Imagine

he laughs too quickly.

answers a little too fast.

keeps glancing at you like he’s checking to see if you’re real.

because when embry almost confesses, his body knows before his brain does.

he goes quiet first.

not awkward-silent — just softer. more careful. his movements slow down, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might shatter the moment. he listens to you like you’re the only sound in the world, eyes tracking your face, your hands, the way your mouth curves when you smile.

you say something simple.

something normal.

and it hits him.

oh. i love you.

the realization lands heavy and immediate, stealing the air from his lungs. his throat tightens. his heart starts pounding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. he swallows once. then again.

his fingers fidget.

pick at the hem of his sleeve.

flex against his knee.

“hey,” he says suddenly, too fast. then stops.

you look at him, eyebrows lifting. “yeah?”

and embry freezes.

because this is it.

this is the opening.

this is the moment he’s replayed in his head a hundred different ways.

his mouth opens.

closes.

opens again.

he laughs — a short, breathless sound that doesn’t quite make sense.

“sorry,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “i— um. never mind.”

but he doesn’t look away.

that’s the giveaway.

his eyes stay on you, wide and honest and a little scared. there’s something almost pleading in them, like he wants you to see what he can’t quite say.

when embry almost confesses, he starts telling half-truths.

“you’re just… important to me,” he says, quieter now. “like. more than people usually are.”

his voice dips on the last word.

he clears his throat. shifts closer without realizing he’s doing it. your shoulders brush, and the contact sends a visible shiver through him. his breath stutters.

“i don’t really do this,” he adds quickly, panic creeping in. “talking about stuff. feelings. i mean. not that this is—” he gestures vaguely between the two of you, flustered. “a thing. unless you— not that you do. i just—”

he stops himself with a sharp inhale.

he presses his lips together like he’s physically holding the words back.

because if he says it — really says it — there’s no undoing it.

his knee bounces now. his hands curl into his sleeves. his shoulders hunch just slightly, like he’s bracing for impact that hasn’t come yet.

“i just wanted you to know,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper, “that i really care about you.”

it’s so close.

so close.

his eyes flick down to your lips for half a second — instinctive, unconscious — and then snap back up, like he’s caught himself doing something dangerous.

if you move closer?

he stills completely.

if you touch his arm?

he forgets how to breathe.

his whole body goes rigid, then soft, like he’s melting in real time. his heart is racing. his cheeks are pink. his voice, when he speaks again, is wrecked.

“you make it hard,” he admits quietly. “to keep things… normal.”

and that’s the closest embry gets.

because the fear hits him all at once.

fear of ruining what you have.

fear of making you uncomfortable.

fear of you pulling away.

fear of hearing “i don’t feel the same.”

so he backs off — just a little.

laughs again, weaker this time.

leans back, creating space even though every part of him wants to stay close.

“sorry,” he says, automatically. “i didn’t mean to make it weird.”

but he did mean it.

every word.

every look.

later — hours later — he’ll replay the moment over and over in his head. every syllable. every breath. wondering if you noticed how close he was to saying it. wondering if you felt it too.

embry almost confesses a hundred times before he actually does.

because loving you feels huge.

and embry has always been gentle with the things that matter most.

especially you.

     taglist :

@unicorn-ueed

@xxx-wounded

@rottenstyx

౨ৎ﹕seth loves new year’s night because it feels full of possibility, not the loud, overwhelming kind, but the quiet kind that settles in your chest when you realize you’re exactly where you want to be.

he sticks close to you the whole evening, shoulder brushing yours, fingers tangling with yours like it’s instinct. every time he smiles at you, it’s wide and genuine and just a little awed, like he still can’t believe he gets to be here with you.

౨ৎ﹕while everyone else is loud and joking, seth keeps leaning in to whisper small things to you.

“did you see that?”

“this is kinda perfect.”

“i’m really happy right now.”

he doesn’t need fireworks or big moments, having you beside him already feels like enough.

౨ৎ﹕when the countdown starts, seth grows unusually quiet.

his grip on your hand tightens, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin. his eyes stay on you instead of the clock, like the rest of the world has faded into background noise.

when midnight hits, he doesn’t rush the kiss.

it’s soft. warm. lingering.

the kind that feels like a promise instead of a celebration.

౨ৎ﹕afterward, he presses his forehead to yours, laughing quietly like his chest is too full to hold it all in.

“i’m so glad it’s you,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

there’s no hesitation in it. no doubt. just certainty.

౨ৎ﹕seth talks about the future in a gentle, hopeful way.

not big, scary plans, just little things.

more nights like this.

more laughs.

more time together.

“i don’t care what happens,” he says softly. “as long as we’re doing it together.”

౨ৎ﹕later, when the night winds down, seth stays wrapped around you like he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he lets go.

he kisses your temple. your cheek. the corner of your mouth.

every touch says i’m here.

౨ৎ﹕the new year doesn’t feel intimidating with him.

it feels warm.

safe.

full of light.

and as you stand there together, surrounded by quiet laughter and fading celebrations, you realize something simple and steady:

whatever comes next —

you’ll face it with seth clearwater, smiling at you like the future has already arrived.

     taglist :

@unicorn-ueed

@xxx-wounded

@rottenstyx

his voice is raised. not yelling yet. but close.

the argument isn’t even with you — maybe it’s sam, maybe it’s one of the others, maybe it’s just the weight of too many things piling up at once. paul hates feeling out of control. hates being told to slow down when everything in him is already burning.

you can see it building.

the flare in his eyes. the way his breath goes shallow. the familiar edge where anger turns dangerous — not to you, never to you — but dangerous to him.

someone says the wrong thing.

and paul snaps back, sharp and fast, words thrown like sparks.

that’s when you move.

you don’t raise your voice. don’t interrupt. don’t tell him to calm down.

you just step closer and touch his arm.

not a grab. not forceful.

just your fingers wrapping around his forearm — warm, grounding, real.

and paul stops.

it’s immediate.

like someone cut the power.

his words die in his throat mid-sentence. his shoulders drop a fraction before he can stop them. his breathing stutters — once — like he didn’t expect to feel that calm hit him so hard.

his head turns toward you automatically.

instinct.

his eyes are still sharp, still glowing with leftover anger — but now there’s something else there too.

recognition.

you.

he doesn’t pull away.

doesn’t shake you off.

instead, his arm goes still under your touch, muscles unclenching one by one like they’re listening to you instead of him.

his voice lowers without him meaning it to.

“…what?” he mutters, not harsh. confused. quieter already.

you don’t have to say much. maybe nothing at all.

maybe it’s just your thumb brushing over his skin. maybe it’s you saying his name, soft and steady. maybe it’s the look on your face — not scared, not angry — just there.

paul exhales.

long. slow.

like he’s letting go of something heavy.

his gaze drops from whoever he was arguing with and stays on you instead. the rest of the world fades into background noise. the pack can see it happen — they always do — the way paul’s fire folds inward when you touch him.

sam notices. always. and lets it happen.

paul runs his free hand through his hair, frustration bleeding out of him in real time.

“…i’m good,” he says finally, more to you than anyone else. “i got it.”

he steps back — not away from you, just enough to reset himself — but his arm stays where it is for a second longer than necessary, like he’s anchoring himself to your touch.

the argument is over.

not because he lost. not because he was told to stop.

but because you asked him to without words.

later — when it’s quiet, when the adrenaline has burned off and paul’s sitting beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the dirt —

that’s when he admits it.

“you do that on purpose?” he asks, voice rough, eyes still avoiding yours.

when you ask what he means, he huffs out a breath.

“touchin’ me like that,” he says. “right when i’m about to lose it.”

he finally looks at you then.

there’s no anger left in his eyes. just honesty. and something a little vulnerable underneath.

“it’s like…” he struggles for the words. “like you remind me i’m not alone in it. whatever ‘it’ is.”

his hand finds yours this time.

big. warm. careful.

paul hates feeling weak. hates feeling out of control.

but your touch doesn’t make him feel small.

it makes him feel safe.

and every time you reach for him in the middle of the storm — every time you choose grounding over confrontation —

paul learns, slowly but surely, that anger doesn’t have to be the loudest thing in the room.

sometimes all it takes is you. your hand. your presence.

and he softens — not because he has to.

but because with you?

he wants to.

     taglist :

@unicorn-ueed

@xxx-wounded

@rottenstyx

it’s small. barely there. a reflex you probably don’t even realize you make — shoulders tensing, chin ducking just slightly, eyes flicking away for half a second like you’re bracing for impact that never comes.

but sam sees it.

and everything in him stops.

his anger doesn’t spike.

his voice doesn’t rise.

it vanishes — replaced instantly by something colder, heavier, more dangerous.

guilt.

his breath catches hard in his chest. not loud, not dramatic — just enough to throw him off balance. his hands unclench like they’ve burned him. his posture changes immediately, shoulders lowering, stance softening, like he’s afraid even existing too loudly might hurt you.

“hey,” he says, quieter now. careful. like he’s approaching something fragile. “hey… look at me.”

he doesn’t move toward you right away. sam never crowds when he realizes he’s scared you. he gives you space first — deliberate, respectful — because the last thing he wants is to make it worse.

but his eyes?

they’re locked on you.

there’s something devastated in them.

sam hates fights. hates raised voices. hates the idea that he could ever be a source of fear instead of safety. seeing you flinch doesn’t just upset him — it unravels him.

his voice drops another octave, rough with emotion he’s trying to keep under control.

“did i do that?” he asks softly.

not accusing.

not defensive.

just… broken.

if you try to brush it off — “it’s nothing, sam, i’m fine” — he doesn’t let it go. he shakes his head slowly, like he doesn’t believe the words even if he wants to.

“no,” he says gently. “that wasn’t nothing.”

sam steps closer now, slow and visible, making sure you can see every movement. his hands stay open at his sides, palms out, non-threatening. he lowers himself slightly if you’re sitting, or tilts his head down so he’s not looming.

he meets you where you are.

“i would never hurt you,” he says, voice steady but thick. “not ever. not like that. not even close.”

there’s shame there — deep, aching shame — that he scared you at all. even accidentally. especially accidentally.

if you let him touch you, his hands are feather-light at first. fingertips brushing your wrist, your shoulder, like he’s checking in before committing. when you don’t pull away, he exhales — slow, shaky — and rests his forehead against yours.

grounding himself.

grounding you.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs. not just for the fight. for the flinch. for whatever made that reaction live in your body in the first place. “i should’ve watched my tone. i should’ve noticed sooner.”

sam becomes painfully gentle after that.

his voice stays soft for the rest of the conversation, even when the topic is hard. he listens more than he speaks. asks questions instead of making points. every instinct in him shifts from alpha to anchor.

• he keeps his body relaxed and open • checks your breathing without making it obvious • stays at your eye level • pauses the conversation the second he senses you tensing again • reassures you with touch only when you clearly want it and later — long after the argument is over — sam doesn’t forget.

that flinch lives in his memory like a warning sign burned into his mind.

he holds you closer that night. arms firm but gentle, chin resting on your head, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. his hand rubs slow, repetitive circles into your back — not absentminded, but intentional. grounding. protective.

“you’re safe with me,” he whispers into your hair. not once, but several times. like he needs you to hear it. like he needs himself to say it out loud.

sam makes changes after that.

real ones.

he watches his volume.

his posture.

his expressions.

not because he’s afraid of you — but because he refuses to ever be the reason you brace for pain again.

and if you ever flinch like that a second time?

sam doesn’t just soften.

he breaks.

because to him, love means being the place you never have to flinch.

and once he realizes he might’ve failed at that — even for a second —

he spends the rest of his life proving you never will again.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

jared cameron

jared is loud in arguments by default — expressive hands, animated voice, emotions written plainly across his face. not angry in a cruel way, but intense. passionate. the kind of guy who feels everything at full volume.

until you flinch.

it happens mid-sentence. he’s talking, pacing a little, running a hand through his hair — and then you tense. shoulders pulling inward. eyes darting away. your body reacting before your brain can catch up.

and jared freezes.

it’s immediate. like someone slammed a pause button on him.

his mouth closes mid-word. his hands drop to his sides. the air drains out of the room in a way even he can feel. confusion flashes across his face first — quick, sharp — followed by something far worse.

hurt.

guilt.

fear.

“—hey,” he says, voice cracking just a little as it drops. “hey, no—”

he takes a step back without thinking. distance instead of pressure. space instead of closeness. jared may tease and flirt like it’s second nature, but the second he realizes he scared you? all of that disappears.

“did i—?” he stops himself, swallowing hard. “i didn’t mean to do that.”

his usual grin is gone. completely. his eyes are wide, earnest, almost panicked as they search your face for reassurance he doesn’t feel entitled to ask for.

jared hates the idea of being scary. hates it in a way that cuts deeper than any insult could. he wants to be the guy who makes you laugh, who makes things lighter, not someone your body reacts to like a threat.

he rubs the back of his neck, voice quieter now. “i wasn’t yelling at you. i swear. i just— i talk with my hands. i get loud. i didn’t mean—”

he’s rambling. you can tell. nervous energy spiraling now that the fight has shifted into something else entirely.

if you try to brush it off, he doesn’t accept it right away.

“no,” he says gently. “that… that wasn’t nothing.”

jared crouches a little if he needs to. lowers himself so he’s not towering over you. his movements are careful in a way that’s almost foreign for him, like he’s suddenly afraid his usual presence might be too much.

