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Hearts woven in threads || Paul Lahote x Fem!Reader

A/N: English is not my native language, so I apologize in advance for any typos. I hope you enjoy! AI-revised translation*

masterlist || Hearts woven in threads

Chapter 10

The house was dark when you arrived.

The balcony light was still on, throwing a warm, weak glow over the front door. No sound came from inside.

Lexie had already left. You knew that before you even turned the handle.

You entered slowly, closing the door with as little noise as possible, as if silence were something that could shatter. You left the keys on the sideboard and tossed the bag onto the sofa.

You stood there for a few seconds, listening to your own breathing and the muffled chirp of crickets outside—until your phone vibrated in your hand, the screen lighting up.

Paul. "I'm on patrol. I'll be back soon. Is everything okay?"

You stared at the message too long.

Typing slowly, you replied: "I'm fine."

Too rude. He was worried about you.

You deleted it and rewrote: "Spent the afternoon with Emily. She needed help with some things. My phone died."

You reread it, as if it were a disguised confession, then pressed send.

Upstairs, everything in the bedroom was just as you'd left it. You closed the door, undressed slowly, and stepped into the shower. The water took forever to warm up—and when it did, you realized you were still cold.

Cold.

Something you hadn't felt in weeks, maybe months.

The burn on your hand throbbed under the water. You cleaned it carefully, reapplied Emily's ointment, and bandaged it again, hiding yet another mark your body refused to heal quickly.

After the shower, you pulled on a long-sleeved shirt. For the first time in ages, it felt necessary.

In the bedroom, lamplight cast meek shadows across the walls, the silence thick as syrup. You lay down, hair damp, skin cooling under the fabric.

The idea pulsed in your skull, filling spaces without permission. No more doubt. It made sense now, even if uncomfortably. You knew what was happening—just not what it meant.

You couldn't imagine living it. Not fully. It felt distant, like it was happening to some other version of you.

Thinking of Paul made your chest tighten. Not because you feared his reaction, but because you'd never talked about it. Never opened that door. Never put that future on the table. And that—more than anything—made it heavy.

You didn't know if he wanted it.

Honestly? You didn't know if you did either.

You turned onto your side, seeking comfort where none existed. Closed your eyes, unsure if you wanted sleep or escape. And as the house held its breath around you, one truth crystallized:

It wasn't time to say it aloud.

The dawn dragged on.

Sleep came in short bursts, too light to bring any real rest. You woke at every shift—by a noise from the street, by a memory flashing through your mind like lightning, by your own body, which seemed to stir restlessly from within.

It was nearly morning when you heard the front door open with a discreet creak, followed by the muffled sound of Paul's footsteps climbing the stairs.

The sky outside had already begun to pale. A dim light slipped through the slats of the window blinds. You were still lying down, facing sideways, eyes half-open, not knowing if you wanted him to come in quietly or call your name.

When the door opened slowly, no words came. Paul stepped inside like someone trying not to disturb your sleep.

Assuming you were still asleep, he remained quiet. Only the soft rustle of clothes being taken off was heard, followed by the sound of the shower turning on in the bedroom's bathroom.

The water ran for a few minutes. You didn't move, eyes still fixed on the wall, your breathing steady but deliberate. You weren't sure why you were pretending.

When he came back, his bare footsteps barely whispering against the floor, Paul lay down on the bed beside you.

You shifted slightly, like someone waking slowly, and turned toward him. Your eyes met—and he realized you were awake.

— Are you okay? — he asked, his voice low, carrying more weight than he let show.

— I didn't feel well earlier. Thought it was better to rest. I should've told you, I know. — Your voice came out soft, almost like a whispered apology.

Paul nodded slowly, shoulders still tense from the night patrol.

— Sam mentioned you didn't show up today — he said it like passing on a detail, without emphasis.

You looked away for a moment, then met his eyes again.

— I talked to Emily... ended up staying with her for a while. My phone died. That's all.

He didn't doubt you. Or if he did, he didn't show it.

— I was worried — he murmured, his gaze lingering on you a little longer.

— I'm sorry — you whispered, moving closer to him, pulling the blanket aside and snuggling against his body, like someone trying to curl up inside something familiar.

He wrapped his arm around your waist with that particular care he only used when he sensed something was off, even if he didn't quite know what.

His warmth was comforting. It always had been. But now you felt the contrast more clearly—his heat pressing against your skin felt more intense... or maybe it was your body that no longer held warmth the same way.

With your eyes closed and your head resting against his chest, you exhaled softly:

— I didn't sleep well tonight...

He just kissed the top of your head, the way he always did, in that nearly automatic gesture of affection. But in that moment, Paul noticed something.

He didn't say anything. Didn't move. Just stayed there, quietly, feeling your body colder than it used to be.

And he kept that detail to himself.

The days that followed were quiet—at least on the surface. Inside, nothing felt silent anymore. Nothing felt simple.

You hadn't told Paul yet.

And with each passing day, the weight of it grew.

At first, it felt like you could wait. Breathe. Understand things on your own.

But the hardest thing to hide was the fatigue—not the normal kind. This was the kind that dragged at you from the inside out. Phasing didn't come as easily. And when it did, it made you slower, more vulnerable. More... human. And Paul noticed.

He didn't say it, but you saw it in his eyes. In the way he, as a wolf, would slow down—wait for you—something that would've been unthinkable before. You were fast. You always had been.

Now, not even that.

You started pulling away, little by little. Guarding your thoughts, avoiding certain glances, measuring your words more carefully than you were used to. You knew that if you lowered your guard around him—or the pack—everything would come out. And you weren't ready yet.

Still, even if he didn't know exactly what was going on, he felt it. In the way you went silent mid-sentence. In the way you looked away when he tried to reach you deeper.

Your excuses stopped working on him. Each day that passed, Paul grew more unsettled by the distance forming between you. You avoided him during the day, and after patrols, you always found a way to leave before or after him—with a different excuse every time.

The symptoms only grew over time. The dizziness became more frequent, harder to hide. He didn't ask, but it was clear how disoriented he felt. Everything in you seemed to pull back.

The connection between you—once instinctive, alive, almost physical—now felt muffled. Still there, but buried under something he couldn't name.

That morning, Sam let you off early from patrol. And you didn't hesitate. You left before Paul even arrived, leaving a short note on the kitchen counter, saying you were going to visit your mother and would be back soon.

Paul found the note when he got home. He read it in silence, then stood still for a few seconds, exhaling deeply. There was no anger on his face—just a restlessness growing more visible by the day. You had been slipping away, piece by piece—and he knew it.

But the day with your mother took more out of you than you thought it would. You were exhausted, inside and out. Still, you forced lightness that didn't feel real, laughed at the right times, spoke with the careful tone of someone stepping over thin ice.

Your mother, however, knew you too well. Every time she looked at you for too long or said something like "there's something different about you," you swallowed hard. The worst part was that she didn't seem worried—she seemed happy. As if she'd noticed something good.

And before you left, she smiled and said you looked different. "Prettier," she said. "There's something there. A light in your face."

You just smiled. You didn't know how to answer.

Because you didn't feel pretty. Or alive. Or lit from within.

You just felt tired. And, somehow, even more alone.

The ride back felt longer than usual. The dark road stretched endlessly ahead, and your body resisted the idea of returning. You knew you had to—the newborns would come in the morning, and there was still patrol that night. But something in you hesitated. It wasn't just the exhaustion. It was a silent, deeper resistance—as if every fiber of your body wanted to stay far away from whatever came next.

That's when the phone buzzed in the passenger seat.

You reached out slowly, your cold fingers hesitating before picking it up. His name lit up the screen.

Paul.

You answered on the second ring.

— Hello?

On the other end, his voice was dry. Firm. No greeting. No softening what he was holding back.

— Where are you?

You kept your voice calm, almost rehearsed.

— I'm on my way back... I went to see my mother.

There was a pause. Dense. Heavy. Like he was trying to decide what was worse—what you said, or what you didn't.

— I saw the note — he replied, his voice low, but rougher now.

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. The road ahead stretched on and on, an endless straight line.

— I thought it'd be enough — you said in a whisper you weren't sure he'd even hear.

Paul took a deep breath.

— I thought you were going to stay home today.

You looked up at the sky darkening between the branches.

— I needed to go.

He didn't answer right away. And when he did, the tone was different.

— Do you know how close your mother lives to Seattle? — The question came quiet, sharp.

You didn't answer, because he was right. But your pride had already taken hold of you. You didn't want anyone else telling you what to do. You would follow all of Sam's orders that night, but during the day, you needed to breathe.

— We should be avoiding the area. — His voice now sounded like a mix of frustration and fear. — And you went. Alone.

— I know, Paul. — You cut in, tighter now. — I know.

On the other side of the line, his silence stretched. Paul didn't usually sit in silence like that. He always said what he felt — even if it came out rough, even if it lacked tact. But now, he held it all in — and that silence hurt more than any fight.

Paul wasn't the kind to hesitate. And maybe that's why, when he finally spoke again, his voice came softer, more controlled, almost vulnerable.

— Are you okay?

The question was simple, but you felt how much it carried — everything he didn't know, everything that had been building between you these past weeks.

— I'm... yeah, I am — you replied, not too firmly, not wanting to lie completely. Just enough for him, maybe, to accept it.

Another beat of silence. Then he murmured:

— You've been distant.

It wasn't an accusation. There was no anger. Just a quiet observation. And that hurt more than any charge.

You were still driving, but you no longer felt your feet on the pedals. The road blurred in front of you, and the only real sound was his breathing — steady, like a thread tethering you to the moment, however thin.

You wanted to tell him. You wanted to so badly.

That you were pregnant. That there was another heart beating inside you now. That even without fully understanding what that meant, one truth had become clear: he needed to know. You needed him to be more careful, to think twice before throwing himself at any newborn. Because the fear that had already taken root now felt unbearable.

The idea of losing him crushed you.

That was the lump in your throat. That was what you wanted to say — and couldn't. The battle would begin in a few hours, and this could be the last real conversation you had. But the words refused to cross that boundary between thought and speech.

— Paul...

He was silent, waiting. So instead of all the weight inside you, all the truth he deserved, you just whispered:

— I love you.

It was quiet, sincere, almost trembling. It came from the most exhausted part of you. And even though it was true, there was urgency behind it, like you were trying to make up for everything you hadn't said.

His answer didn't come quickly. But when it did, it was soft, steady, and filled with a sincerity that almost unraveled you.

— I love you too.

You closed your eyes for a moment, your heart beating off-rhythm but still slow.

— I'll meet you at Emily's — you murmured, eyes returning to the road, as if you could convince yourself it was just another night.

Paul didn't say anything. He just let out a brief sound of agreement and hung up.

When the call ended, Paul remained still, the phone still in his hand, the screen already dark. The silence around him felt strange after that conversation.

Until now, all he'd felt from you was distance. But now there was something more. The fear buried in your voice echoed in his bones, waking something primitive inside him.

And that was unbearable.

When you arrived at Emily's house, the silence in the car felt heavier than the one outside. For a moment, you just sat there, the engine off, seatbelt loose across your chest, hands still on the wheel. The headlights cast a faint glow ahead, illuminating part of the garden.

You didn't move.

The cold seat beneath you clashed with the lingering warmth still wrapped around you from the conversation with Paul. It was as if, while you stayed inside the car, time could pause. As if you still had room to avoid what was coming.

Outside, the porch light spilled a soft, yellow glow. Welcoming. But you hesitated — because inside was Emily and the truth you'd been avoiding for days.

Only after long seconds — maybe minutes — did you finally inhale deeply, unclicked your belt, and opened the door with a soft push.

You crossed the small garden. The cold had already settled and now you felt it more sharply — not just on your skin, but deeper.

Even after closing the wooden door behind you, the house's warmth didn't seem to reach.

Your boots tapped softly on the wood floor, the sound briefly filling the quiet space. Emily appeared in the kitchen, smiling when she saw you. She wore a simple apron, her hands damp as she dried them on a dish towel hanging beside the sink.

— I thought you'd get here later — she said with her usual calm, no pressure in her tone, just a gentle surprise.

You set your keys on the entry table, placing your bag beside them.

— I went to visit my mom — you replied, your voice tired. — Decided to come straight here.

She nodded, her gaze lingering a little longer, like someone who wasn't in a rush but noticed more than she let on.

— And how was it?

You shrugged, walking toward the kitchen.

— She always thinks there's something off about me — you said with a small smile, trying to sound light. — Today wasn't any different.

— And was there? — The question came soft but with weight.

You stopped by the sink, filling a glass of water. You did everything you could to keep your expression neutral.

— I'm fine. Just tired.

Emily didn't answer right away. She just watched you drink the water in silence, her eyes sharp but kind.

— You know... — she began, her voice lower now — I know it's not my place to push. But... don't you think it's already getting hard to hide?

You stayed facing the window, watching the curtain sway slowly.

— Emily...

— I'm just worried — she said, softer now. — About you. And about him too.

You turned around slowly, resting your back against the sink, arms crossing in a gesture of quiet defense.

— He doesn't know. And maybe that's for the best. For now.

— He'll notice — she said gently. — Paul knows you better than anyone. And you... you're not hiding it like you used to.

You let out a long breath, heavy and drawn.

— I just need a little more time — you said, almost in a whisper. — Just a little.

Emily nodded, but didn't step back.

— What if this isn't just about telling him? — she said, her tone firmer now. — What if the real problem is that you're planning to go into that fight tomorrow?

You frowned, confused.

— What are you talking about?

She hesitated, then spoke with the same quiet firmness that had grown through the conversation.

— You have a baby inside you. I don't know how much you've really thought about that... but this kind of stress, this level of risk... maybe it's not worth it right now. Maybe you shouldn't go.

The discomfort hit instantly.

— I can't let Paul go alone — you said, sharper than you meant to. — I can't hide.

Emily didn't back down. But she didn't press harder either.

— If you still don't want to tell him, that's okay — she said without looking directly at you, focused on rearranging platters on the counter. Her voice was soft, but every word landed with weight. — But maybe Sam should know.

You stayed by the sink, your eyes lost on some point along the wall. The water still clung cold to your hands. Your stomach twisted — not from nausea, but something deeper.

— I can't — your answer came out barely audible.

Emily didn't push. She just kept moving quietly, giving you space.

And you went on.

— He'll pull me from the front line. He'll tell everyone. He'll take Paul out too. And... — you swallowed hard, your voice cracking — I can't let that happen right now. I just can't.

The silence afterward was thick. Not uncomfortable. Just full — as if something important had finally been spoken.

Emily sighed slowly. Then, without sugarcoating, but with a kind of tenderness she only used when she truly cared:

— I'm just saying... if it ever gets to a point where you can't... I'll speak for you.

You closed your eyes briefly, as if her words pressed somewhere too deep to absorb. There was no anger. Just the desperate wish to not be the one making this choice. To not have to carry the weight of the decision.

— No, Em — you murmured, gaze still locked somewhere near the sink. — Not yet.

Emily studied you in silence for a few seconds. Her eyes soft. Understanding. She gave a small nod.

— All right.

There was no judgment. Just that protective kind of care — the kind that made it clear she was with you, even when you didn't know where to stand.

And then, as if the universe gave a small reprieve, the door creaked behind you. Seth stepped in, distracted, hair windblown from the cold, face relaxed as always.

— You can smell the food from outside — he said, unaware of the conversation that had just ended.

Emily turned to him with a brief smile, and you used the moment to pull yourself back together. You let the breath out slowly, like you were trying to exhale everything you still didn't have the courage to say.

But the weight didn't disappear.

It just sank deeper.

You moved your body away from the bench, and pretended normality as you walked toward the living room. Seth approached Emily, said something you didn't fully catch, and the two of them became busy in the kitchen with the last dinner preparations.

You sat on the couch, your legs crossed, your body slightly tilted forward, trying to look present. Leah and Quil arrived shortly after, and the house truly came to life. But you still felt suspended, as if the floor beneath your feet was always a little too far away.

Between the voices in the kitchen and the steps going in and out of Emily's house, your mind returned, from time to time, to the way she said it. "You have a baby in there." The phrase kept reverberating inside you, as if it had been spoken in a much louder tone than it really was.

You hadn't answered at the time, but now, alone with your own thoughts, it seemed more present than ever.

It wasn't enough to make you change your mind. You would still go. You had to go. There was no possible universe in which Paul would face that without you by his side.

But there was, for the first time, a fear that wasn't only for him. Or for the pack. Or for you.

It was because of the little mystery you carried inside your body.

The idea of putting it at risk was absurd, but what part of that situation wasn't? Nothing made sense, and yet everything felt too real. You still didn't feel ready to say it out loud, but you couldn't pretend it didn't exist anymore.

Outside, the wind blew through the trees as if whispering warnings, but inside, Emily's kitchen was a small haven of light and cozy smells.

The noise of the voices was low and rhythmic. Emily set the table with automatic delicacy, her apron tied at the waist and her hair pinned in a rush. Seth was already serving himself, chewing as if it were the last meal in the world. Quil talked too much, Embry laughed too loud. For a moment, it seemed that everything was normal.

You were sitting at the table when Paul came in. There was no surprise — he already knew you would go straight there — but his eyes landed on you with more intensity than usual, as if trying to confirm with his gaze what your voice, hours earlier, still hadn't.

You held his gaze for a moment and tried to smile. Small, contained. He smiled back, but there was tiredness in his expression. He hadn't slept much — you knew that. Part of it was the stress of the imminent battle. Part of it... was you.

Paul sat next to you, his leg lightly touching yours under the table.

— Seth, are you going to leave something for us? — he teased, pulling a general laugh.

— I'm growing! — Seth replied with his mouth full, earning a reproachful look from Emily.

You picked up the fork slowly, stirring the food more than really eating. You didn't want to look strange, but your stomach was still unstable.

Under the table, you lightly touched Paul's hand, searching for his fingers as if by instinct. He held yours almost at the same moment, without taking his eyes off the ongoing conversation, but squeezing firmly.

When you finally looked at him, he looked at you too. And in that look, you tried to say what you still couldn't. Paul arched his eyebrow slightly, like someone who wanted to ask what was going on in your head, but just held your gaze for another second before lowering his eyes to the food again.

— Sam will pass out the positions soon — Embry said in a lower tone, less relaxed than before.

— They'll come in the morning, according to Jake — Quil added, with a more serious expression than usual. — So tonight is for waiting.

— And preparation. — Paul said, without hesitation. His voice came out firm, determined, but there was a weight behind it.

Soon after, Sam walked in. His presence always imposed respect, and as expected, the conversations stopped instantly.

— Jacob is already with Bella at the highest point of the north trail — he started, straight to the point. Then he looked at you. — You'll join them during the night. I want you there all night.

Your chest tightened. You just nodded.

— Seth goes up at dawn to replace Jacob — Sam continued. — Until then, you hold the point.

Paul didn't say anything, but the grip on your hand under the table grew tighter.

You dropped the fork. Your appetite was gone for good.

Then you leaned closer to Paul, resting your head discreetly on his shoulder while Sam continued giving instructions to the others. It was a small gesture, but it brought with it a silent truce.

Emily, from the end of the table, watched. The smile she gave was brief, half sad, half cheering for something that perhaps only she knew how fragile it was.

And yet, no one there said anything.

The food cooled on the plates. Time moved forward.

You didn't know if that would be the last night before the war or the last of so many other things you still didn't have the courage to name.

You stood from the table slowly, still feeling the warmth of Paul's hand in yours. He let go last, as if not wanting to interrupt that connection, as if the gesture could keep you both grounded for one more second in what still felt familiar.

Outside, the sky was completely dark now. Emily turned off the kitchen lights one by one, Seth laughed at something with Quil, trying to ease the mood, and Embry spoke to Sam in a lower tone.

You were heading toward the door when you felt a presence behind you. It was Paul. He reached you with quiet steps, and for a moment you both stood side by side near the entrance, where the wood of the house hissed softly from the night wind slipping through a crack.

He didn't speak right away. He just looked at you.

You felt it and you saw it. The doubt deep in his eyes. The concern. The fear.

— Are you really going to stay up there? — he finally asked, his voice lower than usual.

— Yes, I will — you replied, without hesitation, trying to smile.

Paul nodded, but it didn't seem to calm him.

— I wish I could go up with you — he murmured, looking away for a second. — Part of me doesn't want to leave you alone.

Your chest tightened. For a moment, you thought about telling him. Thought about saying he wasn't being paranoid, that there really was something — that there was a reason for all of it. But it wasn't the time. Not there.

— I won't be alone. Jacob will be there too... and you'll be nearby.

Paul didn't answer right away. His gaze remained firm, as if looking for some certainty in you that he couldn't find. So you lifted your chin and added in a lighter tone, almost joking:

— Just... be careful — you smiled gently — and don't do anything stupid.

It was your attempt to lighten the moment, to bring it back to the surface. But he didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

He raised his hand and touched your face with care, his thumb brushing the side of your cheek.

— If something happens... — he began, but you interrupted him with a soft gesture, holding his hand against your cheek.

— It won't.

He didn't argue. He just gently pulled you into a hug. One longer than the others, one that seemed to say more than any word could. You closed your eyes against his chest, inhaling the scent that always meant home.

And when you realized, you were already walking hand in hand toward the clearing.

The air there was different. Icy. Dense. A silent foreshadowing that snow would soon claim that ground. The wind crossed the forest with restrained ferocity, and even though you were used to the weather, a chill ran down your back.

The transformation came next. You prepared yourself as you always did, taking a deep breath, emptying your thoughts. But when your body began to give in to the shape of the wolf, the pain came sharper than ever. As if, inside, something resisted the change.

The sound that escaped wasn't a howl, nor a growl of rage. It was something more fragile. A muffled, scraped sound, resembling a short, restrained cry. But still audible.

Paul, already transformed ahead of you, turned his muzzle in your direction. His wolf eyes captured in seconds what human ones might miss. Tension. Pain. Something that shouldn't be there. He didn't ask, but stood still for a moment, watching.

When you passed by him, already fully adapted to your new form, you brushed your muzzle against his neck. A silent, intimate gesture. He answered with a slight nudge of his head, as if to say he was there—even without understanding.

Soon, you were running. The forest sped by around you. The sounds, the smells, the pulse of the earth beneath your paws. Everything seemed as always—except you.

The mind of the pack was a constant buzz. Quil and Embry exchanged provocations, Seth seemed ready to explode with anticipation, and even Leah, in her silence, emitted waves of impatience. Amid that mental chaos, Paul's thoughts were veiled, almost silent—but not absent. You felt the weight of his doubt hanging close, like a question he didn't know how to ask.

That's when the trail shifted.

The hill approached, and with it, the mission Sam had made clear. You were the one who would go up that night, keeping watch until the sun rose and Seth arrived.

You broke from the group naturally. Your steps slowed, shifted direction, and climbed. No hesitation in your body.

Paul felt it too.

He slowed down without noticing, his golden eyes following you. The white figure of your form gradually disappeared among the thick trees. For a moment, he seemed to want to go after you—something in him faltered, caught between duty and instinct.

But then someone spoke—a joke, a question, maybe Embry—and the moment broke.

Paul resumed his pace. He returned to the trail with the others, though his thoughts remained with you.

Always with you.

The top of the hill emerged like a painting blurred by fog. The climb was long, and the air was thinner there, sharper—and cruelly cold. It wasn't just a thermal discomfort anymore: it was a presence, something that surrounded everything like a suspended omen.

The breeze cut through dry, twisted branches, carrying the damp scent of the forest and, finally, something denser.

You felt it before you saw it: the canvas tent camouflaged among rocks and shadows, poorly shielded against the weather and against what was coming. Jacob's warm scent was everywhere, but it was the other scent that made your fur bristle.

Edward.

You approached slowly, your body still sore from the transformation. The night had left its mark—not only physically, but on what you'd been trying to hold back inside. The weight of your conversation with Emily, the way Paul had looked at you before the run, everything you hadn't had the courage to say.

No sound came from inside the tent, but you knew they were awake. They felt you there. And, somehow, they respected your silence.

You walked the perimeter, eyes fixed on the trail below. The world was suspended, as if time had slowed only up here. The stars gradually disappeared behind heavy clouds, while snow began to shimmer in light flakes over the damp ground.

Your gaze wandered between the sky's shadows and the tree line. You were there to protect—but something in you desperately wanted to be protected, too. For the first time, the wolf instinct shared space with the most human impulse of all: the one to preserve yourself.

Dawn dragged on like a burden. Silence pressed heavy, broken only by the rustling of leaves in the wind. And then, without warning, came the first light.

Not golden, nor comforting. But gray. Pale. As if the world woke in fear of what it would find. Dawn.

You stood in silence, your hair wet with dew. Jacob stepped out of the tent just before full daylight, his shoulders tense, his face turned to the woods—as if he already knew something would pull him away too soon.

You remained in the shade of a taller tree, nearly motionless, watching.

That's when you saw Bella leave the tent. Her face was troubled, tense. Edward appeared soon after, his eyes sharp, suspicious. It was easy to tell something was wrong.

It wasn't hard to catch fragments of what was said. The word "marriage" echoed clearly, loaded with implications that didn't belong to that quiet morning. Jacob heard it too. His body stiffened and, in an instant, he turned and walked away in wide, purposeful strides.

Bella ran after him.

You lost sight of them, but not their voices. The tension between them was nearly tangible, vibrating in the air like a wire ready to snap. And then, the muffled sound of a kiss—too long to be just impulse, too intense to be an accident.

Your gaze shifted back to Edward.

He was still standing, frozen. He didn't speak, didn't move. But there was something in his silence that screamed. You felt it—the same rigid shoulders, the same deliberate stillness. He hadn't seen it... but he had heard. And now, he absorbed the weight of it in silence.

You took a step forward, emerging slowly from the shadows, your eyes fixed on him. You weren't sure why. Maybe you wanted to see his reaction. Maybe you just needed to confirm he had really heard.

Then Edward turned to face you.

His golden eyes met yours with an intensity that made your breath catch for a second. He looked at you as if something had struck him—a flash of recognition, but not about the scene just before.

Your chest tightened. You had no idea what exactly he had picked up. But you felt, deep inside, that something had slipped through. Something that had nothing to do with Bella. Or Jacob. It was about you. And the one you carried with you.

The look he held for a second faded in the next. His expression closed, his body tensed. A low growl—more warning than threat—escaped his throat.

You looked away, pulled back from the clearing without rush, but with determination. You returned to the trail, leaving behind the weight of everything unsaid.

And an uneasy feeling that, little by little, the truths you'd tried so hard to hide were beginning to surface.

You had already reached the edge of the trail when you felt the light, quick, almost too cheerful approach for the moment.

Seth.

The sound of his paws cut through the silence before his familiar scent gave him away. The young wolf approached with the same energy as always, though his posture carried more seriousness than usual. He stopped next to you, his eyes alert, scanning the clearing below—where the last remnants of that drama were still dissolving into the cold air.

Jacob was coming back. His body tense, face more closed than usual. You and Seth watched him descend the slope toward the battlefield, where the others were already in position—and where, you knew, Paul would be too.

You hesitated before glancing at Seth, gently projecting your thought:

— Have you seen Paul?

Seth turned his head your way, his clear eyes conveying more than words could.

— I did. He's okay. Totally focused. But... kind of tense. Since yesterday, I think. He's worried about you.

You lowered your eyes briefly, as if that confirmation squeezed something inside your chest. It was comforting to know he was fine. And at the same time, painfully hard not to be with him now. But you had to stay.

Seth didn't say anything more. He didn't ask, didn't insist. He simply positioned himself a few steps ahead, already assuming the morning watch. The silence between you was natural—almost necessary.

You took a deep breath. The cold felt lodged deep under your skin now. The clearing stretched just below, and the wind carried the scent of newborns, even from a distance.

Voices surged toward you and Seth in waves—some sharp, others just noise. No thought was clear enough; it was as if the adrenaline interfered with the link. Each mind submerged in its own tension.

But you were searching for one. Paul's.

From time to time, you extended your thoughts, like someone lighting a beacon and waiting for a reply through the fog.

But before anything came, a new noise echoed on the trail below. You and Seth rose to alert. The clash had begun—still far off, but approaching. It was only a matter of time before it reached here.

You could feel them. The newborns' heavy steps scattered through the forest. Seth darted a few meters forward, and even without words, the bond between you two was clear. He was confident—almost excited. As if nothing could go wrong.

But it did.

Riley appeared too fast. A blur of brute strength that slammed into Seth, throwing the young wolf against a rock formation. The sound of his body hitting stone echoed in you like thunder. He fell motionless—for seconds that felt like eternity.

It was instinct.

Without hesitation, you charged, a roar tearing from your throat as you closed the distance. The air buzzed with tension. Riley turned, narrow eyes locking on you, underestimating the fury you carried. His teeth searched for any gap—exposed flesh, a weak point. The impact came like a blow: his hands gripped your body tightly, and in one violent movement, hurled you against the icy ground.

The shock rippled through your body, but the sharp pain in your leg flared like a line of fire. Something gave—a dry snap warning what had happened. But adrenaline held back the scream.

You forced yourself up, your limbs shaky, your flank marked by a dark, slowly spreading patch. Your fur was soaked, and the pain pulsed, each heartbeat driving it deeper.

Each step was a battle. Riley advanced again, blind with violence, his eyes gleaming with an animalistic light, guided by instinct more than reason.

You couldn't react in time—but you didn't have to. A roar split the air behind you, wild and desperate.

Seth.

He was standing again. His body smaller, but trembling with rage. He leapt, jaws open, and when he struck Riley, the impact shook the ground beneath your paws. It was a short fight.

You took one step back. Then another. The weight of your body nearly unbearable. You watched the final blow land, Seth's jaw closing with a snap. Riley's head fell into the snow, still.

And for a moment, everything stopped.

You tried to steady yourself, but the world began to spin. The sounds around you were distant, muffled, like you were submerged in ice water. Your breathing was uneven, strained—your chest rising and falling with effort.

And then came the realization: you weren't healing.

Not like before. Not the way you should.

As you retreated, searching for air and trying to ignore the heat of the blood still flowing from the wound, a movement to your left caught your attention. Victoria.

She jumped quickly in Bella's direction, and Edward and Seth threw themselves at her almost at the same moment. You couldn't follow it clearly. Your vision was blurred, the sounds shapeless. Every muscle in your body screamed to react, but it no longer responded.

The pain in your leg was sharp, a deep cut burning under the fur, making each step you tried to take more difficult. The blood didn't flow in abundance, but enough to leave red stains on the white snow around you. The adrenaline still kept you moving, but your strength was beginning to fade.

Suddenly, your body weakened. You staggered, your paws slipping in the snow, and fell. Your breathing grew heavy, each inhale an effort, the pain spreading through your injured leg.

Seconds later, you heard Seth's footsteps—light but urgent. The growl he let out when he saw you sent a chill down your spine. He stopped so fast he slid a little on the snow. His approach was immediate, his eyes wide, head low. He brushed his muzzle against your neck, then along the side of your face.

—Hey... are you okay? Answer me, please...

His voice echoed inside your mind, laced with panic. But you didn't respond. You let your head fall slightly, your eyes fixed on some lost point among the branches of the forest, as if everything was too far away—even your own body.

Seth tried again, touching your neck with his snout, growling softly, restless.

—Stay with me, please. Don't sleep.

You didn't move.

That was when he looked out into the forest, as if the answer lay there, and realized he was alone. The battle below was coming to an end, but he didn't know what to do.

Between despair and instinct, Seth filled his lungs with air.

And howled.

The sound sliced through the top of the hill and echoed into the valleys, cutting through the chaos of the forest, charged with alarm.

In the clearing below, the howl reverberated like a crack through everyone's minds.

Embry snapped his head up, alert.

Jared paused for a second.

And Paul, mid-leap toward a newborn, landed with his heart pounding. The sound tore through him like lightning. Somehow, he knew Seth's howl was for you. And he didn't need anything else.

The vampire charging at him was finished in a single brutal motion. Paul didn't think. His teeth sank in, and the dry snap broke the air around him. Without wasting a second, he turned and ran toward the trail. The world had shrunk to a narrow line leading straight to the top of the hill.

