Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The pull was undeniable. The first time Paul’s eyes locked on her—Leah’s younger sister—it was like gravity had shifted. The world stopped spinning for a heartbeat, then crashed back down on him with suffocating force. Every instinct screamed mine. Every nerve in his body strained toward her.

But he refused.

Paul Lahote didn’t want a tether. He didn’t want fate dictating his life, chaining him to someone else when he already barely had control of himself. His anger, his temper, his rage. He knew what he was, and he wasn’t about to drag her into it.

The cruelest part was that she had no idea what hit her. To her, Paul was just the cocky, sharp-edged wolf who had always orbited the periphery of Leah’s life. And suddenly, he was everywhere, his eyes following her, his body tense whenever another man came too close. She didn’t understand the way his chest burned every time she smiled at someone else, or why his fists clenched when she laughed with Embry, with Seth, with anyone but him.

And she would never understand. Because Paul made the choice.

“I don’t want this,” he told her one night, his voice breaking beneath its roughness. “Whatever you think this is, it isn’t. Stay away from me.”

The look on her face gutted him. Confusion, then hurt, then the kind of quiet devastation that made him want to rip his own heart out. She wasn’t Leah—she didn’t wear her armour as naturally, didn’t know how to spit venom to mask the pain. She just stood there, soft and breakable, while he turned his back on her.

Leah saw through it immediately. She saw the way Paul avoided her sister, the way his whole body coiled when she entered a room, how his wolf prowled just beneath the surface whenever she was near.

“You’re a coward,” Leah hissed at him after a patrol. “You think pushing her away makes you noble? You’re wrecking her. And for what? Because you’re scared? You think she’s better off without you? She doesn’t want better off, Paul. She wants you.”

But Paul couldn’t bring himself to give in. The imprint wasn’t a choice—it was a shackle. And what kind of life could he give her? Nights of rage-fueled transformations, the constant threat of losing himself, the inevitability of dragging her into the darkness that lived inside him.

He watched her break slowly, piece by piece, every time he pushed her further away. The way her laughter dulled, the way her eyes dimmed when he wouldn’t meet them. He told himself it was better this way, that someday she’d heal, find someone human, someone safe.

But the truth was, Paul was the one unravelling. Every step he took away from her felt like carving flesh from bone. Every lie, every rejection, was a wound that never healed.

And the worst part? His wolf didn’t understand. The wolf howled for her, clawed at his chest, demanded he go to her, touch her, claim her. Some nights Paul woke trembling, his sheets torn, her name a raw cry in his throat.

He was breaking both of them, and he knew it. But he couldn’t stop.

Because loving her meant destroying her. And Paul Lahote couldn’t live with that blood on his hands.

Chapter Text

The fire roared high against the dark sky, sparks snapping upward like restless spirits. Paul sat near the edge of the gathering, restless himself, trying not to grind his teeth. The weight of too many bodies, too much noise, pressed in on him. The pack’s energy buzzed through the air. Jacob’s booming laugh, Embry’s easy chatter, Jared leaning into Kim’s touch like a lovesick fool. Even Sam had softened tonight, his arm draped protectively around Emily, his wolf settled by her nearness.

Paul hated nights like this. The bonfire was supposed to mean tradition, unity, healing after the latest loss. Harry Clearwater’s death had gutted them all, shaking the tribe in ways Paul didn’t have words for. Leah and Seth had phased for the first time in the aftermath, their pain turning into raw power neither had asked for. Now they carried the same burden Paul had been shouldering for months, rage simmering under the skin, a body never fully human, never fully wolf.

It should have made him feel less alone. Instead, it made the air heavier.

He kept his eyes on the fire, jaw tight, refusing to let the familiar ache of anger gnaw through him. He didn’t want to watch Sam with Emily, didn’t want to remember what it meant to be tethered to someone for life. That wasn’t in the cards for him. Not ever.

Movement at the edge of the circle caught his attention. Someone stepping into the glow of the fire, hesitating before joining the others. For a moment, Paul didn’t recognize her—he hadn’t seen her in months. Not since before everything had changed, before the wolf had taken root under his skin.

Then her gaze lifted. Straight into his.

