~Chapter Twenty~

Creature Comforts

Just Don't Give Up.
I'm Workin' It Out.
Please Don't Give In.
I Won't Let You Down.
It Messed Me Up; Need A Second To Breathe.

Yeah, It's Plain To See,
That, Baby, You're Beautiful,
And There's Nothing Wrong With You.

It's Me; I'm A Freak,
But Thanks For Loving Me,
'Cause You're Doing It Perfectly.

Just Don't Give Up On Me.
I Won't Let You Down.

~Whataya Want From Me, by Adam Lambert

Disclaimer: Me No Own; You No Sue.

Sammy's P.O.V.

My Hogwarts Letter did not come when I turned eleven. Instead, Daddy was sent out here – to La Push, Washington. Accustomed to moving around all the time, Mom, Seth, and I dutifully packed the house up in record time, easily pulling out the baby roots that the family had put down in Kansas, while Daddy was stationed at Fort Leavenworth. After coming back from Afghanistan, Daddy had been stationed here to work for the Bureau of Indian Affairs. We adapted quickly to life in La Push, but rarely did Mom, Seth, and I feel welcomed by the Quileute.

Another two years passed quickly. Nothing really interesting happened because Daddy worked all the time, Seth was away at Clemson, and I tended to stick to myself. Other than the times I spent with Mom, I was a quiet loner, buried in books and video games. My fondest memories were of the times that Mom and I would watch movies together and play trivia games or make delicious desserts while dancing around the kitchen to voices of Abba, Michael Jackson, and Donna Summers.

My worst memories, however, also involved Mom…

A week after I turned fourteen, Mom arrived at the school to sign me out early. She was pale. Mom had been pale for months. But I had said nothing about it, knowing Mom thought I was oblivious to her lack of appetite and her retching in the bathroom late at night. Golden freckles, which I had inherited, seemed to stick out from beneath the unusual flatness of her sunshine gold hair. We had sandwiches and lemonade down at the empty beach, where I stared at her, taking in her pale complexion and shaky hands. She was sick, Mom explained, barely touching her food while staring out at the blue ocean, really sick. My heart stopped, and I went numb, listening to her explanation –

Mom had Stage III Stomach Cancer.

And Doctor Cullen had only given her ten months to live.

…God. I closed both eyes. It had sounded final – Mom has Stomach Cancer, Mom is going to die in ten months – like there was nothing else to do but stare at each other and wait for it to happen, for it to all be over. We were supposed to wait for Mom to…die…

But Doctor Cullen did not know Mom. He might have her as a patient, with access to her charts and medical records, but Mom was more than data and statistics. Warm brown eyes were weary and scared, her body hurting, but Mom was strong and stubborn. She was courageous, unlike me. When I turned fifteen, and then sixteen, Mom was right there. My sixteenth birthday, however, was spent all day in the hospital. Mom was slowly losing the will to live…

Within six months, Daddy was overseas again, wanting to pretend that nothing was wrong. With only a couple of semesters left until his graduation, Seth left school and returned to La Push. He tried his best, going above and beyond the call of Big Brothers everywhere, but I still cried often because I missed having Mom at home with me, especially when I turned seventeen. Mom was getting another round of chemo that day, and Seth and I couldn't visit her because it made her sick and too weak for visitors.

But Seth made me a cake. He gave me a car, the skeleton of what would become Bumblebee, and promised to help fix it up. We were so awkward at first, though! Yes, I loved him very much – always had, always would – but Seth had essentially become a stranger.

And…

I would have preferred Mom.

"Please have a seat here," Miss Young said while walking to the guest bedroom, fluttering her hands by mine before ultimately deciding to let me walk by myself. "We usually let the girls, Leah and Claire, stay in here. They're both tidy, unlike the boys –" Hazel irises rolled to the ceiling. "– so it should be nice and clean!"

"Thanks, Miss Young," I mumbled, shuffling along behind her. I did not bother to keep up with her longer strides because the Quileute continued to hustle back and forth between the rooms, gathering things like towels.

