Eli
I can't sit still.
My wolf paces beneath my skin, restless in a way that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with the woman and her little half-shifter sister who've turned my quiet cabin into something that finally feels like a home.
My wolf knows what my human side is still processing—Grace is our mate.
The certainty of it hums in my blood, a truth as undeniable as the moon's pull.
But Grace isn't ready to hear that. Hell, I'm barely ready to admit it to myself.
Grace is at her first day working for Theo's security company, and Willow is spending the afternoon with Jenna and the other women of Whispering Pines. For the first time in days, I have the place to myself.
And I hate it.
The silence that used to comfort me now feels hollow. There's no little girl asking endless questions about shifters, no quiet footsteps of Grace moving through the kitchen, no scent of coffee brewing or crayons on paper.
"This is pathetic," I mutter to myself, grabbing my keys. "They've been here less than a week."
But my wolf doesn't care about timeframes. It recognizes what's happening even if I'm reluctant to name it. These two—the fierce, guarded woman and her bright-eyed little sister—they belong here. With me. And every part of me wants them to stay.
I drive into town with purpose, parking outside the small shopping center that serves Whispering Pines. Inside, I move with uncharacteristic focus, filling a cart with items I've mentally cataloged over the past few days. A proper dresser for Grace, since she's still living out of a duffel bag.
A small bookshelf for Willow's growing collection of library books.
A nightlight shaped like a crescent moon.
Pantry staples I've noticed Grace reaching for—cinnamon for her coffee, a specific brand of pasta, the honey she stirs into Willow's tea when the little girl can't sleep.
I pause in front of a display of throw blankets, running my fingers over a soft lavender one. Grace wraps herself in the threadbare one from the couch every night, curling into the corner with a book. This one is plush, comforting. I add it to the cart.
At the craft store, I find a watercolor paint set that makes me think of Willow's wide-eyed fascination with colors. At the nursery next door, a small potted plant with delicate green leaves catches my eye. Something alive. Something rooted.
Every choice is deliberate. Every item is a quiet invitation: stay .
I pick up Grace's coffee mug from the counter where she left it this morning, my thumb brushing over the lipstick mark on the rim. The faint scent of her lingers on it—vanilla and something uniquely hers. Something that makes my chest tighten with a longing I haven't felt in years. Maybe ever.
I set the mug down, suddenly aware of how much I'm crossing my own carefully drawn lines. I've never been the type to get attached. To want someone to stay. But with Grace and Willow, everything is different.
???
By the time I hear Grace's car in the driveway, I've arranged everything with careful casualness. The dresser is assembled in her room, the bookshelf in Willow's. The other items are still in their bags, waiting on the kitchen counter.
The front door opens, and Willow bursts in first, her face flushed with excitement.
"Eli! Miss Jenna taught me how to make friendship bracelets, and I made one for you!" She bounds over, thrusting a woven band of blue and green threads toward me. "It matches your eyes!"
I kneel down, accepting the gift with exaggerated reverence. "This is the best present I've ever gotten," I tell her, and I'm not even lying. I slip it onto my wrist, and her face lights up.
Grace follows more slowly, setting her bag on the counter. She looks tired but satisfied, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. There's a smudge of ink on her cheek that she hasn't noticed.
"How was work?" I ask, straightening.
"Good." She offers a small smile. "Theo's actually letting me reorganize their entire filing system. It's a disaster."
"Sounds like you're having fun," I tease.
She rolls her eyes, but the smile lingers. "It's nice to be useful."
I start pulling ingredients from the fridge. "Hungry?"
"Starving," Willow announces, climbing onto a stool at the counter. "Can I help?"
"Absolutely." I hand her a colander of green beans. "Can you snap the ends off these?"
She nods solemnly, taking the task with complete seriousness.
Grace watches us for a moment, something unreadable in her expression, before she moves to wash her hands. "I'll help with the chicken."
We work together in easy rhythm, moving around each other in the small kitchen. Her arm brushes mine as she reaches for a knife, and I catch the slight hitch in her breath. We both pause for a fraction of a second before continuing as if nothing happened.
Willow chatters about her day, about the women who showed her how to braid hair and the cookies they baked. Grace interjects occasionally, asking questions, while I flip the chicken in the skillet.