The trees flew past in a blur. The scent of the forest mixed with something stronger—more metallic—blood. And the fear... he tried to push it down with every step, but it clung like a shadow. He didn't want to think—just run.

As he reached the edge of the clearing, the terrain steepened. The trail narrowed, and Paul followed the scent until he saw you.

You were there, collapsed in the snow, your white fur now stained dark red. Your body—so familiar to him it felt like an extension of his own—looked small from a distance. Fragile. The stillness in your form struck a fear in him he had never known—not like that.

His heart pounded. The clearing around you seemed suspended in time. The world held its breath.

Seth stood beside you, restless. Paul didn't look at him. His entire focus was on you. Every step he took to reach you felt heavy as lead. The scent of your blood was overwhelming, unbearable.

He approached slowly and stopped in front of you. His muzzle reached toward your fur, searching for any answer, any reaction, any sign that you were still there. But you didn't move. Your body was tense, your breath shallow, as if each inhale was a struggle. Your eyes were open, but distant, as if trapped somewhere far away.

Paul let out a deep sound—almost a call. Low, restrained, more pain than rage. And when there was no response, helplessness overtook him completely. You couldn't hear him. Or couldn't respond.

Seth, distressed, sent a hesitant but clear thought.

—She's not healing.

He looked at him, as if pleading for help from someone who didn't know what to do either.

Then Paul sat down beside you, carefully, as though afraid of breaking you further.

He brought his head close to yours again, this time from the front. And even though you didn't return the gaze, he stayed there.

But as the seconds passed with no response, tension began to rise. The scent of blood, the silence, the absence of answers—all of it piled up inside Paul like fuel ready to ignite.

He stood up. Slowly.

First, the look: sharp, dark, already too wounded to be contained. That familiar shift between despair and fury taking form.

Then, the body tensed, muscles vibrating, chest heaving. His head turned—and there was Edward, standing a few meters away, watching with that unreadable expression.

Anyone in that moment would have seemed an enemy to Paul, but the fact that it was Edward made it easier. More instinctive. Almost justifiable.

Paul stepped forward. Then another. The growl that tore from him held a silent promise. The anger came from deeper—from days of buildup, from choices that weren't his, for which you paid the price as pack.

Edward was part of that. Part of the silent war, the tension that had poisoned the air for weeks. He was one of the reasons you were here, bleeding.

And that was enough for Paul's fury to take shape.

Seth stepped between them, tense and ready to stop Paul from doing something irreversible. And then, through the link, his voice reached the other wolf's mind—low, almost pleading:

—He's not our enemy, Paul.

Paul didn't respond. His eyes remained locked on Edward, but he didn't move forward. There had always been something about that vampire that unsettled him—and it wasn't just the scent. It was what he represented. Bella had brought you here. And Edward had brought Bella.

Paul advanced again, still slow.

That was when Edward took a step forward.

But Bella—just behind him, her face paler than usual—reached out and tried to hold him back by the arm.

—Edward... no – she murmured, her tone tense.

Her gaze, however, wasn't only on him. She looked past her boyfriend's shoulder, straight at the wolf approaching, head high, fur bristling along his spine. The growl escaping him was low and constant, a warning that needed no translation.

There was fear in the way Bella held Edward back. Fear of what could happen if he took another step. Fear of what Paul—or what was left of him—might do.

But Edward didn't back down. He moved slowly, deliberately, hands visible, making no threatening gestures. His eyes stayed on the wolf before him.

It was in that taut silence that Edward finally spoke, his voice calm—not from confidence, but necessity.

—She lost blood... but the baby... the heart is still beating. You... you can hear it too.

The moment those words left Edward's mouth, the world sank into a heavy silence. Paul's expression shifted. Edward saw it—the hesitation, the shock, the uncertainty. It was as though Paul had just been hit by something far greater than he'd expected.

A storm of thoughts crashed through his mind—frantic, confused, directionless. Seth watched with wide eyes, not fully understanding, while Paul stood frozen, caught in an instant that stretched on endlessly.

Bella watched in silence—cautious, curious—while Edward waited, restrained, hoping the truth would be enough to calm Paul's fury before it turned into something uncontainable.

Then, in the thick of the silence, Paul turned his head slightly, his ears flicking—a subtle but deliberate gesture. He closed his eyes and focused, diving deep into himself to hear what he needed to hear.

At first came the weak, irregular rhythm—your heart, faltering. It made his chest ache with worry.

But then, beneath the stillness, something new emerged. A second beat. Steady. Strong. Full of life. A rhythm distinct from your own.

Paul's eyes flew open as if from a trance. A jolt ran through his mind—a flash of clarity cutting through the fog of fear and doubt. The chaos inside him settled, reorganized, sharpened.

Fear gave way to certainty.

Suddenly everything made sense: the distance, the silence, the discomfort, the slightly changed scent... it was all so clear now. He felt foolish for not noticing earlier—and terrified it might be too late.

Edward stepped back, giving space. There was no more hostility, only urgency.

Paul approached you again, his steps sure but careful. When he reached you, he lowered his head and touched his muzzle gently to your neck—a gesture of recognition and protection.

In that moment, there was no war. No sides. No enemies.

Only you. And the heartbeat that pulsed with life beneath your skin.

And something in you gave way. A low sound escaped your throat—almost a whimper. Muffled, trembling, involuntary.

Seth stood a few steps away, silent. He knew you were conscious, but it was clear your body and mind were still trapped somewhere between instinct and fear. And it was only in Paul's presence that you reacted at all. As if only he could reach what was still fighting inside you.

The battle below had already ended when a long, deep howl cut the silence—coming from where the rest of the pack was.

Seth immediately raised his head. He didn't hesitate. His mind reached straight for Leah, urgent and automatic.

Minutes later, the sound of paws breaking through underbrush signaled her arrival.

She emerged from the trees already in human form, stopping when she saw the scene. Her eyes met yours, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

The tension in the air was thick. Leah stepped forward, then paused. Something in her eyes faltered at the seriousness of what she saw.

Then Bella approached quietly, eyes lowered, and handed her one of the blankets used the night before, placing it carefully in Leah's hands.

Leah took it without a word. She knelt beside you with the calm certainty of someone who already knew what needed to be done. Her hands moved with practiced grace as she unfolded the blanket and draped it over you with a gentle care—like someone who protects, without needing to speak.

His body returned to human form in a calm process, still aching. You felt everything: the exhaustion, the adrenaline finally fading, and the silence that followed.

Paul stepped away slightly, just enough to give you space. But even from that small distance, it was impossible not to feel the weight of his gaze.

You tried to move. A weak, hesitant gesture. Leah supported you with precision, her steady arms guiding you into a supported position. With her help, you crawled until you reached the warm back of the wolf in front of you.

Paul lowered himself at the same moment, allowing you to settle onto him. Your trembling hands sank into his thick fur, searching for something solid. When he rose, the world around you swayed. But you clung to him as if he were the only thing still holding you upright.

Seth approached, positioning himself right behind, alert. Leah, already back in her wolf form, followed soon after, closing the group.

The trail stretched steeply ahead, covered with mud and roots that intertwined on the ground like living veins of the forest. The silence was thick, heavy, broken only by the sound of Paul's paws pressing against the earth with an almost desperate caution.

Each step had to be firm, yet gentle. He wanted to run. To cross the entire path in one surge. To take you away. To get you home. But every time he pressed harder, he felt your body tremble against his—and with that came the sound that tore him up most: a low, stifled whimper, as if you were trying to hide the pain.

It was in those moments—between one step and the next—that Paul felt more than the weight on his back. He felt your fragility. The way your chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. The way your fingers gripped his fur tightly, as if anchoring yourself there.

He slowed down, trying to soften the impact of the uneven ground, but the terrain made it difficult. Behind you, Leah and Seth followed in silence. A tension hung in the air—the kind of silence that said too much.

Leah kept her eyes on you, but inside, questions piled up. You were pregnant. And she—your friend, your pack sister—hadn't known. Part of her understood why. The other part felt the weight of the distance that had formed between you.

She was the first to notice. Her eyes caught a detail Paul didn't see: your right foot, slipping out from under the blanket, swaying slightly as he walked. A thin line of blood was running down your heel.

The forest slowly opened up. The scent of the nearby coast began to blend with the cold morning air.

Any memory of the rest of the trail was swallowed by exhaustion. You didn't remember getting home. Only the feeling of warmth spreading over your skin as they finally crossed the doorway.

When your body woke up the next morning, the light was cold. The first thing you felt was heat—the unmoving, dense warmth of heavy blankets, the small body next to you, the scent of wood and the forest wind outside.

And then, a familiar sound. A continuous, low purr.

Oliver.

The cat lay curled at the end of the bed, watchful. When you stirred, his eyes lit up, and he walked slowly toward you, brushing his head against your hand with a delicate urgency.

Your skin was cold, your muscles warm beneath the blankets, your breathing still a little shallow. You wore clean clothes, thick socks, and there was something in the way the blankets had been arranged around you—as if someone had taken their time.

In the armchair in the corner, Emily slept with her arms crossed over her chest. Even in sleep, her expression remained vigilant.

She woke like someone who had been on the edge of it for hours. Oliver's louder purr was enough to make her open her eyes, blink slowly, and rise with a controlled movement. Not rushed, but without hesitation.

She stepped softly to the bed and stopped beside it.

—Good morning – she said quietly, her voice hoarser than usual.

You tried to smile, but you weren't even sure the gesture reached your face.

Emily sat on the edge of the bed, and only then did the silence between you become... heavy. Almost uncomfortable.

—Where... – you began, but didn't need to finish.

—He's fine – she said, as if she'd read the unfinished question on your face. – Paul. He left not long ago. Jacob broke a few ribs. He went to see if he needed help with anything.

Then came a pause.

—He only left because I insisted.

You nodded slowly.

Emily glanced around the room, as if searching for some other bit of information to give you. But there wasn't much to say. Not in the usual way.

—How are you... – you paused, as if bracing yourself to say it – my baby?

The words felt strange. Distant, yet too real at the same time. Emily smiled softly, understanding.

—Your baby is fine. Paul heard the heartbeat... apparently all night – she smiled, and you felt the weight of what she'd said.

—He knows now, doesn't he? – You weren't really asking. It was just a realization.

Emily sighed. She was the only one, besides you, who had known. She understood your anxiety—how you'd said you'd tell him—but how things had unfolded wasn't what you had planned.

—He knows... – she replied quietly – But he didn't say much about it.

You stared at the blanket on your lap, your fingers trembling slightly as they tugged at its edge.

—Look... – she said, leaning a little closer, as if trying to close the distance between you – He stayed with you all night. He took care of every detail. He put on your socks, fixed the blankets, let Oliver lie down with you. He didn't leave your side.

You didn't respond, but your throat tightened. It wasn't that you didn't know he cared. It was what that care meant now. What might come after.

Emily touched your arm gently, her voice dropping to a near whisper:

—He loves you. That's never been in question.

You nodded, but your eyes faltered. There was something still there—a weight that hadn't lifted. Love wasn't the problem. It never had been. It was what came after love. What he would do with it.

Emily noticed, but didn't push. She just took a deep breath, gave you space, and tried to shift the air in the room:

—I can bring your coffee here, if you want...

You let out a soft laugh, the sound lighter than how you felt inside.

—I think I can still walk.

—Oh, come on... – she smiled with that warm, teasing tone – Paul would be furious if I made you come downstairs right now.

Before you could reply, the familiar sound of his truck pulling up outside sliced through the morning quiet. A frozen moment—and everything inside you stilled.

—Speaking of the devil... – Emily said lightly, but her eyes went right back to you. She saw the way your shoulders tensed. – I'll be in the kitchen if you need me.

You nodded—barely—and watched her go. Oliver followed her, tail high, already knowing that Paul had returned.

The room fell into silence again. Only then did you move, slowly sitting up, your feet carefully meeting the cold floor. Your leg protested, but not with the same sharp pain as the night before. The bandage was secure and—surprisingly—barely stained. Your body was still healing. Slowly, but steadily.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the porch pulled you back. A creak, the front door opening. One step. Then another.

Each step on the stairs felt heavier than the last. Until they stopped—right outside your door—and then the handle turned.

Paul entered.

He didn't say anything at first. He just looked at you. And for a moment, the silence between you said more than any words could.

His gaze dropped to your bandaged leg, focused, then came back to your face. It was as if he were taking in every detail—outside and in—needing to confirm that everything was still there.

And in that quiet, he noticed something so subtle it nearly slipped away.

With your own heartbeat steady, the second one was almost hidden—muted and hard to catch. But it was there. Still there. Beating beneath layers of everything he wanted to protect.

Paul took two steps forward and sat in the armchair Emily had used.

—How are you? – his voice was low, almost rough.

—I'm okay – you answered, and even though you tried to sound certain, there was hesitation in it. Not just because of the pain. But because of what was coming next.

Paul nodded, his jaw tight like he was holding something back. He ran a hand through his short hair, glanced away for a moment, then looked at you again.

—Was Emily here?

—She was. Left just now.

He nodded again.

You held his gaze, and for a moment, you thought about hiding there—in that strange calm that had formed between you two. But you could no longer pretend that things hadn't changed.

That's when you broke the silence:

— I was going to tell you.

Paul didn't react immediately. He just took a deep breath, and his silence was more eloquent than any accusation. He seemed to be trying to balance two truths within himself—that he was happy... and that he was hurt.

— Who else knew? — he asked, looking directly at you, but without accusation.

— Just Emily — you answered softly. — She was the one who... helped me at the beginning.

The silence between you felt louder than any word. There was no urgency—but there was no escape either. It was as if the whole room were holding its breath.

— And... when did you find out? — he finally asked, his voice low, without accusation, but filled with restrained care.

You took a long time to answer. Your eyes dropped, and your voice came out almost defensively, but without strength:

— A few weeks ago. I just... — you swallowed hard — I was scared. I wanted to be sure. I wanted to understand what it meant before putting all of this on you.

Paul nodded slightly, as if trying to take it in. The silence grew between you again, uncomfortable and dense. When he finally spoke, his voice came out a bit lower, more wounded:

— And you thought it was a good idea to hide the best news I could ever receive?

It wasn't an attack. It was a hurt observation, full of restrained disappointment. As if he were still trying to understand how something so good could hurt so much—and still make sense.

You kept your eyes lowered. The weight of regret sat heavy in the way your shoulders slumped.

— I... I'm sorry — was all you could say, and it came out raw, without embellishment.

Paul didn't answer right away. He shifted in the armchair, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on some spot on the floor. It was rare to see him so quiet.

— And what did you think I'd do? — the question came not with anger, but with a tired kind of pain. A frustration that didn't want to exist. — Run away? Blame you? Say it wasn't the right time?

You looked at him slowly. What hurt the most was exactly that: he wasn't shouting or slamming doors. He was just... hurt. And that kind of pain, in Paul, was much harder to face.

— No, it's just that... — you started, searching for words through the tightness in your throat. — I didn't know how to deal with it. I still don't. I was scared. We never talked about it and... I didn't know how to start this conversation.

Paul nodded once, slowly. He still didn't look directly at you, as if he didn't want you to see what was going on in his eyes.

— I guess hiding it felt easier — he said quietly. There was a long pause between sentences, as if he were choosing every word carefully to avoid letting the frustration spill over. — I just wish I had been with you from the beginning. I wish you'd let me take care of you.

You inhaled deeply, a chill running down your spine.

— I know... — you said in a whisper.

After another stretch of silence, his voice shifted slightly in tone. There was still pain, but now something else—curiosity, maybe a way of drawing closer.

— And when did you... notice?

You lifted your eyes slowly, answering not just with words but with the exhausted face of someone who had held something too big for too long.

— I'd been feeling a few things... my body more tired, dizziness, a nausea that didn't make sense. But it was that morning, remember? The last time Lexie stayed here.

Paul turned his face slightly, listening closely.

— You had made a sandwich for me — you continued, your voice low — but the smell nearly made me vomit. Then... when Lex said something, I realized I was about three months late.

The memory came back clearer now, closer. Paul took a deep breath, absorbing it in silence. Not with judgment, but with the quiet sadness of someone who regretted not being there.

— That same day, later, I went to Emily. I didn't have the courage to go alone. We bought the test and took it in a café in Port Angeles.

The rest didn't need to be said. He understood. In fact, now everything made sense. Part of him felt relief, like he'd finally found the origin point of all of it—and learned it wasn't about your relationship.

Without saying a word, Paul rose from the armchair and came to you, sitting next to you on the bed. There was caution in the gesture, but also an unconscious need to be close. You noticed the nearness, but didn't pull away. For the first time in days—maybe weeks—being near him didn't weigh on your chest. It made sense.

— Emily pushed me to tell you sooner — you murmured with a small, tired smile. — Before yesterday's patrol, she tried to convince me. I told her that if I couldn't tell you, I'd at least talk to Sam.

Paul turned toward you, his gaze locking on yours with more intensity now.

— Of course you didn't — Paul said in a soft sigh, a comment on the stubbornness he knew well. And in a way, loved.

You looked away, your voice coming out almost like a thought:

— Sam would've left me out.

— And he'd be right. — The response came low, but without judgment. It was simply concern.

— I know... — you replied, your voice faint. — But I wasn't going to leave you alone.

Paul frowned, but not in anger. It was something else.

— I wasn't alone — he said gently, just reminding you that others were fighting with him.

You nodded, releasing a long sigh.

— Well, I guess now he definitely won't let me patrol anymore.

— Not a chance. — Paul looked forward again. — I made sure of that myself.

You laughed softly through your nose, almost breathless. The truth was that even if you wanted to, you might not be able to anymore. And that's what was eating at you inside.

— Anyway... — you began, your voice nearly failing. — I don't think I can shift again.

Paul looked at you instantly, his head turning sharply as if he wasn't sure he'd heard right.

— What do you mean?

You hesitated. The sentence felt heavier when spoken out loud. As if admitting it would make it more real.

— It's just... I feel like my wolf is fading — you said, staring at a fixed spot on the floor. — Since I found out... I've been cold. A cold that doesn't go away. I get goosebumps from ice water. I get hurt and I heal, yeah... but not like before. Everything is slower.

Paul stayed quiet, but the tension in his shoulders was visible.

— And when I shift... — you swallowed hard — it hurts. Like the first time, all over again. Every bone, every muscle... like my body's fighting it. And more and more I feel like... I'm slipping away. Like I'm not the same anymore.

The last sentence came out as a whisper, and its weight hung in the air for several seconds. A simple, profound confession. One only someone who knew that part of existence—the heat, the bond, the strength of the wolf—could truly understand.

Paul wrapped his arm around your back, without urgency or demand—as if offering you shelter, not just touch. You hesitated briefly, but your body had already begun to yield before your mind could decide. You folded into him, into the space he created with his own body, with his own warmth.

What he said next wasn't empty comfort. It came as a quiet promise, whispered almost against your hair:

— You won't stop being you... This is just for a while.

You closed your eyes for a moment, your forehead resting softly on his shoulder. The scent of his skin, the steady warmth, the rise and fall of his chest in a calm rhythm. It all formed a picture you knew so well—and that in recent days had seemed to disappear.

But now, there, for the first time in weeks, you realized what you were feeling. It wasn't just relief. It wasn't safety.

It was something more essential. It was the unmistakable, unshakable feeling that you were finally home. ____________________________

The following days passed at a strange pace. The house was silent, but not empty. Paul was there almost constantly.

Your leg had already returned to something close to normal. The deep cut in your femur was now just a pale scar, a ghost under the skin. It still hurt on cold days—and apparently, the days were all cold now.

The snow had been falling lightly since the night before, sticking to the windowsill and the garden grass as a constant reminder that the world moved forward, even when you didn't.

That morning, everything seemed calm. Paul was still asleep, his arms tangled around your body with that impossible-to-ignore heat. The room was cold at the edges, and you now slept under thick blankets—layers and layers that protected you from the constant chill that had settled into your skin since everything changed.

Paul, on the other hand, would sweat easily under the weight of the heavy fabric if he didn't push the covers away from time to time. But still, there were no complaints. He stayed there, by your side, even when the heat made him restless.

Your body, however, had begun to rebel. First, a slight stomach discomfort. Normal nausea, you thought.

Then, a growing wave, saliva rising in your mouth. You held your breath, trying to push it down. But it was already too late.

You carefully slipped from Paul's embrace. He just muttered something incomprehensible, pulling the pillow closer. You got up, rushed barefoot across the icy floor of the bathroom, and dropped to your knees just in time.

The vomiting came hard. Then, only the bad taste remained, along with the exhaustion and a weak ringing in your ears. You stayed there, trembling arms pulling the flush as you knelt over the cold porcelain. The world turned slowly, testing your limits.

That's when you heard the sound of barefoot steps approaching. Paul stopped at the door, his face still crumpled from sleep, messy hair, but instantly alert when he saw you.

– Hey... – He crouched beside you, patient.

Without rushing, he slid an arm around your back and helped you up. You leaned into him, legs weak, and together you made your way to the sink. He stood by your side as you brushed your teeth, silent and watchful.

When you finally returned to the room, the world felt lighter. You curled up against him again, still silent, just breathing in sync. For a few minutes, you stayed like that under the covers, with Oliver returning to his usual spot at the foot of the bed.

And then, almost like someone whispering a doubt, Paul said:

– Emily wants to make lunch today... she mentioned it last night. Nothing big, just the others wanting to see you. – You turned your face slowly, your nose still cold against his shoulder. – Only if you want to.

You laughed through your nose, a small, nearly invisible sound.

– I'm going.

Paul didn't answer right away. He just tightened his arm around you slightly.

The morning carried on with a rarefied kind of peace.

After breakfast, you went upstairs slowly to the bedroom and headed for the wardrobe. Paul was downstairs, and the distant sound of dishes being shuffled gave the house an almost too domestic feeling for everything you'd been through recently.

But the good mood of the early morning began to fray as you tried on clothes.

Your favorite jeans didn't quite button. The blouses clung in a strange spot between your belly and waist. Even if there was no obvious bump yet, your body had already started to shift. And the clothes were the first to notice.

You sat at the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath, surrounded by discarded pieces. Oliver let out a long meow, and you rolled your eyes.

– Don't look at me like that. You've gained weight too, traitor.

The cat simply rested his head on his paw, indifferent.

In the end, you surrendered to the comfort of a soft sweater—wide enough not to bother you, but still aligned with who you were. The jeans still fit—tight, sure, but acceptable. The heeled boots were non-negotiable. A detail of yours. A reminder that you were still you, and that you could still wear them, even with the world changing inside.

When you stepped outside, the cold hit you like a wall. You pulled your sweater tighter, cursing the weather. Paul was leaning against the car, arms crossed, wearing only a light sweatshirt and jeans. He laughed when he saw your expression.

– What? – you teased, tugging your sleeves over your hands.

– Nothing. – He smiled, opening the car door.

You climbed in, grumbling, but the smile appeared anyway. He walked around and started the engine, the hum of the heater quickly filling the comfortable silence between you.

The car moved along the nearly empty road, the windows slightly fogged by the cold outside. Paul kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on his thigh. The silence between you was easy, like it used to be.

Until he spoke, eyes still on the road:

– Have you thought about finding out?

You turned your head slowly, not immediately understanding.

– What?

– The baby. – He said, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. – If it's a boy or a girl.

You wrinkled your nose slightly—not because the question was odd, but because it came from Paul. No lead-in. No warning. The kind of thing he just tossed into the air and expected you to follow.

– Are you curious?

He gave a small, crooked smile—half-contained, typical of him.

– A little. – he replied. – It wouldn't change anything, but... I think I want to know.

You watched the way he drove—calm, but alert—and rested your elbow on the window.

– I still don't know. Sometimes I think I'd rather wait.

Paul nodded once, like that was no problem.

– If you want to wait, we wait. But if you change your mind, let me know.

You smiled faintly without answering, letting your eyes wander across the landscape before turning back to him.

– Well, I was thinking... what if it's a girl?

You thought maybe he hadn't heard you. But when he turned, you saw that he had. His jaw clenched, hand tightening slightly on the wheel. Eyes locked on the road.

A heavy silence settled—long enough to be noticeable.

– What? What's the problem? – you asked, laughing at his expression.

Paul exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh.

– Nothing. I'd love that. – he said at last. – But I think we'd have to move.

– Why? – you asked, still laughing, confused.

He glanced at you sideways, a look somewhere between humor and restrained warning.

– I'm not risking any of these idiots imprinting on her.

You burst into real laughter, tilting slightly toward him. It was a joke—or mostly—but the tone said he was at least half-serious.

– That can happen anywhere.

– I know. – he muttered. – But the chances here are too high.

You understood. Really. But you weren't going to let it go unchallenged.

– Oh, what's the big deal?

He frowned, puzzled.

– What do you mean, what's the big deal?

– Uh... I don't think you were exactly my dad's dream for me either, and yet—here we are.

Paul laughed then—full of teeth, half amused, half disbelieving.

– Your dad would totally love me.

You were still smiling when you turned back to the window, but the silence that followed was different now. Not filled with tension or uncertainty, but deeper somehow.

Paul went quiet for a few moments, his eyes fixed on the road like he was still taking it all in.

When you arrived, Emily's house was alive. As soon as you stepped inside, warmth and the scent of home-cooked food wrapped around you. Voices, laughter, glasses clinking—the soundtrack of every lunch there.

But when you walked in, it was like someone pressed an invisible pause button. All the faces turned toward you, a second of silence before the room burst to life.

– Finally! – Emily shouted from the kitchen, laughing as she dried her hands on a dish towel.

– Look who decided to show up! – Embry stood like he'd been waiting for you all day.

You didn't even get the chance to respond. Kim all but appeared out of nowhere, her eyes shining, smile so wide it barely fit her face.

– I swear I thought Jared was joking! – she laughed, pulling you into a tight hug. – Congratulations! Seriously... you're going to be a wonderful mom.

You tried to laugh, not really sure what to do with your arms, gently trying to wiggle out of her grip.

– Thank you, Kim... but if you crush me, you'll be a mom before I am.

She laughed even harder but loosened the hug.

That's when Leah stepped closer. Arms crossed, discreet smile—like she was trying to keep her cool, but her eyes gave her away.

– I should be mad at you, you know? – she said, looking straight at you. – For not telling me.

You took a breath, about to answer, but she'd already pulled you into a fierce hug—the kind only she could give.

Nothing held back. Nothing polite. A best-friend hug that said she'd hold your whole world if she had to.

– But I get it. – she added, her mouth close to your ear. – And I'm happy for you. So much.

You closed your eyes for a second.

The others came one by one, offering warm congratulations without overdoing it. Paul stayed slightly behind, hanging up his coat calmly, but never taking his eyes off you—attentive, even in silence.

Soon, everyone was seated at the table. Dishes passed from hand to hand, the conversation flowed easily, bouncing from topic to topic, laughter punctuating it all.

It was between bites that Quil casually commented:

– Jacob didn't show up today. Ever since Bella announced she's marrying Cullen, he's kind of disappeared.

You looked up, but not surprised.

– I saw them that day, on the hill. She asked him to kiss her. It was... weird. Like she wanted to keep him around, even knowing she wouldn't choose him.

The table fell briefly quiet. Not hostile—just a moment of stillness in the air.

Seth shifted, trying to land somewhere in the middle.

– He just doesn't want to see her change. I mean, he...

– She already chose. – Paul cut in, firm. – It's not ours to fix.

There was no anger. Just finality.

You nodded slowly. That was it.

Emily stood a moment later, without fuss.

– Okay... dessert?

As the conversation shifted, Kim watched the two of you with a soft smile, charmed by the change. In her eyes, you'd never looked so aligned—so connected—as you did now. A quiet but powerful harmony that filled the room.

Then Kim spoke, almost to herself:

– You know, I always thought Emily would be the first to have a baby around here.

Before you could answer, Jared mumbled through a laugh:

– Yeah... but no one beats these two when it comes to... consistency.

Laughter followed—contained, but genuine. You shook your head, smiling into your glass. Paul said nothing, but one corner of his mouth lifted, and the subtle touch of his leg against yours under the table said more than any words.

The conversation moved on. But the warmth of that small gesture lingered inside you.

Kim, half-laughing, half-feigning outrage, gave Jared a light slap on the arm. But even she couldn't keep from laughing for long.

Eventually, the laughter softened, replaced by sips, bites, and new tangents—food, patrols, old stories always good for a laugh.

You leaned back in your chair, taking it all in. The full table. The warm food. Familiar faces. Paul's carefree laughter beside you. For the first time in days—maybe weeks—your body felt at ease. Like you were, finally, exactly where you belonged.

Paul noticed.

Without a word, he stretched his arm behind your chair, letting his hand rest there—light and present. A small gesture, but it spoke volumes.

You leaned in slightly.

Then your phone vibrated on the table. You looked at the screen.

Mom.

It stared back at you. You didn't answer. Just flipped the phone over, screen-down, like someone postponing an inevitable conversation.

Paul saw. He didn't say anything right away, but his silence wasn't empty. After a few seconds, in a low voice, just for you:

– We should go see her.

You didn't answer at first. Your eyes stayed fixed on the bottom of your glass, fingers playing with the napkin beside your plate.

– I know. – you murmured, almost a sigh.

He just nodded, his hand still resting against you—no pressure, no demand.

And life went on around you—noisy, full of stories and mouths full of food. But inside, something had settled. A space. A decision. Still quiet, but ready to rise.

________________________

Next Chapter coming soon

Comments, likes, and reblogs will be greatly appreciated!

xoxo, bee💋🫶🏼

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beegomess · 2 months ago

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How this is so realll?

⋆·˚ ༘ * WOLFPACK HEADCANONS 𐚁̸.ᐟ — their type, physical and personality traits.

synopsis: the wolfpack boy’s type, including both physical and personality traits.

a/n: this is not 100% accurate and it’s not intended to be. i just wrote a general idea considering their personalities and traits. do not take this seriously.

pairing/s: paul lahote, jacob black, embry call, quil ateara, jared cameron, seth clearwater, sam uley, leah clearwater

masterlist | check out my other work !

paul lahote

vibe: hotheaded and feral but down so bad for his girl.

physical type: intimidated by literally no one. he lowkey loves a short girl he can toss around, but bold girls? strong girls? a girl who looks like she knows exactly what she wants or can fight with words? he’s obsessed. he wants someone who walks into a room and knows her power.

personality type: sarcastic, bold, mouthy. he’s into the type who won’t put up with his temper, someone who throws it right back. he needs a girl with fire, but also someone who softens around him, just him. the contrast ruins him.

why: because paul’s spent most of his life feeling like a weapon. he wants to feel wanted, not feared. he needs someone who chooses him even when he’s rough around the edges.

“i don’t care if you yell at me. just don’t walk away. not you.”

jacob black

vibe: golden retriever energy meets his person.

physical type: loves girls with expressive eyes, soft features, and a warm smile. whether you’re tall or short, curvy or petite, it doesn’t matter, as long as you feel like home. he has a soft spot for messy hair and bare faces.

personality type: loyal, passionate, a little stubborn. he falls hard for the girl who challenges him, who doesn’t baby him, and who tells him to quit sulking and get back up. he’s attracted to warmth and playfulness, but also someone who can call him out when he’s too hung up on the past.

why: jacob has spent so much of his life trying to be enough for people who look the other way. so when someone sees him clearly, chooses him, and doesn’t just fall into his arms, he’s hooked.

“you’re the first person who looked at me like i wasn’t just the backup plan.”

embry call

vibe: golden boy, underrated sweetheart, shy wolf energy.

physical type: has a weakness for bright eyes and dimples, especially if you don’t even realize you have them. he notices the way your cheeks flush, the way your sleeves are too long, the way you smile when no one’s watching.

personality type: gentle, kind, emotionally intuitive, maybe a little quirky. he falls for the quiet strength, the girl who loves deeply but doesn’t need to be loud about it. bonus points if you’re a little nerdy or artsy.

why: because embry feels things deeply. he wants someone he can be soft with. he craves stability, gentlenes. he’d worship a soft-hearted girl like she hung the moon.