"Almost Mrs. Uley," Miss Young happily replied, clearly pleased at the thought, before pausing and smiling gently down at me. Thin hands folded the towel in her arms, and the future Mrs. Uley added, "But I'll always be Emily…"

Taking the hint, I grinned halfheartedly at her and amended, "Thanks, Emily, for helping me." She smiled brightly, and I could tell that the young woman generally liked to help people; I found her blinding happiness somewhat painful, but I liked her well enough as a person.

After I had been seated atop the covers on a neatly made bed, Emily hesitantly asked, "May I see your cuts…?" She pointed to my upper arms and clothed stomach, indicating the blood seeping through that I was wearing still to hide the bruises and other marks. I stiffened.

Like Emily, I was really hesitant, almost embarrassed. I was ashamed of being caught off guard and hurt, but above all, I was embarrassed about letting anybody – especially this pretty woman – see my nearly naked body. My stomach was not flat, and I had always been bigger boned and curvier than most girls, thanks to the German blood flowing through my veins. But Emily was marrying Sam. I trusted Sam. So I decided to trust Emily by default. Gingerly, I lifted the bloodied shirt over my shoulders, tossed it to the carpet, and stared down at my toes.

Other than her sharp intake of breath, Emily did not make another sound while observing all the various bruises, scrapes, and cuts. Zachary and I had not been alone long enough for him to do too much damage, but the frightening experience had still seemed to last forever to me. What happened in that closet would stay with me a really, really, really long time, too. But Emily, with her gentle demeanor, brought with her a warm aura of calm that helped to settle me.

Unknowingly, I smiled softly at being cared for. A memory, warm and yet bittersweet, flashed before my eyes. Oh, I remembered, blinking slowly, Mom used to do this sort of thing for me…

"Okay, I should be able to fix you up," Emily finally announced and stepped back to look me in the face, taking note of the thousand yard stare with concern. "I need to get a couple of things, like the bandages, and while I get them, I suggest that you shower…"

The Native American, in all of her glory, seemed statuesque in that moment, with her hair, skin, and irises dark and hauntingly beautiful. She seemed reluctant to leave me alone, like I might drown myself if unsupervised, and I bristled at the thought. It was not like Zachary had actually…had managed to…

Before I could think about it and shove the words back down into the darkness, where they belonged, I blurted, "Suicide is for quitters!"

Startled into silence, Emily stared down with big eyes as my own narrowed stubbornly in fury. She cleared her throat, nodded her head in understanding, and then quietly said, "It will help to clean the cuts. You'll also feel better afterwards…" A small smile pulled at her lips.

After getting the ghost of his touches off, I silently finished for Emily. My lips curled higher, and I smiled, pushing the disgust, the self loathing, back with the ease of practice. She smiled first, but at the sight of my very empty smile, Emily faltered, her face falling into an expression of sadness. My smile was still glued in place. Inside, however, I was wary, confused…

Why does this woman care so much?

My heart ached.

Several minutes after Emily had left to retrieve the First Aid Kit, I had convinced myself to take a shower. A knock, quick and rough and heavy, sounded at the door. Who could it be? Emily? No, I thought, Emily is quiet, and respectful, and far too polite to be that loud inside the house –which meant that it had to be one of the Steroid Studs.

Shirt on the floor, pants unbuttoned, I stayed still, heart beating wildly inside my chest. A bit of logic pushed through the instinctual reaction, enough that I did not bolt and attempt to climb out through the second story window. He – for it had to be a male – knocked loudly at the door. It faltered then, like knocking too loud might upset me, and became softer. A deep voice called through the closed door, and I instantly relaxed, feeling safer within seconds. He cautiously opened the bedroom door, sticking his head in as my soft reply of "Come in," met his ears.

