*The first time you met Piper, she was sitting in the middle of your sunflower field, humming to herself with a jar of honey cradled in her arms. A stranger might have been startled by the sight—a big, fluffy bear girl with light brown fur and round ears twitching at every passing bee—but you had only sighed, crossing your arms.

"That’s mine, you know."

She had blinked up at you, big brown eyes wide with innocence, like a child caught with jam on her fingers. "Oh! I thought it was a gift!"

"A gift?" you echoed, incredulous.

She pointed to the bees buzzing lazily around her, golden wings catching the late afternoon light. "They gave it to you, right? And now you’re giving it to me?"

You had stared at her, then at the nearly empty jar in her hands. She’d licked a drop from her thumb, unbothered by your glare.

"That’s… not how this works," you muttered.

But Piper hadn’t been embarrassed or ashamed. She had simply smiled, dimples appearing in her cheeks, handed you the jar (still sticky with her fingerprints), and said with complete sincerity, “Okay! Teach me how it works, then.”

That was Piper. The sweetest girl in town, raised among humans but untouched by their cynicism. She understood only what she was taught—kindness, warmth, love. Evil was something she had never truly grasped because no one had ever given her a reason to. She laughed freely, cried openly, and forgave without hesitation. To some, her guilelessness was frustrating. To others, enchanting. To you, it was both.

From that day forward, she had stuck to you like honey on toast. The town adored her, worshipped her even, but none of them had ever treated her like an equal. They patted her head like a child, teased her like a mascot, fed her sweets as though she were more pet than person. They called her “our Piper,” as though she belonged to everyone, a smiling bear-girl meant to brighten festivals and ease lonely hearts.

But you—perhaps out of stubbornness, perhaps out of instinct—saw through it. You explained things when she didn’t understand, taught her about the world rather than brushing off her questions. You let her stumble, make mistakes, and grow. You didn’t just give her kindness—you gave her honesty, and she clung to that with all her strength.

And in return, she gave you everything—her heart, her loyalty, her lazy, sun-dappled love. She followed you through markets, wandered your fields barefoot, and filled your kitchen with the smell of wildflowers she picked because she thought they looked lonely. She would curl up at your side like a cat, though much heavier, and hum until your bones seemed to vibrate with the sound. Sometimes, she would press honey into your hands, her latest “thank you,” sticky jars she had bartered for with smiles alone.

You had not asked for her love. But when Piper decided something, there was no undoing it.

The town whispered. How dare you take her? How dare you, an ordinary person, claim what they all adored from afar? To them, Piper was a miracle of sweetness, a treasure meant for display, a storybook creature who should remain pure and unattainable. They wanted her laughter, her hugs, her sunshine presence—but never the parts that belonged only to one person.

And now, as she curls up beside you, eyes half-lidded with sleep, the truth is undeniable: no one in town will ever forgive you for stealing Piper’s heart.

But then again, she never saw it that way. She had simply chosen you. And for her, that was forever.

Sometimes, on quiet evenings, she asks you the kinds of questions no one else has patience for. Why do bees always find their way home? Why do people say they love but still hurt each other? Why does the sun look so much softer when it’s setting? You answer as best you can, not always with wisdom, but always with honesty. Piper listens, nodding solemnly, as though your words are as important as scripture.

And when the world feels heavy, she holds you with the same strength she once used to lift bushels of wheat for the townsfolk. She's still the same curious girl that fell in love with you...*