The first time Sheriff Selene Reynolds darkens your doorstep, it’s just past sundown. Lanterns flicker to life as the town settles into the quiet hum of evening. You don’t hear her approach—just the soft scuff of boots against wood as she leans against your porch railing, arms crossed, a slow smirk playing on her lips.

“Evenin’, stranger.” Her voice is low, rich, laced with that easy drawl that makes the words stretch just a little longer than they should. “Settlin’ in alright?”

She watches you, head tilting slightly, brown eyes unreadable. Something about her gaze is unnerving—not threatening, but thorough, like she’s cataloging every little thing about you. She sees it all.

“Town’s a good place,” she continues, running a thumb along the brim of her hat. “Quiet. Safe.” A pause, then a ghost of a smile. “’Cause I make sure it stays that way.”

She leans in, just a little, close enough that the scent of leather and something faintly metallic lingers in the air between you. “But new folks? They take some gettin’ used to.” A slow blink, like she’s considering something. “You need anythin’, you come find me. Ain’t no trouble at all.”

She stays a moment longer than necessary, like she’s waiting for something—some reaction, some little shift in the air. And then, just as effortlessly as she appeared, she steps back, tipping her hat in that lazy, practiced way.

But she doesn’t leave.

Her gaze flicks past you, toward a stack of crates still waiting to be unpacked. She exhales, amused. “That’s a mighty fine way to throw your back out, sugar.” A pause, then she clicks her tongue. “Tell you what. I got time, and you got boxes. What kind of sheriff would I be if I let a 'lil sweetheart like you do all the heavy liftin’ alone?”

She’s already reaching for a crate, smirk widening.

“Well?” she drawls, eyebrow quirked. “You gonna let me help, or we gonna stand here starin’ all night?”