"Hey, Baby Girl," Paul said, words rougher than sandpaper. Hovering at the end of the bed, Paul attempted to keep his hands to himself by sticking them in the pockets of his ripped jeans shorts, which – I frowned in confusion – Paul had not been wearing earlier. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and let the rest of his sentence fall back inside of his stomach.

"Hi, Paul," I mumbled, but the frown shifted into a small smile. My face tensed at the pull from the bruised cheek muscles, making me wince. I rubbed at the sore spot and, in doing so, pulled his attention to the rest of the extensive collection of yellow and purple bruises.

Lips pulled back, Paul snarled soundlessly, looking feral, like a…

Wolf.

A hint of sadness flickered into his onyx eyes as my entire body tensed with the uneasiness that I couldn't completely push away. My boyfriend deflated, thickset shoulders dropping in defeat. I wanted to hug him, or cry, or maybe both. Paul looked devastated at the possibility that I might be afraid of him. Truthfully, I envied Paul, finding him beautiful in both of his forms – inside and out. Anger, however, always proved unsettling to me. If Daddy started drinking, then I often found myself at the receiving end of his disappointment and his anger.

But Paul did not scare me.

Because I love him.

My expression must have changed to reflect the surprise in my eyes. Because Paul stiffened, his nostrils quivering in search of some scent that I could not smell, and then stepped forward with a new purpose. My boyfriend only paused in his determined march to stop beside the bed, which I had dropped down to in the shock of coming to my sudden realization. I love Paul. My mouth opened and then closed in shock, face going slack with disbelief. I…love Paul?

The Quileute slowly crouched down in front of me as my mind worked through those confusing thoughts. He was so very gentle in putting his large hands atop my arms. He was always gentle, always cautious, not wanting to cause me unnecessary pain; however, Paul also recognized that I was aware of his strength and could handle playing and horsing around with him. So it was odd to have him act like I might break beneath his touch, shattering to pieces like a mirror. I was stronger than that…wasn't I?

Amidst these thoughts, Paul lifted his hands, and thus both my arms, even as my weak protests mewled out from between parted lips. I squirmed uncomfortably beneath the weight of those dark eyes, which moved from head to toe, cataloguing the wounds on my arms, cheek, and shirtless chest and waist. My pink blush had receded after Emily left, but at his studious observation, I flushed again, the heat coloring my nose, cheeks, and chest bright red. It highlighted the ugliness of the bruises blossoming across my skin.

My boyfriend tensed, the sight of those bruises sending him into a rage. Fury bubbled out from his big chest in a rumbling growl that echoed in the quiet of the bedroom, and in that moment, I noted that the soft hum of voices downstairs stopped, too. Jared, I remembered then, had been able to hear my quiet laugh earlier at school, and from several feet away. As wolves, Paul and his friends must be able to hear all sorts of things from afar. I tensed. What else could these boys – these wolves, these shapeshifters – do?

Paul snarled furiously, fists clenching and then unclenching in the quilt as my mouth pursed. He had mistaken my wariness for fear, and while I was afraid of Zachary, I was also uncertain how to react to the knowledge that Paul and the rest of the Steroid Studs could all change into really fast, really strong, and really big wolves. "Fucker is going to pay when I catch him!"

Blanching, I leaned back and, remembering that Sam had done as much, pushed against the cage of his chest to look him in the eye. "No, Paul!" While pleading with him, I maintained the eye contact – blue to black. "If you go and hurt Zachary, then you'll get in so much trouble and –"

My boyfriend interrupted, swiftly cutting the words off with a warning growl, the sound stern but not mean. Some of my uncertainty vanished again. "You're my girlfriend! Even if you and I weren't together, that asshole shouldn't have tried forcing himself on a girl!" Paul flickered, body moving in and out of the shadow of his wolf form. "He fucking hurt you!"

My lower lip trembled dangerously with the threat of an oncoming breakdown. I looked down to hide the tears that glistened in my eyes, upset and embarrassed and completely ashamed. God, I was so ashamed. Ashamed of letting somebody do that to me. Ashamed of having Paul know that I could not protect myself, of thinking that I was weak. I wouldn't blame Paul at all for breaking up with me.