“you looked at me once and i haven’t been the same since.”

jared cameron

vibe: class clown with a flirty streak.

physical type: loves expressive girls. someone who talks with her hands, has dramatic eye rolls, or has a big laugh. he’s super into curves, but honestly? if you can pull off oversized hoodies and messy buns, he’s done for.

personality type: outgoing, witty, and someone who can keep up with his fast-paced brain. he’s drawn to confidence but secretly adores when you get shy and flustered because of him.

why: because jared thrives on connection and laughter. he wants someone who feels like sunshine in human form and who never lets life get too heavy.

“you’re my favorite person, i’d choose you every damn day.”

seth clearwater

vibe: cinnamon roll with a warrior’s heart.

physical type: seth has zero “type” physically. he’s all about the energy. but he blushes like hell over cute girls who smile at him. dimples, freckles, glasses? he’s toast.

personality type: kind, genuine, and hopeful. he falls for the girl who believes in people. someone who’s kind to animals and old people, who cries over movies and is passionate about weird little things.

why: because seth is the best of them all, honestly. he needs someone who reminds him of everything worth protecting.

“i didn’t know i could love someone this much until you laughed at my dumb joke.”

quil ateara

vibe: loyal to the core, a bit of a dork.

physical type: cuteness overload. he’s into girls who feel comfortable. comfy sweaters, cozy scents, soft hands. he doesn’t care about body type, he cares about how you feel when he hugs you.

personality type: bubbly, giggly, playful. quil falls for the “best friend” type. someone who teases him, shares inside jokes, isn’t afraid to get messy. he loves a playful girl who knows how to be serious when it counts. a little chaotic? sure. a little clingy? even better.

why: because he’s looking for his forever person, someone who can make a tuesday feel like magic just by being next to him.

“every good thing reminds me of you now. that’s how i know.”

sam uley

vibe: old-soul energy, loyal to a fault, carries silent guilt.

physical type: sam is drawn to subtle beauty, he notices things others overlook. the curve of your neck when your hair is tied up. the way your hands move when you’re focused. he’s not flashy or superficial; he’s mesmerized by grace.

personality type: calm, mature, deeply rooted. sam falls hard for the girl with quiet strength who speaks gently but never backs down when it counts. he needs someone who sees through the calm exterior to the storm underneath and stays anyway. bonus if she’s a little stubborn, it keeps him grounded.

why: because sam has spent years putting others first and protecting everyone else that he forgot what it feels like to be cared for without expectations. he needs someone who’s a safe place, a reminder that he’s allowed to be more than just “the alpha.”

“i can carry the world, but you make me want to come home.”

leah clearwater

vibe: sharp-tongued, battle-scarred, untouchable. until she’s not.

physical type: leah’s always pretending she doesn’t care. but deep down? she melts for girls who wear too much eyeliner or none at all, who wear rings on every finger. there’s something magnetic about someone who carries herself with pride.

personality type: she loves someone calm. steady. soft-spoken. a girl who isn’t afraid of her sharp edges but doesn’t try to fix her either. someone who listens. someone who stays.

why: because leah has lost too much. she wants someone who chooses her. not despite her pain, but because of how she survived it.

“i don’t need saving. i just… i want you to stay.”

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beegomess · 2 months ago

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Hi, girls!

This corner of the internet is just my little archive of temporary obsessions, late-night thoughts, and unfiltered sparks. Come for the chaos, stay for the vibes.

I hope you have fun losing track of time with me.

Main profile: @beegomess

xoxo, Bee💋✨

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beegomess · 2 months ago

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Whole day ruined

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beegomess · 2 months ago

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Hearts woven in threads || Paul Lahote x Fem!Reader

A/N: English is not my native language, so I apologize in advance for any typos. I hope you enjoy! AI-revised translation*

masterlist || Hearts woven in threads

Chapter 09

Since Bella left your house that morning, everything seemed to collapse little by little inside the pack.

Harry's death was sudden. A heart attack — that's what they said. And although everyone felt the blow, the pain was certainly sharper for Leah and Seth. You hadn't imagined Leah could withdraw even more, but that's exactly what happened. Silent, dry, impenetrable. As if she were trying to survive by silencing the pain before it devoured her from the inside.

As for Seth, you feared for him. You were afraid grief would drag him to the same place as Leah — a place from which there might be no return. He was a boy with a sweet heart, one of those who lit up any room. Watching that light fade was like watching a piece of the world go dark.

Weeks had passed since then. The pack's routine tried to stand upright, even when the ground seemed to give way beneath your feet.

You kept trying to get closer to Leah. You sent messages, left notes with Sue, showed up at least twice a week to help her with the paperwork.

But what hurt the most in all of it was how the pain seemed to inflate something deeper inside all of you — a discomfort no one voiced, but that grew like thorns beneath the skin.

There was an unspoken name that haunted the mourning like a vulture: Cullen.

No one dared to point fingers directly, but the thoughts poisoned themselves. If Bella hadn't gotten involved with them... If Harry hadn't been so worried about Charlie... If they weren't here... The reasoning was instinctive. Maybe unfair. But instinctive. As if the Cullens were the silent trigger behind a cascade of tragedies.

Only after a few more days did you see Leah again.

It was early, nearly dawn. You were returning from one of the rounds when you saw her, alone, sitting on the beach, in the exact spot where you used to talk with her father.

She didn't look at you, but her body reacted to your presence. She lifted her chin slightly from her knees, recognizing the sound of your steps.

You approached silently and sat beside her. No questions. No expectations.

For long minutes, only the sea broke the stillness.

— Seth slept with me last night — she said at last, her voice hoarse and low, like someone afraid to hear herself. — He didn't want to go back to his room. Said it still feels like Dad's going to come out of the bathroom at any moment, mumbling about the dripping faucet.

You nodded slowly. Not knowing what to say — because there was nothing certain to say.

Leah took a deep breath, but the air seemed to weigh her down.

— I thought I'd know what to do when it happened — she murmured.

You replied in a whisper, with no intention of comforting — just sharing:

— I wish I could say this will pass... But the truth is, it never fully does.

Leah didn't respond. She just looked down, her fingers absentmindedly tracing a small stone beside her. She didn't cry, but there was a pain trapped in her silence that spoke louder than any sob.

Then, almost without warning, her voice came out more bitter:

— And even so... Sam wants us to fight with them.

Your chest tightened.

— Sam thinks we have a common enemy.

She let out a dry laugh.

- Funny how now we are all allies. Until the other day, they were only responsible for messing everything up.

You didn't respond. You didn't need to. Because in silence, you felt it too. As if there was something... wrong. As if standing by their side was a contradiction your skin rejected.

Leah finally stood up, looking out at the sea as if waiting for some answer from the icy water.

— They're the reason she's here. And she's the reason all of this started.

You didn't stop her from talking. Didn't even try to defend Bella. You simply walked beside her when she took the first step away from the beach.

She didn't look back, and you didn't force your presence. You knew she needed silence more than company. So, after a few minutes, when your paths naturally diverged, you let her go, respecting her space but carrying the pain with you, as if it were your own.

The way home felt heavy. The rain, which had been a whisper, now poured in torrents, tracing bright paths across the asphalt and turning the leaves along the way into dark, wet patches. Exhaustion ran through every muscle — both physical and mental. The need to keep going, protect the pack, deal with rumors and the growing threat of the newborns... it all drained you like a storm that wouldn't pass.

When you arrived, the house's silence felt strange, almost suffocating. On the couch, Oliver was curled in a soft ball of fur but stood up immediately when he heard the door close, his big, bright eyes fixed on you. You ran your hand over his head, taking comfort in the cat's presence before heading upstairs to your refuge.

In the bathroom, the hot shower water eased some of the weight from your body. Leah's words and pain still echoed in your mind — a painful echo you understood deeply. Your dislike for what the vampires represented only grew. They were immortal beings who seemed far removed from human suffering, while you carried real losses.

Back in your room, you let yourself fall onto the bed, still wearing the strap-top you'd long ago dubbed as pajamas — now clinging to your body in a way that felt molded to every movement. The socks, which you rarely went without even on hot nights, warmed your feet out of habit, for the sense of safety they brought.

The room was immersed in shadow, the only light filtering in from the street, softened by the curtains. The silence filled every corner, and Paul's absence left the space strangely empty, even though you knew he'd be out for a few more hours under Sam's orders.

You turned onto your side, feeling the weight of his absence in the space beside you. The desire to have him there squeezed your chest — a silent, steady longing. You tried to stay awake, knowing he could arrive at any moment, but the tiredness that gripped your body eventually won.

Gradually, your eyes closed, slipping into a brief, restless sleep, where fragments of the night blurred with the thoughts and worries that still had no place to settle.

A few hours later, the front door creaked softly when Paul entered. The silence in the house was heavy, almost palpable, but he knew you were there.

Oliver didn't even stir as he passed through the room. The cat remained curled up on the couch, as if he didn't care the owner had returned.

Paul climbed the stairs quietly, careful not to make noise. When he reached the bedroom door, he paused for a moment, watching you there, still and asleep. The dim streetlight cast your silhouette in soft lines. The way the strap top clung to your shoulders and the soft curve of your skin held him there for a second — a silent whisper of how much he had missed you.

He closed the door gently and went to the bathroom, stepping lightly. The sound of hot water from the shower filled the silence, but he remained discreet, knowing you needed rest.

When he emerged, towel in hand, drying his hair, Paul returned to the bedroom with relaxed shoulders but alert eyes. The air held your scent — soft, sweet, comfortable in a way that only existed there.

You were still asleep, though you had shifted in bed. Your back was half-turned toward the door, your legs slightly curled, one sock slipping down your shin. The strap top still in place, the fabric molded to your body in a lazy way, as if even it knew the night had been too long.

With care, he sat on his side of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. Maybe that was it — the subtle shift, the sudden warmth — that made your eyes blink open slowly.

It took you a moment to register where you were. Your eyelids still heavy, breath slow. But when you saw him, just inches away, your lips curled into a small, sleepy smile.

— I tried to wait for you... — you murmured, your voice dragging, still dancing between sleep and reality. — But you took too long.

With a soft smile, Paul leaned closer, bracing one arm beside you.

— I know — he said, voice low and deep, as if not wanting to disturb the stillness hanging between you. — Sam kept me longer than usual tonight.

You didn't respond right away. You just reached out and pulled him closer with an automatic, intimate gesture. His body settled against yours, and when Paul's arm wrapped firmly around your waist, molding you to him, a soft smile touched your lips still closed by sleep.

— I like when you do that — you whispered, voice husky, eyes still closed — as if sharing a secret.

Paul smiled against your skin, slow and lazy. He raised his head and watched you for a moment.

Then, he kissed you.

The beginning was gentle, almost quiet — as if savoring the moment.

But when you tugged more firmly at the back of his neck, deepening the kiss, the shift was instant. He let out a low sound from deep in his throat, almost a warning, and slid his body between your legs, pulling them until they fit snugly around his hips.

The heat of his touch surged through you like electricity. You moaned into his mouth — soft, involuntary — more breath than sound. Paul smiled again, satisfied, as if that sound was all he needed.

His fingers squeezed your waist with more intent, and when his lips left yours to trace the line of your jaw to your neck, you arched toward him.

— Paul... — his name escaped like a whisper, a hot sigh brushing his ear.

He reacted like it was fuel. Bit your collarbone lightly before kissing you again, hungrier this time — like there was nothing but the feeling of your body under his.

His hips moved, seeking more contact. He held you firmly, controlling the rhythm with that dominance that always pulled you out of orbit.

His kisses trailed downward, and the hand that had gripped your waist slipped under your blouse, moving down your side with cruel care. His fingers traced your skin as if memorizing every inch.

Your hips moved in response. He smiled — that crooked smile that always came before something that made you forget your own name.

His hand slipped lower, finding the right place between your legs, and you felt the fabric shift aside with practiced ease. No rush.

He knew exactly what he was doing. And you knew exactly what was coming.

The first touch made your body react like it had been lit from the inside. You held your breath for a moment, feeling the slow glide of his fingers testing your response. Your hips pushed against his hand, searching for more, and you let out a muffled sound.

Paul didn't speak, but the way his mouth moved across your neck, lightly biting as if holding himself back, said enough.

His fingers stayed there, pressing, exploring, perfectly attuned to every signal your body gave. Paul knew you too well. Knew exactly where to touch, how to press, when to quicken the pace. You bit your lip, trying to contain the sound, but he noticed — and didn't stop.

You closed your eyes, forehead resting against his shoulder, feeling your body tremble. Your breathing came faster, heavier. The heat built quickly, centered in every place he touched.

He kept his hips close to yours, firm — just enough to remind you that he was there.

With each motion of his fingers, each precise pressure, your body grew more urgent. You pressed into him involuntarily, craving more — as if his hand alone wasn't enough.

A gasp slipped from your throat. You tried to swallow it, but he heard.

— Look at you... — he whispered, like someone witnessing something too beautiful not to comment on.

His mouth brushed your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, driving your mind further into haze.

Your fingers dug into his arms, your hips moving in time with the deep, steady rhythm taking hold of you. The tension built hot and hungry, like a knot of pleasure unraveling at your core. There was no room for thought, only surrender.

Paul didn't look away. His jaw tightened, his eyes dark, locked on every reaction you gave, feeding off the way your body yielded to his completely. When he picked up the pace — just enough to steal your breath — a muffled moan escaped your throat, his name spilling from your lips like it had been torn from deep inside.

He smiled — the kind of smile that made the grip between your legs tighten in response.

His fingers withdrew, just enough for you to try to catch your breath—but you didn't even have time. Soon his hand slid down the back of your thigh, firm, pulling your leg up until you sank deeper onto him. The friction intensified, and everything around you seemed to vanish.

Paul moved slowly at first, pushing deep, feeling your body give in and mold around him like it was made for it. Every time he entered, it was as if you pulled him in further, refusing to let him go. The heat between you was dense, almost suffocating, and the way you clenched around him made his control waver dangerously.

You bit your lip, trying to contain the sound rising in your throat, but Paul saw it. He saw the way you arched, how you sought more, how you trembled slightly when he found the right rhythm—the right angle. And that only made him go deeper, slower, as if he wanted you to feel every inch.

He leaned over you, muscles tense, body glued to yours, the heat of your skin sticking to his. His breathing was heavier now, jaw locked tight, as if fighting not to lose control too soon. But it was hard. With you like that—panting, your nails marking his back, whispering his name in breathless gasps—it was nearly impossible to hold back.

The rhythm of his thrusts grew more intense, his hips slamming into yours with precision and firmness. He was hot, heavy above you, muscles taut, his arm and back flexing with each deeper movement.

— Damn... — he growled low, his voice breaking with the sensation, his forehead resting on yours for a moment, as if needing something to ground him.

You smiled against his lips, almost daringly. The way he looked at you—eyes tight and dark, as if nothing else in the world existed—made you burn from the inside.

His hands explored everything—your thighs, your waist, your breasts under the blouse he impatiently pushed up. He wanted to see, to touch, to feel everything about you.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, bringing your body even closer to his, now more elevated. His thrusts seemed more controlled, more intentional. Paul said nothing, but his eyes followed your every movement, dark with desire. He knew exactly what you wanted.

Without breaking contact, he slowly withdrew, his breath dragging with the effort it took to pull away. Then he sat up, planting his hands on the mattress behind him, giving you space to climb over.

And you did.

When you positioned yourself above him, one hand braced over your abdomen, you didn't lower yourself all at once. You let only the tip connect, slow and deliberate, until he exhaled hard through his nose, his eyes locked on yours.

And then you sank down.

Slowly.

Deliberately slow, your breath caught in your chest as you felt your body open to him again. The feeling of being filled was raw, hot, overwhelming, and the tension you'd built spread like fire beneath your skin. You moaned low, a muffled sound that escaped near his ear, and Paul's body arched slightly under yours.

He muttered something hoarse—whatever it was, it escaped your perception.

You smirked, wickedly, your hands now on his shoulders as you began to move faster. Your hips rolled in a lazy, torturous rhythm, each movement testing his limits.

— You want to kill me... — he groaned.

His hands were everywhere—your waist, the curve of your back—trying to absorb every part of you. The blouse clinging to your body became an obstacle. Too thin to hide anything from him, but irritating enough to make him impatient.

Without hesitation, Paul grabbed the fabric, his fingers tearing it apart with ease. The sound of it ripping filled the space between you, muffled by your heavy breathing. The blouse fell around you, forgotten.

His forehead pressed to yours, his nose brushing along yours.

Then his hand shot up to your neck—firm, but not tight—just holding the base, his thumb sliding along your jaw and tilting your face up, demanding your eyes.

You obeyed with a gasp, your brows drawn tight in a mix of tension and pleasure. Your hips slowed down.

Paul moaned low at the sight—your eyelids heavy, lips parted, your body sweaty and completely his. His hands slid back to your waist, gripping tight, controlling your rhythm.

The heat was unbearable, the friction addictive. Your moans now came louder, erratic, as he murmured against your skin—muffled curses, your name like a sacred word.

You tried to keep the pace, but he didn't let you. Paul pulled you hard into him with every thrust, stealing your rhythm, your air, your control.

Your head fell back, eyes clenching shut as you clung to his shoulders. His movements were deeper now, more demanding. You felt every inch of him filling you, pressing into you, dominating your body like you were his to command.

One hand stayed at your waist, the other slid up the curve of your spine, pulling you into him as if he wanted to merge your bodies completely. The grip on your jaw remained firm, keeping your gaze on his even as pleasure cracked through you.

— Paul... — you gasped, feeling your stomach tighten and the heat begin to flood down your thighs. But he didn't stop—he just guided you, deepening each thrust, pulling you with his large hands, keeping you exactly where you needed to be.

The pressure built unbearably. Your whole body shook on top of his. Every muscle begged for release.

You moaned louder, the sound torn from your throat as he hit the perfect angle—once, twice, three times. Your vision blurred. The pleasure erupted in waves, tearing you apart.

Paul felt you squeeze around him, trembling, panting, and it was with a curse under his breath that he followed, his fingers nearly digging into your skin.

For a moment, all you could hear was the sound of your breaths, and the rain, tapping insistently on the window.

Still tangled together, you remained like that, feeling his chest rise and fall against yours, the heat of his skin, the lingering pulse between your legs. Paul didn't speak right away. He just looked at you. Breathless. Eyes dark.

He was the first to move. The hand still on your waist slid up slowly to your face, pulling you gently back to him. The kiss that followed was nothing like before—no urgency, no dominance. Just raw affection.

You melted right there, your entire body softening for the first time in hours.

When your lips parted, your forehead stayed against his. The silence was comfortable, intimate, as your bodies settled and finally relaxed into the mattress.

For a few seconds, you just breathed together. The room remained cloaked in the gray gloom of the rainy morning, and the warmth between the sheets felt like an extension of the two of you.

Without a word, your eyelids began to droop. A soft yawn escaped you, and you felt Paul smile—nearly asleep too. His breathing had slowed, deeper now, and the heat of his body acted like a blanket.

You thought of saying something—maybe a teasing remark—but sleep won before the thought could take form. Your muscles relaxed little by little, your mind sliding into a place where there was only the sound of the rain, his touch, and the comfort of being exactly where you belonged. _________________________________

The afternoon already seemed to be approaching its end when an insistent meow cut through the silence of the room, scratching lightly at the side of the bed.

You frowned, still with your eyes closed, feeling the warmth of Paul's body molded to yours, his arm heavy and comforting around your waist. You tried to move, but he pulled you back, burying his face in the curve of your neck with a muffled grumble.

Another meow. Closer.

Paul let out a low sound, somewhere between a grunt and a hoarse laugh.

You turned your face slightly, messy hair still clinging to your cheek, and peeked at the foot of the bed with one half-closed eye. There he was: Oliver, sitting with his tail wrapped neatly around his body, wearing that haughty expression only a cat could have — as if you'd committed a serious offense by sleeping late.

— Do you think he's hungry? — you murmured, your voice still heavy with sleep, closing your eyes again for a moment.

Paul grumbled low.

— Impossible. I filled his pot this morning. — he replied, his hand sliding lazily through the curve of your waist, as if he was more interested in you than in the cat's hunger.

You didn’t have time to respond. You felt the mattress sink slightly at your feet, then the familiar touch of Oliver’s soft coat as he settled between you two with the natural entitlement of someone who believes he owns the house.

Oliver let out a lazy meow, curling into a black-and-white ball exactly where your foot used to be. You had to bend your legs to avoid pushing him.

Paul sighed, full of mock indignation.

— He's too spacious for a cat.

You just laughed softly, turning onto your side to face Paul. His face still bore traces of sleep: half-lidded brown eyes, a relaxed jaw, slow and steady breathing, like his body was still trapped in that in-between space where only you and the quiet existed.

But when he truly opened his eyes and met your gaze, there was nothing sleepy about it. It was that intense, grounded look — like he saw past your expression, past the way your body curled next to his.

His fingers rose slowly, brushing aside a strand of hair that had fallen onto your cheek. The touch was light, almost lazy, but still precise — like everything that came from him.

Until he broke the silence, without looking away.

— Did you see Leah today?

The question came low, almost like it didn’t need to be asked. You knew he already had the answer — whether from the connection between you or just the way you’d carried yourself before sleep.

You sighed before answering, eyes still on his.

— I saw her earlier today... after the patrol. — your voice came out low, but firm. — She's angry... frustrated with life. With everything, actually...

You didn’t say anything else right away, but the silence between you both said enough. Paul knew you well enough to understand it wasn’t just about Leah.

— I just keep thinking that... — you began, your eyes still locked on his. But when you saw the way his expression hardened, you softened your tone and continued: — Oh, come on. You have to agree that Sam's decision is at least... questionable. Us and the vampires?

Paul looked away, but only for a moment. He took a deep breath, like someone weighing every word before speaking. But nothing came. He stayed quiet, brow slightly furrowed, his fingers tracing idle circles on your waist.

You didn’t press. You didn’t need to. Loyalty to Sam was one of those topics you both always sidestepped — never truly addressed.

— I know what we have to do. — you said, almost whispering, your voice gentler now. — I just don’t know if I can pretend I agree.

— You don’t have to pretend. Not with me.

He pulled you gently into him, his face resting against your neck. His warm breath made you shiver. His strong hand slid down your arm, holding it carefully, like he wanted to shield you.

A few minutes later, you pulled apart. You stretched slowly, still half buried in the mattress, your limbs heavier than usual — a sluggishness that you preferred to blame on the night’s patrol. Paul was already up, moving around with his usual quiet efficiency, wearing only his shorts, his hair still a mess from sleep.

— Emily invited us to dinner there today — he warned, without turning around, while taking a T-shirt from the drawer.

You let out an affirmative sound and got up. Your body felt soft, like it hadn’t decided whether to fully wake yet. You passed by Paul without saying anything and went straight to the bathroom.

The cold light from the ceiling illuminated the humid space, and the mirror still had marks from the previous bath. You turned on the shower, waiting for the water to heat up, and began to take off your clothes slowly.

— I’m going down. — Paul said, already moving away through the bedroom door.

You just made a sound in agreement, throwing the T-shirt aside. The steam hadn’t risen yet, and when you stepped under the water, it hit your back in a sudden chill — it should’ve just felt cold, but it didn’t.

A strong chill ran through your skin, as if it were thinner than before. You took a step back in reflex, rubbing your arms.

But you felt it.

You closed your eyes for a moment, your body still adjusting to the sting. Maybe it was just thermal shock. Or lingering sleep. Or your body remembering something ancient.

Whatever it was, it passed the moment the water warmed and your shoulders relaxed under the steady stream. The steam filled the bathroom slowly, fogging the mirror and dulling the outside world. You stayed there longer than needed, eyes closed, your body surrendering to the pause.

When you stepped out, the air still smelled of soap and warm towels. You dressed slowly in the bedroom, and that’s when you heard your phone vibrating softly on the dresser.

You picked it up, fingers still damp, and unlocked the screen. A notification from Lexie blinked at the top:

"I'm going out with my friends today. Can I sleep there later?"

You smiled, already expecting something like that, and answered immediately:

"Of course you can. The key is in the usual place."

As soon as you put your phone aside, another message arrived:

"By the way... can you lend me your boots? I'm going to a party."

You laughed, typing without thinking:

"You only remember that I'm cool when you need me."

"Yes or no?", she answered in seconds, followed by an impatient emoji.

"Yes, girl."

You were about to drop the phone when the screen turned on again:

"Can I come in?"

You frowned, and only then did you hear the light sound of the front door being opened.

Laughing alone, you left the room still drying your hair with the towel, the muffled sound of Lexie’s steps going to the kitchen reaching you as you went down the first steps of the stairs. The towel hanging around your neck, your still damp hair running down your back, and that nice heat of a hot bath made you a little lazy — until you heard the tone of the conversation downstairs.

Lexie’s voice came first, a little sullen, like someone who defends herself from a scolding.

— I already told you it's no big deal.

— For you, maybe. — Paul replied, his voice firm, but not exactly angry. Just that classic tone of his worried older brother.

You approached slowly, and when you appeared at the kitchen door, the scene made you half smile.

Lexie was standing near the counter with a backpack on her back, her arms crossed and a defiant look. Paul, on the other side, wiped his hands on a dishcloth, looking at her with that frown that you already knew so well.

When she saw you, Lexie opened an almost automatic smile, as if you were the reinforcement she was waiting for.

— Can I go there to try it? — she asked, already dropping the backpack on the floor.

You raised an eyebrow, but ended up laughing.

— Go — you said, in a tone of fun surrender.

She didn’t wait for a second chance. She ran to the stairs, going up as if she had won a free pass.

You entered the kitchen for good, pulling the chair closest to the table and sitting down. There was a simple sandwich waiting for you there, and next to it a glass of juice that Paul had probably prepared.

— Does your mother know she's going out? — you asked, taking the plate.

— I'll find out now — Paul replied, passing by you while leaving the dishcloth in the sink. He took the landline from the wall next to the bench with the calm of someone who already knew what was coming.

You took a bite of the sandwich, still watching Paul dial the number. His expression was of slight exasperation, but there was no real anger there, only that overloaded care that older brothers carry in the automatic.

But the taste of the bread and the filling didn’t go down well. An unexpected wrap in your stomach made you stop chewing for a second. You swallowed slowly, trying to disguise, and left the rest of the sandwich on the plate with a distracted gesture.

— I'm not hungry — you murmured low, more to yourself than to him, as you got up and took a glass of juice on the bench, like someone trying to occupy her hands.

Paul didn’t seem to notice. He was still with the phone leaning on his shoulder, his forehead slightly furrowed while waiting for someone to answer on the other side of the line.

That’s when you heard Lexie calling you excitedly from up there:

— See if it doesn’t take long! I want to show you everything before leaving!

You looked at Paul again, still with a little smile on your lips.

By the tone of the conversation, their mother knew about the party, which only made his frustration more evident. Knowing that she knew... didn’t mean he approved.

When you finished drinking the juice, you took the glass to the sink and left the kitchen with lazy steps. On the way to the stairs, Oliver ran past your foot and you took him in your lap on the automatic, feeling the warm familiarity of purring against your chest.

You went up calmly, already expecting some mess in the room. And you didn’t make a mistake.

When you opened the door, Lexie was facing the mirror, with one leg resting on the bed while wearing her favorite boot — the one with heels that you only wore on specific occasions. She wore one of your blouses and... a skirt. But it wasn’t just any skirt. It was your skirt, one that you didn’t even remember leaving accessible. You liked it too much. Too tight. And definitely inadequate for that night’s temperature and her age.

Lexie turned her face when she noticed you at the door.

— What was it? — she asked, suspicious, already aware of the trial that was coming.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms.

— Nothing, just wondering how you found this skirt hidden behind my sweatpants.

She smiled, innocent.

— It was there, I just tried it.

— Your brother won’t let you go through the door with this. — you said with a light smile, your eyes landing on the short skirt that she insisted on fixing on her thighs.

Lexie rolled her eyes and snorted hard.

— Oh, what's up. You wear this skirt. And I've seen Paul's reaction, he doesn't even care.

You entered and finally closed the bedroom door, still with Oliver on your lap, and answered with a dragged, provocative tone:

— Let's say that, with me, he prefers not to argue. — you let go, like someone who makes no effort to sound modest. — After all... anyway, he's the one who wins in the end.

Lexie made a grimace of disgust, staged, but with a real tip.

— Ugh. Sometimes I forget that you are more than my friend. That's very wrong.

— Wrong is that you want to go out dressed like that. — you replied, laughing, while putting Oliver to bed. — Who do you want to get attention? Speak soon.

She hesitated for a second, but then sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the jeans out of the backpack with a resigned sigh.

— There's going to be a boy there... no big deal.

You arched an eyebrow, crossing your arms, interested.

— "Nothing too much" is what every teenager says before making a mistake. What's his name?

Lexie gave you a sharp look.

— I won't give you ammunition to tell Paul.

You gave a light laugh, pointing with your chin at the boots she had already put on.

— Okay. But if he finds out, it wasn’t me. I’m just lending the boots, I don’t sign a contract as a cupid.

She was already changing her clothes when she murmured, a little sullen:

— The pants are really warmer...

You nodded, returning to the door while watching her finish getting ready.

— And safer. Which, with a brother like yours, is always a bonus.

Lexie finished pinning her hair and looked at you through the mirror, with an almost grateful look.

— You're not going to tell him, are you?

— No... — you replied, smiling with malice. — But if he asks, I'll smile with the face of someone who knows too much.

Lexie threw a cushion at you, but you were quick and turned away with a laugh, and already turned to go down.

— Come on, we still have to drop you off at your friend's house before you leave. _____________________________

Dinner at Emily's house was exactly as you imagined: heavy, restrained, and with an air of decision already made before anyone even sat at the table.

Jacob, once again, had managed to convince Sam — the pack would cooperate with the Cullens. As much as this still didn’t please everyone, no one argued anymore.

You were sitting next to Paul, both of you in the corner of the table, your knees nearly touching. He didn’t speak much, but you could feel the constant heat of his presence — his body seemed to protect yours effortlessly.

Sam stood at the end of the table as he began to speak:

— The Cullens are going out to hunt tonight. — His voice was firm, blunt. — We’ll be covering Bella’s house during that time. It shouldn’t last more than a few hours, but we’ll stay on high alert.

You rested your elbows on the table, forearms crossed on the wood. You said nothing — there was no need. It had already been decided before dinner.

— And about the boundaries with the Cullens… — Sam continued, eyes going straight to you and Paul — I hope I don’t have to worry about unnecessary fights. Last patrol was tense enough.

Sam was referring to the scuffle between Emmett and Paul a few nights ago, when the vampire tried to cross the reservation’s borders. You felt Paul shift beside you and, without needing to look, you knew a crooked smile had formed on his lips. That half-smile he gave when feeling provocative — the kind of provocation that only he could make seem natural.

Sam said nothing more. He just sat.

For a while, the table was filled only with the sound of cutlery, quiet breathing, and the jug of juice being passed around by Emily. Leah ate in silence, her face unreadable. Seth chewed slowly, eyes alert.

You glanced down at your own plate and realized the food had already gone cold. The hunger was still there, but it mixed with a strange tiredness.

You didn’t say anything. Took another bite, trying to ignore the sensation and keep your movements automatic. Paul glanced at you.

You looked up for a moment and returned a faint smile — no teeth.

But the weight didn’t lift.

Conversations gradually resumed at the table, still quiet — Embry said something to Jared, Seth replied to Leah, and Emily moved around collecting empty plates. That was when you stood. You didn’t speak. You just pushed your chair back and walked to the door.

The night air on your face felt like relief, but not enough.

You leaned against the railing, fingers curled around the damp wood under the insistent rain.

Something was wrong. Or about to happen. Your heart was beating faster than it should. Not like fear — it was different. A restlessness that came from the inside, as if your body knew something your mind hadn’t caught up with yet.

That’s when you heard Paul approaching. His steps were slow, almost hesitant, as if he didn’t want to interrupt whatever was happening inside you.