The world shifted.

Sound dropped away. The fire’s roar, the laughter, the chatter—all of it blurred into nothing. There was only her, her eyes locking with his, steady and unguarded.

Paul’s lungs seized. His wolf surged forward, claws raking at his chest, a raw demand tearing through him.

Mine.

It was like gravity itself had been rewritten, pulling him toward her with bone-deep inevitability. His skin burned, every nerve lit up, every muscle straining to close the space between them. She tilted her head, a small crease forming between her brows as though she felt something too, though she couldn’t possibly know.

The firelight caught on her hair, on the curve of her mouth, and Paul’s chest ached like it had split wide open.

It was gravity. It was inevitability.

And it was hell.

Paul shot to his feet, nearly knocking over the log he’d been sitting on. Heads turned, curious, but he couldn’t stay still, couldn’t breathe. He stumbled into the trees beyond the firelight, fists clenched, the wolf inside him howling so loud he thought it would split him in half.

“Paul.”

Sam’s voice came from behind, calm but edged with warning. Of course Sam had noticed. He noticed everything.

“Don’t,” Paul rasped, back to him, shoulders shaking.

Sam didn’t answer at first. The silence was enough. Paul squeezed his eyes shut, dragging in air, trying to force the tremor out of his hands.

“It’s not a curse,” Sam said finally, low, steady. “It feels like it. At first. But it doesn’t have to be.”

Paul laughed, harsh and broken. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what’s in my head.”

Sam’s silence was sharper this time. He did know. They all did. The pack mind had no secrets.

Paul shoved both hands through his hair, tugging hard until his scalp stung. The image of her wouldn’t leave him. The firelight in her eyes, the quiet strength in her face. His wolf clawed at him, snarling, desperate to turn back, to go to her, to claim what was theirs.

But Paul knew better.

He was rage. He was ruin. He would tear her apart just by being near her.

When he finally turned back toward the fire, she was still there across the flames. Leah by her side, Seth hovering protectively on her other shoulder. She was watching the fire, not him, her expression unreadable in the flickering light.

Paul’s chest ached.

He turned away again, swallowed by the dark.

Chapter Text

The fire should have been comforting. It was the kind of night she’d grown up with—wood smoke, waves in the distance, voices carrying stories into the dark. Familiar. Safe. But nothing felt safe anymore. Without her dad, the world tilted wrong. She caught herself still listening for his voice when the elders spoke, waiting for his laugh to thread through the crowd. Every time the silence answered back, the ache in her chest deepened.

Sue was there, but not really. She sat a little apart from the others, her hands twisting in her lap, her smile brittle whenever someone leaned in to speak to her. Every now and then, she would stand and busy herself with something that didn’t need doing—tidying food that was already neat, adding wood to a fire that burned steady, always moving, always avoiding the space where Harry should have been. 

Seth stayed close, bouncing from group to group but always circling back, as if making sure she didn’t slip too far into herself. Leah was different. Distant. Sharper than usual, though she stood at her side now, arms folded, her glare cutting through anyone who lingered too long. Her sister’s gaze landed more than once on Emily, sitting across the circle with Sam’s arm draped over her shoulders, his voice low in her ear. Emily laughed softly at something he said, leaning into his chest, her face glowing in the firelight. The sound made Leah’s jaw clench. She turned her head away quickly, but not before her sister caught the flicker of pain in her eyes. Sue, sitting a few logs away, caught the tension instantly. She flinched slightly, then forced her eyes down, busying herself with the firewood at her feet. It was easier than facing the weight of the anger, the jealousy, the frustration that always seemed to swirl around Leah and Sam.

Her own frustration bubbled just beneath the surface. She hated how their mother seemed to accept Sam and Emily so easily, laughing with them, including them in tribal stories. She didn’t understand it—couldn’t understand her mother’s seeming betrayal to her daughter, who she watched grieve a life that felt already half-written. She was meant to marry Sam, live in the house he built for them, have Harry walk her down the aisle at their beach wedding, have two or three babies and have their happily ever after. It was as if their destinies were set before birth, their bond predetermined, and yet here was her mother, smiling at Emily, full of acceptance, while Leah was left to wrestle with the weight of what might have been. It felt like a quiet dismissal of Leah’s pain, like the mother she loved was choosing to gloss over the hurt instead of standing in it with her. But she would stand by her. 