“look at me,” he asks softly. not demanding. pleading. “i would never hurt you. ever. i need you to know that.”

his hands hover when he reaches out, stopping just short of touching you until you give some kind of signal. a nod. a step closer. anything. when you do, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for minutes and gently takes your hands in his.

they’re warm.

steady.

grounding.

“i’m sorry,” he says, and it’s raw. unguarded. “i should’ve noticed sooner. i should’ve slowed down.”

jared becomes gentler than you’ve ever seen him for the rest of the conversation.

• his voice stays low and even • he sits instead of stands • he listens without interrupting • checks your expression constantly • stops talking the second you tense again • cracks small, soft jokes only when he’s sure it’s welcome

he doesn’t try to “win” the argument anymore. that doesn’t matter now. the only thing that matters is making sure you feel safe again.

later, when things are quiet, when the adrenaline has faded, jared sticks close. not hovering, but present. shoulder brushing yours. fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your arm.

“hey,” he murmurs, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “if i ever start getting too much… you tell me, yeah? i’ll listen. promise.”

there’s something vulnerable in the way he says it. like he’s afraid you won’t trust him again. like he’s afraid he cracked something delicate between you.

that flinch sticks with him.

jared tones himself down after that. consciously. intentionally. he still laughs loud, still jokes, still teases but when emotions run high, he watches you first before anything else.

because jared loves loudly —

but he learns to love carefully.

and if you ever flinch again?

he’s at your side instantly, voice calm, hands gentle, eyes locked on yours — reminding you with every part of him that whatever the argument is…

you’re never the enemy.

and you’re never something he’d raise his voice at again.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

paul lahote

paul is fire when he argues.

not careless — just intense. emotions rise fast, words sharper than he means them to be, frustration spilling out before he can rein it in. he paces. gestures. runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake the feeling loose instead of letting it burn him alive.

and then you flinch.

it’s subtle. barely there. a reflex you don’t even realize your body makes — shoulders pulling in, chin ducking slightly, eyes flicking away like you’re bracing for something.

paul stops.

not slows.

not hesitates.

stops.

his voice cuts off mid-word. his body goes rigid, like his muscles forgot what they were supposed to do next. the heat drains out of him so fast it’s almost frightening.

“—hey,” he says, immediately quieter. too quiet. “no. no, no, no.”

he takes a step back without thinking, hands lifting slightly like he’s backing away from something fragile. his jaw tightens — not with anger, but with horror.

“did you just—” he swallows hard, throat working. “did i scare you?”

that question wrecks him.

paul lahote can handle a lot of things — anger, guilt, jealousy, the pack teasing him mercilessly — but the idea that he could be the reason you flinched? that lands somewhere deep and ugly in his chest.

his breathing turns uneven. nostrils flare. fists clench once at his sides, not at you. never at you. at himself.

“shit,” he mutters, running both hands over his face. “fuck, i didn’t— i wasn’t—”

he can’t finish the sentence.

the fight is gone now. completely erased. there’s no argument anymore, no point he’s trying to make. all that’s left is you, standing there smaller than you were a moment ago, and the realization that his temper crossed a line he never meant to approach.

paul lowers himself. literally drops down so he’s not towering over you, elbows braced on his knees, eyes level with yours but refusing to force your gaze.

“hey,” he says again, softer. rough, but gentle. “look at me when you’re ready. okay?”

he doesn’t reach for you right away. paul is many things — impulsive, fiery, reckless — but in this moment he’s painfully careful. like one wrong move might break something beyond repair.

“i would never hurt you,” he says, voice tight with something that sounds dangerously close to breaking. “never. not like that. not ever.”

there’s a tremor under the words. not weakness — restraint. control clenched so tightly it aches.

if you apologize, if you say it was nothing, that you’re fine, paul shakes his head immediately.

“don’t,” he says firmly, but not harshly. “don’t do that. you don’t have to minimize it for me.”

he finally reaches out then. slowly. palm open, waiting for permission before his fingers brush your wrist. when you don’t pull away, his thumb presses there, grounding, steady.

“that was on me,” he admits. “i let it get too heated. i should’ve checked myself sooner.”

that kind of accountability doesn’t come easily to paul — but in this moment, it’s instinctive. automatic. because protecting you matters more than protecting his pride.

for the rest of the conversation, paul is different.

• his voice stays low, controlled • he sits instead of standing • he keeps physical space unless you close it • checks your body language constantly • pauses the second emotions spike again • breathes through frustration instead of unleashing it

he listens. really listens. not interrupting, not snapping back, not posturing. every word from you is treated like it weighs something.

later — when the fight has dissolved into something quieter and heavier — paul stays close without crowding. shoulder brushing yours. arm warm and solid when he finally wraps it around you.

“you flinched,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “that’s gonna stick with me.”

and it does.

paul becomes more self-aware after that. still passionate. still intense. but he learns the difference between loud emotion and uncontrolled force. learns to step away before his voice rises. learns to ground himself before the fire spreads.

because paul loves hard —

and when he realizes that love might have scared you?

he turns that fire inward.

locks it down.

channels it into something protective instead of destructive.

if you ever flinch again — even days later, even over something unrelated — paul is there instantly. hands gentle. voice steady. eyes searching yours with quiet urgency.

“hey,” he murmurs. “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”

and you know he means it.

not just because he says it —

but because from that moment on,

he proves it.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

jacob black

jacob isn’t built for yelling at you.

he can argue, sure — stubborn, defensive, emotions tangled up and spilling over — but his anger has always been more outward than sharp. frustration, not fury. passion without precision.

until you flinch.

it’s small. barely there. a reflex your body makes before your brain can stop it, shoulders drawing in, eyes dropping, breath hitching like you’re bracing.

jacob freezes.

not like paul — not explosive, not panicked — but stunned. like something inside him just cracked open and let cold air rush in.

“—hey,” he blurts out immediately, hands lifting without thinking. “whoa. no. no, no.”

his voice drops fast. too fast. the heat drains right out of him, leaving behind something raw and shaken.

“did i—” he swallows hard. “did i scare you?”

that question wrecks him.

because jacob hates the idea of being anything but safe to you. hates the thought that his size, his voice, his emotions could ever make you feel small.

he takes a step back, then another, giving you space like it’s instinct. his shoulders curl inward slightly, posture softening, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

“hey,” he says again, gentler now. “i’m not mad at you. i swear. i just— i got worked up.”

if you try to brush it off by saying that you’re fine, that it was nothing, jacob shakes his head immediately.

“no,” he says quietly. not angry. just firm. “it wasn’t nothing if you flinched.”

that’s the thing about jacob: he believes your body before he believes your words.

he crouches down so he’s eye-level with you, resting his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped together like he’s grounding himself.

“i would never hurt you,” he says, voice thick with sincerity. “never. not on purpose. not by accident. not ever.”

there’s fear in his eyes, not of you, but of himself. of his strength. of his emotions getting too big for the space he’s in.

he waits before touching you. waits until you make the first move, or until you nod. when he does reach out, it’s careful. fingers brushing your hand, warm and solid, thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s anchoring you back into the moment.

“i’m sorry,” he says softly. no excuses. no defensiveness. just honesty. “i should’ve noticed sooner.”

from that point on, the fight is over.

completely.

jacob doesn’t need to “win” an argument with you. the second he realizes you felt unsafe — even for half a second — the entire thing loses meaning.

for the rest of the conversation:

• his voice stays low and steady • he avoids sudden movements • keeps his hands visible, open • checks your face constantly for tension • pauses anytime emotions rise • reassures without smothering

he listens more than he talks. nods. asks gentle questions. lets silence exist without filling it with noise.

later, when things are calmer, jacob sticks close in that quiet, protective way of his — sitting beside you, shoulder to shoulder, warmth bleeding into you like a promise.

“i hate that i did that,” he admits quietly. “i hate that you felt like you had to brace.”

his hand finds yours again, fingers lacing this time, grip secure but not tight.

“you don’t ever have to flinch with me,” he says. “that’s… that’s not how this is supposed to feel.”

and that moment changes him.

jacob becomes more aware of his presence after that. his tone. his volume. how much space he takes up. he starts checking in more, especially during tense moments.

“am i okay?”

“am i talking too loud?”

“tell me if i need to back off, yeah?”

not because you asked him to — but because he never wants to be the reason your body goes into defense mode again.

and if, weeks later, something unrelated makes you flinch?

jacob is there instantly.

hands gentle. voice soft. eyes full of concern.

“hey, hey,” he murmurs, pulling you into his chest if you let him. “you’re safe. i’ve got you. always.”

jacob doesn’t protect with fear.

he protects with warmth.

with presence.

with the kind of love that notices the smallest reactions — and takes responsibility for them.

because once he loves you?

your safety isn’t just important to him.

it’s instinct.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

quil ateara

quil doesn’t do anger well.

he can get frustrated, sure — voice rising a little, words tumbling over each other as he tries to explain himself — but real confrontation makes him uneasy. he hates tension. hates the way it knots his chest and makes his thoughts race.

so when you flinch?

it devastates him.

it’s subtle. almost imperceptible. your shoulders tense, your head ducks just a fraction, breath catching like you’re bracing for impact.

quil stops mid-sentence.

literally freezes.

“—hey,” he says quickly, hands lifting in surrender, palms out. “hey, hey, i’m not— i wouldn’t—”

his voice cracks a little, panic slipping through before he can stop it.

“did i do that?” he asks, eyes wide, hurt and fear mixing together in a way that makes his chest ache. “did i scare you?”

he steps back immediately. not just one step — two, three — creating space like it’s the most important thing in the world. his posture folds inward, shoulders rounding, like he’s trying to make himself less overwhelming.

“i’m sorry,” he blurts out, words rushing. “i wasn’t thinking. i didn’t mean to raise my voice, i swear, i—”

if you try to tell him it’s okay, that you’re fine, quil shakes his head hard.

“no,” he says softly. not upset. just earnest. “it’s not okay if you felt like that.”

that’s the thing about quil, he takes responsibility instantly. no defensiveness. no excuses. just concern.

he lowers himself to sit, putting himself physically below your eye level, like he needs you to see he’s not a threat.

“i would never hurt you,” he says quietly, voice trembling just a little. “not ever. i promise. if i thought i could—” he swallows. “i’d never forgive myself.”

he waits before touching you. waits for permission. waits until you nod or reach for him first. when he does move closer, it’s slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling you again.

his hand brushes yours, warm and careful, fingers curling just enough to feel solid.

“you okay?” he asks, softer now. “really okay?”

the fight is over the second you flinch.

completely done.

quil doesn’t care what the argument was about anymore. it dissolves the moment he realizes you felt unsafe, even for a heartbeat.

for the rest of the conversation:

• his voice stays low and gentle • he chooses words carefully, slower than usual • avoids sudden movements entirely • keeps checking your expression • apologizes more than once • reassures without crowding

he listens intently, nodding along, eyes never leaving your face like he’s afraid of missing another sign.

later, when things settle, quil stays close — not hovering, just present. sitting beside you, knee brushing yours, warmth steady and familiar.

“i hate that i made you flinch,” he admits quietly. “that’s… that’s the opposite of what i want to be for you.”

he laces his fingers through yours this time, grip gentle but grounding.

“you’re supposed to feel safe with me,” he says. “like you can relax. like you don’t have to brace.”

after that, something shifts.

quil becomes hyper-aware of himself around you — his volume, his tone, his body language. he starts checking in more during serious conversations.

“am i okay?”

“tell me if i’m getting too loud.”

“i can slow down, yeah?”

not because you asked him to — but because the idea of ever making you flinch again scares him more than any fight ever could.

and if, later on, you flinch for some unrelated reason?

quil is there instantly.

hands gentle. voice hushed. eyes full of worry.

“hey,” he murmurs, pulling you into his chest if you let him. “it’s okay. i’ve got you. i promise.”

quil doesn’t protect with dominance.

he protects with softness.

with awareness.

with a love that says: i will change myself before i ever let you feel afraid of me again.

because once quil loves you?

your comfort becomes instinct.

and your safety becomes sacred.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

embry call

embry already hates conflict.

his heart races the second voices rise — even his own. arguments make his thoughts tangle, words slipping out faster than he can organize them. he tries so hard to say the right thing, to explain himself clearly, to not mess it up.

so when the fight gets heated…

and you flinch?

it breaks something in him.

it’s not dramatic. not loud. just a tiny, involuntary movement — your shoulders pulling in, your gaze dropping, breath hitching like you’re preparing for something worse.

embry sees it immediately.

and his face drains of color.

“oh—” he stops short, words cutting off like he hit a wall. his hands lift halfway, then drop uselessly to his sides. “hey. hey, i—”

his voice cracks.

“i didn’t mean— i wasn’t—” he swallows hard, panic flooding his expression. “did i scare you?”

he takes a step back so fast he nearly trips over his own feet.

“no. no, that’s not— i wouldn’t ever—” his words tumble over each other now, guilt setting in hard and fast. “i swear, i wasn’t mad at you. i just— i get worked up and— god, i’m so sorry.”

he looks devastated. genuinely.

embry doesn’t get defensive. doesn’t justify himself. he immediately assumes fault — not because he’s weak, but because the idea that he caused that reaction makes his chest ache.

he rubs the back of his neck, eyes glossy, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

“i hate that,” he says quietly. “i hate that i did that.”

he puts space between you on purpose. not cold — careful. like he’s terrified of making it worse.