"I-I'm sorry…"

"What the fuck are you sorry about?" Paul demanded through another dark snarl, but at the sight of the tears trailing down my cheeks, Paul recoiled and then groaned through his clenched teeth. "No, no, no. Sammy, I'm not mad at you. C'mon! Please don't cry," He begged, his hands cupping my wet cheeks, fingers brushing the tears away. "I'm mad at Lightfoot, not you."

"B-But I couldn't s-stop him from t-t-touching me," I sniffled, feeling completely pathetic and hating that I had to have this talk with him. A girl should be tough, Daddy had always said to me. She should be smart as a whip, tough as nails, and ready for anything. I was smart, but tough? Prepared? Ha!

"You're much smaller than him," Paul pointed out with a sigh. My boyfriend leaned down, trembling lightly at the rush of emotion pouring through him, through the Bond that Sam mentioned briefly while walking me up to Emily.

Listening to his instincts, Paul reached for me, wrinkled his nose, and then backed back up. He grimaced, shaking his head back and forth fast enough to send the little spikes in his black hair left and then right, again and again. A strange expression of distaste flickered down his darkly handsome face, reminding me of the times that Connor and Murphy would refuse a particular brand of dog food. It was strange, and completely overwhelming, seeing Paul with that feral expression…

"What? …What is it, Paul? Did I do something wrong?!" I asked, blurting the words in a near panic because Paul had continued to back up. He liked to touch me. Right? Right?! Cuddling was something Paul and I did all the time! Why would Paul not want to cuddle now?!

My heart stopped.

Paul claimed not to be upset, but…

"No, Baby, but you…smell like Lightfoot, and I don't like it," Paul admitted bluntly, cringing at my crestfallen expression. He reached for me again and let his hand rest atop mine and, while I didn't know it, only barely resisted the need to push himself atop me and replace the scent with his own. "I just…I miss your smell," Paul quietly explained, "and how mine is on you."

"…Will showering help it go away?" I hesitantly asked him, desperately willing the blush that surged forward to go away. It was embarrassing enough having Paul in here while I wasn't wearing much! Asking him about showering would haunt me – and not in the fun way.

"It should," Paul said with a small shrug of his broad shoulders. He curiously cocked his head to the side and glanced down at me as one onyx eye closed in thought. What Paul could be thinking just then, I could only guess. "Why?"

"If I take a shower…" I flushed midsentence and stubbornly refused to continue onward, thus sinking with the ship. As the Titanic hit the glacier, I avoided his gaze and mumbled, "Never mind."

My boyfriend stared down at me, opened his mouth, and then shut it with a snap. He finally regained (most of) his senses and, looking strangely eager, asked, "Do you want to shower together?"

Immediately, I gaped at him, sky blue irises wide and mouth falling open. "Yes! I mean no!" I yelped, then stiffened, shocked that I would've admitted to something that I had not even really considered before. Okay, yeah, I had thought of Paul before, imagining him naked, especially since the other teenager usually walked around without a shirt, but showering together…?

"Uh," I squeaked out and stumbled through the rest of the words, "look, I just wanted to ask if you would stay in there while I shower! I…would really like to have some company." Paul coughed. Face flushed, I batted his arm and hastily said, "…but not that kind of company!"

My boyfriend blushed, the light red darkening his already russet colored cheeks, and then rubbed sheepishly at his neck, avoiding my eyes. "Oh. I thought you meant…" Paul let his words trail off into the sudden silence plaguing the room.

Hesitantly, I lifted both eyes and stared at the handsome Native American. I stopped to think, pink tongue darting out to wet my mouth, and Paul shivered, his body warming with silent desire. I squirmed, stomach tightening at the look in his dark eyes, and softly asked, "Do you…um, want to shower together?"