"Miss Hannah said she could show me how to shift when I'm older," Willow says, eyes bright with excitement.
I notice Grace's hand tighten around her glass, her knuckles whitening. She sets it down with a too-careful motion, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "That's nice of her, baby. But we don't know when that will happen."
Willow's face falls slightly. "But I want to learn. Miss Hannah says I should be able to soon."
"We'll see," Grace says, her voice tight. She glances at the window, a habit I've noticed—always checking, always watching. For a moment, her guard is fully up, the carefree atmosphere of our kitchen evaporating.
When we sit down to eat, I deliberately keep the conversation light, steering away from topics that might trigger Grace's anxiety. But Willow, with a child's innocent persistence, circles back.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, eyes wide. "Turning into a wolf?"
"The first few times, it can be uncomfortable," I admit. "But your body was made to do it. It's like—" I search for a comparison she'll understand. "Like stretching when you've been sitting too long. It might pull a little, but then it feels right."
Grace is quiet, pushing food around her plate. I can tell she's worried about Willow's inevitable first shift. Most shifter children start showing signs around seven or eight—exactly Willow's age.
"What does it feel like?" Willow persists. "Inside your head, I mean. Are you still you?"
I consider this, aware of Grace's stillness. "You're always you," I say carefully. "Your wolf isn't separate—it's part of who you are. The instincts might feel stronger, but they're yours."
Grace's fork clinks against her plate as she sets it down. "I think that's enough shifter talk for dinner," she says, her voice gentle but firm.
I catch her eye, offering a small nod of understanding. She relaxes marginally, and the meal continues.
After dinner, while Grace helps Willow wash up, I clear my throat. "Got a couple things while you were out."
I bring out the items: the slippers, the blanket, the paint set. Willow squeals in delight, immediately tearing into the art supplies.
"Look, Grace! Watercolors! Can I paint right now? Please?"
I watch Grace's face, seeing the moment her expression shifts. She goes very still, her hands freezing mid-motion as she dries a plate. Something flickers in her eyes—not anger, but a complicated mixture of gratitude and fear.
"These are beautiful," she says softly, fingers trailing over the soft blanket. Then her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. She swallows, and when she speaks again, her voice is careful. "But you didn't have to do this. We don't—we can't accept so much."
I sense the real message beneath her words. This isn't about the gifts themselves—it's about what they represent. Permanence. Belonging. Things she's afraid to claim.
"It's not charity," I say gently. "It's just... I noticed what you both needed. That's all."
Her eyes meet mine, vulnerable in a way I haven't seen before. "Eli..."
"And they're yours," I continue, keeping my voice casual. "Because you're here now."
Something in her expression shutters. The walls come up so quickly I can almost hear them slam into place. "We're not—" she begins, then stops, glancing at Willow. When she continues, her voice is barely above a whisper. "We're not staying. Not permanently."
The words lack conviction, as if she's trying to remind herself more than inform me.
I set the blanket down carefully. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"It's just..." Grace crosses her arms, a defensive gesture I recognize all too well. "These things—they're so... permanent. Like we belong here."
"Don't we belong here?" Willow asks, looking up from the paintbrushes with confusion in her eyes. "I thought we were going to live in Whispering Pines now."
Grace kneels beside her sister. "We are staying in Whispering Pines, sweetie. But this is Eli's home. We can't impose forever."
"But I like it here," Willow insists, her lower lip trembling slightly. "With Eli."
I clear my throat. "You're not imposing. You know that, right? This place has never felt more like a home than it does with you two in it."
Grace shakes her head, not meeting my eyes. "That's kind of you, but we need our own place eventually. Our own life."
"Our own life can include Eli," Willow says with a child's simple logic. Her voice rises with emotion. "Why do we always have to leave the people we like?"
Willow freezes, her small shoulders rising as she senses the tension crackling between us. Her fingers tighten around the paintbrush. "I like it here," she whispers again, not looking up.
Grace's mouth opens—maybe to say something, maybe to apologize—but Willow lets out a small, choked gasp. Her little body trembles. Her eyes flash amber in the kitchen light.
"Willow?" I keep my voice calm, steady, even as adrenaline surges through me.