“i’m not angry,” he says softly. “i promise. i don’t want you to feel like you have to brace around me. ever.”

if you try to brush it off, tell him you’re fine, embry shakes his head slowly.

“you flinched,” he says. not accusing. just honest. “that matters.”

he crouches slightly, lowering himself without thinking, trying to soften his presence. his hands stay visible, open, non-threatening.

“can i come closer?” he asks. “or… do you want space?”

when you nod — when you let him — he moves slowly, like approaching something fragile. his touch, when it comes, is hesitant at first. fingers barely grazing your sleeve, like he’s checking in through contact.

“i’m right here,” he murmurs. “okay? i’ve got you.”

the argument is over.

completely.

embry can’t keep fighting when he thinks he’s hurt you — emotionally or otherwise. the adrenaline drains out of him, replaced by pure concern.

for the rest of the conversation:

• his voice stays quiet and steady • he pauses before speaking, choosing words carefully • checks your face constantly for discomfort • apologizes again, softly, like a reflex • avoids sudden movements • stays where you can see him clearly

he listens more than he talks now. nods along. lets you speak fully without interrupting. he wants to understand — not win.

later, when things calm down, embry sits beside you, close but not crowding. shoulder brushing yours, warmth grounding.

“i never want to be someone you’re afraid of,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on his hands. “that would… that would destroy me.”

he risks a glance at you, vulnerable and open.

“you deserve to feel safe,” he adds. “especially with me.”

after that night, embry changes.

he becomes more mindful during disagreements. lowers his voice instinctively, takes breaks when emotions spike, checks in constantly.

“am i okay right now?”

“tell me if i’m getting too intense.”

“we can pause. we don’t have to finish this right now.”

not because you demanded it but because your flinch etched itself into his memory.

and if you ever flinch again — even for a completely unrelated reason?

embry reacts instantly.

hands gentle. voice soft. worry etched across his face.

“hey,” he whispers, pulling you into his chest if you let him. “you’re safe. i promise. i’d never hurt you. not ever.”

he presses his cheek against your hair, holding you like something precious, like something he’s sworn to protect.

embry doesn’t protect with strength alone.

he protects with empathy.

with self-awareness.

with a love so careful it reshapes him.

because once embry loves you?

the thought of being the cause of your fear is unbearable.

and he will do anything to make sure you never feel the need to flinch around him again.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

leah clearwater

leah is already on edge before the argument even starts.

she’s sharp-tongued when she’s hurt, words cutting fast and precise because it’s the only armor she’s ever learned to wear. anger sits close to the surface with her — not wild, not out of control, but contained, like a storm held behind her ribs.

so when the fight escalates, when voices rise—

and you flinch?

everything stops.

it’s instant.

leah freezes mid-sentence, jaw snapping shut so hard you can hear her teeth click. her eyes lock onto you, pupils blown wide, breath catching like she’s been punched straight in the chest.

“…hey,” she says, far quieter than before. stunned. “what was that?”

she saw it.

every inch of it.

the way your shoulders pulled inward. the way your hands tightened. the reflexive movement of someone bracing for impact — not listening anymore, just enduring.

leah’s anger doesn’t spike.

it evaporates.

replaced by something raw and dangerous — not toward you, but toward herself.

“no,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head once. “no, i didn’t—”

she steps back immediately, like she’s afraid her presence alone might make it worse.

“don’t do that,” she says, voice strained. not commanding — pleading. “don’t flinch like that around me.”

then she realizes how that sounded.

“—not like that,” she corrects quickly, running a hand through her hair, pacing once before stopping herself. “i mean— shit.”

she looks furious. not at you.

at the idea that she might’ve become someone you’d react to like that.

“did i scare you?” she asks, blunt and honest, because leah doesn’t know how to dance around pain. “because if i did, you need to tell me.”

her voice cracks on the last word.

she doesn’t approach you right away. leah gives space when she realizes she’s crossed a line, not out of distance, but respect. she plants her feet, grounding herself, forcing her breathing to slow.

“i wasn’t going to touch you,” she says firmly. “i would never—”

she stops. swallows hard.

“i know you know that. but still.”

her fists clench, unclench. the wolf in her bristles — protective, furious, ashamed.

“i hate that i did that,” leah admits, quieter now. “i hate that you felt like you had to brace.”

if you try to minimize it, shrug it off, tell her you’re fine?

leah’s eyes soften — but her voice stays serious.

“no,” she says. “don’t do that for me. i can handle the truth.”

she steps closer only when she’s sure you won’t pull away. slow. deliberate. her presence is still intense — leah doesn’t know how to be anything else — but it’s controlled now.

“can i touch you?” she asks. not because she doubts consent — but because she needs to prove she can be safe.

when you nod, her hand settles on your arm. warm. solid. grounding.

“i’m not angry at you,” she says firmly. “i’m angry that i let my temper spill over. those are not the same thing.”

leah presses her thumb into your sleeve, steady pressure.

“you don’t ever have to be afraid of me,” she says, jaw tight. “and if i ever make you feel that way again? you call me on it. immediately.”

the fight is over.

completely.

leah can’t continue arguing once she realizes she’s hurt you emotionally. pride takes a backseat to protection — every time.

for the rest of the conversation:

• her tone stays low and even • she keeps her body language open • avoids pacing or looming • watches your reactions closely • pauses if your voice wavers • checks in without making it obvious

she listens, really listens, because now she’s not trying to win. she’s trying to repair.

later, when things are quiet, leah sits beside you. close enough that your shoulders touch, not so close that it feels overwhelming.

“i’m rough around the edges,” she says quietly. “i know that.”

she exhales slowly.

“but i would never hurt you. not physically. not emotionally. not on purpose. and if i ever come close to crossing that line again?”

she looks at you, fierce and sincere.

“i want you to stop me.”

after that, leah changes — not drastically, not overnight, but deliberately.

she walks away sooner when arguments spike. lowers her voice when she feels herself getting sharp. checks your body language before she checks her own emotions.

and if you ever flinch again — even during a totally unrelated situation?

leah is there instantly.

hand on your back. voice steady. eyes scanning you, not the threat.

“hey,” she murmurs. “look at me. you’re okay.”

if you let her, she pulls you in — protective, solid, a wall between you and anything that might hurt you.

“i’ve got you,” she says fiercely. “always.”

leah clearwater protects with intensity.

but once she loves you?

she protects with restraint.

with accountability.

with the promise that her strength will never be the thing you fear.

and anyone — anything — that makes you flinch like that again?

they don’t get a second chance.

because leah refuses to be part of the danger.

she only wants to be the reason you feel safe.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

seth clearwater

seth doesn’t go into the fight angry.

that’s the first difference.

he goes in alert, tense, trying to keep things light even when they’re not — shoulders loose, voice steady, that familiar optimism acting like a shield. he hates conflict. hates raised voices. hates the way arguments make the air feel heavy.

so when the fight starts getting louder, sharper, when emotions spike—

he’s already watching you.

not the person he’s arguing with. not the situation.

you.

and when you flinch?

it breaks him.

it’s not dramatic. not explosive. it’s instant, silent devastation.

seth stops mid-word, breath hitching like his lungs forgot what they’re supposed to do. his eyes snap to you, wide and horrified, like he just realized something terrible and irreversible.

“…oh,” he whispers.

not angry. not accusing.

just hurt.

he takes a step toward you, then stops himself, hands lifting slightly in a universal it’s okay, i won’t crowd you gesture.

“hey—hey,” he says softly, voice dropping into something gentler, steadier. “i’m not mad. i promise. i’m not mad at you.”

because that’s what he thinks you’re afraid of.

that he’s upset. that he’s going to lash out. that this is somehow your fault.

seth shakes his head quickly, curls bouncing, eyes already shining.

“i didn’t mean to raise my voice,” he says, words tumbling over each other in a rush. “i wasn’t— i’d never—”

he cuts himself off, swallowing hard.

“did i scare you?”

the question devastates him.

he crouches down slightly if you’re standing, or lowers himself so he’s at your level. not looming. never looming. his posture softens completely — shoulders rounded, body open, non-threatening.

“i’m sorry,” he says immediately. too fast. too sincere. “i swear, i didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

if you try to brush it off, tell him it’s nothing, that you’re okay?

seth nods — but he doesn’t quite believe you.

“okay,” he says gently. “but i still want to check in. just in case.”

he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away.

“can i hold your hand?” he asks. like it’s the most important permission he’s ever requested.

when you let him, his grip is warm and careful. grounding. his thumb rubs slow circles over your knuckles, a familiar comfort he’s used a thousand times before.

“i’ve got you,” he murmurs. “nothing’s gonna happen. not here. not with me.”

the fight is over for him.

completely.

seth cannot continue arguing once he realizes you’re scared. the issue stops mattering. pride disappears. even his own hurt takes a backseat to you.

he positions himself subtly between you and the other person, not aggressive just protective. a human shield, smiling politely but firmly.

“hey,” he says, light but unyielding. “let’s cool it, okay?”

and if the other person pushes?

seth’s tone doesn’t change.

but his stance does.

grounded. solid. wolf-bright eyes flashing for just a second — enough to make the message clear.

later, when it’s quiet, seth sits with you somewhere familiar. a couch. the steps outside. the edge of the forest where the air smells like pine and rain.

he keeps close without smothering. shoulder brushing yours. knees touching. present.

“i don’t want to be someone you’re scared of,” he admits quietly. “ever.”

his voice cracks just a little.

“i want to be the guy you feel safe with. even when things get loud. especially then.”

he listens if you explain. really listens. nodding. asking soft questions. validating instead of defending.

and then he promises — not dramatically, not like an oath, but with quiet conviction.

“i’ll be more careful,” he says. “with my tone. with my volume. with everything.”

after that, you notice the changes.

• he lowers his voice first • checks your face when emotions rise • cracks a joke to diffuse tension • touches your hand to ground you • steps outside if he feels overwhelmed • never lets anger spill unchecked

and if you ever flinch again — even during something small?

seth is there immediately.

hands gentle on your arms. forehead resting against yours.

“hey,” he whispers. “you’re okay. i’ve got you. i’m right here.”

he doesn’t see your flinch as weakness.

he sees it as a signal.

one that tells him to slow down. to soften. to protect instead of push.

because seth clearwater loves with his whole heart.

and when he realizes he’s hurt you — even unintentionally?

he doesn’t get defensive.

he gets better.

he chooses to be the calm in the storm.

the safe place you run to — not away from.

and once seth decides you’re someone he wants to protect?

he does it gently.

instinctively.

and without ever making you feel small for needing.

     taglist :

@unicorn-ueed

@xxx-wounded

@rottenstyx

• He brags about you constantly without realizing he’s doing it — to Sam, to Paul, to random elders, to people who didn’t even ask.

• He tries to act cool when you compliment him but his ears go bright red and he grins like he just won a prize.

• He loves lending you his jacket; if you insist you’re fine, he’ll still drape it over your shoulders when you’re not looking.

• He’ll send you goodnight texts that are basically novels about how fun the day was, ending with “sleep well :)” like he isn’t grinning at his screen for ten minutes after.

• He would watch you with this soft, amazed expression when you talk, like he can’t believe you’re real.

• He would gently take your ankle when you sit too close to the fire, pulling you backward without saying a word because he’s terrified of you getting burned.

• He always runs over whenever you show up at La Push, out of breath, like he might miss a moment with you if he doesn’t sprint.

• He gets jealous quietly, not loud like Paul or tense like Embry. It would be soft, pouty, clingier than usual, standing extra close without explaining why.

• He’ll always save you the last s’more, even when it’s the best one.

• He loves to listen to you talk about Forks High drama with full seriousness, nodding like you’re debriefing him on national secrets.

• He sometimes will fall asleep with his head in your lap at pack gatherings, all warm and peaceful, trusting you more than he trusts the whole world.

• He zones out when you’re helping him with his schoolwork, staring at your face instead of the worksheet until you flick his forehead and he blushes like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

• He loves play-fighting — wrestling you onto the sand, lifting you over his shoulder, spinning you around in the surf, laughing so loudly everyone looks over.

• He would also wave with his whole arm when he spots you from far away, even if he’s on patrol and technically supposed to be subtle.

• He’ll likely sit way too close on the couch at the Clearwaters’, knees touching yours because he can’t help himself, and then pretend it’s totally normal.

• He would notice the exact moment you get cold and immediately wraps an arm around you, warm as a furnace, without even thinking.

• He would sneakily rewrite pack training schedules so they don’t overlap with times you’re free, even if he has to run extra patrols later.

• His whole face lights up when you text him, even if Paul is mid-sentence, and Paul just groans, “Bro, get it together.”

• He’ll buy matching friendship bracelets from a beach kiosk and pretend it was Sue’s idea, trying to be slick.

• He also would go still and soft when you fix his hair or adjust his hoodie strings, loving it more than you can imagine.

• He always, always stands just inches closer to you than necessary, like your orbit has its own pull on him.

• He tries to impress you during pack bonfires — doing flips off logs, racing Quil, lifting heavy driftwood — then pretending he wasn’t showing off.

• He brags about you constantly without realizing he’s doing it — to Sam, to Paul, to random elders, to people who didn’t even ask.

• He tries to act cool when you compliment him but his ears go bright red and he grins like he just won a prize.

• He loves lending you his jacket; if you insist you’re fine, he’ll still drape it over your shoulders when you’re not looking.

