Page 16 of Falling for My Shifter Defender

"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.

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