Tonight was supposed to be about tradition, healing, family. Instead, the bonfire felt like a place full of holes—too many empty spaces that would never be filled again. She had drifted toward the edges of the bonfire, letting the noise of the tribe swallow her. She laughed when Seth nudged her, smiled when Jacob cracked a joke, tried to act like her chest wasn’t tight with the constant reminder of what was missing.

And then she felt it.

A pull.

It wasn’t sudden, exactly. More like the air slowly thickened, like her pulse skipped a beat before slamming hard against her ribs.Her gaze lifted without thought, drawn across the circle of light. And there he was.

Paul Lahote.

Her heart gave a stupid, traitorous lurch. She’d known him for years. Not well, not personally—just one of those faces always around at these gatherings, leaning against driftwood like he owned the beach. Too cocky, too loud, the kind of guy her mom warned her about without even needing to say the words. Leah never hid her disdain for him either. "Hothead. Full of himself. Don’t waste your time," she’d sneered once when she caught her looking a little too long. She’d always pretended he was easy to dislike but pretending didn’t erase the way she’d noticed him. The way her eyes always found him at gatherings, even when she scolded herself for it. Leah had warned her plenty of times.

And she had listened. She had tried to listen. Paul Lahote wasn’t someone you dreamed about. He wasn’t someone you let yourself like.

But God, she had. Even now, when his eyes locked on hers, it was like something tore through her chest, raw and consuming. The rest of the world faded, laughter dimming, fire crackling quieter, her body leaning forward before she even realised. It was like falling, but not down—falling into something vast and endless, pulled toward a centre she hadn’t even known existed until that moment. Her chest squeezed so tight she almost gasped. The firelight reflected in his eyes, and she couldn’t look away. Something inside her whispered, you know him. Which was ridiculous. She didn’t know Paul. Not really. Another Rez guy she’d grown up circling in tradition and bonfires and ceremonies, but right then, staring into him, it felt like she did. Like she always had.

Then Paul jolted to his feet. The log he’d been sitting on nearly toppled, head turned, and without a word, he stalked into the shadows of the trees. Conversations faltered, curious eyes followed him as he stalked into the trees. She blinked, disoriented, her heartbeat slamming in her ears. Her breath caught.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement—Sam Uley rising too, his expression unreadable. He didn’t say anything, didn’t excuse himself, just slipped away in the same direction Paul had gone. She frowned. Sam had always made her uneasy, the way people looked at him, the quiet authority he carried, the strange magnetism that pulled others into his orbit. It was bad enough Leah’s life had been wrecked because of him but now seeing him follow Paul into the dark, silent and deliberate, set her teeth on edge. Beside her, Leah’s body went rigid, her arms tightened across her chest, her eyes narrowing on Sam’s retreating back with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. For a moment, her sister looked like she might spit venom right then and there, but instead she stayed silent, jaw tight, her anger coiled so tightly it felt like a live wire.

“What the hell was that about?” Seth murmured at her side, eyebrows shooting up. She shook her head quickly, forcing her gaze back to the flames.

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

Leah snorted. “It’s Paul. Probably throwing a tantrum because someone looked at him funny.” Her tone was sharp, dismissive. But when she turned her head, her eyes flickered between her sister and the dark trees, suspicion etched into every line of her face.

“Seriously, though,” Seth said, nudging her shoulder. “He was staring right at you. Did you see that?”

Her face heated. “No. He wasn’t.”

Seth grinned, boyish and irritating. “Oh, he totally was.”

Leah rolled her eyes. “Don’t encourage her. Paul’s not worth the air he breathes.”

The words should have settled it. Should have reminded her of all the reasons she’d always brushed off the faint flutter she felt whenever Paul was near. But they didn’t. Because all she could think about was that look in his eyes before he’d bolted—raw, fierce, like something had cracked wide open between them.

