
As guests filtered through the room, sampling local treats and quietly gossiping about the new life breathed into Briar Hollow, Dorian caught glimpses of what the inn could become—of the future he’d dared to dream about. Not just walls and wooden beams, buthome.
A place people returned to.
A place peoplechose.
By the end of the evening, after the last of the guests from theHarvest Spirits Sampler Nighthad drifted back toward town—full of spiced cider, enchanted honeycakes, and far too many speculative whispers about the inn’s "mildly haunted" charm—Dorian leaned against the doorway to the foyer, watching Autumn stack mugs by the kitchen sink.
Her sleeves were pushed up, revealing the faint bruising from her last spirit encounter, and her hair was tied back with a ribbon that looked like it had been borrowed from one of Junie Bell’s cheerful impulse buys.
She didn’t see him at first. Her focus was on the rhythm—rinse, dry, stack. A methodical sort of calm. So different from the storm she carried when he first met her.
He approached slowly, not crowding her space.
“Need help?” he asked, voice low and casual.
She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve got it.”
But she didn’t bristle. Didn’t pull away when he stepped beside her instead of behind her. Progress, in her own language.
“The townsfolk didn’t run screaming,” he said, offering a towel.
“That’s a win,” she admitted, taking it.
“They seemed to like the ghost trivia game.”
Autumn allowed a ghost of a smirk. “Who knew fake haunted history could be so popular?”
