Willow runs back to us, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She holds out a pinecone, offering it to Eli like a treasure. "Look what I found!"
To my surprise, Eli kneels down to her level, accepting the pinecone with exaggerated reverence. "This is a perfect one," he says seriously. "Where did you find it?"
Willow points proudly to a cluster of pine trees. "Over there! There are lots more, but this one's the biggest."
"It's excellent," Eli agrees. "Should we keep it as the official First Pinecone of the Sanctuary?"
Willow giggles, delighted by the idea. "Yes! We can put it in a special place when the buildings are done."
"Deal." Eli tucks the pinecone carefully into his jacket pocket, then rises to his feet.
Something in my chest aches at the exchange—the casual kindness, the way he treats her words with genuine consideration. Willow beams up at him before running off again, chasing a leaf caught in the breeze.
"She's a great kid," Eli says quietly, watching her go.
"She is," I agree, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "She deserves better than what I've been able to give her."
Eli's gaze shifts to me, his expression unreadable. "You've kept her safe. That's no small thing."
I shake my head. "Safe, but always running. Always afraid." I gesture to the clearing around us. "I'd like her to have this—a real home, someday. Somewhere she doesn't have to look over her shoulder."
"That's what the Sanctuary is meant to be," Eli says. "Not just a safe place for supernaturals, but for anyone who's been hurt, hunted, or lost." His voice softens. "Everyone deserves somewhere they can exhale."
The conviction in his voice catches me off guard. "I'd like to live here," I admit quietly. "When it's finished."
Eli doesn't smile, but there's a warmth in his voice when he says, "I'd like that too."
We watch Willow in silence for a moment, her laughter carrying across the clearing as she skips through the tall grass.
"The offer stands," Eli says finally. "You can stay at my place as long as you need. No pressure. No timeline."
I should refuse. I should insist we find our own place, maintain our independence. But watching Willow, seeing her truly happy for the first time in months, weakens my resolve.
My instincts have kept us safe these past two years.
I've learned to trust that quiet voice inside me—the one that whispers when danger is near, when it's time to run.
And right now, that same voice is telling me something entirely different.
It's telling me that Eli is safe. That this place could be safe.
I'm so tired. Tired of running, tired of looking over my shoulder, tired of teaching Willow to fear the world instead of embrace it.
The Sanctuary might be just a dream right now, stakes in the ground and blueprints on paper, but it represents everything I've wanted since the night we fled—a place where Willow can grow up without fear, where she can learn about her shifter heritage without hiding who she is.
"Okay," I say, the word barely audible. "But just until I get a job and find a place of our own."
Eli nods, accepting my terms without argument.
On the drive back, he swings through a local fast-food drive-thru without warning. "Anyone hungry?"
"Yes!" Willow exclaims from the back seat.
"We just had breakfast," I protest.
Eli shrugs. "Growing kids need fuel. And their guardians need fries."
Before I can argue further, he's ordering—fries, milkshakes, chicken nuggets for Willow. I try to reach for my wallet, but he waves me off.
"It's not a big deal," he says, passing the bag to me after paying.
The warm weight of it in my lap feels like a luxury I don't deserve. Willow happily munches on nuggets in the back seat, and Eli sips his milkshake as he drives, looking completely at ease.
I take a fry, savoring the salt and grease. It's been so long since I've had fast food—a frivolous expense when every dollar counts. The simple pleasure of it makes my throat tight.
"Thank you," I say, the words inadequate.
Eli glances at me, then back at the road. "You're welcome."
Three simple words, but they settle something in me—a quiet acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, it's okay to accept help sometimes.
That night, after Willow is tucked into bed in the guest room, I find myself lingering in Eli's kitchen. He made tea without asking if I wanted any, simply setting a steaming mug in front of me before turning to wash the dinner dishes.
I wrap my hands around the mug, savoring the warmth. The silence between us is comfortable, not awkward—the kind that exists between people who don't need to fill the space with words.
Eli stands at the sink, rinsing plates, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He moves with an easy confidence, completely at home in his own space. The muscles in his arms flex as he works, and I find my gaze drawn to the strong line of his shoulders, the casual grace of his movements.
He looks... good. Too good.
I catch myself staring and quickly look away, but not before a flush of heat rises to my cheeks. It's been so long since I've let myself notice a man this way—since I've felt anything beyond wariness or distrust.
But there's something about Eli that draws my eye, that makes my pulse quicken despite my best efforts to remain detached.
He turns, catching me mid-thought, and I drop my gaze to my tea. If he notices my discomfort, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he simply holds out a clean dish towel.
"You don't have to help," he says. "But I won't stop you."
I manage a tight smile, taking the towel from him. Our fingers brush for the briefest moment, and I ignore the spark of awareness that shoots through me.
We work in silence, him washing, me drying. It's a simple domestic routine, but it feels foreign to me—this quiet partnership, this shared task. I can't remember the last time I stood beside someone like this, comfortable enough to simply exist in the same space.
It terrifies me how easily I could get used to this.
As I place the last dried plate in the cabinet, I realize what scares me most isn't the possibility of being hurt again. It's the possibility of hoping again—of believing that maybe, just maybe, we could have something like this. A home. Safety. Someone to stand beside me at the end of the day.
"Thank you," I say abruptly, hanging the towel on its hook. "For everything today."
Eli leans against the counter, studying me with those perceptive eyes. "You're welcome."
I should go to bed. I should walk away before I do something foolish, like tell him how his kindness makes my chest ache, or how scared I am of wanting more than I should.
Instead, I linger, caught in his gaze, aware of every breath between us.
"Goodnight, Grace," he says finally, his voice low.
"Goodnight," I whisper, and force myself to walk away before I can change my mind.