“Don’t,” Leah murmured beside her, low and warning, like she’d seen the whole thing. Like she knew. She swallowed hard and forced herself to look back at the fire, to pretend nothing had happened. But her skin still burned, her pulse still raced, and the space Paul had left behind felt jagged and wrong.

Much later, when most of the tribe had drifted home, she lingered by the dying fire with Leah and Seth. The embers glowed faintly red, waves whispering against the shore. Seth finally stood, stretching.

“You guys coming?” he asked, his voice carrying that restless edge it always did lately.

“In a bit,” Leah said, not looking at him. He hesitated, then nodded and trotted off toward home, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet. She tugged her jacket tighter around herself, staring at the spot where Paul had been.

“Do you… do you think he’s okay?” The question slipped out before she could swallow it down. Leah’s head snapped toward her.

“What?”

“Paul,” she said softly. “He just—left. I don’t know. It was weird.” Leah let out a sharp laugh with no humour in it.

“Weird is his middle name. Trust me, you don’t want to get tangled up in Paul Lahote’s drama. He’s nothing but trouble.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to get tangled up—” she protested. Leah cut her off, voice hard.

“Good. Then don’t.”

The words landed like a slap, shutting her up instantly. Leah’s armour was impenetrable tonight, her grief sharper than usual, and she didn’t want to fight her. Still, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from drifting back to the trees, to the shadow she swore still lingered there, unseen but heavy. What had that been? She couldn’t explain it. The look in his eyes had been too raw, too consuming, like she’d seen him stripped bare for a heartbeat before he slammed the door shut again. She’d felt it in her bones, in the way her whole body had leaned toward him without her permission. And it terrified her. Because she knew Paul. He was danger wrapped in human skin, unpredictable and quick-tempered. Leah had said once that he was all fire and no anchor. She should stay away. She wanted to stay away. So why couldn’t she stop thinking about the way her chest had ached when he left? Why did her body still hum with the echo of that pull? She pressed her forehead into her hands, groaning quietly. Maybe she was losing her mind. Grief had done stranger things. Maybe she was just desperate for something, anything, to fill the hollow space her father had left. And yet… deep down, she knew it wasn’t that. This was different. Too sharp. Too real. From the shadows at the tree line, she thought she heard something shift. A presence, heavy and electric, like the air before a storm. She froze, heart in her throat, but when she turned, there was nothing but trees and darkness. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling. She couldn’t ignore the way her body still hummed, like the air around her had shifted and would never go back.

By the time they got home, the night had settled heavy over the house. The silence inside was worse than the emptiness at the bonfire. She could almost hear the echoes of what used to be—her dad’s laugh, the shuffle of his boots, the hum of his voice in the kitchen. Her mom wasn't home again. There were always excuses—helping at the clinic, staying late with friends, council meetings, errands. Anything that meant she didn’t have to sit in the house where his absence was loudest. She would come back eventually, sometimes in the small hours of the morning, her eyes swollen and red, but more and more often the house was just… empty. It was easier, her mom said once, to keep moving, to find noise instead of quiet. But the quiet was all she had tonight.

Now it was just them. Seth was restless, pacing. He muttered something about needing to head out, eyes darting toward Leah, waiting for her to say the same.

“Where are you going?” she asked, frowning.

“Sam’s,” Seth said quickly, already tugging on a hoodie. “Just—stuff.”

“Sam’s?” she repeated, incredulous. “You’re serious? Leah, you’re going too?”

Her sister stiffened, jaw tight. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. You hate him.”

Leah flinched, just barely, but covered it with steel. “Not everything’s about me. Don’t wait up.”

And then they were gone. Just like that. She stood in the doorway, the silence rushing back around her like a tide. Alone again.The ache of grief spread sharp and wide through her chest, the kind that made her throat burn and her stomach twist. She hated being left behind, hated not understanding why Leah and Seth—who had every reason to despise Sam Uley—suddenly bent toward him like gravity. She crawled into bed later on that evening, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every creak of the house reminded her she was the only one there. Every gust of wind through the trees outside made her wonder if Paul was still out there in the dark. Her heart pounded at the thought and she hated herself for it, she shouldn't care where Paul Lahote was, or what storm lived inside his eyes. When she did finally drift into sleep, she dreamt of firelight and shadows, and Paul, standing at the edge of it all, just out of reach.