• He’ll send you goodnight texts that are basically novels about how fun the day was, ending with “sleep well :)” like he isn’t grinning at his screen for ten minutes after.

• He would watch you with this soft, amazed expression when you talk, like he can’t believe you’re real.

• He would gently take your ankle when you sit too close to the fire, pulling you backward without saying a word because he’s terrified of you getting burned.

• He always runs over whenever you show up at La Push, out of breath, like he might miss a moment with you if he doesn’t sprint.

• He gets jealous quietly, not loud like Paul or tense like Embry. It would be soft, pouty, clingier than usual, standing extra close without explaining why.

• He’ll always save you the last s’more, even when it’s the best one.

• He loves to listen to you talk about Forks High drama with full seriousness, nodding like you’re debriefing him on national secrets.

• He sometimes will fall asleep with his head in your lap at pack gatherings, all warm and peaceful, trusting you more than he trusts the whole world.

• He zones out when you’re helping him with his schoolwork, staring at your face instead of the worksheet until you flick his forehead and he blushes like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

• He loves play-fighting — wrestling you onto the sand, lifting you over his shoulder, spinning you around in the surf, laughing so loudly everyone looks over.

• He would also wave with his whole arm when he spots you from far away, even if he’s on patrol and technically supposed to be subtle.

• He’ll likely sit way too close on the couch at the Clearwaters’, knees touching yours because he can’t help himself, and then pretend it’s totally normal.

• He would notice the exact moment you get cold and immediately wraps an arm around you, warm as a furnace, without even thinking.

• He would sneakily rewrite pack training schedules so they don’t overlap with times you’re free, even if he has to run extra patrols later.

• His whole face lights up when you text him, even if Paul is mid-sentence, and Paul just groans, “Bro, get it together.”

• He’ll buy matching friendship bracelets from a beach kiosk and pretend it was Sue’s idea, trying to be slick.

• He also would go still and soft when you fix his hair or adjust his hoodie strings, loving it more than you can imagine.

• He always, always stands just inches closer to you than necessary, like your orbit has its own pull on him.

• He tries to impress you during pack bonfires — doing flips off logs, racing Quil, lifting heavy driftwood — then pretending he wasn’t showing off.

You’d met her a handful of times. She was nice. Quiet, awkward, that “I literally did not ask to be this accidentally appealing” kind of girl. People just gravitated to her. Or, at least, boys did.

Especially Jacob.

You pretended you didn’t see the way his face softened whenever she was mentioned. Or how his voice dipped unconsciously when he said her name.

“Are you coming?” Embry asked, jerking his head toward the door.

Your stomach did a funny flippy thing. Going to Jacob’s meant seeing Bella. Seeing Bella meant confronting the reality that she was growing closer to your best friend. And apparently, according to the treaty of “the universe hates you,” every guy you liked or might someday like seemed to be at least a little drawn to her, too.

You hopped off the workbench anyway. “Yeah, sure. Someone has to make sure you two don’t blow anything up.”

“Hey,” Jacob protested. “You wound me.”

Embry bumped your shoulder with his as you passed him. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep us safe.”

You rolled your eyes to hide the way your face heated up. “You can’t even keep track of your own tools.”

The ride to Jacob’s was quick, wind biting at your cheeks, the sky overhead that pale, washed-out gray you’d come to associate with Forks weather.

By the time you stepped into the garage, you knew something was different. You could feel it, like static.

She was there.

Bella, standing with her back to you, hair curtaining her face as she leaned over a rusty motorcycle, grease smudged on her cheek. Jacob stood beside her, fingers brushing hers as he pointed at something on the bike. They were laughing quietly, heads bent close.

Your chest pinched.

It shouldn’t have felt like a punch. This was what you knew was happening. Jacob had said he was helping her with the bikes, that they’d been hanging out more. You’d nodded, smiled, even teased him about his “crush.”

But seeing it in real time—the way his whole body seemed to lean toward hers—hurt in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Embry’s easy voice cut through your thoughts as he stepped in behind you and Jacob. “So this is Bella.”

They both startled a bit, looking up. Bella whipped around, expression nervous but kind.

“Uh—hey,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag. “You must be Embry, right?”

Embry gave a lazy grin. “In the flesh.”

You watched his eyes flick up and down almost automatically, taking her in. Messy hair. Soft flannel. That shy sort of half-smile.

Your heart dropped.

You suddenly thought of yourself. Grease on your own jeans, hair pulled back in a bandana, a stain on your hoodie from the soda Jacob had tossed you earlier. Next to Bella, you felt… small. Ordinary. Like the background character in someone else’s story.

Jacob gestured between you all. “Bella, this is Embry. And you know Y/N.”

Bella gave you a warm smile. “Hey.”

You forced your lips into something that wasn’t quite a grimace. “Hey. Looks like you two have been busy.”

“Yeah,” Bella said, cheeks pinking. “Jake’s been teaching me. Sort of.”

Jacob beamed. “She’s not bad, honestly.”

Of course she wasn’t.

Embry moved closer, hands on his hips as he surveyed the bike. “Damn, Swan. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

It was a teasing compliment. You knew his tone. He talked like that all the time—to you, to Jacob, to pretty much everyone. But your brain didn’t care about logic right now.

Your brain only saw the way he was smiling.

The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when Bella ducked her head, embarrassed.

The way he looked… impressed.

Something ugly and tight wrapped around your ribs.

You stepped back without really meaning to, suddenly aware of just how in-the-way you felt. Jacob and Bella were wrapped in their little motorcycle bubble. Embry had slotted himself in next to them, joking and talking, and you—

You didn’t know where to stand.

“I’m, uh, gonna go grab something from Billy,” you muttered. “Forgot I told him I’d bring it home for Mom.”

Embry glanced over his shoulder at you. “You want help?”

“Nope.” You plastered on a smile that felt like it was made of glass. “I got it.”

You didn’t wait for anyone to say anything else. You just turned and walked out, the laughter behind you fading under the roar of your heartbeat.

You didn’t actually go see Billy.

You just walked until Jacob’s house was a dot in the distance and the smell of ocean salt began to drown out the motor oil.

You knew it was stupid. Bella didn’t do anything wrong. Embry didn’t either. You were the one acting weird.

But the image replayed in your head on a loop: the way he’d looked at her.

You’d seen that look before. On other guys. In hallways. At bonfires. Always aimed at girls who weren’t you.

And the worst part? It made sense.

Bella was the kind of girl people cared about just by breathing near her. You were the one everyone forgot until they needed someone to help carry parts or fix a snack or listen.

Background character, your brain whispered. Supporting role.

You kicked at a rock, hard enough to send it skittering across the damp ground.

“Stupid,” you muttered. “This is so stupid, oh my God.”

You’d never even said anything to Embry. Not out loud. How are you supposed to be hurt over something you never had?

Because you do have something, another part of you argued. The late-night texts. The way he always picked you for teams. How he gave you his hoodie when you were cold, even though you pretended not to notice how he shivered the rest of the night.

But maybe that was all in your head, too.

You avoided the boys for the rest of the day.

When your phone buzzed, you ignored it. When Jacob called, you let it go to voicemail. You told your mom you were tired and went to bed early, staring at the ceiling with your heart lodged somewhere behind your teeth.

The next day, you thought you might get away with slipping under the radar.

You were wrong.

You barely stepped foot onto the little path behind your house when Embry appeared like some giant, pissed-off ninja, arms crossed over his chest.

“There you are.”

You jumped, hand flying to your chest. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Maybe,” he said flatly. “Then you’d have to stop running away from me.”

You bristled instantly. “I’m not running away.”

He stepped closer, eyes dark with something like hurt. “You bailed yesterday. You didn’t answer your phone. Jake thought you were mad at him at first, but then I realized you don’t usually avoid him unless you’re mad at me. So…” He gestured between you. “What did I do?”

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

This was the part where you were supposed to brush it off. Tell a joke. Change the subject.

But the way he was looking at you—solid, stubborn, like he wasn’t going to just let it go—made your carefully stacked excuses start to wobble.

“You didn’t do anything,” you said weakly. “It’s fine.”

“Y/N.” His voice was softer now. “Don’t do that. Talk to me.”

You made the mistake of meeting his eyes.

That was your downfall. It always was.

There was something open there, something that made your chest ache. Like he actually cared what you said. Like your feelings mattered.

And that made everything come spilling out.

“It’s just—” You blew out a shaky breath, hands curling into fists at your sides. “I get it, okay?”

Embry frowned. “Get what?”

“You and Bella,” you said, hating how your voice cracked. “You don’t have to pretend like nothing’s changed. I’m not stupid.”

His confusion deepened. “What are you talking about?”

You laughed, sharp and small. “You don’t have to lie, Embry. I was right there. I saw the way you looked at her.”

There it was. The ugly truth, half-whispered between you.

For a second, he just stared at you.

Then, slowly, realization dawned across his face, followed by something like horror.

“Oh my God,” he said. “You think I like Bella?”

Your cheeks burned. “Did you… not hear anything I just said?”

“I heard you,” he said quickly. “I just—I’m trying to figure out how your brain got there.”

“It wasn’t that hard,” you snapped, temper sparking now that the dam had cracked. “You were all—” You waved your hands. “Smiling and flirty and impressed. Just like every other guy around her, by the way. So yeah, I put two and two together.”

Embry stared at you like you’d grown a second head. Then he huffed out a breath, dragged a hand down his face, and stepped closer.

“Y/N,” he said carefully, like he was explaining something to a very agitated cat. “I don’t like Bella.”

You rolled your eyes, your hurt scrambling to protect itself. “You don’t have to say that just because I’m—”

“Jealous?” he supplied.

The word hung between you, electric.

You flinched, looking away. “Forget it.”

“Hey.” His voice was gentle now, but firm. His fingers brushed your wrist, just a ghost of a touch. “Look at me.”

You didn’t want to. You really, really didn’t. But you did.

Embry’s face was open, no teasing, no smirk. Just earnest, heart-in-his-eyes honesty.

“I don’t like Bella,” he repeated. “I was being polite. I was messing with Jake. That’s it.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie about that?” he asked, exasperated. “Do you seriously think I’d be that guy? Flirting with one girl right in front of the girl I actually like?”

Your brain stuttered. “…What?”

He blinked. Then blinked again.

You watched the realization hit him—what he’d just admitted. Color crawled up his neck, all the way to his ears.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Shit.”

Your heart was beating so fast you thought you might pass out. “The girl you actually… like?”

Embry swallowed. “Yeah.”

“And that is…?”

He stared at you, eyes flicking between yours like he was trying to see the right answer written in them.

“Do I really have to spell it out?” he asked hoarsely. “You got jealous over some imaginary crush on Bella when I’ve spent the last year tripping over myself every time you walk into a room.”

Your mouth went dry. “You have not.”

“I have,” he insisted. “Who do I always sit next to at bonfires? Who do I text first when something dumb happens? Who do I give my hoodie to every time you say you’re ‘fine’ but your lips are turning blue?”

“That’s just because you’re nice,” you argued weakly.

“Y/N.” His voice dropped. “I don’t have a hoodie inventory for anyone else. It’s literally just you.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to cling to your narrative because that was easier than letting hope wedge itself into the cracks of your heart.

But he kept going.

“And you know that thing where Jake says I always smile when you show up?” he said. “Or how Quil keeps calling you my ‘emotional support human’?”

You remembered. You remembered all of it. You’d blushed, laughed it off. You’d forced yourself not to read into it.

“Those aren’t jokes to me,” Embry said quietly. “Not really.”

You stared at him, the world narrowing to the small space between your bodies.

“So… you don’t think Bella’s… better?” you asked, voice barely a whisper. “Prettier? Cooler? More worth—whatever?”

He looked like he wanted to shake you, then kiss you, then shake you again.

“Bella’s great,” he said. “She’s Jake’s girl, even if she doesn’t know it yet. And yeah, she’s pretty. Whatever. But she’s not you.”

Your throat got tight. “That sounds like a line.”

“It’s not.” He stepped close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. “Bella’s the main character in, like, ten boys’ stories. That doesn’t matter to me. You’re the main character in mine.”

You made a tiny, wounded sort of sound, half laugh, half sob. “Embry—”

“I don’t care if you’ve got a stain on your hoodie,” he pressed on. “I don’t care if you trip over air or snort when you laugh or spend ten minutes ranting about crappy movie endings. That’s my favorite shit. That’s the stuff I replay when I can’t sleep.”

You stared at him. “You replay me snorting.”

He huffed out a laugh, eyes shining. “Not exactly the snort. More like the way you light up when you’re actually having fun. You think I’d trade that for some girl I barely know, just because she’s—what? Mysterious?”

You swallowed. “The universe seems to think she’s everything.”

“Yeah, well, the universe doesn’t know you like I do,” he said softly. “The universe hasn’t seen you fall asleep sitting up against my shoulder in the Rabbit because you stayed up late helping me study. The universe didn’t watch you show up with that stupid neon band-aid when I cut my hand, like it was some kind of life-or-death emergency.”

“You were bleeding,” you mumbled.

“It was a paper cut,” he said dryly. “You still looked like you were going to fist-fight the notebook.”

Despite yourself, a small, shaky laugh escaped you.

Embry’s shoulders loosened at the sound, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I like you,” he said simply. “I have for a while. And yeah, maybe I was clumsy about it and you misunderstood. But if you honestly think I could walk into a room with you and anyone else and be looking at them instead?” He shook his head. “You’re out of your mind.”

