The vinyl squeaks under my weight. The table is slightly sticky with decades of spilled syrup. The jukebox in the corner is playing "Dancing Queen" by ABBA because someone in this town has terrible taste.
But mostly what I notice is the way Jessica's scent fills the small space with traces of my leather and rain from when I held her. Like we're marked on each other now.
My alpha is satisfied by this. Too satisfied.
Rosie appears before we've even settled. She's sixty-three, built like a fire hydrant, with silver hair pulled back in a bun and eyes that miss nothing.
"Sheriff." She sets down two glasses of water without being asked. "And Jessica Delacroix. Heard you were back in town."
Jessica's shoulders tense. Her scent spikes with anxiety. "News travels fast."
"Honey, news travels faster than light in Largo Waters. By now everyone knows you're here, what you're wearing, and how many times you've sneezed since you arrived." Rosie pulls a notepad from her apron pocket. "What can I get you?"
"Two cheeseburgers," I say before Jessica can claim she's not hungry. "Extra pickles on both. Two orders of fries. Two chocolate milkshakes. And whatever pie you've got today."
Rosie scribbles it down. "Apple crumble. Best batch I've made in months."
"Perfect."
She tucks the notepad away and looks at Jessica with something like sympathy. "You need anything else, you just holler. I've got a shotgun under the counter for troublemakers."
Jessica's eyes go wide. "Is that legal?"
"This is Largo Waters, sweetheart. Everything's legal if you don't get caught." Rosie winks and shuffles off toward the kitchen.
Jessica turns to stare at me. "Did she just threaten to shoot someone on my behalf?"
"Rosie takes care of her own."
"I'm not her own. I haven't been here in six years."
“It doesn't matter. You grew up here. That makes you hers." I lean back against the booth. "That's how it works in small towns. You belong to people whether you want to or not."
She's quiet for a moment. Processing. Her fingers trace patterns on the water glass, leaving trails in the condensation. Her scent is settling. Calming. The sharp edge of panic fading into something softer.
"Callum's mother called me today," she says finally.
My jaw tightens. I can feel the muscle jump. "What did she want?"
"She wants me to apologize. Publicly. For having a mental breakdown and ruining her son's wedding."
"Did you have a mental breakdown?"
"No. I made a choice." Her voice is steady now. Stronger. And her scent reflects it. "She wants me to lie. To tell everyone I'm unstable so that Callum looks like the victim instead of the villain."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her to go to hell. In slightly more polite terms." She smiles. "Then I hung up on her."
Something warm blooms in my chest. Pride. She's in there, buried under all that fear and self-doubt. The fierce woman who used to argue politics at our dinner table and beat Carlos at poker and make Pedro laugh even when he was determined to be grumpy.
The woman who used to fall asleep on my shoulder like I was home.
"Good," I say. "You stood up for yourself. That takes courage."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I don't feel courageous. I feel like I'm barely holding on."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