Chapter Text

The morning after the bonfire was too bright. The kind of sharp, clean September light that made everything feel exposed - every bruise, every secret. She lay in bed longer than she intended, listening to the gulls outside, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint creak of the floorboards, hoping the world would fold back into the quiet it had been before her father died. But it didn’t. The dream clung stubbornly: firelight, laughter, the heat of his gaze, Paul Lahote’s eyes catching hers, the world collapsing to a single impossible moment.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.She told herself a lot of things.

The kitchen was cold when she came down. A note on the counter in her mother’s tidy handwriting read: Council meeting this morning. Back later. Don’t wait for me.
Nothing else. No heart, no smiley face, no warmth. Her mother didn’t do warmth anymore — not since her father died. Just movement, obligation, reasons to stay away from the house where grief waited like a living thing.

She made toast, burned it, scraped it off anyway. The smell filled the kitchen, bitter and too familiar. Her dad used to tease her about that - said she liked her bread more ash than wheat. The memory twisted something inside her. He also used to make fun of her coffee habits, said she treated caffeine like dessert. Now, her routine was sacred: strong brew, hazelnut syrup, a dollop of cream if there was any left in the fridge, a drizzle of caramel on top. Sweet, messy, hers. The kettle whistled softly on the stove, and she reached for a mug. The smell filled the kitchen, soft and warm against the chill in the air. It was the one thing that felt like comfort anymore. The first sip hit her tongue and the ache inside her loosened a little, but then her thoughts crept back to the bonfire, the heat, that moment when Paul had looked at her and something in the world had tilted sideways.

He’d looked at her like-

She cut the thought off. It was ridiculous. He hadn’t looked at her, not really. It was just a trick of the firelight, the heat, her own imagination desperate for something to feel other than loss. Because Paul Lahote didn’t look at girls like her. He never had.

She’d had a crush on him since she was fifteen - stupid, embarrassing, the kind of thing she’d never admitted to anyone, not even Leah. He’d driven that beat-up truck everyone recognised by sound alone, always showing up to school late and leaving early. There were always girls around him - the bold ones, the flirty ones, the ones who knew how to stand close and laugh at just the right moment. She used to watch him across the cafeteria, the way sunlight would catch the edge of his smile, the way he’d lean back like the world belonged to him.
He’d never noticed her. Not even once.

She’d told herself she didn’t care, that she didn’t want to be like the other girls who orbited him, the ones with perfect hair and easy laughter. But she did cared. She had gone home and stared at herself in the mirror, wondering why she couldn’t be one of them. Why she couldn’t be the kind of girl a boy like Paul Lahote even saw.

She sighed and leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window. She wasn’t Leah - bold and beautiful and sharp enough to cut. She wasn’t Seth, easy-going and golden, the kind of person people just gravitated toward. She was the in-between, too quiet, too cautious, too unsure of herself. The one people forgot in group photos, the one teachers called the wrong name because they remembered her siblings better. Middle child syndrome, Leah called it, forgotten in the shuffle.

And yet, last night, for one single heartbeat, she hadn’t been invisible.

Her face burned at the memory. The way his eyes had locked on hers, the way her stomach had dropped, the pull in her chest so fierce it had felt like the air itself had shifted. And then he’d left. Just like that. No word, no reason, vanishing into the trees with Sam following close behind.

She hated how much it had rattled her.

By midmorning, she couldn’t stand the house anymore. The quiet pressed against her ears like static. She grabbed her jacket - her dad’s, soft from years of wear - and walked toward the beach. The wind had that sharp edge of late September, bracing and cold against her cheeks. The sand was damp and clung to her shoes, the waves restless and noisy, crashing in chaotic rhythm against the shore. Her breaths came in shallow gusts as she walked, each exhale tinged with the salt of the ocean. She tried to focus on the ordinary - gulls wheeling overhead, driftwood bleached white, the familiar creak of the pier, but her mind refused to settle. Her mind wandered to Paul again, because of course it did. The way his jaw had tightened, the flicker of something wild in his expression before he bolted into the trees. She didn’t know what it meant, but it had felt… personal.