Silence stretched between you, filled with the soft rush of the wind through the trees and the pounding of your heart.

“…Why didn’t you say something?” you finally asked. “Before?”

He shrugged, the movement small. “You laugh off everything. Every time someone teased us, you acted like it was the funniest joke in the world. I thought… I don’t know. That you didn’t feel the same. That if I said anything, I’d screw it up and lose you completely.”

He met your gaze, eyes dark and earnest. “I can handle a lot of things, Y/N. But losing you? That’s not on the list.”

Your anger had long since melted, leaving behind raw, trembling vulnerability.

“You’re sure?” you asked softly. “You’re really, actually talking about me right now?”

He rolled his eyes fondly. “No, the other girl who ran away because she thought I liked Bella. Yes, you.”

You took a breath.

“I was jealous,” you admitted, the words feeling both terrifying and freeing. “I saw the way you smiled at her and I just… I thought, ‘Of course. Of course it’s her again. Of course I’m never the one anyone picks.’”

Embry’s expression crumpled.

“Hey,” he murmured, reaching up to cup your cheek gently, thumb grazing your skin. “Don’t say that. Not about yourself.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.” His voice was firm now. “Maybe other people were too blind to see what was right in front of them, but I’m not. I’m not going anywhere. Especially not for Bella Swan.”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until his thumb brushed away a tear.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to make this weird.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Kind of late for that, don’t you think?”

You laughed wetly, swatting weakly at his chest. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” he said, automatic and teasing.

You hesitated only a second before you rose up on your toes and pressed your mouth to his.

For a heartbeat, everything went still. No wind, no distant waves. Just the soft shock of Embry’s lips under yours.

Then he moved, kissing you back with such careful intensity that you thought your knees might give out. One hand slid to the back of your neck, the other settling at your waist, anchoring you.

It was warm. It was a little clumsy. It was perfect.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in little puffs.

“So,” he said, voice slightly hoarse. “Does this mean I get to call you my jealous, overthinking, main-character girlfriend now?”

You sniffed, half laughing. “That depends.”

His brows lifted. “On what?”

“On whether you’re going to keep flirting with girls who touch your motorcycle,” you said, narrowing your eyes playfully.

He barked out a laugh. “Oh, that? That was purely ‘don’t make Jake look like a loser’ flirting. I promise. I only have the real kind for you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was doing cartwheels. “You’re such a dork.”

“Your dork,” he corrected, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. “And for the record? Next time you get jealous, maybe talk to me before you run off, yeah? I can’t chase you halfway across La Push every time your brain decides to lie to you.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Please don’t say the word ‘jealous’ ever again.”

He gently tugged your hands away, lacing his fingers with yours. “Fine. I’ll just call it what it really is.”

You raised a brow. “And what’s that?”

He smiled, soft and sure. “You caring about me as much as I care about you.”

Your cheeks flamed, but you didn’t look away this time.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “We can call it that.”

“Good,” he said. “Now, c’mon. Jake’s going to freak if we don’t show up and torment him about his not-a-crush on Bella.”

You snorted. “You’re really going to give him shit for that?”

“Absolutely,” Embry said. “Gotta keep the balance. Jacob pines after Bella, Bella pines after someone else, and I—”

He squeezed your hand, eyes glittering.

“I get the girl who actually wants me back.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile wouldn’t be contained.

“Yeah, yeah, Call,” you said, letting him tug you down the path. “Just don’t forget who you’re bringing to the bonfire tonight.”

He bumped his shoulder against yours. “How could I? You’re the only one I see.”

And this time, when he smiled, you didn’t wonder who it was for.

You already knew. 

Disclaimer:

sam uley

when you get hurt, even a tiny scratch, sam goes dead still.

his eyes flick to the wound, then to you, and something in his face tightens. not anger. fear. fear he’ll never admit out loud.

he cups your face gently, voice barely above a whisper: “what happened?”

• examines the scratch like it’s a fatal wound • thumbs over your skin with impossibly soft hands • absolutely does NOT let you brush it off • “it could’ve been worse” becomes his mantra • sits you down even if you insist you’re fine • kisses your forehead once he realizes you’re really okay

if you laugh at him for overreacting? his jaw clenches and he mutters, “i’m not overreacting. you’re important.”

later, when you’re not looking, he checks the scratch again.

just to be sure.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

jared cameron

jared is dramatic. like, Oscar-winning dramatic.

you get a small scratch and he gasps, literally GASPS, grabs your wrist and goes, “who did this to you? tell me right now.”

you tell him you bumped into a bush.

he looks betrayed.

• immediately pulls you closer to “inspect the damage” • kisses the injury three times “doctor’s orders,” he says • threatens the bush (“i’ll fight it myself”) • tells the others you were “injured in battle” • keeps checking on you every ten minutes

if you tease him for being ridiculous? he smirks, leaning in: “what, i can’t care about my favorite person?”

and yes, he asks you six more times if it hurts.

even though you said no every time.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

paul lahote

paul goes from 0 to feral in 0.3 seconds.

you show him a scratch, and instantly his chest rises, shoulders tense, jaw locked. “who touched you?” his voice is low, dangerous.

you tell him it was an accident.

he doesn’t relax.

• pulls your hand in and examines the scratch like he’s ready to throw hands • mutters under his breath about “stupid sharp branches” • carries you, literally picks you up, even though you insist it doesn’t hurt • kisses the scratch with surprising gentleness • refuses to let you out of his sight for at least an hour

and if you say, “paul, seriously, i’m fine”?

he just gives you that look the one that says he’s not risking anything happening to you.

then he kisses your forehead, still annoyed, still protective, still hopelessly soft for you.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

jacob black

jacob’s heart DROPS.

his whole face twists with worry the moment he sees the scratch. he gently cups your hand, brows furrowed, voice soft with concern: “did that hurt? are you okay?”

you tell him it’s nothing.

he does not accept that answer.

• leads you to sit down • gets a band-aid even though you absolutely don’t need one • kisses the spot once it’s covered • keeps brushing your hair back, checking your expression • apologizes even if it wasn’t his fault (“i should’ve been watching you”)

he hovers but in the sweetest, warmest way. he just wants to make sure you’re comfortable, safe, not hiding pain.

and when he finally realizes you’re okay? he pulls you into his chest with a relieved sigh.

“don’t scare me like that,” he whispers into your hair. “i love you too much.”

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

quil ateara

quil freezes when he sees the scratch, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like he’s witnessing a tragedy. then he blurts, “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE BLEEDING.”

it’s a paper cut.

he still panics.

• drops everything he’s holding to rush to your side • cups your face dramatically like you’re on your deathbed • kisses the scratch instantly (“my healing powers will activate any second”) • gets you a band-aid with cartoon characters on it • checks on you every five minutes: “how’s the wound? do you need ice?”

if you laugh, he presses a hand to his chest like he’s offended. “i’m taking this VERY seriously. you were almost taken out.”

later, he cuddles you extra close, “just in case you get injured again.”

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

embry call

embry’s reaction is quiet, but intense in a soft, worried way. he gently reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the scratch with so much care it almost breaks you.

“you okay?” he asks, voice small.

you say yes. he still frowns.

• guides your hand into his like he’s afraid you’ll disappear • checks the scratch at least three times, just to be certain • kisses it softly, barely a brush of lips • asks, “did it sting?” with those big, earnest eyes • keeps you tucked into his side for the rest of the day

if you tease him for fussing, his ears go pink. “i know it’s small,” he murmurs, “i just… don’t like seeing you hurt.”

then he kisses your forehead so gently it makes your chest ache.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

leah clearwater

leah notices immediately. she doesn’t panic, she sharpens.

her eyes narrow, jaw clenches, shoulders tense. “who did that?” she demands, voice low, controlled.

you tell her it was an accident.

she still checks the area like she’s ready to beat up the entire forest.

• cups your wrist with careful, precise fingers • blows gently on the scratch even though she pretends she doesn’t care • mutters about “stupid branches” or “careless idiots” • stays close, not hovering, but present, protective • makes you sit while she finds something to clean it

and when she finally relaxes, she sighs and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“don’t scare me like that,” she murmurs, pretending it’s nothing.

but the arm she wraps around your waist is anything but casual.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

seth clearwater

seth is PURE sunshine panic.

the moment he sees the scratch he gasps so hard it sounds like he just witnessed a murder. “OH— OH NO— BABE— YOU’RE HURT—” his eyes are huge. his hands hover like he’s afraid to touch you wrong.

you’re like, “seth, it’s literally nothing.”

he refuses to believe that.

• gently cradles your hand like it’s made of glass • kisses the scratch IMMEDIATELY • kisses it again • (and again) • asks, “are you hurting? do you need a hug? water? snacks?” • gets you a band-aid even though it’s barely bleeding

and when you reassure him you’re okay, his shoulders drop and he gives you the softest smile.

then he hugs you full force, all warmth and comfort and relief.

“i just… hate knowing you got hurt,” he whispers. “i want you safe. always.”

His Vibe in the Relationship

Seth is the puppy-love, first-crush-never-got-over-it type.

He’s big on excited updates:

“Guess what happened on patrol today—oh! And I saw a cool rock that looked like you, look—okay that sounded better in my head.”

He genuinely thinks you’re the best person on the planet and cannot hide it. At all.

Always defending you, even in casual conversations:

“Actually, Y/N’s idea would work better,”

“Y/N’s really good at that, you should ask them.”

Love Languages

Physical touch:

Constant hand-holding, pinkies hooked, shoulder bumps.

Back hugs when you’re cooking or standing at the edge of the water.

He will 100% pull you onto his lap if you’re cold and pretend it’s just for “body heat.”

Words of affirmation:

Hyping you up over everything: outfit, test, small success, literally you just existing.

Sends chaotic little texts if you’re away: “Miss u. Also saw a squirrel that reminded me of u, don’t ask.”

Dates with Seth

Beach bonfires with the pack where he sneaks you extra marshmallows.

Late-night walks in the forest where he shifts and runs alongside you just to show off a little, then nudges your hand with his snout.

Movie nights where he refuses to let you sit more than one inch away from him, “for optimal cuddling conditions.”

Quiet La Push evenings: him lying with his head in your lap while you card your fingers through his hair and he rambles about anything and everything.

With the Pack Around

The pack teases the life out of him:

“Seth, your heart’s loud again, calm down, they just smiled.”

He is proudly, aggressively whipped, and doesn’t care who knows.

If someone jokes at your expense, he’s the first to go, “Hey, that wasn’t funny.”

You become the unofficial morale boost of the group; when things get intense, Seth looks at you once, breathes, and keeps going.

Jealousy & Protection

Seth doesn’t get super jealous, he gets nervously possessive in a sweet way.

If someone flirts with you, he’ll sidle closer, hand sliding into yours, smiling but eyes sharp.

The only time he truly snaps is if someone threatens you.

Happy, sunshine Seth goes dead serious, steps in front of you, that deep alpha-ready growl in his chest even if he’s not the alpha.

Comforting You

If you’re upset, he gets this heartbroken, kicked-puppy look.

Quietly pulls you to his chest and just holds you, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

“You don’t have to explain yet. Just breathe, okay? I’ve got you.”

Brings you snacks, hoodies, and his favorite blanket that “smells like home” (aka, him).

When He’s Upset

Tries to pretend everything’s fine, but he can’t fake it with you.

Ends up sitting next to you, shoulders tense, picking at a loose thread on his jeans until you ask: “Seth. What’s wrong?”

Once you coax it out of him, he talks with his whole heart—no half-truths, no holding back.

Falls asleep best when you’re petting his hair or tracing patterns on his arm.

Future Stuff

Talks about the future like it’s obvious you’re in it:

“When we get a place,”

“Our future dog,”

“If we have kids, they’re definitely getting your personality.”

Wants a house near the ocean so he can still hear the waves and run patrols, but always come back to you.

No matter how old he gets, he’s still the boy who lights up every time you walk into a room.

Disclaimer:

sam uley

the first time you say it, sam literally stops mid-movement. like he pauses mid-breath.

his brows knit together, not in anger, in absolute confusion.

“...pretty boy?” he repeats, voice low, rough around the edges.

you can see the moment it hits him. his jaw flexes. his chest rises sharply. suddenly he’s standing a little too close.

• gives you that look, the one that’s half warning, half desire • tries to keep his voice steady but it gets deeper • “you think i’m pretty?” becomes his go-to teasing line • secretly melts every time even though he pretends it doesn’t affect him • pulls you in by the hips when you whisper it in private

he’ll never admit it, but “pretty boy” cracks his whole stoic alpha façade.

one soft “c’mere, pretty boy,” and he’s yours, completely undone.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

jared cameron

jared’s reaction is immediate and dramatic.

he chokes on air. smiles like an idiot. tries not to blush and fails miserably.

“pretty boy? me? really?” he’s grinning so hard it hurts.

• teases you nonstop about it • flexes a little more when you’re around • uses it as blackmail, “say it again and i’ll do anything you want” • literally lights up whenever you call him that • gets possessive in the softest way, arm around your waist, smug smirk

if you say it in public?

he beams. GLOWS. looks like you just handed him the world.

if you whisper it in his ear?

he goes still. his breath catches. and he murmurs, “don’t play with me like that,” in a voice that is absolutely not stable.