He stopped beside you, and for a moment you both stood in silence.

— You okay? — he asked at last. His voice low, direct, without pressure.

You hesitated. You didn’t feel okay, but you couldn’t explain it either.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before a word came out, the sound of quick footsteps and loud voices filled the porch. The door burst open and Quil and Jacob stepped out, laughing loudly at some joke only they understood.

Whatever had started between you and Paul faded. You met his gaze for another second but didn’t push it. Instead, you buried that uncomfortable feeling and turned to follow the others.

Jacob was the first to notice your approach, grinning:

— Race to see who gets there first?

You sometimes accepted that kind of challenge, even won a few. But something about his casual tone — like everything you did had nothing to do with his obsession with Bella — left a bitter taste in your mouth.

— I’m tired today. — your voice was flat, turning just as the shift struck.

The change hit harder than usual. It demanded more. Burned more. Still, you shot into the forest.

Jacob’s smile faltered. For a moment, he looked confused — or pretended to be.

Paul, further back, saw it all. And you knew.

Near Bella’s house, the scent of the Cullens clung to the air — cold and unwelcome. The forest grew stiller as you neared the clearing behind the property. That’s where you saw them: all gathered, already in formation, waiting.

You and Paul arrived side by side, bodies alert, tension near tangible. It wasn’t just the atmosphere of the night — it was the strained weight still lingering from their last patrol together.

The clearing opened ahead, the entire Cullen family standing like symmetrical statues. Edward at the front. The blonde vampire next to Emmett decided to strike:

— Hope the dogs behave this time.

That was it. Cold. Poisoned. Enough.

You didn’t think. The growl came fast and low from your throat.

— Rosalie. — Carlisle’s voice was soft but firm, like a breeze with strength. — That helps no one.

She raised an eyebrow, unmoved, and looked away as if she hadn’t spoken.

Paul exhaled slowly beside you. His eyes met yours briefly, telling you it wasn’t worth it.

Carlisle gave a gentle nod to the group.

— Thank you for being here. We’ll return before dawn.

The Cullens dispersed among the trees. Edward was last. As he passed you and Paul, he cast only a discreet glance — not arrogant, just unsettling, like someone who saw too much.

The pack split naturally. Jacob and Leah took the north side of Bella’s house. Jared and Quil went west toward the road. Sam and Embry handled the east. Seth hesitated for a second… then followed you and Paul.

You covered the southern edge — the farthest.

You walked beside Paul, paws sinking into wet ground, your pace gradually slowing, as if the silence around demanded more attention. The night was still. Too still. No unusual scents, just forest air, whispering leaves, distant creaks of age-old branches.

Eventually, you neared the clearing behind the house. You stopped between trees, half hidden by shadows and low mist. There, through the kitchen window, you saw Charlie Swan.

He had just arrived. Shrugged off his coat with slow, tired movements. Bella moved around the kitchen, gently setting a pot on the stove, saying something you didn’t try to hear.

You watched them a moment, unmoving. It felt strange — seeing her inside that house, wrapped in a normality that felt more and more distant.

Charlie smiled at some point, and something clenched in your chest. There was something unsettling about how genuinely oblivious he looked. So comfortable in his ignorance.

It was hard not to feel a flicker of guilt. But you knew it wasn’t your burden. No matter how harsh your reality, you wouldn’t trade places with Bella. She had choices. Maybe she didn’t even realize the privilege in that.

Later, with the forest drowned in quiet broken only by distant wind-stirred branches, you picked up your pace. You circled the house for the third time, alone now. Paul and Seth had stayed behind. Seth had offered to come, but you declined gently.

Alone, the world moved slower. Familiar forest scents, cold ground beneath your paws, the steady rhythm of your own heart. Everything hung suspended.

By the time the first bluish light stained the sky, silver on the tree tops, you were returning from the southern trail. Heavy footsteps over damp earth signaled Paul’s approach. Seth followed soon after.

No one spoke. The mission was smooth. The Cullens had returned. Gradually, the rest of the pack gathered on the trail — shadows between the trees — until all of you were running in silent formation back toward the reservation.

Near Emily’s house, the shift came — but it wasn’t easy. Something resisted. Your body hesitated. It hurt more than it should have. Still, in the forest’s quiet shelter, you managed.

In Emily’s kitchen, it smelled like hot bread, fresh coffee, and fried eggs. The floor creaked softly under everyone’s feet — the house breathing its quiet comfort.

You entered in silence, your body more tired than usual.

Paul sat at the table with the others. Embry was recounting some noise in the forest, Seth laughing as he ate pancakes straight from the platter. You didn’t join them. You stood by the sink, waiting for the kettle to boil.

Your stomach turned, not in pain, but in a subtle repulsion. The familiar smell of food felt intrusive.

You placed your fingers on the counter, trying to keep your expression neutral, eyes on the rising steam.

Paul was watching you from the table.

Since the night before, he’d been paying closer attention. Not overt — just a quiet vigilance, like he was looking for proof that something really was wrong.

Standing by the sink, you turned your eyes to the window. The sky, which had begun to clear earlier, now thickened with clouds. Gray light seeped through the curtains, washing the room in pale hues. You ran your fingertips along the edge of the sink without realizing.

It was like being outside yourself. Suspended in warmth and uncertainty.

The kettle’s rising whistle broke the stillness. You turned, moving slowly. Took the dishcloth, grasped the handle, focused on pouring the water.

That’s when Emily arrived.

— Sorry — she said kindly, not realizing how far away your mind had drifted.

You startled.

The kettle slipped.

Scalding water hit your hand. The cup clattered loudly in the sink.

— Shit! — you gasped, shock and pain mixing in the curse as you pulled back your hand.

Paul was already moving, his chair scraping as he crossed the kitchen.

Emily rushed in:

— I’m sorry! I— Quick, cold water!

You obeyed. But the relief wasn’t enough.

Paul reached your side.

— Did it burn bad? — His voice was low but tense.

You took a moment.

— It’s better now. — your voice shaky, automatic.

Emily still looked guilty. You tried to soothe her with a half-smile:

— I just got startled. I was distracted.

But when you removed your hand from the water, the skin was still red and throbbing.

— I’m really sorry — Emily murmured.

You forced a smile:

— It’s fine. I heal fast, remember?

— Want some ointment? — she offered, opening a drawer.

You nodded faintly. Let her apply it. The cool touch contrasted sharply with your burning skin.

Paul stayed close, arms crossed. Watching. Quiet.

— Next time, announce yourself before sneaking up on me — you joked weakly.

Emily laughed.

— I did! You were just on another planet.

You only answered with a look.

Emily finished applying the ointment and stepped back with a sigh:

— Now get out of my kitchen. I’ll make your tea.

You rolled your eyes, smiling faintly. Paul followed you to the table. As you sat, you felt his gaze on you — and avoided meeting it.

He sat down slowly, and Emily placed a mug before you. Steam rose gently. The mint scent felt too soft against the turmoil in your gut.

You muttered a thank-you, took a sip, then a bite of banana. That was all you could manage.

Paul spoke casually but watched you. The kind of quiet attention you only notice when you realize it’s trying not to be noticed.

After breakfast, you and Paul left. The morning air hit your face like relief and reminder: the day was only beginning.

Home was quiet, almost cozy. Lexie’s mess greeted you — coat on the couch, a heel by the stairs, empty glass on the counter. The TV murmuring something no one was watching.

Paul tossed the keys aside. You said nothing. Just went straight to the room, crawled under the covers.

Fatigue swallowed you whole.

You woke hours later. Your head heavy, your body foreign.

You moved slowly to the bathroom. Cold water hit your face. It helped. But when you reached to dry your eyes — you felt it.

The burn.

You pulled back, stared at your hand under the dim light.

The blisters were bigger. Skin red, swollen. You touched it gently — pain flared.

Your stomach dropped.

It should’ve healed. It should’ve faded by now. Your body never took this long.

Something was wrong. Too slow. Too human.

You stood frozen, staring at your hand, your heart racing.

Finally, you sighed. You needed to move. Do something.

You showered slowly, as if afraid to wake something sleeping. Dressed quietly, hiding whatever truth clung to your skin.

Paul was still asleep, breathing deeply.

You paused at the door, watching him. Grateful he hadn’t woken.

You stepped softly down the stairs.

In the kitchen, the faint clink of dishes broke the silence.

Lexie stood at the counter, swirling juice in a glass like she was debating if drinking it was worth washing it.

— So, how was the party? — you asked, trying to sound light, like nothing was wrong.

She looked up, sighed, and shrugged.

— Honestly? Kinda lame. I thought it’d be more exciting.

You opened the closet in search of something to eat, but gave up when you saw an apple. You decided to take it.

- But you were so excited yesterday. I thought you were going to come back saying that it had been the best night of your life.

Lexie laughed lightly, turning the glass between her fingers.

- I thought so too. But I think I went with too high expectations.

You took a small bite of the apple and smiled at the sentence that would follow:

- Did you at least see the boy you like?

She hesitated, then nodded slowly.

- I did. — Her answer came out low, almost as if she didn’t want to be heard, and you laughed lightly in reaction.

- No need to whisper. Paul practically fainted up there.

Lexie automatically looked in the direction of the stairs and smiled, a little embarrassed.

- I know. It’s just... strength of habit.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. You kept eating slowly, feeling the kind of metallic taste of the apple in your mouth.

- Okay, but what about him? — you asked with a corner smile, like someone who already knows the answer. — Was there any moment or was it just expectation?

- Actually, we just talked a little. — Lexie said, a little disappointed. — I didn’t stay that long.

- Really? Why?

- I started to feel cramps. Really strong. Right in the middle of the conversation — she rolled her eyes, remembering. — I held on for a while, took a few breaths, tried to talk, but... it didn’t happen. I ended up coming back early.

You just looked with an expression of someone who understood what she felt.

- I’m sorry, Lex. — A welcoming smile appeared on your face.

- It was terrible — she confirmed. — And the worst thing is that when I got here, I went straight to look for a tampon. I looked in the hallway bathroom, in your old room, and even in your bathroom... nothing.

- Strange. I always leave a package in mine.

Lexie shook her head.

- I only saw a lot of cotton swabs and some nail things. — she said, kind of carefree. — Luckily, I found some in my bag.

You didn’t answer right away. A subtle pressure appeared at the bottom of your head, as if your brain began to process a sequence of silent thoughts.

You tried to mentally pull the last few days, the last few weeks. You didn’t remember buying tampons. Not even having used one. Not even feeling anything.

Lexie was still talking, but her voice became background noise.

The words reached you like muffled echoes, without a defined form. And then, as if she felt you weren’t really there anymore, Lexie let out a brief “I’m going up” and disappeared up the stairs, her steps too light for the weight that began to accumulate inside you.

You stood still for a second. Just a second.

Then you moved automatically, as if you already knew where you were going. You opened the side drawer of the kitchen and pulled out the half-forgotten calendar you used to leave there.

The pages were slightly crumpled, some with turned corners, marked with quick notes and hurried scratches. But what you were looking for was simple. Small.

A little star.

You used to draw them discreetly, on specific days, as a personal reminder. Almost a secret code between you and yourself — just so you wouldn’t get completely lost in the middle of the routine.

You flipped back, until you found it.

The last little star.

It was there, lonely, on a page from three months ago.

You stared at the date for a few seconds. You felt your stomach sink.

It wasn’t just a delay. It was a vacuum of whole weeks that you had simply ignored, perhaps because your body never used to fail. Until now.

You closed the calendar carefully, like someone who closes a box they don’t want to open anymore.

The kitchen was quiet. Lexie had already gone up, and Paul was still asleep.

And you... felt small in front of a memory drawn with any pen.

In an automatic movement, almost out of your way, you took the car key that was on the counter.

The sound of the rotating doorknob, the door opening slowly, everything seemed distant — as if the gestures were not exactly yours, just part of a scenario that you observed from afar.

The air outside was colder than you remembered. Or maybe it was just contrast.

You got into the car and started the engine. The steering wheel was firm under your hands, but it seemed strange, as if something between your fingers and the world had changed. Slowly, you engaged the gear and left.

Nothing abrupt. Not fast at all.

Just a continuous movement.

Paul woke up with the sound of the engine — low, low, too displaced for the time. Maybe he felt the absence before opening his eyes.

But you had already gone.

The car went down the gravel road, disappearing into the curve ahead. And, for Paul, everything was silent again.

The cell phone vibrated on the panel. A notification, maybe a message. You didn’t look.

Vaguely, as if you were remembering something that happened in another time, did you remember the morning before — or would it have been today? — when Emily commented, during breakfast, that she was going to Port Angeles in the afternoon. Something quick. A single trip.

At the time, you barely heard.

But now, that seemed like the only thread you could hold on to.

Your fingers went through the list of contacts on the cell phone display, almost without feeling.

You stopped on her name.

Emily answered quickly, as always.

- Hello?

- Emily... have you already left? — your voice sounded strange, as if it came from far away.

On the other side, the pause was short.

Attentive.

- I was going to leave now. Is everything okay?

- Wait for me. I’ll go with you.

- Do you want me to stop by?

- No. I’m going. I’ll meet you at your house.

You hung up before she could ask anything else.

When she arrived, Emily was already waiting, standing at the entrance with the car key in her hand. Her gaze was calm, but there was something behind it, a silent, almost maternal concern.

You braked, turned off the engine and got out.

- Shall we go?

She just nodded. No questions. As soon as she started the engine, she started driving.

The silence between you two was dense, but not uncomfortable.

The road passed through the windows like a too slow movie.

And the world out there seemed to go at another speed.

You kept your cell phone in your hand, but you didn’t look at the screen. Then came the first call.

Paul

The screen lit up. Vibrating lightly between your fingers.

You turned your face to the window. You didn’t answer.

Emily didn’t say anything.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the engine, the wind crossing the road, and the slight buzz that the vibration of the cell phone left in the air.

- Aren’t you going to answer? — she asked, more like an observation than a charge.

- No. Not now — you answered, your eyes fixed on what was going on outside. The landscape slid too fast, as if the world was walking without you.

Emily let the silence extend a little longer.

Then, with almost invisible care, she tried again:

- You... are you okay?

The question didn’t come loaded. No judgment, no insinuation.

Just a thread of worried curiosity.

You squeezed your own leg with your free hand, without realizing it.

- Yes — you replied. The word came out small. And too low.

Once again the cell phone vibrated. The notification shone on the panel.

You watched it for a second — and then, without haste, opened the glove compartment and locked it inside.

You closed the lid slowly, like someone who keeps a thought they don’t want to see anymore.

Emily looked away from the road for a moment, just enough to look at you from the side.

Her voice, when she spoke, was calm. Almost inaudible:

- Tell me what’s going on.

There was no pressure. Not even urgency.

Only presence.

You hesitated. And then you raised your hand, opening your fingers slowly, revealing the burn marks from that same morning.

- That happened — you said.

Emily looked. Her forehead furrowed, not in shock, but in estrangement.

- But...

- It should have disappeared. — Your voice came out firmer this time. — There was supposed to be no sign at all. But it’s still here. And it’s getting worse.

The road went ahead, but it was like watching everything from a much farther away place.

- And that’s not all — you continued, lower. — I’m feeling cold again. And... transforming has hurt. As if my body didn’t know how to do it anymore. As if I were... going back.

Emily squeezed the steering wheel more firmly, but her face remained serene.

- Does Paul know?

You shook your head. Quick, almost without thinking.

- No. If he knows, he’ll tell Sam. And Sam... will draw conclusions before I understand anything.

Emily didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, her voice came lower, carefully:

- And you kept it alone all day?

You nodded, almost imperceptibly, still looking out the window.

- And... In addition to everything, this morning I noticed something else.

She waited. Not with impatience. With time.

- I’m late.

Emily turned her face a little, and the silence changed in temperature.

- How long?

- A lot. — you said, almost in a whisper. — I think... a couple of months. Maybe more.

Those words were released in the car.

But you didn’t take them lightly.

You felt their weight arranging inside you, as if they occupied space for the first time.

You closed your eyes. Trying not to feel everything at once.

- Do you think... — Emily started, slowly.

You opened your eyes. You looked ahead.

- I don’t know. — you replied. There was no certainty or fear in your voice. Just the emptiness of someone who still hasn’t understood what they’re feeling. — Maybe yes.

It was the first time you said that out loud.

The words were still in the air. They weren’t new, but it was as if they had only just gained weight. Until then, everything had been a blur — loose symptoms, ignored discomforts, that vague feeling that something was different. But now that was starting to take shape. Almost a name.

You looked down at your own hands on your lap. The same body that always healed too fast, that burned in constant fever, now seemed strange. Slower. Silently against you.

- Calm down — Emily said, with a serene voice, choosing each word. — Let’s do a test first, okay? We’re not sure yet.

You nodded, without saying anything. It was hard to know what to feel.

- Do you want to stop at a pharmacy first? — she asked later, still carefully.

- No... — you answered, forcing a light smile. — I won’t die if I wait for you to solve your things.

Emily just nodded and returned to focus on the road. You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking. The desire was to go to your mother’s house, lie on her lap like when you were a child, ask for a hug and hide from everything other than her. But nothing seemed to fit.

The silence in the car was still thick when Emily slowed down and turned into one of the busiest streets in Port Angeles. You blinked slowly, as if only now realizing that you had arrived. You didn’t even ask what exactly she had come to do there — buy a gift, maybe? Solve something personal? — but, at that moment, it didn’t matter. You’d prefer it this way. Keep thoughts away for a while longer.

You followed every step next to her, crossing sidewalks, shop windows and store corridors as if it were a quieter version of yourself. Emily commented on one thing or another, showed options, asked your opinion, and you answered automatically.

The city followed its usual flow, and you were just there, feeling time pass at a completely different pace. As if everything around you was accelerated, and you, stopped.

At some point, she entered a pharmacy alone. You chose the most accurate test on the shelf, which promised to detect everything even before any delay, even if you knew you were already far beyond that. You took the box with firm hands on the outside, but trembling on the inside.

You paid, put it inside the bag carefully, as if it could break just by looking at it.

Later, you went into a coffee shop. Not because you were hungry, but because there was something between before and after that needed space. It was too early to come back, too late to pretend nothing was happening.

The small box was still there, inside your bag, heavy as stone, although it hardly took up space. A silent reminder — persistent.

You and Emily chose a table near the window. You asked for coffee. You talked. About anything. Light, neutral, almost banal things. It was as if your body needed to talk about everything that didn’t matter, just to postpone what really mattered.

And, deep down, you knew: it wasn’t just a distraction. It was a postponement. A kind of subtle denial, disguised as normality.

Emily seemed to understand. She respected this suspended time.

Until, after a sip of coffee and a few minutes of denser silence, she turned her face slowly in your direction.

- Can I ask you something? — she said, delicately.

You nodded, slowly.

- Why didn’t you look for Leah today? Or Kim? — Emily asked, unhurried. — You’re closer.

There was no judgment in her voice. Not even distrust. Just a quiet curiosity, like someone who grooves the edges of a thought.

You laughed lightly, a low sound that didn’t even turn into a response. You rested your elbows on the table and ran your fingers over the side of the hot glass.

- First because... you’re discreet. Much more than both.

Emily smiled, knowing exactly what you wanted to say.

- Fair.

- And also... — you looked away, looking out the window as if the words were outside. — Leah could never contain her thoughts. The pack would know at the time.

Emily nodded, already predicting.

- And Kim... well, she couldn’t contain her mouth.

She laughed, and so did you. A small laugh, contained, almost out of place, but welcome.

After a few seconds, you turned your eyes to her.

- Thank you for being here today. For helping me. I don’t know... I don’t know what I would have done if I were alone.

The silence that followed was not heavy. It was the kind of silence that accommodates itself, that demands nothing.

- I think I would know yes — Emily said, and there was something too true in that little smile of hers.

You lowered your eyes. The light in the cafeteria looked more yellowish now. The world was still the same, and yet everything was suspended.

- Speaking of which... — she continued, with that care of those who avoid the center of the subject without ceasing to approach — will you want to do it at home?

Your heart answered before you.

You looked at the bag. The little box was still there. Silent, intact, but too full.

- No — you replied, almost in a whisper, without looking away.

Emily understood without asking for an explanation.

- Do you want to do it now?

You didn’t answer right away. For a moment, you only listened to the environment around you: the tinkling of cups, the coffee machine working, the muffled sound of footsteps and conversations. Everything followed, as always. Everything normal. Except you.

Then, in an almost imperceptible gesture, you nodded your head.

Emily got up without hesitation. You went after her.

You walked together to the bathroom at the back of the cafeteria.

It was small, but not impersonal. The light was warm, the decoration simple — artificial plants in a corner, a light smell of lavender in the air. Almost cozy.

You noticed these details like someone who clings to anything that is easy to process.

Emily leaned against the door, arms crossed, while you took the box out of your bag.

She seemed too light for the weight she carried.

- Are you going to stay here? — you asked, without looking up.

- Of course.

You opened the box slowly, closing the door behind you.

The sound of the world disappeared, and only the noise of the plastic being torn remained. Your every movement seemed to be slowed down. Every gesture, calculated. Not for fear of making mistakes, but because it was the only way to stay in control.

When you left, Emily was still there.

You put the test on the sink with the care of those who deposit something sacred. You looked at it for a second, then at your own reflection in the mirror — and you didn’t recognize yourself.

- Ten minutes — you murmured.

Emily just nodded.

You stood there, side by side, facing the sink. The silence returned — thick, almost solid. Time seemed to have lost its rush.

You avoided looking straight, but the display was there. Too small to contain so much, but still about to say everything.

The heat in your body was different — it wasn’t fever, it was restlessness. A trembling, disorganized heat, as if the blood had changed its rhythm.

Emily didn’t say anything. She didn’t even need to.

You crossed your arms, lightly squeezing your own skin, as if you wanted to hold some part of yourself that could escape.

And then it appeared.

A word. Simple. Small.

Pregnant.

As sharp as what you couldn’t name.

The sound around became distant.

The world too.

It was as if everything had been farther away. As if only you and that word were there.

Emily sighed, softly, almost tenderly.

It was as if something had finally fit.

But, at the same moment, everything had changed place. ________________________

Next Chapter

Comments, likes, and reblogs will be greatly appreciated!

xoxo, bee💋🫶🏼

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beegomess · 3 months ago

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I love it!!

. paul lahote x reader

“lemme put it in baby, c’mon.” paul’s lips brush over the sensitive skin of your neck with every word. he mouths hotly against your pulse, as if he’s struggling not to sink his canines into your flesh. he feels like such a fucking leech. every instinct in his shapeshifting body is telling him to claim, claim, claim.

he pants like a mutt when he grinds his bulge against you. the only thing stopping him from slipping inside being his cargo shorts and your cotton panties. he can smell your essence, your arousal, your sweet fucking slick. yet you’re still teasing him. denying him of what he wants, what he needs. his whole body aches for you.

his body hovers above you. his visibly strong arms supporting him, so he doesn’t crush you with his weight. your legs are wrapped loosely around his hips, giving him access to your sweet heat. his supernatural warmth encompasses your half naked body, the worn t-shirt and underwear starting to feel like too many layers.

when you teasingly roll your hips back into his, he lets out a full body shudder. he full on moans into your neck, the sound going straight into your ear. his hand clenches your sheets into a fist so hard, you can hear the fabric rip on the corners of the bed. it’s like a new wave of desperation washes over him.

“c’mon pretty,” paul pants against your jaw. the hardness of his boner presses on your cloth-covered clit deliciously when he gives another roll of his hips. despite feeling good, the friction isn’t enough. he trails kisses up to your lips and huffs like he’s already fucking you.

“you want me.” he says it like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. his lips brush yours as he speaks in a mumbly tone, “please, baby. just say yes. lemme make you feel good..”

he shifts so his knees support his weight and he can grope at your body freely with his large hands. they slide under the hem of your baggy, sleep shirt, and immediately find purchase on your waist. his calloused palms tickle your skin as they slide up and down your torso, occasionally squeezing at your curves. he loves your body. healthy and warm. all his. his to protect and love and worship. his mate.

his hands slide up to your chest, groping eagerly at your bare breasts from under your sleep-shirt. he leans down so his front is covering yours once more and collides your mouths together. soft, needy sounds travel from his mouth to yours, as the kiss progressively gets more and more heated. he needs you. why are you teasing him like this?

“c’mon, c’mon..” he whispers into the kiss. his lips part desperately against yours while you kiss him back with just as much fervor. he swipes his thumbs over your nipples, while his hot tongue dances around with yours. he’s trying to do anything to convince you.

by the time the kiss breaks, paul is panting hotly against your lips. his eyes are lidded with need, and he’s rock hard against your core.

“please?” he pleads once more. there’s broken tone to his voice and his brows are furrowed with desperation. he nudges his nose against yours affectionately, his heart beating a mile a minute. all it takes is one single nod of your head, to have paul flipping you over onto your hands and knees. he practically rips your cotton underwear off, with promises to please his mate.

↳ ahh this is so ooc, sorry 😞 this is my first time writing something other than headcannons, plus i haven’t written anything since october last year. pls excuse the bad quality :( and remember requests are always open!

tags: @anxiousdiosa

⟡ likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

#paul lahote x reader #paul lahote

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beegomess · 3 months ago

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Happy Valentine's Day to my Brazilian followers who are inspired by my stories to feed their obsessions, haha!! 💗💗

#theodore nott x reader #mattheo x you #mattheo riddle x you #kendall roy x reader #paul lahote x reader #twilight paul lahote #twilight wolfpack #harry potter #slytherin #x reader

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beegomess · 3 months ago

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ferrari

as part of a social visit, you spend a fortnight at an English politician's estate with his god-awful son (politician's son!theo x american socialite!reader)

a/n - this fic took sooo long im so excited to publish it!!! also im such a sucker for the trope where one half of a couple is THE most insidious hater with absolutely no chill but then halfway through they start feeling like...why's the other person kinda........hmmmmmmm (p.s. this started off inspired by the song by the neighbourhood but idk if i would call this a songfic ehehe enjoyy)

tropes/warnings - enemies to lovers, forced proximity, fluff/banter, mildly british-phobic, incorrect descriptions of ferraris as manual (god i researched too much about ferraris against my will also i apologise for the inconsistencies car/f1 girlies)

word count - 5.8k

taglist - @kandralice @justme989898 @iamheretoread1234 @allie-sturns @hzdhrtss @friedfreyfries @bushnellswife @rose-of-the-grave @thaliashifts @pariahsparadise @babene-e @fratbrochrisgf @user089167

A car.

A yellow car.

A bright, disgusting, honest-to-god canary yellow Ferrari was peeling into the driveway at the ungodly hour of a quarter to 7 in the morning.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes. Most of yesterday had passed in an exhausting blur, given how jet-lagged you were, but this took the cake. You blinked, opening your eyes further. The car was still there, as loud and insecurely showy as it had been at first glance.

Perhaps your eyes hadn't adjusted to the English countryside gloom. Yes, that had to be it. You were sure that in proper daylight, the car would appear a luxurious cream, or perhaps even an elegant taupe.

Once you had dressed and crept downstairs, shivering in the early morning chill that blanketed the vast estate, a butler informed you that Master Nott would be down shortly to join you for breakfast. But it wasn't the genteel, elderly man that had welcomed you and your father the day before that walked in.

"Apologies for my absence yesterday," said the man walking towards the breakfast table, fiddling with a button. "I hope my father wasn't too boring. I was occupied with some other business. Theodore Nott. Junior."

He stuck out a hand at the last bit, and you eyed it with a restrained distaste. Perhaps it was just the cynic in you, but something about his demeanour felt politically calibrated to dazzle you. The apple clearly didn't fall far from the tree - Theo Nott Jr. was every bit his father's son. However, this Theodore appeared more charismatic and charming, whereas his father seemed more reserved and cordial.

And yet, there was something untrustworthy about his smile. What kind of business did he occupy himself with?

"So, Theodore," you asked as you buttered a piece of toast, "what do you like to do for pleasure?"

"Nothing much out of the ordinary - golfing, collecting art, skiing. I enjoy a good holiday every now and then."

Your lips quirked a little at that. Calling it 'a little holiday every now and then' was putting it lightly, you decided. Theodore Nott Jr. had a reputation that could easily rival any of your more scandalous counterparts. It seemed like all he did was travel, jet-setting from one location to the next, finding ever-brilliant ways of dragging his father's name in the mud. Given his father's staunch refusal to comment on his son's debaucherous behaviours, you guessed there was no love lost between the two.

"Oh, and cars," Theo continued obliviously. "I do like cars."

You placed your toast down, frowning.

"Your business yesterday. It wouldn't have had anything to do with that...you know...the yellow..." you trailed off, motioning with the butter knife.

Theo looked surprised. The mildly curious look on his face felt miles more genuine than his unscrupulous smile just minutes ago. The curve of his lips hinted at something - like a smile, but not quite.

"Your bedroom does overlook the driveway, doesn't it? But yes - I was in town yesterday afternoon to pick up my new car." Misreading your curiosity as interest, he probed further. "Why? Do you like it?"

You thought back to the grotesquely gleaming vehicle. You barely held back from pulling an unbecoming face.

"Car is...a strong word for that monstrosity."

Theo's lips parted, giving you the impression that he had a dozen replies on the tip of his tongue, but no voice for any of them.

"Well. You Americans have the strangest ways of describing classics."

You raised your eyebrows. "Classic? Little Women is a classic. That...is a Colleen Hoover book at best."

Theo watched you curiously, uncomprehending.

"What? You're not up to date on contemporary unfeminist literature?"

From the blank look on his face, the quip was clearly lost on him. Merlin, was he going to be this slow the entire visit?

"When Father mentioned contacting a translator, I assumed he was having a laugh," the boy said, prying open a tiny jar of honey. "Now, I'm not so sure."

The two of you endured a painfully awkward meal and you excused yourself at the first available opportunity, taking care not to seem overly eager to leave the room. Behind you, you heard a faint clink of china and a muttered, sardonic echo.

"Monstrosity."

You didn’t intend to play. That much you wanted to make perfectly clear.

After spending the morning occupied with other business, Theodore's father had invited you and your father for afternoon tea and a game of lawn polo with Theo and his friends - all carefully groomed hedges and intimidatingly pressed uniforms. You had been under the mistaken assumption that you'd be on the watching end of things. When Theo invited you to join the game, you offered a tight-lipped smile.

"I'm afraid I didn't pack any riding clothes," you said apologetically. It was true, you hadn't, but your worries had more to do with the fact that you hadn't ridden since you were 12.

Theo turned towards you, his hair sun-tousled with a sly slant to his eyes that promised nothing good for you.

“Whatever you’re wearing now is more than fine.”

You looked down at your blouse and loose linen trousers, uncertain.

"Unless, of course," he continued, dropping his voice, "you don't feel up for the game?"

You glanced up, reading the challenge in his words. He was goading you, and you knew better than to fall for it. But you just couldn't stand the idea of him holding this over your head, subtly or otherwise, for the rest of your visit. And so, as utterly infuriating as it was, you took the bait - hook, line, and sinker.

"Don't be ridiculous," you muttered through clenched teeth, taking the helmet he held out for you.

And so you awkwardly mounted a dapple-grey gelding under the watchful eye of yours and Theo's fathers, pretending you weren’t one misplaced pebble away from sliding off your horse, face-first. Theo carelessly introduced his friends from boarding school - Mattheo Riddle and Blaise Zabini. They waved at you good-naturedly, and you nervously smiled back. They seemed friendly enough, but then again, so had Theo.

The game started fast - faster than you were comfortable with, if you were being completely honest. Within minutes, you were hopelessly lost while Theo, unsurprisingly, was in his element. He rode like he’d been riding all his life, and he probably had - back straight, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with something more intense than friendly competition. Meanwhile, you struggled to keep up, your hands slick with sweat on the reins.

Theo whirled past you on his stallion, calling over his shoulder, “Next time, try aiming for the ball.”