“Don’t be stupid,” she muttered, kicking at the sand.

She’d seen the girls he went for. She wasn’t one of them. Not the kind that turned heads, not the type that boys like him remembered. Maybe she wasn’t the type anyone remembered.

She kicked at the sand, letting it scatter with each step. She forced herself to laugh at the few people trying and failing to conquer the September waves, to count the gulls further down the beach trying to scavenge for leftover crumbs from last nights bonfire, to hum under her breath, anything. But it didn’t work, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. The ache in her chest wouldn’t let her. She felt pathetic, letting a stupid crush she had on someone who had she hadn't ever even had a conversation with, on someone that wouldn't look twice in her direction, affect her this deeply. It must be the grief confusing things, she thought, with a lack of conviction. 

Her breath caught when something shifted near the treeline - a flicker of motion, subtle and quick. For a moment, it felt like eyes on her, the air thick and charged. She turned, heart thudding, but saw nothing. Just trees, the faint shimmer of heat where sunlight cut through the leaves.

When she finally went home, the sky had started to dim. Sue was back, sleeves rolled to her elbows, standing at the sink. The smell of something simmering filled the kitchen - onions, broth, the kind of soup her mom always made when she didn’t know what else to do with herself.

“Where have you been?” her mother asked without turning.

“Down by the beach, just went for a walk to get some air,” she said. “You get back from the meeting?”

Sue nodded. “Just now.” Her voice was even, but her eyes when she looked over...they were soft in a way that made her throat ache. There was something sad in them, something almost pitying.

“You okay?” she asked, frowning.

Sue smiled, small and brittle. “I’m fine, sweetheart.”

It was a lie and she wasn’t sure if it hurt more that she could tell or that her mother was still trying to put on a brave face and hold herself together. There was always something behind her mother’s eyes these days - layers of grief and secrets she wouldn’t share. But this felt different. Almost like her mother knew something she didn’t. The way she looked at her, just for a heartbeat, made her chest tighten. Like she was seeing a future neither of them could stop. She helped chop vegetables after that, their movements quiet and methodical, trying to erase the unnerving image from her brain. The rhythm of it felt grounding. 

Later, the door opened and Leah and Seth stumbled in. Both of them looked drained - eyes shadowed, movements sluggish. Leah barely glanced her way.

“Where have you been?” she asked, startled.

“Out,” Leah said, curt.

“Out where?”

Seth shot Leah a quick look, then muttered, “Sam’s.”

Her stomach sank. “Again? Leah, you-"

“Don’t,” Leah snapped. Her voice cracked like ice. “Not everything’s about me.”

But her eyes, when they met hers, were wild and tired, rimmed in something close to guilt.

“Leah-”

“I said drop it.” She stalked down the hall, the sound of the bathroom door slamming echoing through the house.

Seth lingered for a moment. “She’s just… tired,” he said quietly.

“You both look it.”

He gave a faint, crooked smile. “Long day.” And then he followed his sister.

When the house finally settled again, she sat at the kitchen table, tracing circles in the wood grain with her finger while her untouched soup got cold. Sue was humming under her breath in the next room - an old tune their father used to whistle. It was almost enough to make her cry. Seth emerging from his room broke the invisible tension in the air. He slumped into the chair across from her and stole the spoon from her hand.

“Hey!” she protested.

He grinned weakly. “You weren’t using it.”

“Mom made soup,” she said, tilting her chin toward the stove.

“Smells good,” he said, already halfway through her now stone-cold bowl.

They talked for a bit, nothing heavy, just small things like old stories, the kind that reminded her what it felt like to have a family. Seth teased her about her caffeine addiction, she teased him about his never-ending appetite. It felt almost normal.

But then the front door opened, and Embry Call stepped in without knocking, his usual lopsided grin in place.

“Hey, Clearwater household,” he said, ruffling Seth’s hair as he passed. “Sam’s giving us a break tonight. You in?”

Seth perked up immediately, scraping his chair back. “Yeah, give me a sec.”

She forced a smile. “Hi, Embry.”