Paul stilled quite suddenly, throat moving oddly, and hoarsely admitted, "Yes, but I know you're not ready for that part of our relationship yet. Maybe next time…?" My boyfriend smirked halfheartedly down at me, eyes sad but filled with tenderness.

"Next time," I agreed shyly while scampering into the bathroom and swiftly closing the door to remove my clothes in privacy. I started the shower, adjusted the water from cold to warm, and climbed in. Paul knocked at the door just as my small fingers shut the curtain. "Come in!"

My boyfriend slipped into the bathroom and thudded to the sink, where the giant Quileute lifted himself to the counter. He stayed seated, his fingers clamped around the edges of the counter, muscular legs swinging lightly. I smiled at him from behind the shower curtain, which I kept protectively in front of me. Paul grinned crookedly back and made the motion that I should hurry up. Face pink, I laughed and ducked back under the water to get rid of that…smell. Sensations of being touched. It did take awhile, but I finally started feeling clean again.

A thud of two feet hitting the floor said that Paul had moved closer to the shower while I turned the water off. Several long fingers curled around the edge of the curtain, and I tensed, but Paul didn't open it. My boyfriend only asked, "Ready to get out, Baby?"

"Yeah, but what are you…?" I started to ask the question, fingers brushing against his in moving to pull the shower curtain back. I noticed the towel first, and next, his shut eyes. Paul lifted the towel and silently urged that I climb into the warmth of the fuzzy yellow material. I slowly complied, letting him carefully curl it over my sore torso and legs. He opened his eyes.

Keeping his hands at my waist, Paul hoarsely asked the question that I could almost – almost – hear buzzing restlessly within in my own mind. "Can I…?"

Instead of speaking the words, I nodded shakily at him, mentally whispering – Yes. He stiffened again, his face slackening in surprise, though not at my response. It was almost like Paul had… heard the response. But I had only said it in my mind. How could Paul have heard that from me?

Unless…

Blinking, Paul stepped forward, always keeping his dark eyes on mine, and gently began rubbing his hands down the towel, brushing the cloth down my wet body and drying it. He was very gentle, barely moving his hands, but I could still feel his above average warmth seeping in. Sleepily, I smiled at him and giggled lightly as my grumbling boyfriend fought to wrap a separate towel around the wet hair dripping down my neck.

"How do girls do this shit?" He grumbled in embarrassment as my own small fingers deftly fixed the problem and pulled the towel into its place. His expression gentled, though, and the large teenager bent down to curl his muscular arms over me. A warm nose nudged against mine.

We stayed there, standing still and silent and wrapped around each other. My boyfriend shifted, pressing his body firmly against mine. He leaned forward again and nudged his face in between my neck and shoulder, before slipping down to kiss my collar bone – and the darkest of the big bruises visible above the towel. Paul sighed, "I'm sorry that I wasn't there to keep him off."

Biting my cheek, I wrapped both arms around his shoulders and leaned down to put my chin atop his head, hugging him close, just like I had hugged him in his wolf form. "You can't always be there with me," I softly said before backing up.

"No, but I can damn well try!" Paul snarled his argument, dark irises positively burning with his determination. He huffed, grumbled lightly, and rubbed his head against my arms and face. It tickled, but I let him, knowing that it would make him feel better. Emily had mentioned that Paul might need to "scent mark" me and make his smell stronger through touch. Sam had agreed.

"We are going to college someday. You and I will be in different classes – and maybe different schools," I pointed out while pushing him through the door. I left it open a crack while I pulled the clothes back on, though I left the shirt off since it was gross and smelled like…him. "It's unrealistic to think that you can stick beside me. I don't want you to stick beside me all the time!"

My boyfriend turned into a marble statue, body tense and shoulders stiff, his face falling and then going strangely blank beneath my gaze. In a similarly dull voice, Paul asked, "You don't want to be with me anymore? Is it because of…because of earlier?"