The others laughed, well-mannered, while Theo smirked with a special kind of malice, as if he were all too aware of the heat crawling up your neck. You smiled through it, chin high, your thoughts drifting to violent fantasies of bashing his perfectly sculpted face in with your mallet.

He wasn’t just fast; he was precise. Every time you neared the ball, he was there, cutting you off with easy, practiced turns or thundering by close enough to rattle you. Not enough to technically break the rules, but enough to make you painfully aware of how out of your depth you were.

At some point, the teasing and missteps began to chip away at your carefully composed expression. Your lips thinned. Your jaw locked. The linen blouse that once felt effortlessly chic now clung to your back.

You glanced around the lawn irritably when one of his friends caught your eye from across the field. Blaise, if you remembered correctly. He gave the subtlest flick of his wrist, adjusting the way he held his mallet. You mirrored him instinctively, and almost immediately, your wrist felt less strained. Stunned, you shot him an appreciative look.

A few minutes later, Mattheo came riding up beside you at a slower pace, his horse snorting softly.

“Alright, New York?” he asked with a lazy grin.

That piqued your attention. Although you currently lived in LA, it wasn't exactly common knowledge that you were born and brought up in New York City. Still, you weren't sure how much you could trust either of them. They were Theo's friends, after all.

“Just peachy,” you replied coolly.

He leaned a little closer, and you felt mildly jealous and how effortless he made it seem.

“You know, Theo only acts like this when he really hates someone.”

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Or,” he added casually, as he gathered his reins in one hand, “when he really likes them.”

The implication hit only after he had steered his horse away. You blinked, before seizing your own reins with a newfound determination. Whatever game Theo thought he was playing, you weren’t about to let him win it.

With your grip improved and your instincts finally catching up, you started anticipating the ball's path. Your swings grew sharper, more confident. You manoeuvred around Theo once, twice, three times.

At the final play, it was all heat and desire for vengeance. You galloped forward, timing your swing just as the ball veered to the left. Your mallet connected with a satisfying crack, sending it cleanly rolling between the makeshift goal posts.

The applause was courteous but audible; your father's a little more effusive than was strictly polite.

You trotted past Theo, heart still pounding, your smile flushed and wicked.

His face remained as impassive as marble. “There are less showy ways to win, you know” he said, voice neutral.

You leaned in. “But hardly half as satisfying.”

You dismounted and handed off your reins to a stablehand, still floating on the high of your victory.

“A play like that deserves its own prize,” Nott Sr. said with faux formality. “Perhaps a small trophy. Or a drink named after you in the club lounge.”

You nodded graciously, murmuring something demure.

But your eyes flicked to Theo as he dismounted a few paces away. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. The bad-tempered flick of his brow as he handed off his helmet was the clearest reaction you’d seen all day.

And, if you were being completely honest, that little crack in his perfectly constructed exterior was the best trophy you could’ve asked for.

"Bored out of your skull, aren't you?"

You jumped, startled from where you had been resting your head for a brief shut-eye. This afternoon, the Notts were hosting you, your father, and some Ministry officials at an art gallery. With considerable effort, you lasted about half an hour before you excused yourself to the car outside Even now you had to contend with a humidity that made your hair stick to the back of your neck. It had been drizzling incessantly since morning, introducing a dampness to everything.

"Understandably so," Theo continued in a smug tone that made you kick yourself for letting him catch you unawares. "It's all a little dry for me, and I grew up with this stuff."

You straightened in the passenger seat, resisting the urge to nervously fix your hair, smoothing out whatever scrap of dignity you had left.

"I don't know what you're talking about. The tour was highly intriguing. I was just in here looking for my...my sunglasses." You peered into the glove compartment. What had left your lips as a fib was now becoming a rather real problem, actually - where were your sunglasses? You were too distracted to notice Theo climbing into the driver's seat beside you until the door shut. You closed the glove box, defeated, thinking hard about where you last saw them.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked. "Or - what would that be for you? Dollar for your thoughts?"

"Cent."

"Are you sure? With these exchange rates?"

For what felt like the hundredth time since the beginning of your trip, you shot Theo a dirty look. Not that it seemed to upset him.

"Nice weather we're having," he tried again.

You shrugged, glancing up at the clouded skies. "I guess. Does it never get fully dry here?"

You regretted opening your mouth as soon as you saw the ill-disguised amusement on his face. Clearly, you had just said something wilfully ignorant of the place. It wasn't your fault. Who had the time to vacation in dreary old England when the rest of Europe seemed so warm, colourful and dry?

"'Fraid so. You must understand, we're quite a bit of ways from Californ-yuh."

You grimaced.

"Was that your attempt at an American accent?"

Theo grinned. You had been around your fair share of good-looking people, but when Theo smiled - genuinely smiled, full of mirth or adolescent mischief - it almost hurt to look at his beautiful face.

If only didn't come attached with that insufferable personality.

"Come on. It wasn't that bad."

"It didn't even sound like English."

"It did - and what's more, that is exactly what you sound like."

You gasped, appalled. This miscreant was supposed to be the well-bred progeny of an English Ministry official? The mocking and teasing you could put up with, but outright insults were where you drew the line.

"Is not!"

"Is too."

"Is - " you stopped yourself, giving Theo a dirty look. He looked hardly apologetic; if anything, he seemed awfully pleased with himself for successfully having roped you in some inane, childish spat.

"You know what? You're right. The day's wasted just sitting around."

Theo didn’t wait for you to respond. He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.

You froze.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking you for a spin," he said casually, as if it were nothing. “You clearly need to get out more, get some fresh air in those lungs.”

"The hell I do - Theodore, no."

But he was already reversing, one hand on the wheel, the other behind the passenger seat headrest. The car jerked at a hard turn, gravel spitting beneath the tires. A moment later, he punched it forward, the sudden acceleration slamming you back against the seat.

“I am not dying in a British clown car,” you hissed with a white-knuckled grip on the door handle.

Theo didn’t even look at you. “It’s Italian,” he said smoothly, switching gears like it was muscle memory. “And she likes to be pushed.”

He turned towards you, peering over his sunglasses with his startlingly dull eyes.

"Though I have to warn you, if you insult my car again, I'm not above leaving you at the side of the road."

You could barely process the words before he was tearing down a narrow country road, weaving between bends. The hedges blurred into a smear of green. Your stomach lurched with every curve he barely braked for, the car swinging wide, tires shrieking with every corner he turned too fast.

“You're a lunatic!” you shouted, clutching your seatbelt, as the speedometer soared past any sane number.

“And you’re too uptight,” he said coolly, shifting gears with a little flourish. “But here we are.”

The tires skidded slightly as he made another turn. Raindrops streaked the windshield. Your fingers frantically fumbled along the seat. Seatbelt. Seatbelt.

“Jesus - Theo - SLOW DOWN.”

But he didn’t. If anything, the Ferrari sped up, surging forward like it had something to prove.

You felt it in your chest, in your teeth, adrenaline flooding your veins. Your heart was beating so fast it hurt.

“I swear to God, if you kill me—”

“Oh, I’d never. Imagine the paperwork.” His smile widened as the road narrowed. “Besides, this car is worth considerably more than your life.”

“You are such an asshole.”

Theo clicked his tongue, entirely unbothered. “Language,” he rebuked. “Bit unladylike, don’t you think?”

You'd have had your hands around his neck by now if he wasn't the one driving this death trap machine. Your stomach flipped as the car surged forward again. The car lifted slightly as it hit a bump, just enough for your breath to catch in your throat. When it slammed back down, you swore you felt your bones rattle.

“This isn’t fun,” you said, voice ragged.

“Not for you, maybe.” Theo downshifted just to hear the engine snarl. You were going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.

All of a sudden, you felt the car slowing down. You looked up, dizzy with relief, just as Theo slowed to a stop outside the gallery. He looked invigorated by the ride, and also as though he was trying not to laugh. Delicately, he pulled down the sunglasses that you had stuck in your hair earlier that morning.

"Found them," he said, far too cheerfully.

But you were at your limit. You finally snapped.

You stepped out of the car on wobbly legs, slamming it closed just as your father and a couple of Ministry officials were exiting the gallery.

"Which way to the estate?" You asked crossly, interrupting their conversation. Your father looked between yours and Theo's faces, alarmed.

"What h- "

"Which. Way. to the estate."

Your father hesitated in his reply, clearly appalled by your bright red face. Or perhaps the state your hair was in.

"That way. But Y/N, honey, if you take one of the cars - "

"I'm walking."

"All the way back, darling?" he asked fretfully. "At least let Theodore drive you."

This was clearly the wrong thing to have said, if your aggravated shriek was any indication. You gracelessly turned and started walking back to the manor, uncaring of the scene you were making. And as for Theo -

Well. You didn't care to even spare him a glance.

"It was awful, Vee. He's awful. He just does whatever he wants whenever he wants, consequences be damned." You were lying on your room's window seat, fresh out of a shower after the hike back, talking to a friend on the phone while staring hatefully out the window at the blissfully peaceful sprawling grounds. Stupid England and its stupid politicians and their stupid sons and its stupid mud.

Your gaze drifted sorrowfully towards your boots, which hadn't survived the walk home. "And Daddy calls me spoiled," you sniffled.

You heard a familiar crunch of gravel and looked out to see a disgustingly familiar car pulling in. You glared at it as Theo killed the engine and stepped out. You watched him scan the exterior, presumably counting windows until he met your gaze. He waved at you, motioning for you to come downstairs. For a moment, you indulged in the fantasy of flipping him off and drawing your curtains.

"What?" You started crossly as you walked out to the porch, still too peeved to even pretend at civility.

Theo just tilted his head, leaning against the car, eyes hidden behind his sleek, rectangular shades. "You know, I don't think I've seen you smile once your whole trip. Is everyone in America always this discontent?"

"I don't know. Is everyone in England always this unpleasant?"

Theo had the decency to look a little embarrassed. "Touché."

He cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter. Prick. He probably liked the idea of you having to tilt your head upwards just to look him in the eye.

"I really am sorry about this afternoon. It's just - sometimes there's no stopping me when I really get going. Especially if it has anything to do with my father."

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So that's it? I'm just a pawn for you to use to get back at your dad?"

"No, that's not - " Theo ran a hand through his rougishly dishevelled hair. He took a deep breath.

"Let me start over. My behaviour has been...rude, and disrespectful, and you didn't deserve any of it. So..."

Theo turned and picked something up from the passenger seat - a navy blue, velvet box. You eyed it skeptically.

"What's this?"

"Peace offering."

You stared at the box for a while before you caved in out of curiosity. You grudgingly accepted the box and opened it. You felt your mouth go dry. Nestled in the thick, rich fabric was the most delicate, exquisite set of diamond earrings you had ever seen. They glittered as if in slow motion in the late afternoon sun. This was no American brand - Cartier, perhaps?

"Truce?"

Your head snapped up, and you remembered why you were here, and who you were talking to. You traced part of the earrings' outline longingly. Damn. With diamonds like these, he could have a truce and then some.

"Yeah. I mean, fine. Truce, I guess," you stammered out disinterestedly, trying to hide how the gift had rendered you speechless.

You had specific tastes. You didn't shop excessively but precisely. It was why you could never take to a personal shopper - no one seemed to understand your tastes or preferences as well as you did yourself. Until today, that is.

With considerable difficulty, you shut the box. After all, it would be rude to reject such an expensive gift. You didn't even know if they did returns in this part of Europe. Why should you begrudge yourself such a fine piece of jewellery just because he decided to be an ass?

"Is that all?"

"Mostly. How did your boots hold up?"

You stayed resolutely silent, but something on your face must have given it away. Theo wrinkled his nose sympathetically. "Thought so. We have a cobbler a little way in the town. I can drop them off for you, if you'd like. They should be done by the time I get back."

"Back?"

It was only then that you noticed the trunk propped up in the backseat of the car.

"I'm visiting Normandy for a few days."

You raised your eyebrows, unimpressed but not surprised. "Didn't you just get back from Italy?"

"This one's more of a house call. Speaking of, I really should get a move on." "So, your boots?"

You hesitated. These were your Manolo Blahniks. Your babies. Could you really trust a man as vile as he was with them? Then again, it didn't look like they could get much worse.

While you deliberated, Theo rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever. Keep your boots. Just wait for the mud to dry and then brush it off. That should get most of it."

With that, he stepped back into the car and fastened his seat belt. He looked up to where you were still staring at him mistrustfully.

"Well, I'm off. Feel free to direct some of that snark towards my father while I'm gone."

You numbly watched him reverse out the gate and turn into the main streets, the gift weighing heavily on your mind.

You hadn't anticipated how quiet the manor could be without Theo. Did he really occupy so much space that the manor felt incomprehensibly vast and cold without him? You whiled away your days at dinners and luncheons and how you usually occupied yourself on these kinds of alien social vists, but it just wasn't the same without anyone your age. You were starting to get so bored, it almost felt like you were beginning to miss him.

It was almost a week since you last saw Theo. You were in your room, making plans to go into town, when you glimpsed a figure near the perimeter of the estate's front lawn. You opened your window. There was something familiar about the carelessly sun-kissed crop of curls.

Looking closer, you realised you were right. You didn't know he was back, but it was most certainly Theodore Nott in the black suit - Merlin, that had to be uncomfortably warm - glinting cufflinks, purposeful stride. He looked stiffly formal in a way you’d never seen him. Polished and imposing with his usual languid gait replaced by something far more measured.

Theo's gaze drifted up the estate until his eyes met yours. You leaned against the windowsill and gave him a look, brow arched, lips parted, and he...nothing. Theo had absolutely no reaction to you. His eyes were on yours, but it was as though he was seeing straight through you. Just a tiny, barely there tick in his jaw before he looked away.

That was when you noticed the foreign dignitary following closely behind, dressed as sharply as Theo. You propped your chin up on your hand, watching with renewed interest. Ah. Hosting, are we?

Really, he only had himself to blame for you turning it into a little game. He should have known it would be dull as tomes without him. Every time his gaze wandered towards you, voluntarily or otherwise, you waved brightly, blew him a kiss or two, and the like, all while he did his best to keep a straight face and look away.

His posture changed. Stiffened. A flick of his shoulder. A twitch of the hand. A slight turn of his head as if fighting the urge to look again. You could see him biting the inside of his cheek. At one point, he even coughed. This all only further encouraged you.

Eventually, Theo turned away from you fully, his mouth moving as he muttered something to the dignitary. His face was mostly hidden now, but not before you caught the faintest curve of a smile biting into his cheek.

Victory.

You watched them retreat to the cool indoors. You stayed at the window watching the stray sprigs of dandelions toss their heads in the faint breeze until you ran out of patience. You hurried downstairs, determined to vex him for being away for so long. Theo apparently had a similar idea and you nearly ran smack into him as you turned the corner on the spiral stairs.

"How was Normandy?" you asked in a breathless rush, his hand warm at your elbow.

"Terribly pleasant without you constantly looking down on everything." Up close, he looked a little more bronze, a little more rosy than when you last saw him. Or maybe that had to do with him running up the stairs.

The hand Theo had stuck out to stop you from running into him had regrettably fallen. "Mother sends gifts." Then, as if his body couldn't physically handle being nice to you, he added, "Clearly, she's never met you."

Your lips twitched. "Clearly."

You let Theo lead you down to the living room, where there was no dignitary but only a fabulous spread of French cheeses, smiling at him prettily as he somewhat sarcastically offered you a seat. You took a sip of the wine he poured you, watching him pretend not to watch you back. The two of you spent the rest of the afternoon lazily picking at the variety of French cheeses Theo had brought home, talking about any and everything under the sun, from his trip to the summer camps you used to go to.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you were back," you said an hour later, when the two of you were beginning to run out of things to talk about.

Theo gave an exaggerated wince as he refilled your glass. "Please. I came here straight from the jet, I promise you."

You rolled your eyes.

"Well, next time, you can tell your mother that I loved the - er, hang on...fromage de bois?"

"What?"

Theo sat up, watching your mouth intently. Your face was starting to feel a little hot, probably from all the wine.

"Say that again?"

You cleared your throat. "Um, fromage de bois?"

Theo shook his head. "Again."

You repeated yourself a little haltingly. French had never been your strong suit. Theo stared at you, brow furrowed, mystified.

"You are doing strange and unusual things with that tongue of yours...and none of it is right." He looked enthralled. Fascinated. Tipsy. You rolled your eyes. "Your accent is...in a word, abysmal."

You nibbled at the cheese you apparently couldn't pronounce right. "Sorry, Mr. Intercontinentally Educated. Some of us have to contend with the Ivy League legacies we were born into."

Theo busied himself with another wheel of cheese. You thought back to the foreign dignitary from that afternoon.

"I thought you didn't do your father any favours," you asked. It was a risky topic to broach, but you could always blame it on the wine.

Theo chewed for a long while.

"Usually, I don't."

"But?"

"But my mother thinks I should be less hard on him."

"Oh."

"And I think she's starting to forget what he's like."

Theo dusted his hands with a wry smile before reaching over you towards the crackers, broad-shouldered, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. Too late, the thought to lean back crossed your mind, but by then Theo was already back in his seat, turning over the empty dish and eyeing you with mock disapproval.

"Someone's finished all the crackers."

You smiled innocently, crumbling the few crackers left in your hand as you watched him call for more.

It was your last night at the estate. There's no place like home, but it saddened you to leave this quaint slice of English countryside in the middle of nowhere. You were curled up on your window seat, trying to focus on a book you weren’t actually reading. You should have gone to bed hours ago, but something was keeping you up.

You were so sure he'd show up. One last time. Just for you.

You finally snapped your book shut, admitting defeat, and swung your legs into bed with a sigh. Then, you heard it - the low, unmistakable growl of a stupidly expensive sports car.

You hurried over to your window, shivering with anticipation. There Theo was, dressed down in a soft black sweater and slacks, leaning against that yellow Ferrari. You never doubted him for a second.

You padded downstairs with ill-disguised excitement.

"I'm here for your big send-off."

You raised your eyebrows. "Send-off?"

"Yeah. What kind of host would I be if I didn't give you the right send-off?"

Your eyebrows disappeared into your hair. The levels of hypocrisy of this man were astounding.

"You left the country for a week while we were here. Or have you forgotten?"

Theo was starting to look annoyed.

"Do you want a big send-off or not?"

"...okay."

You were in the passenger seat for barely ten minutes, cruising through narrow, moonlit country lanes, before Theo pulled into an empty side road.

You blinked at him. Maybe you trusted him too much, too quickly. Was this how you died?

“Why are we stopping?”

Theo walked over to your side of the car, opened the door and held out the keys. You eyed them distastefully.

"Please don't tell me you're giving me the car. Respect for other people's property is the only thing stopping me from driving this off a cliff."

"I'm not giving it to you," he said, as your fingers curled uncertainly around the metal. You relaxed.

"I'm teaching you how to drive it."

You laughed. Then stopped laughing.

“You’re serious?”

You were glad it was the middle of the night with nobody around, because you were gaping at him rather unbecomingly.

"Dr - drive this? Are you crazy?"

"I'm picking up a pattern here. I'm starting to think you have a very low bar for insanity."

"This cannot be legal. You guys don't even drive on the right side of the road here."

"Relax. I'll walk you through it."

And so, Theo eventually wheedled you into getting into the driver's seat, fastening your seatbelt and switching on the engine.

"Okay, so, foot goes on the brake, hands on the wheel - " For a moment, Theo's large warm hands enveloped yours, pulling them up to 10 and 2, and you felt your heart flutter. " - and, try not to kill us, yeah?"

You shot him a glare. "You're so funny," you deadpanned.

Theo grinned. You wiped the smile right off his face as the car lurched forward, nearly concussing him on the dashboard.

"Gentle, gentle," he wheezed.

The drive that followed was a mixture of cautious lurches and unexpected smooth patches. Theo’s instructions were teasing but not unkind. He guided you through each shift, each turn, with his voice low and amused. At one point, when you stalled the car trying to reverse out of a hedgerow, you noticed his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. You gave him the silent treatment for five blocks until he effusively and somewhat mockingly apologised.

When the two of you had had enough excitement for one night, Theo gave you directions back to the estate. Even in pitch dark, Theo knew the network of roads surrounding his family home like the back of his hand.

You pull into the driveway and kill the engine. A deafening silence settles over the two of you.

"So? How was I?"

Theo takes his time responding. "You did better than I expected."

You make a show of twirling your hair. "So you think I'm a natural."

Theo's oddly quiet. You can't make out his expression in the shadows.

"I think you're something," he says quietly. He leans forward enough for his expression to take shape in a sliver of moonlight. You feel your heart hammering in your chest.

All of a sudden, you don't want to go up to your room, knock out, and leave in the morning. You want to sit here in this god-awful Ferrari with Theo and his windswept hair and his bedroom eyes and the look on his face like he really wanted to kiss you.

"Theodore - "

"My friends call me Teddy," he murmurs, barely managing to force the words out before his mouth covers yours.

It’s not careful or practiced like most things Theo does. It’s a little desperate, a little clumsy - like he’s scared to hesitate. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he tilts his head slightly, deepening it enough to make you blush with the intimacy of it.

When he pulls back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours. You can feel how uneven his breathing is. How unsure.

You blink at him, stunned.

"Your friends don't call you Teddy."

Theo laughs shakily, and you realise that that isn't the most sensible reaction. For the first time in your trip, you laugh with him.

"What? You think I'm some idiot that doesn't notice what your friends call you?"

"You're right. They don't," Theo agrees with a breathless laugh. His breathing evens out. "But I was hoping you might."

You shake your head slightly, feeling a flush creeping up your neck.

"I can't believe I ever thought you were cool. You're so lame."

"And yet," he says softly, nudging his nose against yours, "you still haven't run for the hills."

You don’t answer. You don’t move. Not for a long, long while.

637 notes · View notes

beegomess · 3 months ago

Text

the one with the runaway bride

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader

Word Count: 12.1k (damn)

Summary: Sometimes running away from a wedding leads you exactly where you're meant to be — preferably into the arms of a much better guy.

A/N: These fics just keep getting longer and longer. again lowkey kinda hate this and i feel like i made theo heavily ooc but it is what it is ig

Theo hated churches.

He wasn’t particularly religious—never cared much for the belief in some higher power watching over them all. After all, if someone like that did exist, his mother—a devout, gentle woman—wouldn’t have been ripped from the earth so soon. It should’ve been his father, not her. At least, that’s what he’d thought as a boy.

Still, despite his aversion to anything even remotely sacred, he found himself sitting alone in the pews of a quiet chapel. The sun streamed through stained glass, washing the room in warm, fractured color. He didn’t believe in prayer, but he came here anyway. This had been his mother’s favorite place before she died, and somehow, being here made him feel closer to her—like she might hear him, if only faintly.

“Mamma,” He murmured, voice low, “sometimes I truly wonder what my future was meant to look like.”

The war was over, but the silence it left behind was deafening. He spent a lot of time now, wondering about his place in the world. He and the rest of his mates—Berkshire, Riddle, Malfoy, and Zabini—had played a crucial role, working as double agents under Dumbledore’s orders. But because their involvement had remained classified, carefully buried under the Ministry’s politics, they were still seen as Slytherins first. As former sympathizers. As a threat. Pariahs.

It stung. He had done the right thing, when it mattered most. And yet, he wondered if this cold reception was all he’d ever receive.

A few years ago, he hadn't even expected to live this long. His younger self had been certain he’d never survive the war—that he’d be killed for his betrayal of Voldemort and reunited with his mother much sooner than expected. But he had survived. And now, once again, he was adrift.

That’s why he came back here—hoping for clarity, for a sign. But as always, the silence answered him back.

He sighed softly, rising to his feet and tucking his hands into his coat pockets, ready to leave. His shoes echoed against the marble floor as he turned toward the exit.

But before he could cross the threshold, the chapel doors burst open with a loud bang.

Theo blinked.

A vision in white stumbled inside.

Satin, lace, curls escaping from a veil. Breathless. Flushed. A wild gleam in her eye.

His heart paused mid-beat as he recognized the chaos incarnate now standing in the aisle, clutching the skirt of her wedding dress like she’d just escaped a dragon, veil askew, bouquet long gone, and cheeks flushed pink like she’d run from hell itself.

His mouth opened before he could stop it.

“(L/N)?” The name left his mouth before he could stop it, soft and shocked and just a little bit disbelieving.

You looked up, startled — like you hadn’t expected to see another soul inside — and your eyes widened in delight.

“Theodore Nott!” You beamed, chest still rising and falling in heavy breaths, curls frizzing at the edges, voice giddy and strange, “Fancy seeing you here! Gosh, I haven't seen you since Hogwarts! How are you? And the others—Riddle, Berkshire, and the lot? All good, I hope.”

Theo stared at you in complete bewilderment as you keeled over to catch your breath, tugging off your veil and fanning yourself with it like some kind of deranged society lady.

“Merlin’s sweaty balls,” You gasped, dramatic as ever, “It’s impossible to breathe in this damn corset.”

“They’re good,” Theo said slowly, brow furrowed, “I’m sorry, are you in a wedding dress?”

You nodded, breathless, laughing like the question itself was hilarious, “Unfortunately, yes. Bit of a pity I didn’t realize I didn’t want to marry the sorry bloke thirty minutes ago. Would’ve made my escape a lot easier if I wasn’t drowning in fifty pounds of satin.”

He blinked at you, still speechless, hands deep in his coat pockets.

“I mean—” You barreled on, eyes wide and shining, “there I was, standing at the altar, looking at my so-called fiancé, and it just hit me: I cannot wake up to his sorry mug for the rest of my life. To hell with my parents. And society. I don’t want to be a Bulstrode. That name sounds like the arse-end of a toad, don’t you think?”

You paused, eyes narrowing playfully, “(Y/N) (L/N) sounds so much nicer, doesn’t it?”

Theo arched an unimpressed brow, “You know you can get married without changing your last name, right?”

At that, you absolutely lost it—doubling over in wheezing laughter, slapping your knee like he’d just told the funniest joke in history.

“You always were such a crack-up, Theodore!” You gasped between giggles, “Where are my manners? What brings you here today? Certainly not for the wedding, I hope—because, well—” You gestured at yourself, still panting in the middle of the cathedral, “you can probably tell that’s not happening.”

Before Theodore could get a word in, the sound of heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. Your eyes went comically wide as you pressed yourself flat against the stone wall, wedged just behind the chapel door as it swung open with a bang.

In marched your father—red-faced, sweaty, and breathing like a charging Hippogriff. His eyes locked onto Theodore like he was a bloodhound catching a scent.

“Have you seen a girl in a wedding dress?” He barked.

Theo quirked a brow, gaze sliding—slowly, deliberately—to the right, where you were doing your best impression of a human statue. From where he stood, he could see you mouthing frantic no’s, shaking your head so violently he was almost certain you’d give yourself whiplash. Your hands were flying in wild, desperate gestures, pleading silently.

He turned back to your father, the picture of calm.

“No, sir.”

Your father squinted, suspicious—but apparently not enough to question it. “Well, if you do,” He huffed, already half-turning, “you tell her to march her sorry behind back into that hall and marry the boy, or she’ll be sorry.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

You clutched your chest like you’d just survived a curse, eyes squeezed shut as you slid bonelessly to the floor in your crumpled wedding dress.

“That,” You breathed, “was nerve-wracking.”

You peeked up at him with a grateful look, “You’re a good liar, Nott. Thank you.”

Theo looked down at the breathless, sweaty heap you’d become, still sprawled on the stone floor like a very distressed meringue. With an amused smirk, he cleared his throat, “Well… good luck with everything, (L/N). Let me know if you actually go through with becoming a Bulstrode. I’ll send a wedding gift.”

You gaped up at him in horror as he began to sidestep the tangled mass of satin and lace that was your gown, clearly preparing to leave the chapel and abandon you to your doom. Without thinking, you grabbed his calf—your perfectly manicured nails digging into his trousers, the massive engagement ring catching the light like a cursed artifact.

“What?! You can’t go now! You have to get me out of here!”

Theo arched a skeptical brow, “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

You pointed at him in outrage, still clutching his leg like a deranged bride octopus, “You just lied to my father! That makes you an accomplice. A—A conspirator! You're already implicated!”

Theo looked thoroughly unimpressed, “I could just tell him you were hiding behind the door like a terrified possum.”

You gasped, “You wouldn’t.”

He tilted his head, “Try me.”

Panic glittered in your eyes before you straightened your spine and went full Slytherin, “Fine. You want to play that game? I’ll tell everyone you’re my secret paramour. That you seduced me, took my virtue in the belfry, and that’s why I fled the altar.”

Theo’s mouth dropped open, scandalized, “I beg your pardon?”

You clasped your hands together, expression softening into exaggerated, pleading sweetness, “Please, Theodore. I’m not asking for your soul. Just… apparate me out of here. One quick jump and I’ll be out of your life forever.”

He stared at you. Then sighed.

“Merlin help me,” He muttered, “You’re even more unhinged than I remember.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He offered you a hand, “Only if you swear not to mention the word ‘virtue’ ever again.”

You grinned, already taking his hand, “Deal, my paramour.”

He groaned. Loudly.

Theo stepped closer, one hand sliding around your waist, tugging you flush against him. You blinked up at him, stunned into silence by the proximity. Up close, you finally understood why half the girls in your year had harbored crushes on him. He had that kind of face—the infuriatingly beautiful kind that made your stomach swoop before your brain could catch up.

Then—with a sharp crack—the world twisted out from under your feet.

You landed hard against him, fingers fisting the lapels of his jacket like your life depended on it. Which, to be fair, it had.

Warm sunlight spilled over your face, the bustling sounds of the street around you cutting through the fading disorientation. You blinked. Then smiled.

You were free.

Theo watched you quietly as your eyes danced over every detail—the streetlamp, the baker’s cart, a child chasing a butterfly. Everything ordinary now seemed extraordinary through your gaze. You looked like someone seeing the world for the first time.

“Are you good, (L/N)?” He asked, low and cautious.

You didn’t take your eyes off the street. “A new world’s waiting for me,” You said softly, “It’s… terrifying.”

He didn’t say anything, but his grip around your waist didn’t loosen.

You stood there, trembling fingers still tangled in the fabric of his coat, heart pounding like it was trying to sprint back to the cathedral.

Theodore’s sharp gaze softened as he took in your messy lipstick, sweat-dampened curls, and the way you clung to him like the world had just tipped sideways. You looked like a woman on the edge of disaster—or greatness. Maybe both.

"Where were you planning to go?" He asked quietly.

You blinked up at him, dumbly, your glassy eyes beginning to sting as the reality of what you’d just done crashed over you like cold water.

Oh Merlin.

What had you done?

You didn’t have a house. You didn’t have a job. You didn’t have money of your own. Your entire life had been orchestrated by your father—who’d been all too eager to sell you off to your so-called fiancé—and you’d just thrown a wrench in his perfect little plan.

"I... I hadn’t thought that far." You admitted, voice barely a whisper as your bottom lip began to tremble.

Theo sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, “Bloody hell.”

You started to stammer, trying to save face, “Look—I’ll figure it out. I just needed to get away. You don’t have to—”

“Don’t be dense,” He muttered, “Come on.”

You furrowed your brows, confused, “Come on where?”

“My home,” He said bluntly, “You’re clearly overwhelmed, and you need to breathe somewhere that isn’t a chapel or the middle of a bloody street. You can crash in the guest room. I’ll pour a cup of tea. Or Firewhisky, if you’re feeling rebellious.”

You stared at him, stunned silent, “You’d really do that for me?”

In all honesty, Theodore had no idea why he was doing this for you.

Maybe it was the way your eyes looked—raw and frightened—that struck something in him. He remembered that look. Back when his mother died. Back when he was stuck between two worlds, pretending to be loyal to the Death Eaters while secretly fighting for the other side. When the war ended, and he had no bloody idea who he was without it.

He knew helplessness like an old friend. And though he’d never admit it aloud, he also knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight if he walked away now—knowing you were out there, wandering the streets in a bloody wedding dress or dragged back to marry someone you didn’t love.

“Yeah,” He said finally, “I would.”

You exhaled shakily, blinking back tears, “Okay.”