“Hey,” he said, and for a moment his easy grin faltered. His gaze flicked over her face - curious, cautious, something knowing in his eyes that made her skin prickle. It was the same look her mother had given her earlier. The kind of look that made her feel like everyone was in on a secret she didn’t understand.

Seth reappeared, jacket half-zipped, hair messy, grin bright. “Ready,” he said.

“You coming?” Seth asked, glancing at her expectantly.

Embry stepped closer, giving Seth a look that made him pause midway through lacing up his shoes. It wasn’t exactly harsh, but it carried weight - a kind of unspoken caution. She blinked at them, sensing something behind it she couldn’t name. She hesitated in her response, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. The look Embry had given Seth seemed to echo in her mind, sharp and clear, though she didn’t understand it. Something about it made her chest tighten, like she would be intruding, like she wouldn’t belong.

“I… uh… no,” she said softly, almost to herself. “I think… I’ll stay here.”

Seth frowned, confused. “Really? You don’t want to-”

“It’s fine,” she interrupted softly, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. Inside, a quiet ache had settled.

Before Seth could challenger her further, the tense look on Embry's face fell into one of relief, nudging her brother as if to get him out the door before she could change her mind. He threw her a quick grin. “Suit yourself. We’ll catch you later.”

They left, their laughter fading down the hall. She stayed by the doorway for a long moment, feeling the familiar ache of being on the outside. Her chest tightened. She wanted to protest, to argue that she could come and spend the evening together like old times, but a small, insistent voice in her mind told her otherwise. This wasn’t her place and she had no right to intrude, especially in Sam and Emily's home given how firmly she had committed to standing by Leah, cutting off contact with her cousin despite Emily’s repeated attempts to reach out and rebuild a connection. Every “hey, come over” has been ignored, every small smile Emily had offered, now pressed against her chest like a weight she couldn’t lift. She had been so certain, so unwavering in her loyalty to Leah, in her refusal to let Emily slip back into their lives, that all of it now felt almost futile. Seth and Leah had allowed her back into their lives with little to no explanation, and yet she found herself on the outside, watching from the edges as she always did, quietly aching for a place she no longer had. It was as if she had been left behind in a battle that wasn’t hers to begin with.

Seth and Embry headed out soon after, laughing about something she couldn’t quite hear and the house quieted again.

By nightfall, she was back in her room, the window open to the smell of salt and pine. Her notebook waited on the desk. She hesitated before sitting, the lamplight warm and small in the dark. The page looked too white, too expectant. She touched the pen to it anyway.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. Everything feels like it’s changing, like I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo. Leah’s always angry, Seth’s always gone, Mom’s a ghost half the time. And me? I just keep pretending I’m fine.

She paused, listening to the wind brush against the glass. Then she kept writing, the words becoming easier to form after that, pouring from her pen with ease. 

I keep thinking about him. About last night. I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s just grief and I’m mixing up what I miss with what I want. Maybe it’s because he finally looked at me. Maybe it’s because I’ve wanted him to for so long. I used to watch him at school - the way people laughed around him, the way girls leaned in just to be closer. He never saw me. I was just another face. I told myself I didn’t care, but I did. God, I did.

Her hand shook slightly. She let the pen keep moving.

He’s older now. Harder. He feels like something too big for me to touch. And I hate that part of me still wants to. It’s stupid. I’m stupid. Maybe this is what happens when you lose too much - you start looking for pieces of warmth anywhere you can find them.

She stared at the words until they blurred. Then she added, slower, almost like a confession:

Maybe Paul Lahote would never look at me again. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be the kind of girl anyone looked at twice. But God help me - a part of me still wanted him to.

She closed the notebook, pressing her palm flat against the cover as if she could hold the words in place.

Down the hall, she could still hear her mother humming softly - the same tune, the same ache. Outside, the wind brushed the trees, carrying a sound that could have been wolves or waves. She wasn’t sure which but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out there, something waiting, circling, watching. But when she finally lay down, eyes open in the dark, she could still feel it - that invisible thread, stretched taut between her and something out there in the trees.

Something that felt like it had already chosen her.

And somehow, it had everything to do with Paul Lahote.