“pretty boy” is his kryptonite, he lives for it.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

paul lahote

oh, he hates it.

and also absolutely LOVES it.

the first time you call him “pretty boy,” he scoffs, rolls his eyes, crosses his arms like he’s above it.

but his ears? red. completely red.

“i’m not pretty,” he grumbles. “i’m— i’m hot.”

sure, paul.

• gets flustered in a feral, irritated way • steps closer like he’s trying to intimidate you but he’s actually flustered • voice drops dangerously low • “say it again. i dare you.” • secretly preens when you say it but denies it forever

and if you say it when he’s angry?

he’s DONE.

instant disarmed. jaw unclenches. breathing shifts. eyes soften, hungry and wild.

“...pretty boy, huh?” his smirk is lethal.

after that, he makes you pay for the fluster, in kisses, in teasing, in being held a little too tightly.

“pretty boy” turns him into a mess he can’t control.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

jacob black

jacob laughs, loud, warm, surprised.

he runs a hand through his hair, cheeks dusted pink, smiling like he can’t help it.

“pretty boy? that’s what we’re calling me now?” he’s teasing, but he’s glowing.

• tries to act unfazed but absolutely is not • nudges your shoulder and asks, “you really think so?” • gets shy in the cutest way, dimples and all • starts showing off subconsciously • leans in closer whenever you call him that

say it when he’s working on his bike?

he freezes, then gives you the slowest smile you’ve ever seen.

say it when he’s jealous?

his entire attitude shifts, smug, confident, arm around your waist. “guess you like your pretty boy, huh?”

say it when you’re cuddling?

he blushes so hard he hides his face in your neck.

jacob loves it more than he’ll ever admit, it makes him feel seen, adored, wanted.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

quil ateara

you say it so casually that quil almost doesn’t process it at first.

then it hits him.

his whole face lights up. eyes wide. smile stretching way too big.

“wait— wait, hold on. did you just call me pretty boy?”

he’s GIDDY. like full-body excitement, practically wagging-his-tail vibes.

• expects you to repeat it immediately • keeps poking your cheek and going, “c’mon, say it again” • tries to act cool but his dimples betray him every time • gets extra cuddly, hand on your waist, forehead on your shoulder • brags to the pack like, “yeah, my girl calls me pretty boy, no big deal” (it is a very big deal)

say it when he’s sleepy?

he melts. just melts into you.

say it when he’s jealous?

all his playful energy turns intense and soft. “i’m your pretty boy, right?” and he looks so earnest you can’t even tease him.

quil LOVES it, maybe too much.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

embry call

embry goes silent when you say it.

completely quiet. completely still.

his eyes widen just a tiny bit, then drop to the ground, then back up at you like he’s checking if you meant it.

“...me?”

his voice cracks. you broke him.

• blushes instantly, ears and neck turning red • rubs the back of his neck like he doesn’t know what to do with himself • stammers when he tries to respond • “i’m— i’m not that— but you think— okay.” • becomes SO gentle with you afterward, like the nickname rewired his brain

if you whisper it to him?

that’s it. he short-circuits.

he’ll literally hide his face in your shoulder and mumble, “don’t call me that unless you want me to fall harder.”

for embry, “pretty boy” isn’t just a compliment, it’s intimacy. it touches a part of him he didn’t think anyone noticed.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

leah clearwater

ohhhhh she HATES it.

she LOVES it.

she’ll raise a brow immediately, arms crossed, all attitude.

“pretty boy? you know i’m not a boy, right?”

her tone? sharp. her eyes? sparkling.

you got her good.

• pretends she’s offended but she is SO entertained • nudges your shoulder harder than necessary • smirks at you like she’s daring you to say it again • if the pack is around, she kicks your ankle under the table so she doesn’t blush • later, when it’s just you, she whispers, “...say it again.”

and the thing is?

she listens to how you say it. your tone. your smile. the warmth behind it.

she pretends she doesn’t care, but if you call someone ELSE “pretty boy”?

she is feral. “interesting choice of words,” she mutters, jaw tight.

leah secretly LOVES that you gave her a nickname that wasn’t soft or patronizing but teasing and affectionate in your own way.

she’ll never admit it, but she craves it.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

seth clearwater

OH he dies.

you kill him instantly.

the moment “pretty boy” leaves your mouth, seth literally gasps, like out loud, then breaks into the biggest, brightest smile you’ve ever seen.

“pretty boy? ME? seriously??”

he’s SO happy he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

• giggles. like full-body giggles. • can’t stop smiling for the next three hours • cheeks turning pink, eyes sparkling, he’s floating • will call YOU pretty nonstop now • follows you around like a golden retriever waiting for more compliments

say it when he’s flustered?

he turns into a tomato and hides behind his hands.

say it when he’s being protective?

his chest puffs up instantly. “your pretty boy’s got you!”

seth LOVES the nickname so much that he’ll start finding excuses to hear it.

“hey… uh… what’d you call me earlier? you know… for research. pack business. scientific reasons.”

sam uley

sam becomes… gentle. even more than usual. the first sign is how carefully he treats you, like you’re something he’s afraid to break. he hovers without hovering, always nearby, always watching in that calm, protective way.

he doesn’t flirt. he doesn’t tease. he just… softens. his voice goes lower, slower, like everything he says to you is deliberate.

• always positions himself between you and danger, no matter how small • notices every detail, if you’re tired, cold, upset, distracted • checks in with you quietly, “you alright?” “did you eat?” • lingers after conversations without realizing • gets caught staring with the gentlest expression imaginable • the pack knows instantly, sam never looks at anyone like that

and when you smile at him? his breath actually catches. you undo him without even trying.

sam doesn’t confess early, he loves you long before he says it.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

jared cameron

jared is a mess. the funniest, sweetest mess you’ve ever seen.

he tries to act normal. he fails miserably.

he laughs harder around you, smiles wider, talks faster. every emotion he has goes straight to his face.

• accidentally flirts constantly • then gets flustered about his own flirting • bumps your shoulder every time he walks by • sits close. like, unnecessarily close • stares at your lips mid-conversation, then panics • asks the pack way too many questions about “what if they don’t like me?”

the pack? they clown him relentlessly. he brings you up every five seconds: “they said this—” “they laughed at my joke—” “do you think that meant something?”

and if you touch him first? even a casual brush of your fingers? he shuts down. completely. blushing. smiling. malfunctioning.

jared falls first, falls hardest, and hides none of it.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

paul lahote

paul becomes… impossible. cocky. loud. smug. and absolutely terrified inside.

the more he likes you? the worse he acts.

he teases you every chance he gets, pokes at you, smirks at you, calls you every pet name he shouldn’t be calling you yet. but the second you tease him back?

malfunction. absolute short-circuit. he goes still. voice drops. eyes lock on yours like you flipped a switch.

• hoverer supreme, “i’m not following you, i’m just going this way too” • glares at anyone who stands too close • gets jealous FAST but tries to hide it behind attitude • hands shake when you touch him • stares at you like he’s trying to memorize every inch

he acts like he doesn’t care, but his whole body gives him away. the pack mocks him constantly — “bro you’re in love, just admit it,” and he snarls every time.

but the truth? if you asked him for anything, he’d give it to you without question.

paul loves like a wildfire he’s desperately trying to contain.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

jacob black

jacob is sunshine around you. blinding. warm. obvious.

he lights up every single time he sees you, his smile gets bigger, his posture straighter, his whole vibe softer.

jacob doesn’t hide it at all. he tries to play it cool, but he’s the worst at subtlety.

• brings you little gifts he pretends aren’t gifts • casually touches you all the time • always finds an excuse to hang out with you • shows off whenever you’re watching • listens so closely it’s adorable • beams when you laugh

jealous jacob? oh, he gets quiet. close. protective. one hand on your back. eyes narrowing at whoever caused the feeling.

and when you talk to him softly? his entire face goes red. his dimples come out. he can’t look you in the eye.

everyone in the pack knows he’s in love with you. like, immediately. he’s not subtle even a little.

jacob loves loudly, earnestly, and with zero self-preservation.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

quil ateara

quil is adorable about it. like… painfully obvious, sunshine-level adorable.

he smiles every time you walk into a room, that big, bright, boyish grin he can’t hide even if he tried. he follows you around like a loyal golden retriever he swears he’s not being.

he just wants to be near you. always.

• always in your space, but in the gentlest way • laughs at literally everything you say • brings you snacks without realizing he brought you snacks • stares at you like you hung the moon • gets flustered SO easily, pink ears, shy smile • tells the pack “i’m not obvious” while being the most obvious

if you compliment him? he completely short-circuits. tries to play it cool, fails, grins like an idiot.

and when you touch him, even just your hand brushing his? he freezes. smiles. melts.

quil doesn’t confess because he thinks he needs the perfect moment, not knowing that every moment with him already is.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

embry call

embry is the softest disaster you have ever met.

he becomes so gentle with you it’s ridiculous, slower movements, quieter voice, like he doesn’t want to startle you or say the wrong thing.

he’s the type to rehearse conversations with you in his head. and then panic when you actually talk to him.

• blushes every time you say his name • trips over his words constantly • stares at you and then looks away immediately when you catch him • tries to give you space because he doesn’t want to overwhelm you • but then wanders right back to you because he literally can’t help it • tells jacob and quil everything, they tease him nonstop

embry is the king of “i brought you this because i thought you might like it… but you don’t have to keep it… but if you want to… that’s cool too…”

and if you lean your head on his shoulder? oh he’s gone. broken. heart pounding loud enough the whole pack can hear it.

embry doesn’t confess because he’s terrified you’ll say no, even though everyone else can see you’re just as gone for him.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

leah clearwater

leah is intense. not in a scary way, in a focused way. she pays attention to you like she’s trying to read every thought in your head.

she doesn’t flirt. not obviously. her version of affection is quiet, subtle, protective.

• walks you home without being asked • gives you her jacket and pretends she’s not freezing • stares at anyone who even looks at you wrong • always positions herself beside you in group settings • notices when you’re uncomfortable before anyone else • gets flustered when you compliment her, looks away, bites her lip

the pack sees it instantly, especially seth, who mocks her lovingly. but leah refuses to admit it.

she pretends she doesn’t care. but her eyes soften every time she looks at you. her voice warms when she says your name. her whole posture relaxes when you smile.

and if you touch her hand? she stops breathing. literally freezes like her entire system rebooted.

leah doesn’t confess because she’s scared, of losing you, of being too much, of you not choosing her back. but she loves you with a loyalty sharper than anything else she carries.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

seth clearwater

seth is pure sunshine around you. the softest boy on the planet. and the most whipped.

he follows you everywhere, smiling, laughing, talking to you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

he’s so obvious it’s hilarious.

• brings you flowers he picked himself • compliments you constantly • shares his food with zero hesitation • always asks, “are you okay?” even when you’re clearly fine • beams every time you look at him • gets teased by literally the entire pack, especially leah

seth acts like being near you is the highlight of his day. and honestly? it is.

if you hold his hand? he turns bright red but holds yours tighter. if you hug him? he clings. absolutely clings.

and when you say his name softly? he lights up like you handed him his entire future wrapped in ribbon.

seth doesn’t confess because he’s waiting for you to make the first move, not out of fear, but because he doesn’t want to scare you or rush anything.

The bonfire at First Beach was huge, sparks spitting up into a navy-blue sky. The driftwood crackled as the flames gnawed through it, and people crowded around with plates of food and red Solo cups, laughter thick in the salty air.

Bella had arrived late, shivering in that too-thin jacket she always wore, and instantly been swallowed up by the boys.

“Bells, you made it,” Jacob grinned, pulling her into a hug that lifted her off her feet.

“Someone’s gotta keep you alive,” she shot back.

Paul snorted. “Good luck with that.”

The circle around the fire constricted, bodies shifting to let Bella slide into the prime spot beside Jacob. Emily handed her a loaded plate before you even got your first burger.

You sat one person over, between Quil and Leah, fingers tightening around your paper plate as the familiar ache dug into your ribs. It was stupid. You knew it was stupid. These were your friends. Your family.

But your brain was stubborn: See? Second choice. Again.

“Hey,” Quil bumped your shoulder, “you’re zoning out. You going to eat that or worship it?”

You blinked, forcing a laugh. “I’m deciding if my heart can handle this much cholesterol.”

“Emily made it,” Leah said, raising a brow. “Your heart can handle it. Your jeans can’t.”

That earned a snort from you and an offended noise from Emily across the fire.

As the conversation drifted into teasing, stories, and random memes Jacob attempted to explain, you relaxed—just a little. Embry was across the fire, head tipped back as he laughed at something Jared said. Every once in a while, his gaze flicked over the flames to you.

Quick glances. Soft eyes. Tiny smiles meant just for you.

They made your stomach do weird, traitorous flips.

The story telling started once the first wave of food had vanished. Sam’s voice rolled over the group, deep and steady, telling old Quileute legends. You’d heard them before, but you always listened like it was the first time; there was something grounding about it.

Beside you, Bella shifted, brushing shoulders with Jacob. The firelight painted her skin in warm golds and oranges, her hair catching the glow.

You heard it then.

Low voices. Just behind you, not meant for you.

“Man, she’s like a magnet,” Jared muttered quietly. “Everywhere she goes, chaos.”

“Sam’s right to keep an eye on her,” Paul said under his breath. “It’s always Bella this, Bella that…”

There was a scoff. You couldn’t tell who. “And we’re the ones who get stuck cleaning up the mess. Again.”