“Okay.” He echoed.

He held your arm carefully—like you were a glass about to crack—and apparated you both away.

By the time your feet touched down again, you were standing in a warmly lit corridor outside a tall, modern-looking door. Theodore slid a key out of his coat pocket and unlocked it with a click.

“My flat.” He said simply, stepping aside to let you in.

You blinked, glancing around as you followed him, “Wait. Don’t you have a whole family manor somewhere?”

He raised a brow as he tossed his coat onto a sleek brass hook, “Not fancy enough for you, darling? Would you rather go to the five-star resort your family booked for your honeymoon instead?”

You gaped, then closed your mouth, then opened it again—only to come up short, “Touché.”

He chuckled, pushing open the door, “I live in a flat because the manor’s too bloody big for just me. I might move back in when I’m older, but right now? No one needs twenty-three bedrooms unless they’re running a boarding school.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside after him, “Just say you’re rich and move on,” you muttered.

You were mid-sigh when your eyes took in the space—and almost instantly, the tension in your shoulders loosened. His flat wasn’t enormous, but it was stunning. Dark hardwood floors, rich emerald and charcoal accents, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the London skyline like a painting. The air smelled faintly of pine, leather, and something warm—like spice and magic.

Books lined custom-built shelves along one wall, and a record player quietly spun something soft and jazzy in the corner. A massive velvet sofa sat in the center of the open-plan living area, flanked by brass sconces and a few well-kept plants.

Theo disappeared into a side room, leaving you standing awkwardly in your crumpled wedding dress in the middle of his living room. When he returned, he had a folded stack of clothes in his hands.

“I grabbed whatever looked closest to your size,” He said, handing them over with a half-shrug, “Might still be a bit big—but it’s cozy, at least.”

You unfolded the hoodie and held it up. It fell nearly to your knees.

“You’re joking.”

“Or you could stay in your wedding dress. Very sexy.”

You let out a laugh, “You got me again.”

You eyed the clothes, then glanced back up at him, “You sure none of your… lady friends left something behind? Something a bit more...appropriate?”

Theo smirked, unfazed, “I don’t keep a lost and found bin, sweetheart. But nice try.”

You grinned despite yourself, clutching the clothes to your chest.

“Go on,” He added, gesturing toward the hallway, “First door on the right—bathroom’s there. Take your time. Come out when you’re ready. I’ll sort dinner.”

“You cook?”

He looked at you, mock-offended, “I’m Italian.”

“That’s not a yes.”

Theo placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury, “Wow. So little faith.”

You laughed—a real one this time—as you padded off toward the bathroom, the ridiculous rustle of your wedding dress trailing behind you. Hoodie and sweats in hand, feet aching, heart still thudding from everything you’d run from.

But somehow, in the warmth of this space, with the sound of jazz humming in the background and Theo cooking up dinner—you started to feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe.

Maybe, just maybe… you were going to be okay.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, the last remnants of your old life had gone swirling down the drain—hairspray, waterproof mascara, and everything else that once held you together. You felt… lighter. Your skin was clean, your hair damp, and the oversized hoodie you wore—Theo’s—smelled faintly of cedar and citrus. It hung down to your thighs like a dress, and the joggers were barely hanging onto your waist.

The scent hit you first—garlic, tomatoes, fresh herbs—and your stomach let out a traitorous growl.

Theo looked up from the stove, giving you a once-over before turning back to stir the pot. “Look at you,” He said with a lopsided smirk, “Didn’t think my clothes would suit you that well.”

You gave him a smirk and did a twirl to show off the outfit—just in time for the joggers to fall right to your ankles. You both burst into laughter.

“The elastic’s useless and the drawstring’s just for decoration.” You said, tossing the offending trousers over the back of a chair.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I charmed the pants off a woman.” Theo replied smoothly.

You snorted, shaking your head.

He slid a bowl across the island toward you—tagliatelle with a thick, rich Bolognese sauce, steam curling up like it had its own mind.

You took one bite, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my god,” You groaned, “This is… this is unreal.”

He gave a small shrug, “I told you.”

You were already shoveling in another forkful, “I haven’t eaten something that didn’t taste like sadness in months.”

Theo leaned against the counter, watching with amusement, “Easy, love. You keep going at that pace, you’ll make those giant joggers fit.”

You swallowed and let out a dramatic sigh, “Wedding diet. I’ve been living off steamed vegetables and heartbreak.”

He laughed, deep and full, “Well, lucky you. There’s more where that came from. And gelato in the freezer.”

Your head snapped up, “You’re kidding.”

“‘Chi mangia bene, vive bene,’” He said with a smirk, “‘Those who eat well, live well.’ My mamma drilled that into me.”

You blinked, then smiled, “Incredibly smart woman.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, your smile didn’t feel like something you had to fake or force. You sat there, in someone else’s hoodie, with sauce on your cheek and your hair still damp, in a flat that smelled like warmth and comfort and garlic.

Theo reached across the table, brushing his thumb gently against the corner of your mouth, “You’ve got a bit of sauce—right there.”

You blinked, startled by the tenderness of the gesture. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he pulled back.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” He asked, quieter now.

You gave him a half-smile, soft but guarded, “Sick of me already?”

His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious, “I just mean… are you sure you won’t regret this? People get cold feet. Panic at the altar. Happens all the time, or so I hear. And the longer you stay here—the more real this gets—the harder it’ll be to undo without fallout.”

You sat still for a moment, then set your fork down, appetite forgotten.

“It wasn’t cold feet,” You said, voice low, “I never wanted to get married.”

Theo didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

“My father did. Desperately. He’s been obsessed with bloodlines and alliances since before I could walk. Marrying into the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Like that still means anything in this world.” You let out a bitter laugh, “Somehow that old bastard managed to squirm his way out of Azkaban after the war. And now he’s back to doing what he does best—peddling blood purity and ruining my life.”

Theo’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

“I spent months shoving my feelings down, just trying to be the daughter he wanted. The obedient one. Because what choice did I have?” Your fingers curled around the fabric of his hoodie, “But when I was standing there—at the altar, staring down a future I didn’t choose—I realized something. Maybe I didn’t have choices before. But I could make one now.”

Silence stretched between you for a beat.

Then, softly, Theo said, “That was brave.”

You let out a watery laugh, swiping your sleeve beneath your eyes, “Please. Not like you, playing double agent for Dumbledore. Now that was brave.”

He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “That was reckless.”

“It was noble. Valiant,” You said, voice steadier now, “Really, the kind of madness only a true Slytherin could be ambitious enough to pull off.”

Theo arched a brow, “Flattery? From you?”

You gave him a crooked grin, “Don’t get used to it. Mine was just… selfish. Desperate.”

He looked at you, the warmth in his gaze soft but unwavering, “It’s good to be selfish sometimes.”

You held his gaze, breath catching slightly when his eyes didn’t waver. There was something weighty in the silence—something soft and unspoken stretching between you, tugging gently at the space that separated your bodies.

Theo’s fingers drummed once against the tabletop, then stilled. Neither of you moved.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face, and for a second, just one second, you let yourself wonder what it would feel like to close the distance.

Then you blinked, cleared your throat, and reached for his plate. “Well. Since you think it’s good to be selfish,” You said, trying to sound casual, “I’m gonna eat the rest of your pasta.”

Theo let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or a sigh. Maybe both, “Oi—at least leave room for dessert.”

***

Loud, boisterous laughter was the first thing that dragged Theo out of a half-dream. He groaned, arm flinging over his eyes as the unmistakable sound of his front door swinging open—without ceremony—hit him like a freight train.

“What the—who the hell is making all that noise?” He muttered, voice hoarse as he blinked toward the ceiling.

The culprits were, predictably, already raiding his kitchen like starved hyenas: Draco, Lorenzo, Mattheo, and Blaise, helping themselves to his fresh bread and the groceries he’d actually gone out and picked himself—because unlike those degenerates, he cared about food quality.

He should’ve never given them spare keys.

“For emergencies,” He’d said. “Only if it’s important,” He’d said.

Idiotic. Clearly, their definition of ‘emergency’ included hungover brunches and unsolicited early morning gossip.

“Morning, sunshine,” Draco drawled with an infuriating smirk, already sprawled across Theo’s sofa, eating the hand-picked strawberries Theo had searched three markets to find, “You’re just in time for the morning news”

Theo groaned louder and face-planted into the cushions, “Could you shut up? Some of us are trying to sleep in our own damn flat.”

“Oh, come on,” Blaise said, smirking as he rifled through Theo’s cabinets, “You must’ve heard by now. (L/N). You remember her—Pansy's roommate. She left Bulstrode at the altar. Just ran right out.”

Lorenzo let out a low whistle, “Left Bulstrode standing there like an absolute mug. At the altar, mate. In front of everyone. Just turned and walked straight out mid-vows. I mean—iconic.”

Mattheo, chewing thoughtfully on a stolen slice of sourdough, shrugged, “Serves him right. No way Bulstrode was ever gonna bag a babe like (L/N). He’s got the charm of a wet napkin.”

“And get this,” Blaise said, lowering his voice into a tone of mock-conspiracy, eyes glinting, “Rumor is—she had a lover on the side. Secret romance, hidden rendezvous, the whole nine yards. Some bloke she’s apparently been in love with for ages. No one knows who, though.”

Theo, face still hidden by the couch cushions, flinched.

Blaise squinted at him, “You look... twitchy. Something you wanna share with the group?”

Before Theo could invent an excuse, a sound cut through the room—soft footsteps padding across the floorboards.

The guest bedroom door creaked open.

You stepped out, bleary-eyed, rubbing your face with the sleeve of Theo’s oversized hoodie—his hoodie that hung off your frame like it had been stitched for you. Your hair was tousled from sleep, legs bare, the joggers you’d worn the night before still draped over a chair in the corner, clearly forgotten.

Theo’s eyes flicked up to you for a moment—heart skipping a beat at the sight of your flushed cheeks and mussed hair—but he quickly masked the softness with a cool, unreadable glance.

Every sound in the room died on cue.

You blinked at the kitchen full of frozen Slytherins and offered a sheepish smile, “Um… morning?”

The silence that followed was nothing short of reverent.

Mattheo dropped his toast. Lorenzo’s jaw unhinged. Draco choked on a strawberry. Blaise turned—slowly, dramatically—to Theo with the grin of a man who had just unearthed a scandal.

And then—chaos.

“No bloody way,” Blaise said, pointing an accusatory finger, “You?! You’re the lover?!”

“No, no,” Theo said immediately, sitting up straighter, “She’s not—I mean, it’s not— It’s not like that.”

You nodded, “It’s really not what it looks like.”

“She’s not—” Theo added, standing abruptly.

“We’re not—” You said at the same time.

“Dating.” You both finished in unison.

The pause that followed was only broken by Blaise’s slow, disbelieving laugh, “You two seriously rehearsed that or something?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked from you, to the hoodie, to Theo’s bedhead and thoroughly disheveled state, “You sly, secretive little bastard.”

“You’re blushing,” Lorenzo cackled, pointing at Theo.

“I’m not blushing.”

“You’re so red your freckles are blending in.”

“You lot need to leave,” Theo growled, yanking the mug out of Draco’s hand.

“Oh, we’ll leave,” Mattheo said, standing with an exaggerated sigh, “Just as soon as we finish processing the greatest plot twist since Dumbledore kicked it.”

“I don’t know,” Lorenzo mused, “This might top it. Runaway bride finds solace in former classmate’s bed—”

“Spare room!” You and Theo barked at once.

“Oh right,” Blaise said, lazily gesturing to you, “Because that totally explains the no-pants situation.”

You threw up your hands, “He doesn’t have any trousers that fit me!”

Mattheo let out a low whistle, “Stars above, I wish I had popcorn.”

Theo’s jaw clenched, “She needed a place to stay. I offered. That’s it.”

“And I accepted. Platonically.” You stressed.

“And Theodore isn’t some adulterous whore,” You added with a sigh, “He’s just an unfortunate bloke with terrible timing who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The way your voice softened at the end made something twist in Theo’s chest.

“Well, you did good,” Lorenzo said, grabbing another slice of bread, “Bulstrode’s an ugly git anyway.”

You shared a glance with Theo who gave you a soft, barely there smile that was meant to reassure you in a way that conveyed, 'See? What you did wasn't so bad.'

“So what’s the plan now?” Blaise asked, eyeing the two of you over his coffee, “You two just gonna keep playing house?”

“Oi, ease up,” Theo said, casting him a warning look, “Don’t overwhelm her.”

He glanced at you briefly, then added, “We talked last night.”

“Ooo, pillow talk.” Mattheo smirked—earning himself a slap to the back of the head.

Theo rolled his eyes, “We were talking, and I offered to let her stay here. As long as she needs.”

You caught Theo’s eye and saw a softness there that only came out when he looked at you. In that moment, the chaos of friends and gossip faded away, leaving just the quiet promise of safety and belonging between you two.

***

You sat cross-legged on the floor, the open suitcase in front of you spilling out clothes, books, and a few small trinkets you’d brought from your old life. The boxes stacked neatly nearby were still untouched—silent reminders that this was real, that you were here now.

Getting your things back from your home had been easier than expected. You’d slipped in while your father was at work, your heart racing as you moved quietly through the familiar halls. The moment your hand wrapped around your wand—left behind for safekeeping during the wedding—it felt like you could finally breathe again. You packed up your life swiftly, shrinking and sending each box to Theo’s flat before you could second-guess yourself.

“It feels weird seeing all my stuff here.” You murmured, running your fingers over your old Slytherin scarf. A soft smile tugged at your lips as memories from Hogsmeade weekends and late-night gossip sessions filled your head. Back in school, your dormmates used to call dibs on the boys in your year—Pansy obviously claimed Draco, Daphne was hell-bent on Mattheo (she had a thing for bad boys, she used to say). The others squabbled over Blaise and Lorenzo, leaving you with Theo by default. You’d taken it in stride, because Merlin forbid you end up with Crabbe or Goyle. If only sixth-year you knew you’d one day be living with Theo Nott after bolting from your own wedding.

“Like this is really happening.” You said softly.

Theo leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite place. You let your eyes rake over him—how he somehow made jeans and a simple black long-sleeved tee look sinfully good without even trying.

“Don’t you want to unpack?” He asked after a moment, voice casual, “Make it feel a bit more like yours?”

You shook your head, teeth tugging at your lower lip, “I don’t want to get too comfortable. I need to move out soon, find my own place. Can’t just settle in someone else’s flat.”

Your eyes drifted to the empty dresser and the bare walls, imagining them filled with your perfume bottles, your shoes lined up in the closet, your keepsakes resting in quiet corners of the room. It felt… indulgent. And dangerous.

Theo pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room with that quiet confidence that always made your stomach flip. He crouched beside you, fingers brushing yours as he gently pulled the scarf from your hands.

“Don’t be so pressured,” He said softly, “Take your time.”

Your breath caught at the tenderness in his voice, so at odds with the sarcasm he usually deflected with. His gaze held yours—warm, steady, unflinching.

“What kind of fake adulterous whore would I be,” he added, smirking just a little, “if I didn’t give you a comfortable place to stay while you figure things out?”

You let out a shaky laugh, swatting his arm as your cheeks flushed. The warmth in his eyes made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. It felt... safe. For the first time in a long time.

He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long. Your breath hitched. Your heart thudded. And before you could stop yourself, your gaze flicked to his mouth.

The moment hung there—suspended and fragile—until it broke like glass.

Theo cleared his throat and pulled back. You dropped your gaze and fanned your burning cheeks, pretending not to notice the way your entire body buzzed with unspoken tension.

He stood, casting a quick glance around the room before his eyes landed on a box labeled “Bathroom.” With a quiet smile, he bent to pick it up.

“I’ll go put this over there.” He said, voice gentler now even though you both were well aware he could've used his magic to charm the objects in its place.

You watched him go, heart fluttering wildly in your chest, feeling strangely steady for the first time in days.

Strangely at home.

***

Watching Theo get ready for work every morning had become your newest, most humbling routine. In the quiet hours before he left—hair perfectly styled, cufflinks glinting faintly in the sunlight—you were struck with the growing realization that your life was a blank page. And not in the hopeful, inspiring way. No, it felt like staring at an overdue assignment you had no idea how to finish.

When he was home, everything felt a little easier—light conversation over breakfast, quiet companionship in the evenings, his effortless presence filling the flat with a calm you hadn’t realized you craved. But once he was out the door, you were left with hours that stretched out like an endless, silent ache. And with that ache came the inevitable realization: you weren’t here to play house with Theodore Nott. You needed to get your life in order.

Which was why, this morning, you were dressed. Not just dressed—put together. A soft, Chanel-inspired ensemble hugged your form, elegant and mature, polished right down to the glossy sheen of your lips.

Across the table, Theo sat in his usual tailored suit and tie, sipping his coffee while reading the newspaper.

He was a dream roommate—unbothered, polite, attentive without being invasive. He cooked most mornings and evenings, and you handled lunch and dishes out of principle more than anything else. And yet, no matter how well you split the duties, you still felt like a freeloader in silk pajamas. He never asked you to contribute, never brought up rent or groceries or anything at all.

Which, ironically, only made the guilt settle heavier in your chest.

It was unbearable. So this newfound spark of motivation—this desire to prove you could stand on your own two feet again—burned fast and hot.

He was fixing his watch by the mirror beside the door, running gelled fingers through his hair, smoothing it back with that practiced grace. You stepped over, holding his coat in one hand and yours in the other, and offered it to him with a quiet, “Here.”

He murmured a small thanks as he slipped into it, but you didn’t step back.

Instead, you reached up to adjust his tie, fingers deft as you corrected the slight tilt in the knot. “I know you’re just going to mess it up the second you get to the office,” you said, smiling softly, “but it’s driving me crazy.”

You smoothed the tie down gently, fingertips brushing the lapels of his coat. When your eyes lifted, you caught him staring—not at your eyes, but your lips, still slick with gloss from your post-breakfast touch-up, and suddenly it felt like a mistake to stand this close, in this kind of silence, with him looking at you like that.

You met his gaze. Your heart stuttered.

Was he leaning in?

Or were you imagining it—some cruel trick your body played when it got too used to his scent, his proximity, the low hum of affection that vibrated just beneath the surface?

Before you could answer, he inhaled sharply and stepped back, the moment snapping like a taut string.

“Busy day today?” He asked, voice neutral, composed.

You cleared your throat, recovering quickly.

“Yeah,” You said, grabbing your purse and your coat, avoiding his eyes, “I’m visiting Slughorn at Hogwarts. I was always good at potions, and he used to favor me—mostly because I always showed up to those ridiculous Slug Club meetings.” You gave a faint chuckle.

“I heard he’s still teaching and struggling to keep up with his personal research. I was kind of his unofficial assistant in seventh year, so… I’m hoping he’ll consider taking me on. As an apprentice or something.”

You kept your tone light, casual, even though your pulse thudded in your throat. You avoided his eyes as you adjusted the strap of your purse.

Theo held the door open for you, and your heart flipped in your chest like it always did when he did things like that without thinking—like it was natural. Like you belonged here.

“Good luck, (Y/N).” He said simply, his voice low but earnest.

You turned your head slightly, offering him a small smile. The way he was looking at you made your steps falter for just a second.

“Thank you.” You said, voice barely above a whisper.

And then you walked on, heels clicking softly on the marble floor, heart fluttering like mad against your ribs.

***

You practically skipped down the stone steps of Hogwarts, the weight of your nervous anticipation completely lifted from your shoulders. The crisp air smelled of old parchment and damp moss, and for once, you didn’t mind. Your cheeks were flushed, your hands clutching the letter Slughorn had scrawled in excitement after your meeting: an official offer to join him as his private research assistant, with the intent of training you to become a certified Potions Master.

Your heart was hammering by the time you reached Theo’s flat, and you didn’t even knock—just flung the door open and stepped inside, calling his name like a storm announcing itself.

“Theo!”

He appeared from the hallway, towel slung over his shoulder, clearly mid-way through drying his hair, shirt sleeves rolled up, “What? Are you okay?”

You beamed so brightly you could’ve lit the whole room with just the force of it, “I got it—I got the position! I’m going to train with Slughorn! He’s taking me on!”

For a second, Theo just blinked at you, frozen in place. Then your words seemed to register fully and he opened his mouth to say something—but before he could, you launched yourself at him.

Your arms flung around his neck, and he caught you with a startled grunt, stumbling back half a step before wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, instinctively keeping you upright. You laughed, giddy and breathless against his shoulder, your legs kicking slightly off the ground.

“I knew you would.” He said against your temple, voice low and warm and slightly amused, though the hug he gave you was grounding, solid, and real.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes bright, “I’m going to be a Potions Master.”

Theo’s hands stayed on your waist, his lips twitching into a rare, open smile, “You’re going to be brilliant.”

You didn’t know what possessed you then—maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the way he was still holding you like you were something precious—but you leaned in without thinking and pressed a kiss to his cheek, quick and full of warmth.

Theo blinked, stunned.

You blinked, too, realizing what you just did.

He slowly set you down on your feet, clearing his throat, but the faintest shade of pink had crept up his neck.

"Thank you, Theo." You whispered, looking up at him like he hung the moon in the sky, "For everything."

***

You were halfway through folding the laundry while Theo showered when the door flew open with no warning, the sharp click of heels on hardwood echoing like the cue for a dramatic entrance.

“Surprise, darling!” Pansy announced grandly, stepping into the apartment with a flourish, a pastry box in one hand and designer sunglasses in the other, “I brought macarons from that place you liked in Paris—Theo, you better be decent!”

She strutted into the living room expecting to find her best friend brooding over black coffee, muttering about case files or the Ministry’s latest idiocy.

Instead, she found you.

Her heel halted mid-click. Her eyes went wide, lips parting in stunned recognition.

“(Y/N)?”

You blinked, holding a half-folded jumper, “Hi—?”

The pastry box slipped from her fingers, forgotten as she gasped.

“(Y/N)!”

Before you could react, she barreled across the room, arms wide, heels thudding across the floor. She crashed into you with a hug that nearly knocked you into the couch, her perfume wrapping around you like a familiar blanket as she squeezed you breathless.

You laughed, arms wrapping around her just as tightly, “Oh God, I’m so sorry I didn’t make it to the wedding! I couldn’t get a Portkey in time—I felt awful. I’ve missed you so much!”

Pansy pulled back to get a proper look at you, holding you at arm’s length like she needed to confirm you were real, “Oh, how’s newlywed life treating you? How’s your husband—” she started brightly, then trailed off.

Her eyes scanned your outfit—comfy shorts and an old Quidditch tee—and then flicked to the half-folded laundry scattered across the coffee table.

And that was precisely the moment Theo stepped out of the bathroom.

Shirtless. Damp. Joggers slung low on his hips. A towel around his neck, his hair still dripping.

Pansy blinked. You blinked. Theo froze like a deer in headlights.

Her eyes snapped between you and Theo. Once. Twice.

Her jaw dropped.

“No. Bloody. Way.”

You swallowed hard, “I, uh... I ran from the altar. I’ve been living here for a month. Surprise?”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“You absolute plonkers!” Pansy shouted, whirling around like a furious peacock as the front door opened again and the rest of the boys filtered in—Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, Enzo—all pausing mid-step at the scene.

Theo grimaced.

Pansy turned on Draco with fury, “You ranted to me for an hour last night about Potter’s work ethic, but you didn’t think to mention that one of my closest friends from school ran out of her own wedding and moved in with Theo?”

Draco’s eyes widened, “I thought you knew!”

“You lot are unbelievable.” She huffed, throwing her hands up.

Draco looked caught somewhere between amusement and panic. Blaise choked on a laugh. Mattheo raised his hands in mock innocence.

Pansy, eyes glittering with mischief, turned back to you with an exasperated scoff, “We’re getting drinks tonight. You and I are going to unpack every bloody bit of this madness. And if there’s any scandal you’re hiding from me, I swear to Merlin—”

You gave her a sheepish smile, heart fluttering with the kind of warmth that only old friendships could bring.

“I wish. But I can’t tonight. I’m working with Slughorn now—officially—and I’ve got my first full day tomorrow. Still need to study up a bit. I really don’t want to get fired before I even make it to lunch.”

Pansy’s features softened instantly. She stepped forward, cupping your cheeks with warm hands and smoothing your hair in a way that made your eyes sting.

“Slughorn?” She breathed, proud and a little misty, “You’re working with Slughorn? That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.”

Your throat tightened, “Thanks, Pansy. God, I missed you. Let’s do a proper catch-up this weekend, yeah? I don’t want to keep you from your homecoming party—you should go have fun.”

She nodded and pulled you into one last tight hug. “This weekend,” she warned playfully, “or I swear I’ll come kidnap you from this flat myself.”

You laughed, hugging her back, “Deal.”

Just then, Theo reappeared in the living room, now fully dressed and slipping his watch onto his wrist. He reached for his coat, but you were already there, stepping behind him to help him shrug it on.

“Don’t you have to be up early tomorrow?” You asked gently, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

From behind you, Blaise gave a low whistle.

“Ooooh, listen to that,” Mattheo drawled with a teasing grin, “Wifey’s making sure the hubby gets to bed on time.”

Theo rolled his eyes, already used to these jokes and glanced down at you, a quiet smile pulling at his lips, “It’s just one drink.”

You sighed, half amused, half resigned, “Okay. Just… don’t come home completely smashed.”

“No promises.” He said with a wink, and the door shut behind them seconds later.

***

The bar buzzed with the low hum of chatter, clinking glasses, and a jazz cover of a Weird Sisters song playing over the speakers. The group had claimed a corner booth, drinks in hand, laughter spilling over every few minutes.

Theo nursed a firewhisky, sitting back with his usual composed expression which caught the attention of Mattheo, “Oh, don’t drink that too fast, Teddy boy. You don’t want to go back absolutely hammered to the missus.”

“You lot are ridiculous,” Theo muttered, though a hint of fondness softened his tone.

“Oh, come off it,” Blaise grinned, swirling his drink, “You like it. You’re practically glowing these days. It’s very unnerving.”

“Very domestic of you, Theo,” Enzo added, smirking, “Sharing a flat, cooking her breakfast, letting her steal your clothes—”

“She doesn’t steal my clothes.”

Mattheo grinned, “Mate, I saw her wearing your Chudley Cannons jumper yesterday.”

Theo looked away, clearly caught.

Pansy took a slow sip of her cocktail, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m shocked you let her stay with you. You’re usually so…” She waved a perfectly manicured hand, “emotionally unavailable. Allergic to company, really.”

Blaise leaned in, eyes gleaming, “I mean hardly a surprise considering how badly gone he was for her back in school.”

Pansy froze mid-sip.

“Wait—what? Who was gone for who?!” she gasped, nearly slamming her glass on the table, voice sharp with disbelief.

The boys blinked in surprise.

“You didn’t know?” Draco asked, brows raised.

“You’re kidding,” Blaise said, laughing, “You always shoved them into group projects and made them sit together during dinners — we thought you were matchmaking!”

“I was!” Pansy snapped, whipping around to glare at Draco, “Because I wanted to go with you, and the other cows in our dorm had already called dibs on Enzo, Mattheo, and Blaise. Theo was just—left!”

She turned back to the table, eyes wide with the horror of missed opportunity, “Don’t you think if I’d known he fancied her, I would’ve shoved them into a broom cupboard and locked the door?”

Mattheo cackled, “That’s so on-brand for you.”

Pansy groaned, dramatically dropping her head onto Draco’s shoulder, “You absolute wankers. If one of you had opened your mouth years ago, that wedding she had a month ago? Could’ve been yours, Theo.”

Theo sipped his firewhisky quietly, hidden behind the rim of his glass. Flashes of you in a wedding dress and veil flickered behind his eyes, a soft blush spreading across his neck. None of them missed it.

Blaise nudged Mattheo, “He’s thinking about it now.”

“Oh, he’s been thinking about it.”

Theo threw his head back, downing the rest of his firewhiskey in one go, “I need another drink.”

***

The door flew open with a crash, nearly coming off its hinges.

“We have arrived!” Lorenzo declared, clearly drunk, arms wide, as if expecting applause.

Theo stumbled in between Blaise and Mattheo, arms slung over their shoulders like a war hero being carried off the battlefield. His shirt was half-untucked, hair a mess, and his eyes—when he managed to open them—were glassy and unfocused.

You poked your head out from the kitchen, arms crossed, “What happened to ‘just one drink’?”

“He drank.” Blaise said simply.

“Like a fish.” Mattheo added.

“Like a moron.” Draco corrected as he strolled in behind them, tossing Theo’s coat over a chair, “He’s your problem now.”

Theo blinked at the sound of your voice and perked up immediately. “Tesoro!” He slurred, trying to walk toward you but very nearly face-planting into the floor. You caught him under the arm just in time.

“Hi, Theo,” You said softly, “Oh gosh you smell like bad decisions.”

“You need to eat,” You added, “Something starchy. Or you’re going to feel like roadkill tomorrow.”

“He never eats when he’s like this,” Blaise said from where he was sprawled over a kitchen chair, “We’ve tried. It’s hopeless.”

“Chi mangia bene, vive bene, remember?” You said softly, probably butchering his mother's saying as you guided Theo toward the table.

That stopped him. His gaze sharpened just enough to find your eyes.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours with a quiet breath, “E chi ha te… ha tutto.”

Your heart skipped even though you hadn't a clue what he just said.

Mattheo made an exaggerated gagging noise, “Okay, Casanova, wrap it up.”

Draco, grinning, gave you a mock bow, “He’s all yours. Good luck with drunk Shakespeare.”

As the door shut behind them, Theo was still leaning on you, breathing you in like he needed your scent to stay upright.

“You smell like a distillery.” You said, amused.

“You smell like home.” He mumbled.

Your cheeks warmed, and you pushed the plate gently into his lap, “Eat your toast, Romeo.”

***

The bar was warm and golden, tucked away on a cobbled side street with velvet booths and enchanted candles flickering lazily overhead. You and Pansy had claimed a prime table by the window, cocktails already half-finished and a bowl of enchanted peanuts floating between you, occasionally popping like popcorn.

“I swear,” Pansy said, leaning in conspiratorially, “if Draco mentions his new wand polish one more time, I will hex him bald.”

You snorted into your drink, eyes gleaming, “You wouldn’t. You like running your hands through his hair too much.”

She grinned, “Touché. But I’d still threaten it. Keeps him humble.”

It was the first proper girls’ night out you’d had in what felt like forever, and Pansy — ever the scene-stealing, chaos-bringing goddess she was — made it feel like the war, the heartbreak, and everything in between had never happened.

“So,” She drawled, resting her chin on her palm with a wicked glint in her eye, “Tell me everything. Are you dating? Shagging? Secretly married? Come on, give me the details.”

You laughed, swirling the pink liquid in your glass — some fruity, glittering cocktail you hadn’t tasted since your Hogwarts days. It cooled your fingers while your cheeks burned hotter by the second.

You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back your smile, “It’s not like that, Pans. We’re just good friends. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have made it this far without him.”

“Oh darling,” She said with mock pity, “it’s always ‘not like that’ until you’re wearing his jumpers and catching feelings.”

You opened your mouth to object—but the words caught in your throat. You had worn his jumper. You were catching feelings.

Pansy’s eyes widened. She gasped, clutching her chest with dramatic flair, “No. No way. You like him.”

“I didn’t say that." You muttered.

“You didn’t have to!” She squealed, grabbing your hands across the table, “Oh, you poor lovesick thing. I knew it. I knew it!”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, “You are insufferable.”

“I’m right, though,” She sang smugly, taking another sip of her drink, “And I actually happen to know that our dear Teddy has been—”

“(Y/N).”

The voice cut through the air like a curse.

You froze.

Pansy’s glass paused halfway to her lips. Her smile vanished.

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t have to look to know who it was — that voice had once lived in your dreams. Now it only haunted your nightmares.

Slowly, you turned in your seat.

And saw your ex-fiancé standing at the edge of your table.

