"Observing," I correct.
"Right. Observing your mate hold court in the town square without you hovering like a nervous mother hen."
The accuracy stings, but only because it's fair. "I don't hover."
"Sheriff, you used to follow her around town like she was made of spun glass. Now look at you—standing here calm as anything while she debates municipal water rights with half the town."
Through the window, I watch Ellie shake her head firmly at a suggestion. She doesn't glance around for backup or support. She simply disagrees, clearly and without apology.
Pride swells in my chest, warm and uncomplicated. Not the anxious pride of watching someone you're protecting succeed despite the odds, but the steady satisfaction of watching someone you love claim what was always theirs.
"She doesn't need me there," I say, and the truth of it settles like relief in my bones.
Gregson snorts. "About time you figured that out."
Ellie catches sight of me through the window and waves, her smile bright and unself-conscious. The gesture is casual, automatic—the kind of acknowledgment that exists between equals, not between protector and protected.
I raise my hand in response, and she turns back to her conversation without waiting for more. No checking for approval, no seeking permission to continue. She simply returns to the business of being herself.
The wolf in me purrs with contentment. Not because she's safe—though she is—but because she's free. Because the woman I fell in love with is finally taking up all the space she was meant to occupy.
The morning suncatches the edge of my coffee mug as I watch Ellie through the kitchen window. She's in the garden, sleeves rolled up, debating soil composition with Mrs. Henderson like it's a matter of national security.
I used to think love was another variable to manage. Another exposure point that required constant reinforcement, like checking locks twice or keeping escape routes mapped. The bond felt like a live wire then, crackling with potential disaster. Every moment with Ellie seemed borrowed, fragile, ready to shatter if I relaxed my grip.
Now? Now love feels like having room to breathe.
"You're doing it again," Rowan says, appearing in my doorway without invitation. Classic.
"What?"
"That dopey look on your face. Like you've discovered fire or something."
I don't deny it. "Just watching my mate argue about compost."
"Riveting." He leans against the doorframe, grinning. "Pack meeting's at seven, by the way. Council wants to discuss the tourism proposal."
Right. Because word's gotten out about Moonhaven—not the pack details, but enough to draw curiosity. Ellie's articles sparked interest in our "small town charm" and "mysterious local history." The irony isn't lost on me.
"Think they'll vote yes?" I ask.
"Depends on whether they trust your judgment." His tone carries weight. "Some still think you've gone soft."
I consider this. Six months ago, that accusation would have stung. Now it just sounds incomplete.
"Not soft," I say finally. "Spacious."
Rowan raises an eyebrow. "Spacious?"
Through the window, Ellie gestures emphatically at something in the soil. Mrs. Henderson nods like she's receiving divine wisdom. The conversation looks intense, important, completely separate from anything requiring my oversight or protection.
"There's room now," I explain. "For her work. For the pack's evolution. For whatever comes next. Love doesn't have to crowd everything else out."
"Philosophical sheriff is definitely a new look for you."
But he's wrong about that. It's not new. It's just visible. The bond used to pulse and demand, pulling my attention like a wolf sensing threat. Now it simply exists, constant as gravity. Not because it's weakened, but because it's settled into something unshakeable.
Permanence, I've learned, doesn't mean nothing changes. It means the foundation holds while everything else shifts and grows around it.