You didn’t hear the rest.

Your chest clenched. The words twisted in your head, reshaping into something that stabbed sharper than they were probably meant to: Bella is a problem. Bella is important. Bella needs the pack. You…don’t.

They might tease her, they might be annoyed—but everything still revolved around her, didn’t it?

You suddenly felt like your skin was three sizes too small.

Without thinking, you set your half-finished drink down in the sand and stood.

“I’m gonna walk by the water,” you mumbled to Leah, not trusting your voice.

She barely glanced up. “Don’t fall in.”

Cool night air hit you as you stepped away from the blaze. The sounds of the bonfire—laughter, crackle, voices—faded under the steady roar of the ocean. Waves rolled in, white foam glowing under the moonlight.

You walked until the sand turned damp and firm under your shoes, until the weight in your chest felt too big to carry.

Why are you like this? you berated yourself. They’re just talking. It doesn’t mean anything.

But your mind wouldn’t let it go. It dragged everything back up from where you’d shoved it:

Walking into a room and people lighting up because Bella was behind you.

Teachers mixing up your names, then apologizing to Bella.

The Cullens’ sharp gazes always landing on her first.

Even here, on the Rez. Jacob’s obsession. Sam’s concern. The way everyone seemed to orbit around whatever trouble she’d stumbled into.

You were just…extra.

And maybe, secretly, you’d started to hope that here—with the pack, with him—you finally weren’t.

Stupid.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as the wind picked up, stinging your eyes. You pretended it was just the cold.

“Thought you might’ve gone for a swim or something.”

You jumped, whirling around.

Embry stood a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, hair ruffled from the sea breeze. The bonfire painted a halo of orange behind him, but his face was all cool shades and shadow.

“You scared me,” you muttered, heart racing.

He smiled, soft and crooked. “Didn’t mean to. You left kinda fast.”

You turned back toward the water, shoulders tensing. “Just needed air.”

His footsteps crunched in the sand as he moved closer, stopping beside you. Not touching, but close enough that his warmth brushed your arm.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You swallowed. Your throat felt too tight. “I’m fine.”

“(Y/N),” he said, voice gentle but firm, “that’s a lie.”

You huffed out a humorless laugh. “Since when did you become a human lie detector?”

“Since the day I imprinted on you,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your heart stuttered.

You knew. Of course you knew. It was the unspoken thing between you, humming under every shared look, every lingering touch. He’d never said it like that, out loud, but you weren’t stupid.

You just hadn’t realized hearing him say it would make your chest ache.

“Embry,” you whispered, staring at the waves, “don’t.”

“Don’t…what?”

“Don’t treat me like I’m special,” you said, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “Not when I’m not. Not really.”

He was silent for a beat. “Who put that idea in your head?”

You laughed again, bitter and tired. “No one had to. I have eyes.”

You gestured vaguely toward the bonfire in the distance. “It’s always her. Everyone trips over themselves to make sure Bella’s okay. The pack, the Cullens, my dad. She breathes and the world holds its breath too. I’m just…” You shrugged. “Extra. Bonus content. Background character.”

Embry stared at you like you’d just spoken fluent Martian.

“What?” you snapped, defensive heat licking at your skin. “You know I’m right.”

“Wow,” he said slowly. “You’re actually serious.”

You scowled. “Thanks.”

He stepped in front of you then, forcing you to look at him. The wind tugged at his hair, and his eyes—dark, warm, familiar—searched your face.

“First of all,” Embry said, “you are not background anything. The universe doesn’t do background characters with you.”

“You’re biased,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” he agreed immediately, “I am. But I’m also not blind.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to step around him. He moved with you, blocking your escape.

“Embry—”

“What happened?” he pressed. “Because ten minutes ago you were laughing at Quil’s stupid jokes, and now you look like someone kicked your puppy.”

You hesitated, teeth worrying your bottom lip.

“I heard them talking,” you admitted finally. “About Bella. About how she’s always chaos, always needing to be watched. And I just…” Your voice cracked. You stared at a shell half-buried in the sand. “It’s like, of course. Of course she’s the one worth all the attention and worry and effort. She’s the main character. I’m the sibling that gets mentioned twice and then vanishes.”

Embry’s jaw clenched.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, careful. “You heard them complaining. And your conclusion was…they love her more?”

“They care enough to complain,” you said quietly. “They care enough to talk about her when she’s not even around. No one does that about me.”

Embry was quiet for a long second.

Then he swore under his breath.

You flinched.

“Okay,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face like he was trying to physically wipe away your words. “Couple things. One: if you think no one talks about you when you’re not there, you severely underestimate how often I have to threaten to throttle Quil.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve had to listen to him say, ‘Bro, did you see what (Y/N) wore today?’ or ‘Bro, (Y/N) laughed at my joke, I think she actually finds me funnier than you—’” He shook his head. “I’m this close to decking him and he knows it.”

A tiny, unwilling smile tugged at your lips.

“Two,” Embry continued, eyes softening when he saw it, “they complain about Bella because they’re stressed. Because every time she sneezes, one of us ends up bleeding. That’s not…favorite material, babe. That’s hazard pay.”

You looked away, cheeks heating at the casual babe.

“And three,” he said, voice gentling, “you really haven’t noticed, have you?”

“Noticed what?”

He stepped closer, closing the space between you until his chest brushed your crossed arms.

“How the pack acts around you.”

You frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Embry tilted his head toward the bonfire. “When you walk up to Emily’s house, who gets the door?”

You thought about it. “Usually Sam or Jared.”

“Yeah,” Embry nodded. “Because they heard you coming from half a mile away and they’ll never say it, but they both have a soft spot for you. Sam calls you ‘kid’ because in his head you’re under his protection. Jared makes sure you eat first because he knows you forget when you’re stressed.”

Your throat tightened.

“Who gives you first pick of the good seats?” he pressed lightly.

“Quil,” you admitted.

“Who shares his snacks with you even though he growls at everyone else who tries to take one fry?”

“…Paul,” you said, remembering the way he’d silently dropped half his fries onto your plate at a movie night and then threatened to break Jacob’s fingers when he tried to steal one.

Embry’s mouth quirked. “Who lets you pick the playlist on the way to Port Angeles?”

“Jacob,” you whispered.

“And Seth?” Embry added. “He follows you around like a baby duck. Leah pretends she doesn’t care, but if anyone looks at you sideways, she’s halfway phased.”

The memories flickered through your mind in quick succession—little moments you’d never strung together into a pattern. Quil saving your spot. Paul shoving his hoodie at you when you complained about being cold. Leah wordlessly sliding you a mug of hot chocolate. Seth defending your movie choices with way too much passion.

“…That doesn’t mean they prefer me,” you said weakly.

Embry huffed out a soft laugh. “Babe, the pack literally calls you their favorite Swan.”

You stared. “You’re lying.”

“Swear on my bike,” he said, hand over his heart. “They love you. Like, obnoxiously. Emily once told me she thinks of Bella as the girl who brings tornadoes with her and you as the one who helps pick up the pieces.”

Your eyes burned.

Embry’s voice softened even more. “You walk into a room and everyone relaxes. You joke, you listen, you don’t treat them like monsters or bodyguards. You make this…” he waved a hand vaguely toward the cliffs, the Rez, the firelight—everything—“…feel normal. They’re protective of Bella because they have to be. They’re soft with you because they want to be.”

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

Embry’s expression crumpled. “Hey, hey. No crying, I’m bad at crying.”

You let out a watery laugh, swiping at your face. “Too late.”

He reached up, thumb brushing gently under your eye, catching the tear.

“I’m serious,” he said quietly. “You’re not second anything. Not here. Not with them.” His fingers lingered against your cheek. “And definitely not with me.”

Something in your chest shifted, cracking open.

“Embry,” you whispered, “you don’t have to say that just because of the imprint. I know it…kind of forces you—”

“It doesn’t force me to feel what I feel,” he cut in, eyes flashing. “The imprint is like…gravity. It pulls me to you. But everything else? The way I look for you first in a crowd, the way my whole day gets better if you text me a stupid meme, the way I literally cannot focus on patrol if I think you’re upset?” He shook his head. “That’s me.”

You swallowed hard.

“I liked you before I realized what the imprint meant,” he admitted, a little shy now. “You laughed at my joke about Sam’s grandpa socks, remember? No one laughs at my jokes.”

“I do,” you said automatically, because it was true. His laugh was your favorite sound.

“Exactly.” A small, helpless smile tugged at his lips. “You made me feel like more than just the screw-up kid who never knew his dad. Every time you chose to sit next to me, or ask me how my day was, it felt like you were picking me when you didn’t have to.”

He exhaled slowly, breath ghosting over your lips.

“So, yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe Bella’s world is on fire half the time, and we’re all running around with metaphorical hoses. But when the flames die down? When it’s just…life?” He leaned in closer, eyes locked on yours. “You’re the one I want next to me at the bonfire. You’re the one the pack teases me about. You’re the one Leah threatened to kill me over if I ever made you cry, by the way, so I fully expect to be mauled later for making you cry now.”

You laughed again, shaky but real.

“You didn’t make me cry,” you said. “My brain did.”

“Then let me help quiet it down,” he said simply.

You stared at him, at the sincerity etched into every line of his face, and felt the weight in your chest loosen another notch.

“What if it doesn’t go away?” you asked softly. “This feeling. Of being…less.”

“Then I’ll remind you as many times as it takes,” Embry replied without hesitation. “I’ll drag the entire pack out here and make them list reasons you’re their favorite until you get sick of hearing it.”

You snorted. “Paul would rather die.”

“Paul already risked his life by giving you fries,” Embry shot back. “Clearly, you’re worth it.”

The wind pushed a strand of hair into your face. Embry reached out and tucked it gently behind your ear, fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“So?” he asked, voice soft. “Can you try? To believe me? To believe them?”

You took a slow breath, eyes drifting back to the bonfire. From here, you could see silhouettes: Jacob gesturing wildly, Quil laughing too loudly, Seth probably bouncing on his toes.

Your family.

They weren’t perfect. They were loud and messy and occasionally idiotic.

But as you thought about it—really thought about it—you saw what Embry had described. The open seat they always saved for you. The way conversations shifted when you arrived. The protective glances, the inside jokes, the easy closeness.

Maybe you hadn’t been invisible at all.

“Yeah,” you said finally, turning back to him. “I can try.”

Relief flashed across his face, warm and bright.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I have a selfish request.”

You raised a brow. “You? Selfish? Shocked.”

His lips twitched. “I want you to remember one thing. Whenever your brain starts doing that ‘second choice’ thing?”

“What’s that?”

He took your hands, threading his fingers between yours. His grip was warm and steady, grounding you.

“For me,” Embry said, gaze unwavering, “you’re not second. You’re not even first. You’re it. The only one. Period.”

Your heart did that stupid, soaring thing again.

“You’re so cheesy,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he grinned, eyes crinkling, “but you like it.”

You did.

Before you could overthink it, you leaned up and pressed your mouth to his. The kiss was soft and a little salty from the sea air, his hands squeezing yours like he never planned to let go.

He made a quiet, surprised sound against your lips, then kissed you back, slow and careful—like he was memorizing the moment.

When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his, breathing him in.

“So,” you murmured, “not background character, huh?”

He snorted. “You’re literally the main character of my life. Bella who?”

You giggled, the sound bubbling up light and free.

“Don’t let Jacob hear you say that,” you warned.

“He already knows,” Embry winked. “Besides, if he argues, I’ll just remind him who you picked to kiss by the ocean.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “I didn’t pick—”

“You definitely picked,” he cut in, smug. “And I’m not complaining.”

He squeezed your hands once more before slinging an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you started walking back toward the fire.

The bonfire glow grew brighter, voices clearer.

As you approached, Seth spotted you first. “Hey!” he called, waving so wildly he almost smacked Quil in the face. “We were gonna send a search party.”

“Yeah, (Y/N),” Quil added, “you can’t just wander off. I almost had to go into responsible adult mode and no one wants that.”

“Please never say that again,” Leah muttered.

Paul eyed you for a beat, then nudged the spot between him and Quil. “C’mon, Swan. Seat’s still warm.”

Your chest fluttered.

Embry leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Told you,” he whispered.

You smiled, letting Embry guide you back into the circle, his arm a constant weight around your shoulders, his thumb drawing lazy circles on your arm.

Bella glanced up and smiled at you from across the fire, oblivious to the quiet storm that had just passed.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like her shadow.

You felt like you.

Loved. Wanted. Seen.

Not second choice.

Just…his. And theirs.

As the fire crackled and the waves roared in the distance, you leaned into Embry’s side, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

“Hey, Embry?” you murmured.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” you said simply.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, voice low and sure. “Anytime, babe. That’s what favorites are for.”

Disclaimer:

Sam Uley

Sam’s hoodie practically swallows you whole, oversized, heavy, and carrying that distinct scent of cedar, pine, and something purely him. When you walk into the room wearing it, everyone notices, but no one says a word. They don’t have to. The way Sam looks at you says it all.

He’s talking to Jared when he sees you, mid-sentence, and the words just… stop.

His gaze trails over you, quiet but unreadable, the kind of look that feels like a touch.

You fidget, tugging the sleeve over your hand. “What?” you ask, pretending not to know.

His lips twitch, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “That’s mine.”