You stared up at him, heart thudding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. He looked mostly the same — slicked-back hair that tried too hard to look effortless, a coat more expensive than it was tasteful, and that same smirk he always wore like armor. His jaw was tighter now, clenched like he hadn’t unclenched it in months. His eyes were cold, sunken a little, and mean in a way they didn’t even bother to hide.

“I didn’t expect to find you here.” He said, voice low, razor-edged.

Pansy was on her feet before you could speak, stepping in front of you like a drawn wand. “And yet here you are,” She said, all sugar and venom, “Funny how you manage to show up where no one wants you.”

He didn’t even glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on you, “We need to talk.”

“No, we really don’t,” Pansy snapped, “Back off before I hex your bits so far inward you’ll need a St. Mungo’s specialist to find them.”

“Pansy,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against her sleeve. Your hand was shaking.

He took a step closer, “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You rose slowly, pushing your chair back, jaw tight, “Fine. Five minutes. Nothing more.”

“Absolutely not—” Pansy began, but you shook your head.

“I’m okay.”

You weren’t. Not even remotely. But you needed this to end. To really end.

The night air was sharp against your skin, the hum of the city muffled as you stepped into the alley behind the bar. You folded your arms, more out of defense than cold.

“So this is what it takes to find you now?” He said, voice curling with disdain, “Are you selling yourself like a whore on street corners now?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your voice steady, “What do you want?”

He took a step forward, “I heard the rumors. People talk, you know. Especially when a bride vanishes in silk and ends up playing house with that filthy blood traitor Theodore Nott.”

Your lips parted in disbelief.

“I should’ve known,” he sneered, “You always acted so self-righteous. But look at you now — just another slag hopping into the next man’s bed. Must be nice not needing vows to spread your legs, yeah?”

The words hit like a slap, your stomach twisting with fury and disbelief.

“I’m done listening to this.”

You turned—and before you could even brace yourself, he yanked you sharply by the collar and slammed you hard against the brick wall. The air whooshed out of your lungs as your back hit the cold surface, the impact jarring your entire body.

His hands tightened suddenly around your throat, fingers digging into your skin in a cruel grip. You gasped for air, panic surging as darkness edged your vision.

“Don’t you dare think you can just walk away from me.” He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wild and merciless.

You clawed at his hands, desperate to break free, but his strength was overwhelming, pressing down harder, choking the breath from you.

"Reducto!"

The spell hit him square in the chest, blasting him off you with bone-jarring force. He flew backward, crashing into the far wall of the alley with a sickening thud before collapsing in a heap, gasping and stunned.

Pansy didn’t hesitate.

She stormed toward him like a vengeful shadow, wand leveled between his eyes as he groaned and tried to sit up. Her voice was shaking—but only with rage.

“You filthy little coward,” she spat, every word laced with venom, “Touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your body.”

He growled, trying to rise—Pansy kicked him flat in the chest, knocking him back to the ground with her heel, “Stay. Down.”

Your knees buckled, the sudden rush of oxygen burning your throat as you slid down the wall, coughing and trembling.

“Whoa—hey.” Pansy caught you, strong and certain, one arm steadying you as the other clutched her wand, “I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re going home.”

And this time, you let her carry the weight.

***

The world spun sharply as Pansy apparated, the crack of displaced air still echoing in your ears. The warmth of her body vanished the moment your feet hit solid ground—wood floors, familiar scents. You were in Theo’s flat.

Laughter and chatter from the living room fell to a jarring halt.

Five pairs of eyes turned in unison: Theo, Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo—all frozen mid-conversation, drinks in hand. The moment they saw you, everything dropped.

“(Y/N)?”

Your name left Theo like a punch to the gut.

You were trembling, arms wrapped tight around your middle as if they could hold your ribs together. Pansy still held onto you, as if she wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t collapse, and even she looked rattled under the scrutiny of the room.

“That fucker,” She said through gritted teeth, “Grabbed her outside the bar. Slammed her into a wall. Tried to—” her voice faltered, thick with fury, “She couldn’t breathe.”

Theo moved.

Fast.

He crossed the room in three strides, gently brushing Pansy aside like she was made of smoke. Then he was in front of you, hands hovering for a split second before he cupped your face, cradling you like you were something fragile and sacred.

His eyes roamed over your features—your split lip, your glassy eyes, the bruising fingerprints beginning to bloom like violets around your throat—and something in him shattered.

His jaw clenched, fury crashing through him like a tidal wave. He looked like he could tear the world apart.

“I’m fine.” You rasped, voice barely more than a whisper.

You tried to smile—a brittle, curling thing, “I know that probably doesn’t help my case, but… trust me, I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Theo said softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, his voice hoarse and tight, “Don’t lie to me right now.”

Your breath hitched.

Draco hovered beside Pansy now, brushing her hair behind her ear as he muttered something only she could hear. She nodded once, giving her boyfriend a soft smile before turning her gaze back to you, eyes gleaming with steel.

Theo gently tugged you forward into his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You couldn’t.

Your limbs had surrendered somewhere between the alley and the flat, and he was warm, steady—home. Before you could stop it, a sob cracked loose from your chest, raw and shaking. Your hands fisted into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

He held you tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice trembling beneath the quiet, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

The flat was eerily quiet now. One by one, the boys filtered out, their faces grim with the weight of what had just happened.

Mattheo lingered just long enough to press a firm, reassuring hand to your shoulder. His voice was low, steady, almost a promise, “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of everything from here.”

Blaise didn’t say a word. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod to Theo, then to you, his expression taut with barely restrained anger and resolve.

Enzo’s jaw clenched as he glanced at you one last time. “He’s a dead man,” he muttered under his breath before turning away and joining the others.

You barely noticed them leaving. Your world had shrunk to the steady rhythm of Theo’s heartbeat humming against your ear, the comforting warmth of his hand pressing into your back, and the ache lodged deep in your chest — a raw, stubborn pain that refused to fade.

“I want him arrested. Tonight.” Pansy’s voice cut through the silence like ice, cold and deadly calm but laced with a fury that made the room vibrate, “Draco, I’m serious. He attacked her in public. Slammed her against a wall. Choked her until she could barely breathe.”

Draco’s tone was clipped, measured, but the sharp edge of anger was unmistakable, “You have a name?”

“Graham Bulstrode.” Pansy replied without hesitation, her voice razor-sharp and unyielding.

Draco’s jaw tightened, “Consider it done, my love.”

Every word settled into your foggy mind — distant but painfully clear. The tremble in your hands hadn’t stopped, but Theo’s arms wrapped around you only tightened, as if willing to keep the danger at bay. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, a quiet vow whispered without words.

When the door finally clicked shut behind the last of the others, the tension finally broke. The tears you had been holding back surged forward, hot and fierce, tumbling freely down your cheeks. You clung to him, the safety of his presence grounding you as the storm inside began to settle.

You buried your face in Theo’s chest, shoulders trembling as the sobs broke free, wracking your entire body with every breath. He held you through it, solid and steady, one hand gently combing through your hair like he could smooth away the terror still clinging to your skin.

“I’m so stupid,” You gasped, the words catching in your throat, “I’ve—I’ve thought about that moment for the past month. What I’d say. How I’d stand up for myself. I imagined throwing that stupid ring back in his smug face, saying something cutting, something final—but when it actually happened…”

Your voice cracked, guilt burning behind your ribs.

“I couldn’t even speak. I just froze. I have a wand but I couldn't cast a single spell. I let him say all that shit about me—about you—and I... I didn’t even defend you, Theo. I’m so sorry. I'm so useless.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just held you tighter, like your apology hurt more than anything else that had happened. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—gentle, but resolute.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His words rumbled in his chest, warm against your cheek.

“I don’t give a damn about what you said or didn’t say to him. You don’t owe me a defense—not ever.”

You looked up at him, blinking through the tears. His eyes found yours, fierce and heartbreakingly soft, like you were something sacred—something he’d never let break.

“And you’re not stupid, (Y/N), or useless,” He said, voice thick with emotion, “You’re incredible. Brave. Stronger than you even realize. And I’m so fucking proud of you.”

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, grounding, safe.

“He’s not going to get away with this,” Theo whispered, “I promise you.”

You sighed, sinking deeper into him, like you could finally let go of everything you’d been holding in. His arms wrapped around you again, warm and sure.

“Come on,” he murmured, “Let’s treat that bruise. Get you something to eat.”

But you shook your head, face pressed tight against his chest.

“Don’t let me go.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore—it was tender, healing. You curled into him like you could disappear there, into the rhythm of his breathing and the thrum of his heart.

“I’m never going to let you go.”

And you believed him.

His heartbeat echoed beneath your ear, strong and unwavering. With every beat, the weight in your chest began to lift—slowly, steadily.

Safe. Loved. Finally, home.

***

A couple weeks later it was raining softly outside, the kind of slow, constant drizzle that blurred the windows and made the world feel far away. You and Theo were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, a blanket lazily thrown across your laps. A half-empty mug sat abandoned on the coffee table beside a crumpled takeout bag. The telly hummed faintly in the background, long forgotten.

“So then she goes, ‘I forgot to run the control,’” You said, exasperated, “and I swear to Merlin, I have never seen Slughorn that mad in his life.”

Theo snorted, one arm draped across your shoulders, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, “Serves her right for always nicking your freshly ground moonstone.”

“Right? And of course, the one day I’m not there to supervise her, she completely tanks it. It’s not like I was goofing off—I was at the Ministry signing off the paperwork for Bulstrode's trial.” You sighed, “Slughorn knew, so I didn’t get in trouble, but I still have to repeat all her damn trials for the next few weeks. As if I don’t already have enough on my plate.”

“What’s keeping you so busy, Bella?” Theo asked, smiling as he gently unraveled the curl and let it spring back into place, “Maybe I can help.”

“Well, I’ve been needing to check out some apartments. Can’t really leave that to you, now can I?” You yawned, “But if you want, we could go together?”

Theo stilled.

He pulled back just slightly, brows furrowed as he studied your face, “Apartment hunting?”

You blinked, “Yeah… I’ve been looking at places closer to work. Just something small. I mean, I don’t make much yet.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Wait—(Y/N), are you planning to move out?”

You nodded slowly, suddenly self-conscious, “I mean—I’ve been here for a while now and I love it, obviously, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I figured—”

“You think you’re overstaying?” His voice cut gently but sharply through your words.

You faltered, “Well, I just—”

“You’re not,” Theo said, a little breathless now, like the words had been sitting on the edge of his tongue for too long, “You’re not overstaying. I want you here.”

Your breath hitched.

“I want to come home to you. Every day. Not to an empty flat. Not to a world where you’re somewhere else.”

His hand found yours, threading your fingers together like a lifeline. His voice dropped lower, steadier.

“Stay. Please.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and sure, “I want to come home knowing the woman I love is safe. Here. With me.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, the world narrowing to his hand in yours, the soft thunder of rain against the windows, the warmth of his words blooming in your chest like magic.

“What do you mean, the woman you love?”

Theo let out a quiet laugh, a little stunned you hadn’t realized it already. His smile turned lopsided, eyes shining.

“Are you daft, (Y/N)?” He said, voice thick, “I’m in love with you. I’ve been taken with you since we were kids, and I’m still—” He broke off for a breath, like the truth was catching up to him all at once. “Still completely gone for you.”

Your heart did something unsteady in your chest.

“Say it again.” You whispered.

He cupped your cheek with one hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stuttered. The words lingered in the air between you, delicate and heavy all at once—like the hush after a spell’s been cast.

You didn’t look away.

You couldn’t.

“I’ve loved you for a long time too, Theo,” You whispered, the confession trembling on your tongue, “I don’t even know when it started—when I began falling for you—but I did. And I fell hard. I mean, who wouldn’t?”

You smiled through the softness in your voice, “You’re the kindest, most patient man I’ve ever met… and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I met you on the day of my wedding.”

That pulled a laugh from him—warm, full, and brimming with disbelief. He tilted his head back slightly, grinning like you’d just handed him the entire sky.

You leaned in just a fraction, voice softer now, “I want to stay. Not just in the flat. In your life. With you.”

That did it.

Theo closed the distance, his hands cradling your face as his lips found yours in a kiss that felt like coming home. It was fierce and tender all at once—like a dam breaking, like every moment of yearning pouring out of him in one breathless, burning exhale.

You melted into him, arms winding around his neck, your body pressed close as the kiss deepened—hungry now, desperate. His fingers tangled in your hair, yours fisting in his shirt, both of you trying to memorize the moment, to feel every inch of it like it could make up for all the waiting.

Weeks—months—of unspoken words, of lingering touches and stolen glances, of intimate moments that always ended with breathless silences and aching restraint—crashed into a single breath.

Theo kissed you like you were his lifeline—like he’d been holding back a storm and had finally been given permission to let it break.

You gasped as his lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, your throat—reverent, hungry, like he was rediscovering you with every breath. “Tell me to stop,” He murmured, voice hoarse with restraint, “Say the word, and I will.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you tugged him closer, heart pounding under his palm as your fingers slid into his hair, voice trembling with a dangerous sort of affection, “If you stop, Theodore Nott, I’m sleeping at Pansy’s tonight.”

He let out a low, incredulous laugh—half-choked and fully wrecked—then kissed you again, deeper this time. Certain. Claiming. The rain tapped gently against the windows, forgotten behind the haze of fogged glass and the thrum of two hearts finally letting go.

And when he lifted you off the couch, carrying you down the hall with all the tenderness in the world and not an ounce of hesitation, the only thing either of you could think was:

About bloody time.

***

It was barely 9 a.m. when the front door to Theo’s flat creaked open—again, without so much as a knock.

Mattheo’s voice cut through the quiet, “I swear, if this idiot didn’t do the groceries and we hiked all the way here for his strawberries for nothing, I’m setting the place on fire.”

“I brought croissants.” Lorenzo offered brightly.

“You brought them from my kitchen,” Draco said flatly, “You literally stole them from my counter.”

Theo stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “Do none of you understand the concept of boundaries?”

He was mid-scowl when Blaise’s voice drifted in from the hallway, “Don't you imbeciles think it's too early to—”

And then they all fell silent.

You had just stepped out of the bedroom—the master bedroom this time, not the guest room—bleary-eyed and yawning, wearing nothing but Theo’s hoodie. Again. Hair a little messy, legs bare, looking entirely at home.

Draco blinked, “Déjà vu.”

Mattheo let out a dramatic sigh, “Alright, but like… why is it always the hoodie and no pants? Not that I’m complaining—it’s just, you know what, never mind.”

Blaise leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, “So what’s the excuse this time? Sleepwalking? Laundry explosion? Sudden amnesia about how trousers work?”

You didn’t even flinch.

“We’re dating,” You said flatly, tugging the sleeve of Theo’s hoodie over your hand as you rubbed your eye, “And I’m not wearing pants because I had sex with your friend. Good morning.”

Silence.

Four pairs of stunned eyes stared at you.

Lorenzo made a choked noise, “I—okay.”

Mattheo sputtered, hands flailing, “You can’t just say that without warning!”

“You asked.” You replied dryly.

Draco took a long sip of coffee, muttering behind the rim of his mug, “I owe Pansy ten Galleons.”

***

Bonus:

Your heart pounded as you stared at the closed doors, the soft strains of the wedding march beginning to drift through the wood. Your palms were sweaty around the bouquet you carried, nerves and excitement swirling in your chest.

Then, the doors swung open, revealing you in a stunning white dress, your smile bright and genuine as you began your walk down the aisle. The hush of the ceremony wrapped around you like a warm embrace, the aisle stretching ahead lined with friends and family.

A memory flickered through your mind—just a couple of years ago, you had run away from a different wedding down the hall, only to find refuge in this very chapel. It was here that you met your to-be husband, the love of your life.

Your eyes locked onto the man standing across the room, looking impossibly handsome in his tailored suit. His gaze locked onto you immediately, and for a moment, all the noise and bustle melted away. It was just you and him.

Only a few feet separated you now, but something in your heart couldn’t wait. Before you realized what you were doing, you broke into a gentle run—this time towards the groom.

Theo’s face broke into a gentle smile—the kind reserved only for you—as he reached for you. Before you could even think twice, his arms closed around you, catching you effortlessly. Your feet lifted from the floor as he spun you gently, twirling you in a slow, perfect circle.

The world blurred—lights, faces, music—all faded into a whirl of warmth and happiness.

He pressed his forehead to yours, a slow smile curling on his lips as he whispered, "You just can't wait to marry me, can you?"

You laughed softly, breath warm against his skin, "I couldn’t run away—tried it before. Too much work."

His eyes sparkled with amusement and love as he pulled you closer, the world around you fading into nothing but this perfect, shared moment.

***

EXTRA BONUS BECAUSE I CAN HEHEHE:

Hogwarts, Year 6:

You glanced across the potions table, scanning the clutter of ingredients before turning slightly toward the Slytherin bench.

“Theodore?” You said cautiously, holding your crushed lacewing flies with gloved fingers, “Could I borrow the asphodel? Just for a sec.”

He looked up from his cauldron like you’d just asked for his wand. There was a pause. Not rude, not angry—just... blank. Then, wordlessly, he slid the jar toward you across the table. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest moment when you took it. Cold skin. A little spark. His hand recoiled like he’d been burned.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” You murmured, blinking.

He just gave a short nod, already turning away, jaw tight as he went back to slicing his valerian root like it had offended him personally.

You blinked again, confused, then padded back over to your side of the room where Pansy was lounging against the workbench like it was a chaise lounge in the Slytherin common room.

She quirked an eyebrow, “What was that?”

You shrugged, a slight pout forming on your lips, “I don’t know. I guess he just really doesn’t like me.”

Pansy snorted, “Please. If Theo really didn’t like you, you’d know.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Theo was absolutely not concentrating on his potion anymore. He was staring blankly into the cauldron, stirring too fast, ears tinged pink.

Your hands just touched.

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

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beegomess · 3 months ago

Text

🫶🏼

You as Paul Lahote's girl

Masterlist || Paul Lahote

xoxo, bee💋💋

76 notes · View notes

beegomess · 3 months ago

Text

Hearts woven in threads || Paul Lahote x Fem!Reader

A/N: English is not my native language, so I apologize in advance for any typos. I hope you enjoy! AI-revised translation*

masterlist || Hearts woven in threads

Chapter 08

Since that day, everything finally seemed to fall into perfect harmony in your life. The dust had settled, and your routine was starting to fit almost seamlessly. Your mother still called at least once a day—sometimes just to hear your voice and make sure you were okay. The patrols almost always aligned with Paul's, which made each return home feel less exhausting, more familiar. Rewarding. There was something deeply intimate about coming home together, dropping your coats by the door, and doing simple things like washing the dishes or talking about what to cook for dinner.

Without realizing it, you had created small, tacit agreements about what each of you did around the house—silent rules of coexistence. Paul was in charge of feeding Oliver, which brought the two of them closer in a funny way. The cat, who until recently only tolerated your boyfriend out of politeness, now shamelessly rubbed against Paul's leg whenever he walked by. You were already responsible for dinner, while Paul handled the mess afterward. A kind of chaotic balance, but it worked.

That morning, however, would be an exception. You had done the night patrol with Leah, Jacob, and Jared, because after weeks of putting it off, your mother had finally extracted a promise from you—that you'd visit her, sleep or no sleep, no more excuses. That's why, at dawn, you slipped into the house like someone sneaking into their own home.

In the bathroom, you took a quick, warm shower, trying not to give in to the fatigue weighing on every muscle in your body. You changed as carefully as possible, keeping the light low and the mirror fogged, as if even the silence was too fragile to break.

But when you returned to the bedroom—there he was.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, his face illuminated by the dim bathroom light. His hair was messy, his skin still marked by the pillow, and his eyes half-lidded, clearly bothered by the glow. Paul blinked slowly when he saw you, as if caught between sleep and waking, but stood without a word.

You barely had time to smile before his arms wrapped around you. A full, warm hug, heavy with longing—even though you'd seen each other just hours earlier.

Paul pressed his face into the curve of your neck, taking a deep breath, as if trying to trap your scent there forever. It was the kind of silence that said more than any words.

You smiled against his warm skin, your hand finding the unruly strands at the nape of his neck.

—Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you —you whispered, like someone asking permission to break the peace.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

His arms just squeezed a little tighter, as if you were his anchor in the world. As if, even knowing he'd see you again in just a few hours, he still wanted to hold on to this moment for himself.

You closed your eyes and let yourself stay there, just a little longer.

Until Paul pulled back just enough to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, studying your face carefully. The touch was light, almost absentminded. His voice came low, still hoarse with sleep:

—What time do you get back?

—Before nightfall, I promise —you answered with a soft smile.

He looked at you for another second, eyes still heavy, but carrying that brightness that made the rest of the world fall away.

—Okay —he said, placing a long kiss on your forehead. Then he stepped back a bit more. —Try to get some rest there, alright? You must be exhausted.

You smiled wider, heart completely softened by his concern.

—I'll try.

He nodded with a half-smile and slowly let his arms slide away from your waist. The heat he left behind pulsed on your skin like an immediate absence.

—Tell your mom I'm going with you next time —he said as he walked toward the bathroom, scratching the back of his neck with one hand, still a little sleepy.

—I will —you replied, already finishing getting ready again, with a silly smile on your face that simply refused to fade.

But then you remembered—stopping him before he reached the bathroom.

—Oh, later... I'm going straight to Emily's, okay? —you said, and he turned to face you. —Sam asked me to go again tonight.

Paul nodded slowly, his brow furrowing slightly, as if processing Sam's request with a hint of suspicion. Still, he didn't argue.

—Alright —he finally replied, before disappearing behind the bathroom door, leaving the sound of running water and the scent of him lingering in the air.

You grabbed the bag you'd left ready the night before, checked your keys, and went downstairs without making a sound, determined not to waste time.

There was no time for breakfast, so you figured you'd grab something on the way.

Outside, the day had all the usual contours: a heavy sky, fine mist clinging to the trees, and the road still wet from early morning rain. One of those gray days that never seemed to end.

As you left Forks and La Push, the landscape began to shift subtly—dense pine forests giving way to more open fields, damp wooden fences, and old roadside signs advertising farms and workshops.

The fine rain tapped against the car windows in a steady rhythm, creating an almost hypnotic soundtrack alongside the soft hum of the radio. The song playing was old—some forgotten track from your teenage years that you only recognized by the melody—and it made you smile slightly, as if time had looped back on itself.

You ran your fingers absently over the steering wheel, trailing lightly over the worn leather. It was the same car as always, the one your father had treated like a family heirloom. For a brief moment, memory imposed itself without asking: you, small, in the backseat, legs still swinging in the air, while your parents laughed at something together.

You could almost swear you felt his presence there—not like a ghost, but like a soft warmth, as if he were sitting in the passenger seat for just a second.

The town your mother had moved to was bigger than Forks, but still held that quiet aura of places nestled in the woods—small grocery stores, old gas stations, schools that looked more like oversized houses. She lived in a more residential area, with calm streets, weedy flowerbeds, and children riding their bikes beneath the gray sky.

You climbed the external stairs, feeling the cold wind brush your face, carrying the scent of rain, damp earth, and freshly brewed coffee from some open window.

The apartment was on the second floor of a low-rise building, with exposed bricks and outdoor stairs. You recognized it instantly, even without ever having been there. It just screamed "Mom" in the most literal sense: the makeshift flowerpot on the balcony, the crooked floral curtain, the broken doorbell with a Post-it note that read "knock".

You knocked as instructed, and for a moment, there was only the sound of your fingers against wood. But soon the latch turned, and the door opened to reveal the most familiar smile you knew.

—Oh, my love —your mother said, opening her arms before you could even respond.

You didn't hesitate. You threw yourself into her hug like you'd come from far more than a few hours on the road. She wrapped you up tight, with that warmth only she had, and you let your head rest on her shoulder longer than you expected.

—I missed you so much, honey —she said, with the kind of emotion only a mother could express.

—Oh, Mom... I missed you too —you murmured, breathing in her scent.

She pulled back, though her hands still held your shoulders gently.

—Come inside, sweetheart. It's cold out here —she said, patting your arm before turning to lead the way.

You stepped through the door and were greeted by a small but cozy space. The apartment smelled of cake—probably banana or apple—and strong coffee. The walls were still a little bare, but there were framed prints leaning against the floor, waiting for nails and a hammer. A shaggy rug covered part of the living room floor, and the cushions on the couch looked like they'd just been fluffed to welcome you.

It felt like a home still under construction—but a home nonetheless.

—I'm still organizing everything, don't mind the mess —she said, closing the door behind you.

—It's beautiful, Mom. It's so you —you said, slowly turning in place to take in the details.

She smiled again, proud, and headed to the kitchen, which was open to the living room. As she calmly prepared two mugs, she glanced over her shoulder and asked:

—And Paul? Is he taking good care of you?

You smiled, sitting on one of the stools at the counter.

—Yes, Mom. More than well, to be honest.

She chuckled softly, setting the mugs down.

—And Oliver? How's he doing?

You laughed.

—So spoiled. Paul's basically become his best friend, can you believe it? It's like they have a deal—Paul feeds him, and Oliver pretends he's not jealous of me being with him.

She laughed louder this time, a sound that seemed to warm the entire apartment.

—Oh, so that's where you are already? —she said with a sing-song tone, eyes gleaming with teasing. —Feeding the cat and everything?

You laughed and shook your head, trying to sound indifferent.

—Mom...

—What? —she raised her hands in mock defense. —I'm just saying! Once you start feeding the house cat... it usually means you're basically living together, doesn't it?

You bit your lip to hide the stupid smile, but she saw it anyway.

—He's been there a lot, yeah —you admitted, a bit sheepishly. —I don't even know when it became routine... it just happened. Next thing I knew, he was already there.

—And you love it... —she said, with that look of someone who already knows all the answers.

You let out a small sigh and smiled again—this time, not hiding it.

And that's how time passed: conversation after conversation. You laughed, remembered old stories, talked about the past, the present, nonsense and serious things. Before you realized it, the smell of food cooking filled the kitchen, and the clock showed almost two in the afternoon.

Lunch was simple, but full of love. Afterward, the two of you collapsed onto the couch like teenagers after a movie marathon. And even though you insisted you were fine, your mother crossed her arms and made sure you rested.

You gave in and went straight to her bed. You lay on your side, sank into the mattress, and were out within minutes. Maybe you didn't even dream. One hour of sleep, at most.

What woke you was the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifting from the kitchen—a warm, melancholic aroma that tugged at your chest with a quiet ache.

You got up slowly, getting ready in silence, as if trying to delay the inevitable. And when you stepped out of the room, your mother was already waiting for you in the kitchen with a bag on the table.

— I know you have to go already — she said, almost defeated, a sad smile on her lips. — But I packed a snack for you to take.

Your heart clenched.

— Mom...

— Just take it. — She pushed the bag toward you. — You'll need something to hold you over until you get home.

You took the bag and hugged her tightly. This time, it was harder to let go.

The ride back was quiet at first. You turned on the radio but ended up letting the music play low, just a soft backdrop to the thoughts echoing in your head. The smell of the snack your mother insisted on preparing still lingered in the car.

The road felt shorter on the way back. Maybe it was the rush to get there, or the anticipation of seeing Paul again. The trees thickened, familiar, the contours of the forest returning to the landscape like an old song you knew by heart. And luckily, the darkness of night hadn't yet reached La Push.

You turned onto the gravel road that led to Emily's house, immediately recognizing the parked cars: Sam's truck, Embry's Jeep... and an orange vehicle you didn't recognize right away. Your brow furrowed automatically, fingers still resting on the steering wheel for a few seconds before you let out a slow breath.

After parking and getting out of the car, you felt it. Instantly. That scent that had clung to the clearing the other night—it was subtle, but unmistakable.

Female.

Your stomach twisted with a sudden knot, without even knowing why.

As you walked toward Emily's porch, you tried to think of what could've brought her here. Nothing reasonable came to mind. And usually, when Bella was involved, that wasn't a good sign.

You stepped inside and were greeted by the warm, familiar scent coming from the kitchen. Jared and Embry were at the table, laughing at something only they understood. And then, in a corner of the room, like an out-of-place element in a painting, stood Bella. Upright, eyes still slightly wide, as if trying to pretend it was just another afternoon.

Before you could say anything, Emily came into view, emerging from the kitchen with a cloth in her hands and a smile on her face.

— You got here fast! — she said, already walking toward you. Then she turned slightly and gestured toward Bella. — Bella, this is the other wolf girl.

You blinked slowly. "Other wolf girl"? It sounded odd. But you let it slide, the way you'd been letting many things slide lately. You just smiled kindly.

— Hi, Bella — you said with a soft nod. She replied with a faint smile, still visibly off-balance.

But before any conversation could gain momentum, Embry leaned forward with a gleam in his eye, like someone who couldn't hold the secret any longer.

— Paul phased in front of her — he blurted out, jerking his thumb casually toward Bella, as if she wasn't standing just a few feet away.

Your eyes widened, your body freezing for a second before your hand automatically dropped the bag onto one of the chairs.

— What?! — Your voice came out louder than expected, the shock clear on your face.

Jared and Embry burst into laughter like they'd been waiting for this reaction, and Emily let out a weary sigh, crossing her arms.

— Relax — Jared said, raising his hands as if to calm you — He didn't do it on purpose. Bella kind of... lost it and slapped him.

You blinked, not quite processing it yet.

— She what?

— A slap — Embry confirmed, already grinning. — Paul didn't even have time to react. It was all instinct.

— I already apologized — Bella cut in, her voice low, gaze fixed on some point on the wall, avoiding any direct contact with you.

You watched her for a second longer. She seemed genuinely subdued, but with Bella, it was always hard to tell. Her expression might be sincere, but chaos inevitably followed.

— And the solution was to bring her here? — you asked, not bothering to hide the discomfort as your eyes swept across the room.

— It was Sam's call — Embry replied with a shrug, like someone saying we just follow orders.

— It happened too close to the forest — Jared explained, more patiently. — She saw enough to freak out. Better to bring her here than let it get worse. Paul's calm now.

— Mhm — you murmured more to yourself than to them, heading toward the kitchen.

Your hand instinctively reached for one of the mugs in the cupboard—so familiar with the space that asking permission felt unnecessary.

— Where is he?

— Outside. With Jacob. They went to cool off a bit — said Embry, resting his elbow on the table and taking a bite of a muffin. — They were kind of... tense.

You rolled your eyes softly.

— Jacob got involved too?

— He protected me — it was Bella who replied this time, her eyes finally meeting yours. Her voice came out hesitant, as if unsure she should've said anything at all.

You simply arched an eyebrow, bringing the mug to your lips.

— Of course he did — you replied with a dry half-smile, not exactly hostile.

— I'd bet on Jacob — Embry chimed in, mouth full as always, his tone casual and sure, like he already knew the outcome of a hypothetical fight.

You laughed—a light, familiar sound—and shook your head with that indulgent air, as if you already knew the two would be back soon, probably laughing like nothing had happened. It happened often.

— So, how's your mom? — Emily asked gently, turning her attention to you as she moved something on the counter.

You answered warmly, your voice softening as you spoke about your visit—the smell of coffee from the kitchen, the snack your mom had made you take. The kind of detail that would usually make Bella smile too, but at that moment, she just watched you in silence.

Emily had introduced you as "the other wolf girl." But the truth was, in Bella's eyes, you two seemed to exist in completely different worlds.

You were leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, laughing with ease, entirely at home in that space. Your jeans hugged your hips perfectly, your blouse cinched neatly at your waist, and your boots had a subtle heel that seemed made for the creaking of the wooden floor beneath you. A bracelet jingled lightly on your wrist when you gestured. Everything about you felt deliberate. Needed. Beautiful.

She looked away quickly, as if watching you too long was a breach of some unspoken rule. But even so, she couldn't stop the comparison.

Her gaze met yours for a moment. Brief. You looked at her with a kind of calm, but there was something in your eyes—firmness maybe, or just an awareness of the chaos that always seemed to follow Bella wherever she went.

And then you turned away, answering Emily again, laughing at something Jared said. And Bella stood there, trying to reorganize her thoughts like someone clearing smoke from a small room.

