Page 20 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

I freeze, mug halfway to my mouth. "I don't—"

"You do. Every time I offer you something, you look at me like I'm about to pull the rug out. Like there's a hidden cost you're trying to calculate."

He's right. I hate that he's right.

"Everything costs something," I say, repeating what I told him earlier.

"Not this."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

We stare at each other across the small table, and I can feel the weight of the conversation shifting into territory I'm not sure I want to explore. There's too much honesty here. Too much of both of us showing our edges.

I look down at my coffee, at the way the lamplight reflects off the dark surface.

"My dad used to do this," I start. "Show up out of nowhere with gifts. Toys when I was little, money when I got older. Always said it was because he loved me, because he wanted to help." I take a breath. "And then a week later he'd be asking to stay on our couch, or borrowing money he'd never pay back, or expecting me to lie to my mom about where he'd been."

I can feel Griffin watching me, but he doesn't interrupt.

"So yeah," I continue. "I look for the trap. Because there's always a trap."

For a long moment, he doesn't say anything. Just sits there, hands wrapped around his mug, processing. Then he leans back in his chair, and the wood creaks under his weight.

"I'm not your dad," he says.

"I know that."

"Do you?"

I meet his eyes. "I'm trying to."

"That's fair."

Bear sighs heavily from his spot under the table, and the sound breaks the tension. Griffin reaches down to scratch behind the dog's ears, and I watch the way his scarred hands move, gentle despite their size.

"Can I ask you something?"

He glances up. "Depends on the question."

"Why Bear?"

"What?"

"The dog. Why'd you name him Bear?"

Griffin looks down at the dog, and for the first time since I've met him, something that might be affection crosses his face. "Because when he showed up on my porch four years ago, he was about the size of a bear cub. Figured the name would fit eventually."

"Did it?"

"Look at him."

I do. Bear is sprawled under the table, taking up an absurd amount of space, his shaggy coat making him look even bigger than he already is. "Yeah. It fits."

"He's a good dog," Griffin says, and there's something almost defensive in his tone, like he expects me to argue.

"I can tell."