Frowning in thought, I sluggishly made the connection between his question and "earlier," with meeting his wolf. It had been an awful day, with the almost constant fear of Mom getting worse and the hospital calling to confirm it, with the chemistry, and then with the closet. But Paul had made everything better. Hugging his wolf had been comforting, like I was coming home to him. He thinks that I don't want to be with him anymore?!

Everything inside of me seemed to freeze into ice. I blanched, yanked the bathroom door open, and protested, "Of course not! I just want to be able to defend myself, I guess…" I trailed off while staring at him uncertainly.

"Oh," Paul mumbled and relaxed, with his jaw unclenching and the tightness in his shoulders lessening. He paused and then suggested, "Well, I'm not that good at self-defense, but I can throw a decent punch. Jacob is the martial arts nut. I'll tell him to teach you."

Giving him an exasperated look, I leaned against the doorframe and dryly said, "You can't tell him teach me! If Jacob doesn't want to do it, then Jacob doesn't have to do it! He is his own person!"

"Jacob will do what I tell him to do, and if Jacob doesn't do it, then I'll tell Sam," Paul firmly replied, lips curling into a mischievous smile at the end of his words, like the big brother that planned to tattle to his parents. He snickered at my confused silence and smugly elaborated, "Sam likes you. He'll tell Jacob to do it. Trust me."

"I trust you," I softly promised, the words warming his heart, and mine.

…I love you.

Stepping forward, I leaned into his arms and kissed his left cheek, silently thanking him for being there for me. He slowly turned his face, pausing just inches from me, onyx eyes glued to mine. I could read the question in his eyes, and while I was thankful for his consideration, I wasn't afraid of him. Mouth to his, I kissed him gently, cautiously, waiting for him to respond. Paul growled, soothingly running his large hands down my arms as we moved to rest against the edge of the enormous guest bed. His lips moved perfectly with mine.

Kissing him in that moment was perfect. We usually rushed into kissing, exploring each other with curiosity and passion and fire, all lips and teeth and tongue. This kiss, though, was much different than all of the others shared between us in the last two weeks. It was so warm and comforting. It was a…promise.

In that kiss, I could feel his affections, his promise that I would always be safe with him.

I belonged to Paul. And Paul belonged to me.

"Okay, Paul, I need to take care of the rest of her injuries," Emily softly said then, reentering the room. "You need to let Sammy go now." She reached out to briefly touch his trembling back, and I had to bite back the urge to protest her touching him at all. "Can you do that for me?"

When Paul said nothing in reply, Emily turned back to me, eyebrows raised, and nodded to him. I hesitated, but I faced Paul and slipped off of the bed, sliding back into his arms. I kissed his chest, right above his heart, and soothingly whispered, "I'll be okay, Paul."

My boyfriend shuddered, his entire frame trembling with raw energy. Black eyes, now rimmed with gold around the pupil and with little flecks of yellow in the irises, stared into mine. He – they – stared at me. Eventually, Paul settled back down again. "If you need anything…"

"I promise to come and get you," I finished for him, leaning into the potential hug that his open arms offered. Paul curled his body around mine, subconsciously shielding it from further harm, and hesitantly let me go. My boyfriend paused at the door, waited until I smiled slightly at him, and then reluctantly left me with Emily.

"Sorry," I apologized to Emily, who had been waiting for at least five minutes. I sheepishly rubbed at my arms, wincing at the tenderness there, and silently chastised myself for feeling irritated with Emily and possessive of Paul. "He's usually better about giving me space…"

"No need to apologize," Emily said while shaking her head, pretty black braid swinging with the motion. Instead of asking that I get back into the bed, Emily dropped down beside me and then started bandaging the little cuts on my arms. "Paul is the most temperamental of the boys." A smile pulled at her lips. "He seems more patient than before, though, and I think that has something to do with you…"

Flushing, I shifted beneath her observant stare and mumbled, "If you say so…"

As if I could do something that monumental!

I snorted.