“You left it in bed,” you counter, chin tilted up. “Finders keepers.”

He doesn’t argue. He just steps closer, brushing his thumb along your jaw, murmuring, “Keep it, then. Looks better on you anyway.”

When the others start teasing, Sam only gives them one glance, and suddenly, the jokes stop.

Later, when you’re alone, his fingers hook into the hem of the hoodie, tugging you toward him until you’re chest to chest. “You know what that does to me, right?” he murmurs, voice low, rough.

You just smile into his chest as his arms wrap around you, the warmth of him bleeding through the fabric that already smells like home.

To Sam, it’s not just a hoodie, it’s a claim, a quiet, unspoken promise that you’re his and he’s yours.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Jared Cameron

Jared’s flannel is soft from wear, faded plaid, sleeves rolled, the faint scent of smoke and soap clinging to it. When you show up wearing it, he’s instantly grinning, that signature, cocky grin that makes his dimple show. But underneath the teasing, there’s that warm, full-hearted love that makes his chest ache a little.

“Well, damn,” he drawls, eyes roaming over you with a playful spark. “That mine?”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Could be anyone’s.”

“Mmh,” he hums, stepping closer. “Nah. I’d know that shirt anywhere. Looks better stretched across you, though.”

His fingers find the edge of the fabric, brushing lightly against your skin as he teases, “Didn’t even ask, huh?”

You smirk. “You would’ve said no.”

He shakes his head, smile softening. “I would’ve said take it. Didn’t know seeing you in it would knock the air outta me, though.”

The others tease him for letting you “steal” his clothes, but he doesn’t care, he likes when people see you in his things. It sends a small, primal jolt through him every time.

Later, when he pulls you into his arms, his voice softens. “You know, I didn’t realize how much I’d love that look on you.”

He kisses the top of your head, murmuring, “Smells like me. Feels right.”

Jared’s teasing is loud, his affection louder, but when you wear his flannel, the laughter quiets into something softer. Something that feels like home.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Paul Lahote

Paul doesn’t do subtle. When he sees you in his hoodie, the one you stole from his room without warning, there’s no mistaking the reaction. It’s pure, instinctual, a mix of shock, pride, and something darker. He’s always on edge, always running hot, but that sight? It makes him still.

You walk up to him at Emily’s, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, the sleeves hanging long past your fingers.

The second he looks up, his jaw goes tight. “You’re wearing my hoodie,” he says, voice low. Not angry, just stunned.

“Yeah,” you say casually. “It’s comfy.”

His nostrils flare slightly, his gaze dragging down your frame, his hoodie hanging loose, your hair messy, his scent all over you.

“You have no idea what that does to me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair as if to keep his temper, or something else, in check.

The others notice his reaction instantly and start teasing. “Easy there, Lahote. You look like you’re gonna combust.”

Paul glares. “Shut it.”

When you try to laugh it off, he steps closer, lowering his head until your foreheads nearly touch. “You can wear it whenever you want,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Just… don’t be surprised if I can’t keep my hands to myself after.”

Later, when you’re curled up in his arms, he tugs the hood over your head and kisses your forehead. “Smells like home,” he whispers, quiet, reverent, almost gentle.

For Paul, your wearing his clothes hits every instinct at once, protective, possessive, and completely undone by the thought of you choosing something that belongs to him.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Jacob Black

Jacob’s hoodie isn’t fancy, just a worn, dark one that’s clearly seen too many days of grease and sawdust. But to him, it’s comfort. Familiar. And when he sees you wearing it, it’s like watching a piece of his world fit perfectly into yours.

You don’t even announce it, you just show up at the garage, sleeves too long, the hem nearly hitting your knees.

He turns around mid-laugh with Quil, then freezes mid-word.

“Is that—” His brow furrows, then softens instantly. “—my hoodie?”

You grin, tugging at the hood string. “Was cold.”

“Could’ve told me,” he says, though the corner of his mouth is already twitching upward.

“Would you have said yes?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Probably not. But seeing it on you now… yeah, I take it back.”

He reaches out, his hand resting at your waist as he tugs you closer. “You look… good.” It’s simple, but the softness in his tone carries everything he can’t say out loud.

You catch Quil’s teasing glance from the corner of your eye, and Jacob huffs, wrapping his arms around you protectively. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.”

Later, when you’re sitting by the fire together, he tugs the hoodie’s sleeve over your hand, intertwining your fingers inside it. “You should keep it,” he murmurs. “Looks better on you anyway.”

Jacob’s calm, warm kind of pride makes moments like that feel heavier, not possessive, not showy, just real. You wearing his hoodie isn’t just cute to him; it’s a quiet declaration of belonging.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Quil Ateara

The second Quil spots you in his flannel, he nearly drops whatever’s in his hands. His grin spreads slow and wide, that easy sunshine smile that somehow still makes your heart skip a beat. It’s not teasing, not really, it’s pure awe, like he’s seeing something he didn’t know he needed.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa— is that mine?” His tone is playful, but there’s a genuine wonder beneath it.

You glance down at yourself, pretending to think. “Maybe. Found it lying around.”

“That’s my favorite one!” he protests, stepping closer. “You can’t just steal it and expect me to— okay, fine, yeah, you can.”

He gives in too easily, fingers brushing the sleeve like he can’t quite believe how right it looks on you.

“You look really good,” he admits, voice soft now, his teasing melting into something tender.

He tugs gently at the fabric until you stumble closer, and his grin turns boyish again. “It’s official, you’re never giving this back.”

Around the others, he’s shameless, proudly slinging his arm around you, letting everyone see the way you’re practically swimming in his clothes.

Later, when it’s quiet, he buries his face against your shoulder and murmurs, “Smells like me now. Guess that means you’re stuck with it… and me.”

For Quil, it’s not about ownership, it’s affection, plain and bright. You wearing his flannel feels like warmth shared, a sign that you belong in every piece of his world.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Embry Call

Embry freezes mid-step the moment he sees you, his hoodie hanging loose, sleeves too long, hood halfway up. It’s the one he practically lives in, and on you, it looks… softer. The way his gaze lingers gives away how much it hits him.

“That’s mine,” he says, but there’s no edge in it, just quiet amazement.

You hum, tugging the hood up. “It was cold. I borrowed it.”

“You could’ve asked,” he murmurs, though the faint smile tugging at his mouth says he doesn’t mind at all.

His eyes follow every little movement, the way the hem brushes your thighs, the way his scent clings to you.

“Didn’t realize it’d look better on you,” he finally says, voice low, rougher than usual.

When you pass him later, he catches your wrist, pulling you into a brief hug that lingers too long to be casual. “Keep it,” he whispers. “I’ll just… steal it back when I miss you.”

Around the pack, he pretends to shrug it off, but they all notice the way he glances at you every time you adjust the hoodie.

Later that night, when you’re sitting on the porch, he leans against the railing beside you. “I like seeing you in my stuff,” he says quietly. “Makes it feel like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

With Embry, it’s not loud or dramatic, just full of quiet warmth. You wearing his hoodie says all the things he doesn’t always know how to put into words.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Leah Clearwater

Leah’s reaction is immediate, a mix of raised brows and the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her flannel looks oversized on you, sleeves rolled up, collar a little crooked. It’s casual, but she notices everything, especially the fact that it’s hers.

“Really?” she says, tone half amused, half fond. “Couldn’t find your own clothes?”

You grin, tugging the sleeve. “Yours are warmer.”

“Yeah, because they’re mine,” she quips, though her eyes soften as they linger on you.

Leah pretends to play it off, but the smile that slips through isn’t one she can hide.

“You look… cute,” she finally admits, voice quieter than before. “Don’t get used to me saying that.”

You arch a brow. “So I can keep it?”

“Mmm… we’ll see,” she says, stepping closer, tugging the collar straight. “Just don’t go getting anyone else’s attention in it.”

When the boys tease her, she shoots them a sharp look that ends it instantly. “What? It looks good on them.”

Later, when you’re curled up together, she traces her fingers over the sleeve and murmurs, “Keep it. You already made it yours anyway.”

Leah isn’t one for big gestures, but the softness that slips through when you wear her clothes, that’s her love language. Quiet, careful, and real.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Seth Clearwater

Seth lights up the second he sees you. His grin is instant, wide, unrestrained, pure sunshine energy. You could be wearing a sack and he’d still find you adorable, but seeing you in his hoodie? That’s a whole different level of heart-melting.

“No way,” he laughs, pointing at you. “That’s my hoodie! You actually took it!”

You shrug, playing innocent. “You said I could borrow it.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you actually would!” he says, shaking his head but smiling like he can’t believe his luck.

He circles around you, pretending to inspect it. “Okay, yeah, that’s officially unfair. How do you make my clothes look that good?”

When you roll your eyes, he tugs gently on the hood string. “Don’t give me that look. You’re adorable.”

Later, when the two of you are sitting by the fire, he drapes his arm around you, tugging you closer until you’re tucked against his side.

“You should keep it,” he murmurs after a while. “It looks better on you, anyway.”

His voice softens even more, almost shy. “Besides… I like knowing you’re warm. That you’ve got a piece of me with you.”

He rests his chin on top of your head, still smiling, his hand drawing slow circles against your back. “You’re kind of my favorite thief, you know that?”

ᨒ being in a relationship with embry call

Being with Embry is like falling in love in slow motion, quiet, steady, and achingly deep. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t announce his feelings in grand gestures or loud declarations; instead, he shows them in every small, deliberate action. His love unfolds gradually, layer by layer, until one day you realize it’s everywhere, in the way he looks at you, the way he says your name, the way his hand always seems to find yours no matter where you are.

Embry doesn’t rush anything. He’s gentle by nature, all soft edges and careful touches, but there’s something powerful in that restraint. His affection is subtle but certain, the kind that seeps into your bones and stays there. When he first fell for you, he tried to hide it, the way his breath caught when you smiled, the way he’d look away too quickly when you caught him staring. He wasn’t used to something this consuming, this real. But when the bond deepened, when it became clear that you were his, he stopped running from it. Instead, he learned to lean into the feeling, to let himself be seen.

He’s attentive in ways that surprise you. He remembers everything you say, even the smallest, throwaway details. If you mention a song you liked once, it’ll be playing quietly in his truck the next time you drive together. If you’re tired, he’s the first to notice, already reaching to take something heavy out of your hands before you even ask. He’s thoughtful without trying to be, and his kindness doesn’t demand recognition. He just… cares. And it shows.

Embry’s love language is time. He wants to be there, not just for the big moments, but the in-between ones. Sitting beside you in silence while you read. Fixing something in your house without being asked. Staying up late just because you can’t sleep. His presence is comforting, grounding, like the ocean at night, vast and quiet, but full of unspoken emotion. He’s not loud about his love, but it’s always there, constant and steady, as if his heart found its rhythm in yours.

When he touches you, it’s with a kind of reverence, like he’s still in awe that he gets to. His fingertips always start soft, tracing lazy circles on your skin, hesitant at first as though he’s afraid to take too much. There’s a shyness to him in the beginning, that endearing awkwardness that makes your chest ache because you can feel how much he wants to do right by you. But once he grows comfortable, once he learns what makes you sigh and relax into him, his confidence blooms. He’s quiet still, but his eyes speak for him, that deep, burning gaze that says I’m yours. I’d do anything for you.

Embry’s emotions run deeper than he lets on. He’s sensitive, but he doesn’t see it as weakness, not when it comes to you. He feels things deeply, even when he doesn’t know how to say them. When you cry, he doesn’t rush to fix it. He doesn’t tell you to stop or try to distract you. Instead, he holds you, wordlessly, firmly, until your breathing evens out. His hands move slowly up and down your back, his voice low when he finally murmurs, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” And you know he means it. He always means it.

Jealousy isn’t something Embry shows easily. He trusts you, and he tries to keep his emotions in check. But when someone flirts too long or stands too close, you feel that subtle shift in him, the way his body straightens, the muscle in his jaw tightens. He won’t make a scene. He’ll just step closer, his arm slipping around your waist, eyes hardening in a quiet, protective way. It’s not possessiveness; it’s instinct. He doesn’t need to prove anything, he just needs to know you’re safe, that whoever’s looking at you knows exactly who you belong to.

He’s the kind of man who makes you laugh when you least expect it, shy smile breaking into a grin, his dimple showing when he teases you gently. You’ll catch him looking at you sometimes, his expression soft, almost dazed, and he’ll shake his head and mutter, “You have no idea what you do to me.” It’s not about lust, though that’s there too, it’s the awe of loving someone who sees him for who he is.

Embry’s devotion is quiet but unwavering. Once he loves you, there’s no undoing it. You could be miles apart, and he’d still think about you every day, checking his phone just to see if you texted, driving by your place when he misses you too much. He doesn’t love halfway; he never could. You’re in his every heartbeat, his every breath. When you curl up against him, his hand always settles over your heart, thumb tracing slow patterns like he’s memorizing the rhythm.

He doesn’t say I love you often, but when he does, it’s soft, almost reverent. “I love you,” he murmurs against your hair, voice barely above a whisper, like it’s something sacred he’s afraid to break. He says it like it’s a promise, steady, eternal, absolute.

With Embry, love feels like home. It’s the quiet safety of a steady heartbeat beneath your ear, the comfort of laughter shared in the dark, the kind of warmth that doesn’t fade when the world gets cold. He doesn’t demand attention or make a spectacle of his love, he just gives it, endlessly, selflessly.