Page 66 of Bear and Order

"Don't."

I glance beside me. Brock stands there watching, arms folded across his chest, expression familiar — protective, concerned, annoyingly observant.

"I'm fine."

He raises one eyebrow, and the gesture alone communicates everything he thinks of that answer. "You say that every time."

"Because it's true."

"No."

I open my mouth, then close it, because arguing feels exhausting and he knows it. His expression softens slightly, and before he can say anything that would make it worse, someone approaches the booth and my stomach tightens immediately.

Gavin.

Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

He notices Brock first, then me, and the awkwardness arrives instantly — thick, uncomfortable, the kind that should probably be escorted off the premises. "Juniper."

I force a smile. "Gavin."

His attention moves to Brock, then back to me, then to Brock again, like a man doing arithmetic he doesn't enjoy. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. "Festival looks nice," he offers, and the statement sounds so desperate that I genuinely consider rescuing him.

"It does," I say, which is the best I can manage.

Silence follows. A terrible silence — the kind that has its own weight and texture. Gavin clears his throat. Brock remains completely still, not doing anything, not saying anything, yet somehow his presence occupies approximately half the street without any effort at all.

"It's good to see you," Gavin tries.

"You too."

More silence. The situation somehow becomes worse, which is impressive. Gavin shifts his weight and his attention settles briefly on Brock. "I heard things were getting better."

Before I can answer, Brock says, "We're working on it." The response sounds calm, polite, entirely reasonable. It still somehow feels territorial, and everyone present notices, including Gavin, including me, including probably the woman selling flowers two stalls over.

Gavin laughs, a short and awkward sound. "Right." He nods, points vaguely toward the rest of the festival as though it has personally summoned him, and walks away. The second he disappears into the crowd I exhale.

Brock's mouth twitches.

"Don't," I say immediately.

"What?"

"You know exactly what."

His smile grows, tiny but visible. "He seemed nice."

I narrow my eyes. "You're enjoying this."

"A little."

I groan, and the sound makes him laugh — actually laugh — and the reaction catches me so completely off guard that for a brief moment the festival almost feels normal again. Almost.

The change begins gradually. At first it's only whispers, small conversations, quiet looks — people checking their phones, people gathering near booths, people exchanging papers with the careful energy of those passing along something they probably shouldn't. The mood shifts slowly, then all at once, the way bad news always travels.

I notice the first flyer near the fountain, then another. My stomach drops.

I walk toward one and pull it down. The words blur briefly, then sharpen into focus — new accusations, new allegations, new claims from anonymous sources with anonymous evidence and anonymous concerns. Always anonymous. Always cowardly. My jaw tightens. Around me, more people begin reading, more people begin talking, and the whispers spread through the festival faster than anything honest ever could.