The laughter came before the footsteps.

The front door—already slightly open—swung fully open as Paul and Jacob stepped onto the porch, still laughing at some joke they didn't bother to explain. Paul came in first, eyes alert, shoulders relaxed, that presence of his always arriving a few seconds before he did. Jacob followed close behind, the smile still lingering on his face.

Sam came in last. More reserved, more direct. He passed by the others and went straight to the kitchen where Emily was.

Paul only slowed when his eyes met yours.

The laughter died on his lips as if the world's volume had been turned down. His expression shifted instantly—the broad, teasing grin giving way to something deeper, more grounded.

Without saying a word, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close. The kiss was brief, light, almost automatic—but too full to be casual. When your lips parted, he murmured something just for you. Only for you.

You chuckled quietly, that soft laugh only he could draw from you—and Bella looked away.

She felt her cheeks warm, even without anyone watching her. And suddenly, it all made more sense. It wasn't just the way Paul had looked at you. It was the way you had looked back. She recognized that gaze—she had seen it in Paul. And now, she realized it was reflected in yours.

Bella looked around the room, searching for something to ease her discomfort, and her eyes landed on Embry, who exchanged a knowing glance with Jared.

That's when Paul stepped back and turned to Bella.

— I'm sorry, Bella — he said, that crooked smile playing on his lips—the kind of smile that said he knew he'd messed up, but wasn't about to apologize for being who he was.

Bella gave a small nod, not really meeting his eyes. There were still too many questions spinning in her head.

— Are you staying for dinner, Bella? — you asked, your tone softer now, your expression less guarded than it had been when you arrived. There was kindness there, maybe even a thread of empathy.

Bella hesitated for a moment, caught off guard by your tone. Then she shook her head slightly, like someone quietly excusing herself.

— Oh... no, thank you — she said, her voice low.

That's when you noticed Jacob standing near the door, giving her a subtle nod. Bella caught the gesture and followed him without another word, her steps quick, like someone escaping a feeling they didn't yet know how to name.

Night fell little by little, like a curtain slowly being pulled over the forest. Dinner at Emily's house had been noisy, full of laughter, teasing, and mischief passed from one side of the table to the other. The patrol afterward was quiet—no signs of intruders, just the sound of your own thoughts echoing among the trees.

Now, with your human body tired and clothed again, your feet followed the trail back home. You and Jacob walked side by side. The smell of wet earth mixed with sea salt still hung thick in the air.

Even with your body begging for rest, you couldn't resist the impulse.

— So, what's the verdict? — you teased, a suggestive smile tugging at the corner of your lips. — How was it with Bella yesterday?

Jacob let out a nasal laugh, shaking his head like he'd been expecting the question.

— Same as always.

— Oh, come on. No tension in the car? — you nudged, laughing. Jacob just rolled his eyes.

— Please.

— Okay, okay — you said, raising your hands in mock surrender. — Jokes aside... how did you tell her? Still clinging to the leeches?

He hesitated for a second before answering, his steps slowing.

— A lot. — The word came out low, half-swallowed. You glanced at him, hearing the weight in his voice. — She came with that whole speech about us being dangerous. That we hurt people. And that they... are the good guys in the story.

You let out a short sigh—disbelieving, but not surprised.

— I expected nothing less. She was the Cullens' little mascot until recently.

Jacob gave a half-smile, but that familiar shadow lingered in his eyes—the kind you only see in someone who still hopes too much from someone who's already shown they'll only ever give the bare minimum.

— I don't know — he shrugged. — I think she'll end up getting used to it.

You looked at him sideways, but he went on before you could speak.

— She asked about you, by the way.

— Me? — you raised an eyebrow, surprised.

— Yeah. Like... who is she? And why don't you ever talk about her?

— Huh, why don't you really say anything?

— Because you're unbearable — he replied right away, flashing that easy grin. — And because I knew she'd make up some ridiculous theory.

You let out a laugh.

— Hmm. I didn't know she was the jealous type.

Jacob didn't miss a beat.

— Sounds like someone else I know... — he hinted.

You gave him a light shove while both of you laughed. After a few more steps in silence, you spoke again.

— Take her to the next bonfire — you suggested, fussing with your hair, which was tied up any which way. — If she's gonna keep hanging around here, she might as well start getting used to all of us. Not just you.

Jacob didn't answer right away, but the thoughtful look on his face said he was considering it.

You said goodbye with a lazy nod and headed to your car. The sky was already starting to clear, painting the horizon a grayish blue.

The house was silent when you stepped inside. You took off your sneakers by the door, walked through the dimly lit rooms, and went straight to the shower, letting the hot water ease your tense muscles. It felt so good it nearly put you to sleep right there.

But what waited for you was even better.

You tiptoed into the room with your hair still damp, slipped into whatever pajamas you grabbed first, and eased yourself onto the bed. Paul was lying on his side, breathing deeply, his hair tousled by the pillow. But even in sleep, his body seemed to recognize yours.

When you slid under the covers, he mumbled something unintelligible and instinctively pulled you close. His arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his chest pressing against your back. A light kiss—sleepy and automatic—brushed your shoulder.

You smiled into the darkness, closing your eyes with that familiar, complete feeling—the one that only came when he was there, wholly, just for you.

And finally, you slept. __________________________________

The routine kept its rhythm — the rounds, the mental whispers between the wolves, the constant heat in your body, and the stolen moments with Paul, which felt like they were worth their weight in gold. Then came the weekend, and with it, one of those nights when the fire was lit and the stories made their way between the snapping logs.

That night, not everyone was present. Sam, Jared, and Quil had gone out for a long patrol, covering the nearby territory.

That's when you heard light footsteps approaching.

Bella.

She came just behind Jacob, hesitant, as if walking on sacred ground. Her eyes scanned the gathered group, searching for familiar faces — and then they found yours. You greeted her before she could second-guess it.

— Hi, Bella. — You smiled softly, kindly, not at all forced. — It's... good to see you again.

She seemed surprised for a second but soon returned the gesture.

— Hi...

You made space for her to sit, and she noticed — maybe with relief. You weren't surrounded by shields like before, not this time.

Paul watched you with subtle attention but didn't say anything. Bella noticed the way he naturally settled his arm behind you — not possessive, just present. A small gesture, but one that didn't go unnoticed.

And then, almost imperceptibly, a mismatch.

On the other side of the circle, sitting next to Billy Black, Rachel kept her eyes fixed on the fire, but every now and then, they met yours. There was an almost physical tension between you — not violent, but old and dense. Bella noticed. Her gaze followed the invisible thread between you and Rachel, as if trying to understand.

You leaned slightly toward her, your voice low and calm:

— I'm glad you came.

Bella looked surprised for a moment but replied with a slight smile.

— Thanks. Jake said the idea to invite me was yours.

You shrugged, as if it was nothing.

— Well... if you're with him, you have to be with us too.

Bella nodded slowly, but her expression shifted slightly — something in her eyes gave away that the phrase "with him" had touched a nerve. She didn't respond, and you didn't push.

Instead, you turned to Paul, who was chuckling at some joke Embry had made, and let the conversation flow around you.

When the last story was told — an ancient legend narrated by Billy, between silences and reverence — the circle began to dissolve. Some still had shifts that night. Leah and Embry drifted off together until they disappeared among the trees.

But you and Paul were off duty. For the first time in days, Sam had released you both from the night patrol.

Back home, you dropped your boots by the door and went straight to make some tea. Paul appeared behind you, tossing the keys on the kitchen counter before heading to the living room. The sound of the sofa creaking came along with the soft click of the TV turning on.

As soon as you could, you slid under the blanket with the mug in your hands, settling in beside him. Paul made space for you without even looking, his arm already extended for you to fit under. Oliver jumped onto his legs before curling up at his feet, purring.

The episode playing was one of those you put on just to shut your brain off. Paul let out a muffled laugh at one of the lines, and you smiled too — more because of the sound of his laughter than the joke itself.

Oliver, who had started the night at your feet, climbed up with slow, deliberate steps, carefully choosing where to step. He settled into Paul's lap and, after a brief pause to knead the fabric with his paws, curled up between his legs, purring loudly.

Paul's hand moved lazily over the cat's back, his other arm still wrapped firmly around your body. From time to time, his fingers made small, distracted motions along your side.

You held the mug in both hands, the warmth of the tea already forgotten as your eyes stared blankly at the screen. Paul's breath touched the same spot on your shoulder, steady and warm. The cat snored softly.

It felt like the world had been suspended in that moment. No patrols, no worries, no sound but the occasional creaking of the wooden house.

Until the sound of a car engine broke the stillness.

Your body tensed at the same time his did. The sound was subtle, muffled by the distance and the walls, but your instincts caught it before your mind processed it. You lifted your head slowly, feeling Paul do the same behind you. The scent reached you a few seconds later — familiar, out of place.

Bella.

You were already untangling yourself from the couch when the knock came. Soft. Hesitant.

Paul let out a low breath and moved behind you, barefoot on the wooden floor. You exchanged a glance, confusion and tension hanging in the air.

When he opened the door, Jacob stood there with a serious expression, and Bella a step behind him, arms crossed, her gaze uncertain. Neither of them seemed to acknowledge the unease on both your faces — or maybe they noticed and chose not to comment.

The feeling was clear and uncomfortable: they shouldn't be there. And they knew it too.

— Hey — Jacob said, his voice a little tense. — I need to ask a favor.

You and Paul didn't even need to ask what it was. It was written all over their faces. You simply stepped aside, making room for them to enter.

Bella walked in slowly, half-buried in her coat, her eyes discreetly scanning the room. She didn't say anything, but she seemed to notice everything — the couch still sunken where you and Paul had been, the mug on the table, the blanket thrown to the side. Observant, as always, but clearly uncomfortable.

You closed the door while Jacob looked around. Maybe only then did he realize that he was truly interrupting something. He knew it was your first quiet night in days, but even so, he came. Because he trusted both of you.

Jacob rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes moving from you to Paul and then back again.

— Emily's alone — he began, avoiding direct eye contact. — And... Victoria's been hanging around Charlie's house. Sam thought it was better for Bella not to go home.

Paul crossed his arms slowly, leaning against the hallway doorframe.

— And you think it's safer here? — he asked, not hostile, but direct.

Jacob nodded, still a little tense.

— She wouldn't come here knowing she has two guard wolves. And it's just for tonight. Tomorrow we'll reorganize everything.

You glanced at Bella. She was still standing near the entrance, as if she didn't know whether to come in farther or apologize.

— I won't get in the way — she said, almost in a whisper. — I swear. I won't even make a sound.

— As long as you're not bringing any more vampires on your trail — you replied, before you even thought about it. Only then did you notice the way she lowered her eyes.

Jacob shot you a quick glance — brief, but meaningful. Paul remained silent.

— It's fine. She can stay — Paul said firmly, his voice final enough to end the conversation.

You let out a soft sigh and turned to Bella. There was no tension in his expression, just a quiet acceptance of what needed to be done. With a nod, you signaled for her to follow.

— Come on. There's a room upstairs.

Bella simply nodded, silent, clutching the strap of her backpack as she followed you up the stairs. The carpet in the hallway muffled the sound of your steps, and for a moment, everything felt absurdly quiet.

You stopped in front of your old room — now more neutral, still well-kept, but with no trace of you in it anymore.

— You can stay here tonight. The sheets are clean, and there's an extra blanket in the closet. The bathroom's at the end of the hall, and there's a clean towel there too.

Bella stepped in slowly, taking it all in with that cautious air of someone who always walks on tiptoe. Her eyes wandered across the light-colored walls, the neatly folded quilt, the slightly open window letting in the night air.

You leaned against the doorframe, unrushed.

— If you need anything else... anything — you said, in a lighter tone now — just call me.

Bella stared at you for a second, maybe surprised by your kindness. There was something vulnerable in her gaze, like she wasn't sure how to behave outside her circle — away from the Cullens, away from Jacob.

— Thank you — she finally murmured.

You nodded with a brief, discreet half-smile, then walked away.

When you came downstairs, you found Jacob standing in the middle of the room, his gaze fixed on the mug on the table and the blanket half-fallen on the couch.

He raised an eyebrow.

— Cat in her lap and hot tea? — he said with that teasing tone. — Who would've thought, Paul... she really domesticated you.

Paul let out a sound that might've been a muffled laugh, but there was no real amusement in it.

— I'm still wondering if Bella's really staying — you said quickly, with a light smile.

Jacob hesitated for a moment, as if considering saying something more. But in the end, he just nodded, his gaze flickering between the two of you a second longer than necessary before turning to leave, closing the door quietly behind him.

The silence that followed spread through the house, like everything had settled back into place — or almost.

You exhaled slowly and looked toward the coffee table. The tea was nearly cold. In an automatic gesture, you walked over, picked up the mug, and headed to the kitchen.

Paul followed soon after — lazy steps, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, walking with that loose, relaxed gait he only used when he was at ease.

In the kitchen, the sound of the tap breaking the silence felt almost too loud, but you didn't say anything. Your thoughts were louder than anything else.

— Do you think she actually likes him? Now that the Cullens are gone?

Paul leaned against the doorframe, watching you.

— Jacob sees what he wants to see sometimes — he said, without much emphasis. — Maybe he's just trying to convince himself of something.

You made a quiet face, rinsing the mug.

— I don't know. She seems so... I don't know, performative around him. Like every sigh is rehearsed.

Paul let out a short breath of laughter.

— Performative?

— Yeah. Like... the way she looks at him, the dramatic pauses, the touches that last half a second longer than they should.

— You've been paying a lot of attention... — he commented, amused.

You shrugged, drying the mug with a cloth.

— You don't have to pay that much attention. It screams, "I don't know what I'm feeling."

Paul tilted his head, thoughtful for a moment.

— I think you're projecting.

— Of course not — you replied, though with a half-smile. — I just think Jacob deserves more than this dumb game she plays. He acts like he's waiting for something. But she's just dragging everything forward until she's sure the vampires aren't coming back.

Paul didn't respond right away. He just kept looking at you with a calm expression, like he was reading you beyond your words.

Still, the conversation hung in the air as you both returned to the night's almost mechanical routine. The minutes passed slowly. You put the dishes in the dishwasher and put others away, while Paul organized the clean silverware. The soft clinking of plates filled the space, as if the outside world was too far away to matter.

Then, light steps echoed on the stairs.

Bella reappeared in the kitchen doorway, hesitant. She was still in the same clothes, her hands clasped in front of her, unsure where to rest her gaze.

— Hi — she murmured, not stepping all the way in. — I was just going to get some water.

You nodded and walked over to the cupboard, grabbing a glass.

— Want something to eat? — you asked, as you filled the glass at the sink.

— No, thank you.

You handed her the glass, and Bella accepted it with a small nod, not fully entering the space. She drank right there, quietly, avoiding looking at you for too long.

— We'll take shifts during the night — Paul said then, still leaning against the counter, his voice calm, like he was simply informing her of something already settled. — One on watch outside, one here. If you need anything, just call.

— Of course... thank you — she said, returning the glass. You took it and set it aside in the sink.

— Good night, Bella — you said, kind, but not trying to stretch things out.

She nodded and walked away in silence, her steps retreating up the stairs with the same care as before. But halfway up, she paused. Maybe she didn't even know why. A flicker of hesitation. Hunger wasn't urgent yet, but she knew it would come. She considered turning back to ask for food — but before she could move, the sound of your voice made her freeze in place without even realizing it.

In the kitchen, you were drying the last bowl when your eyes landed on the forgotten glass on the counter. Without saying a word, you picked it up and reached to put it in the cupboard above Paul's head. He didn't move — just turned his face slightly, catching the scent of your hair as you passed.

— Are you sure you don't want me to take the whole watch tonight? — you asked, stretching your arm up. — I can cover for you this time.

— I have — he answered, the tone calm, while you returned to the sink, drying your hands. — Besides... I think you'd better be here when she wakes up.

You let out a quiet chuckle, almost as if laughing to yourself.

— Just because you don't want to make the coffee.

Paul didn't answer right away—he opened another cupboard, grabbed Oliver's food container, and poured a small amount into the bowl. Then he leaned against the counter beside you, like someone circling back to the previous point.

— I just think you seem less threatening than I do — he said. — She trusts you.

— Yeah — you replied, closing the empty dishwasher. — I don't blame her for that.

Paul made a light expression, but said nothing—just looked at you with that half-smile only he knew how to give.

You walked over to where he was, more out of habit than intention, and stopped beside him. The air shifted slightly for a moment, something in his eyes that you recognized well—quick, subtle, almost a silent warning. But you pretended not to notice, smiling lightly.

— What's wrong? — you asked in a teasing tone, like someone trying not to show you'd already figured it out.

He turned his head slowly, his eyes fixed on yours, as if gauging the space between you.

— You know being this close is torture — he said quietly, almost a whisper, wearing that familiar half-smile.

You took another step, leaning in slightly, a laugh slipping out unintentionally.

— Oh, stop. You can't be that sensitive — you joked.

He didn't respond right away. He simply tilted his head, eyes glinting with that kind of mischief you knew all too well—the look that always came right before he made a move. Then, almost without warning, he leaned in and kissed you—brief, but undeniably intentional.

He was the one to pull back first, like he was giving you space—but only for a second.

Instead, his lips lowered to your neck, and you felt the heat of his breath against your skin. But instead of the intensity you expected, came soft, almost lazy kisses, placed in precise spots that knew exactly where to find you—not seductive, but ticklish.

You arched your body on instinct, trying to squirm away, but it was too late. He already had you pulled close, holding you firmly while laughing softly and continuing with those teasing kisses, as if it were all part of a plan.

— Paul, stop... — you pleaded through laughter, trying to push him off with your hands, though you weren't really using much force. Part of you didn't want him to stop.

You laughed harder, the kind of laugh that came from deep in your belly—unguarded and real—while he kept torturing you with kisses that weren't romantic at all—at least not in that moment.

That's when you heard the faint creak of wood. He turned his head, still laughing, eyes watery from the tickling—and that's when he saw Bella standing there, at the kitchen entrance, looking unsure whether to come in or back away.

You instinctively stepped away from Paul, your face flushing—not from embarrassment, but surprise.

— Is everything okay? — you asked, still half-laughing, trying to catch your breath and your most neutral tone.

Bella gave a small nod, her eyes avoiding yours, like she'd stumbled onto something too private. She didn't seem upset, just... careful.

— I... I think I should eat, after all — she said quietly, forcing a smile.

Paul didn't say anything beside you, but you felt his arm brush lightly against your back as he stepped away, giving you space to take the lead with Bella.

— Oh, of course — you said, focusing on her while watching Paul slip out of the kitchen. — What would you like?

— I think I'll just... — she glanced around, clearly looking for the least intrusive option. Her eyes landed on the fruit basket near her. — Just an apple, if that's okay.

— Thank you — she murmured, barely meeting your eyes, and left the kitchen before you could say anything else.

You opened your mouth to reply, but closed it again.

What you didn't know was that Bella was in a place where she avoided everything that reminded her of love—of easy touch, of silent understanding between two people. And that was exactly what she saw the moment she stepped into your home. The way you and Paul moved around each other, like you shared a language she didn't understand anymore. Maybe never had.

The house seemed quieter than she remembered. Not a silence of absence—but of restraint. As if something outside was breathing along with her. Paul. Or you. Taking turns. Watching. Guarding.

She thought it was pathetic to need that.

Not because she thought protection was pointless, but because accepting it felt like admitting she wasn't enough on her own. And that was one of the biggest differences between her and you. The wolves. You were never alone. They treated each other like family. Protected each other as part of something larger.

And that hurt her in a quiet way.

Bella knew you didn't look at her with anger or contempt. She even knew your reservations about her and Jacob weren't personal. You only saw him as a younger brother—someone you'd protect with teeth if necessary. Like any other member of the pack.

She sat on the bed but didn't lie down. Just sat there, staring into the dark, listening to the house breathing gently.

Hours later—she couldn't say how many—Bella woke up.

She didn't move. Just turned her face into the pillow and closed her eyes again. And for the first time that night, she fell asleep without resistance.

Your watch had been quiet—silent, almost numbing, as if your own exhaustion hovered over the forest. When you returned home in the middle of the night, Paul was already waiting for you on the porch. The only sound exchanged was your footsteps meeting on the wooden floor. He walked toward the woods, and you entered the house, shoulders heavy, though not quite tired.

You slept, but only a little. It was like part of you stayed on alert, sensitive to any sound from the hallway or the forest. Even with your body buried in the mattress, your mind hovered over the house, attentive.

Before the sun even rose, you gave up trying. After one last toss, you decided to get up. The shower was quick—more to shake off the night than anything else.

The first gray tones of dawn were already creeping through the windows when you went downstairs. The house still held onto that dense night-silence, broken only by a long yawn from the living room. Oliver, eyes half-closed, stretched lazily on the sofa.

— Morning, Oli — you murmured, running your hand over his pointed ears before heading to the kitchen.

His little bowl was filled slowly, the kibble rattling softly. Then you started preparing coffee—water on the stove, bread out of the cupboard.

That's when you heard the footsteps—light, tentative, like Bella was testing each board on the stairs before trusting it. You didn't turn around right away—you recognized the sound, the cautious rhythm.

She entered slowly, still in the same clothes from the night before, as if changing hadn't even crossed her mind. Her eyes wandered through the room, far too alert for someone just waking up.

— Good morning — she said, voice low, a trace of caution in her tone.

You turned just enough to see her and responded with a soft smile.

— Good morning, Bella — your tone was simple but warm. You nodded toward one of the chairs. — Did you manage to sleep?

She nodded as she sat.

— Yes.

But it wasn't quite true—you caught it in the pause in her voice, the way she avoided eye contact. Still, you let it pass. You moved between the counter and table again, keeping the air light.

Bella, meanwhile, watched you more closely than she wanted to admit.

You were simply dressed, but something about you looked... too put-together for that early in her view. The jeans—fitted and neatly pressed—were the same style she'd seen you in before. The blouse matched—thin fabric, long sleeves stopping just above the cuffs, shoulders exposed, no trace of cold in your body, as if it had been made for you. The low-heeled boots clicked softly on the wooden floor, marking your steps. And your scent... subtle, fresh, but unmistakable.

Bella looked away, eyes dropping to the empty mug in front of her, feeling silly for noticing. For comparing. It was like everything about you communicated balance—and that, in some way, placed you in direct contrast with her chaos.

— Coffee? — your voice pulled her out of her spiral.

Bella looked up to find a mug extended in your hand, your half-smile calm and unhurried.

— Yes... thank you — she replied softly.

You nodded and placed the cup in front of her before returning to the counter, bringing more items to the table. The clink of dishes, the bread being sliced, fruit being handled—everything filled the room with the gentle noise of morning.

A comfortable place that, for the first time, Bella didn't want to leave so quickly. She even considered telling you that.

— Paul hasn't come back yet? — she asked, her voice low, uncertain. Her eyes followed your hands as you sliced something at the sink.

— Not yet — you replied, then turned around with a small bowl of chopped fruit in your hands. There was a slight smile on your face as you set it down in front of her. — He went to Emily's—needed to talk to Sam.

Bella nodded slowly, saying nothing. You moved to the fridge and pulled out a yogurt container, as if already knowing she wouldn't say anything right away. And she knew it too—that was one of the things that disoriented her around you. The way you anticipated reactions, as if silence itself spoke to you.

Still, no matter how out of place she felt, she pushed against it. She didn't want to let the quiet become too heavy.

— I... I wanted to say I'm sorry. For getting in the way yesterday — she blurted out, as if needing to get it off her chest.

You looked at her with a faintly puzzled expression as you closed the fridge. Then your smile curved subtly.

— Oh, no... — you laughed softly, approaching the table with the yogurt in hand. — You didn't get in the way of anything, Bella. Really.

She nodded, and although she seemed calm, you noticed the faint blush rising in her cheeks—a restrained but revealing gesture. So you changed the subject before discomfort could settle again.

You grabbed a prepared sandwich, placed it gently on a plate in front of her, then filled your own cup with coffee.

— Jake told me it's your last year of school — you said casually, eyes still on your mug. — Do you already know which college you want to go to?

The question took her by surprise. She looked up at you with a slight jolt—not because of the topic, but because of the way you said it. As if, not even for a second, you doubted that she would go. As if her future were something certain, solid. Not a cloud of uncertainty hanging over everything.

— I don't know if I'm going, to tell the truth — she said, and her eyes flicked back to you, unable to hide her surprise.

— Why? — you asked, bringing the mug to your lips. The drink was still hot, so you sipped it slowly. Then you turned around, your back to her, and began preparing your own food.

Bella hesitated, as if searching for the right words—or deciding whether she could be honest with you.

— I think I have other priorities now...

You didn't respond right away. Your expression was serene, but there was something in your eyes—a calm firmness, something that looked like it had been hard-earned over time.

— Well... — you said softly — I would've gone, if I'd had the chance.

Bella looked up, subtle curiosity flickering across the tiredness on her face.

— Why didn't you?

You hesitated for a moment before stepping away from the sink to look for a clean plate.

— Because I can't have everything — you replied, your tone almost too quiet. You tore open the bread with your hands, avoiding eye contact. — Being part of all this... comes with a cost.

She didn't need to ask what "this" meant. She knew you were talking about the pack. About that invisible but ever-present weight Jacob had so often tried to put into words. The responsibility. The bond. The lack of choice.

— Jake said something about your father... — she began, hesitant, as if unsure whether she was crossing a line — That he wasn't part of it.

You returned to the sink, picked up the sandwich you'd assembled, and placed it on a plate. Then you started making another—probably for Paul. Your movements were steady, almost automatic. But your voice, when it came, was more cautious.

— Yeah... — you nodded — But things are never as simple as they seem. Jake usually sees my dad's situation as some kind of advantage. But my story's very different.

— But you can... disconnect, can't you? — she asked, genuinely interested. — Like... leave the pack?

You closed the fridge with a firm gesture before answering, already back at the counter.

— We can — you said, resting both hands on the counter — But if you sever the bond with the alpha, it extends to everyone else too.

Bella fell silent, absorbing that with more weight than she'd expected. The quiet hung in the air for a beat before she finished, in an almost too-soft voice:

— And that would include... Paul.

You turned toward her slowly, as if those words carried their own gravity. Then you walked to the table with your coffee and finally sat down, letting the steam rise between you like a soft, warm veil.

— Yeah... — you murmured, and that single word held all the truth it needed.

Bella looked at you with a gaze that mixed surprise and a kind of quiet respect. For the first time, she seemed to realize there was more to you than whatever Jacob—or maybe even Paul—had described. You were someone who had made choices—some difficult, some impossible—and still moved forward, grounded and steady.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable—on the contrary, it was almost comforting. You took one last bite of your sandwich while Oliver stretched beneath the table, brushing against your legs like he, too, was content with the morning's calm.

— Does he always act like this in the morning? — Bella asked, watching the cat curl up like a cinnamon roll in the bed tucked into the corner of the room.

You followed her gaze and smiled, nodding.

— Always. He acts like he worked all night — you said with a quiet laugh.

The clock on the wall showed nearly half past eight when you collected the mugs and brought them to the sink. Outside, the sky had brightened, though it remained shrouded in the constant clouds of La Push.

— Do you want anything else? — you asked, drying your hands and turning back to her.

Bella shook her head, her eyes returning to the nearly empty bowl.

— No, thank you... this was already more than I could've eaten alone.

You gave her a brief smile and started rinsing the mugs in the sink. Bella stood up in silence and, hesitating a bit, gathered the remaining dishes and brought them over to you—like she was trying to offer something in return. You thanked her with a quiet look, no words needed, and she returned to the table, pushing the chairs back into place.

That's when you heard the heavy footsteps on the front porch—firm and steady. Then, the door opened with its usual soft creak, and the steps moved down the hallway.

Paul walked in and passed Bella with a distracted nod, his eyes already fixed on you. She gave a polite murmur in return, though he probably didn't even notice.

He walked straight to you, no pause, no hesitation, and when he reached you, his hands landed familiarly on your waist. His lips brushed against your exposed shoulder in a series of light, casual kisses that pulled a soft laugh from you—a sound that seemed to warm the kitchen more than any hot coffee had before.

— Morning — he murmured just for you, low enough that Bella could only catch the tone, not the words.

She looked away instantly, unsure if it was out of respect or discomfort. Maybe both. There was something about the ease between you two—too intimate, too natural—that reminded her that, in this house, she was just a guest. And you—you were home to each other.

— I left coffee for you — you said in a low voice, and he nodded, pulling away with the natural ease of someone who already knew where everything was. He opened the cupboard, grabbed a mug, and headed straight for the coffee pot.

You turned off the tap, drying your hands with the cloth hanging from the sink, then turned to him.

— Any sign of Victoria? — he asked, still in that quiet morning tone, as if the question were just part of routine.

— Not here — you replied, not looking up. Then Paul partially turned, his eyes flicking to Bella. — But Sam said she looked for you almost everywhere in Forks, Bella.

Her name lingered in the air like a weight. Bella swallowed hard, as if she'd been expecting it—but still let out a silent sigh.

— Well... at least she doesn't suspect you're here — you added, trying to soften the tension starting to creep back into the room. Your tone was calm, almost sisterly, like a reminder that—for now—she was safe here.

Paul leaned against the counter with his cup in hand, taking his first sip with a quiet sigh—and now, with the three of you in the kitchen, it felt full again.

That was when the hum of Bella's old pickup echoed outside, muffled by the walls, but unmistakable. Jacob had arrived.

You heard the heavy footsteps on the porch and then the door opening without ceremony.

— Hey — he greeted, walking in like he always did. His eyes passed over Bella, briefly landed on you, and then settled on Paul, like he hadn't expected to see him.

— Thought you went home — Jacob said. It wasn't hostile, but his brow arched with that familiar mix of confusion and suspicion.

You shrugged.

— He is home.

Paul smiled behind his mug, that smug little grin that said more than words ever could. Jacob frowned for a moment but didn't respond—and Bella seemed to mentally revisit every detail from the night before, now with a different weight.

— Well... Bella, I think it's okay for you to spend the day at your place today — Jacob said, turning his attention back to her in a tone almost too matter-of-fact. — You can grab your things, I'll take you.

She nodded with a restrained sigh, careful not to look at you or Paul as she left the kitchen. Her steps on the stairs were slow and light.

You waited until the creak of the last step before asking, your voice slightly lower:

— Is she coming here tonight?

The question came out casual, but the way your eyes lingered on the dish towel betrayed a quiet hope for a no. It wasn't personal. Not exactly. It was just that... Bella had a way of silently seeping into every space within the pack. And lately, it felt like that space was yours.

Jacob let out a soft laugh and rolled his eyes, like he'd read your thoughts.

— Don't worry. She's not coming here today.

Paul made a muffled celebratory sound, like someone scoring a silent point—which only made Jacob sigh deeper.

— She's going to my place.

Immediately, his gaze met Paul's. That was enough. Neither of them said anything for a second, but the smirks formed almost in sync. Paul's, of course, dripped with mischief. Yours was quieter—but carried the same unspoken irony.

— Oh, and does she know that? — Paul asked, using that teasing tone only he could pull off without sounding outright rude. You couldn't help but laugh, a soft sound muffled by the back of your hand.

Jacob exhaled sharply, looking away with a half-smile. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, clearly already regretting bringing it up.

And then, Bella returned, descending the last steps. She stopped in the kitchen doorway and, for a moment, seemed to sense the shift in the air from moments earlier. She didn't comment. Just adjusted her backpack on her shoulder, a bit hesitant.

— Shall we? — she asked in a quiet voice, and Jacob nodded quickly—maybe a little too quickly.

Before they left, Bella gave you and Paul one last glance. Her smile was polite—almost rehearsed.

— Thank you... for having me — her voice faltered just slightly.

— It was nothing — you replied with a small, sincere smile. Warm enough not to be cruel. Firm enough to close the moment.

She nodded, and the two of them walked down the hallway in silence.

You heard their footsteps recede into the living room, then the sound of the door opening... and finally, closing with a soft click.

And with that, the house was yours again. ________________________

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