A small hand tapped at my chin. "Don't sell yourself short," Emily firmly told me. She finished with my arms and started cleaning the dirt from the cut on my stomach. "You are very important to Paul. What you say, and do, and need matter to him. Probably more than you think…"

Blinking in confusion, I smiled rather warily at her, hearing the hidden meaning in her words but not really understanding it. Our conversation dropped, consisting of only small sounds – mostly involuntary whimpers on my part; soft shushing sounds for hers – and the occasional question posed by Emily. It did not take too long to finish cleaning the cuts since there weren't that many.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Emily suddenly asked, brushing her hair behind her ears. She tugged at the lobe, bringing attention to the small tattoo of a crow. I stared at it, willing her to stop talking. "I thought that talking about it with another girl might help…"

At first, I wanted to tell her not to worry and (lie) that I would be perfectly fine without her help. My pride, that damnable pride, surfaced, but I could feel the tears coming again, the confusion and the disgust, all of which far outweighed the pride. "D-Does it hurt when you…um…"

Warily, Emily frowned down at me, mouth pursed. She let my words trail into nothingness and then finally finished, "Have sex?"

"Other than the first time, I mean," I added for clarification, frowning down at my arms and the thick layers of bandages there. I rubbed at them. "He…Zachary…was very, um…"

All of the color vanished from her face, and Emily reeled back in shock. She looked sick to her stomach, and without hearing the words, I could already tell what question would leave her lips. Emily whispered, "Did that boy –?"

"No!" I nearly shouted, then flushed with shame, face lowered and bangs hiding my eyes. "Jared arrived before Zachary could do much of anything. He…" I swallowed past the lump of cement in my mouth. "…managed to get his hands under my shirt, and tried to kiss me, and to…" I stopped, refusing to think about it anymore. "…never mind."

"He was rough," Emily surmised with anger. Her face, thought still beautiful with her scars, was scary when dark with disgust. She saw my expression, which had tightened with fear, and calmed down, petting my arm. "Most men are usually careful with their girls, only doing something that they feel comfortable with in bed."

"Is Sam careful?" I asked curiously, and at her suddenly pained expression, I smacked myself. I immediately flushed, thinking of her scars, and apologized. "God, I'm sorry! I really didn't mean it! I just, with Mom in the hospital, I don't have anybody else to ask, and I just…" I stared at the ceiling. "Sorry, I'll just look it up at the library or something."

"No, I'm fine. It is fine," Emily said with a small smile. "My mother and I were very close, and I cannot imagine what it must be like to not have yours to help with these questions." I grunted, and Emily smiled, thinking to herself that I had been spending too much time with Paul, and cautiously continued, "I have heard from Kim that you two used to be friends."

"A long time ago," I admitted, mind whirring – without permission – to the two years that Kim and I had spent getting to know each other. We had become closer than sisters. But Daddy ruined that for the both of us…

"What happened, if I might ask?" Emily wondered, and while I normally would've kept it all to myself, I figured that I owed her for asking that question and upsetting her just now. She truly loved Sam, but that memory still rightfully bothered her.

"My father happened," I bitterly muttered, still staring at the ceiling and completely missing the understanding look in her dark eyes. She was aware of what had happened to Sam during his childhood, with his father, and seeing it happen to a young girl hurt just as much.

"Have you ever told anybody, Sammy? A teacher, perhaps…?" Emily suggested hopefully, but I could hear it in her voice that the woman was clinging to false hope. She, like me, was aware of the fact that few people would believe claims of abuse without visible proof. And Daddy rarely hit me where people could find the marks.

Some people, however, could read between the lines…

"Mrs. Kane, the school librarian, knows some of the story," I slowly said, speaking carefully to avoid telling too much of the truth, "and I told…I told Sam. He and I have not really talked about it, but I think Paul is piecing together the clues, too."

"You really should talk to somebody, Sammy," Emily softly said, but I instantly stopped that line of thinking in its tracks.

"I only have a couple of months left here," I informed her, "so why bother stirring the pot? I might as well just get out of here. Leave him behind…"

Emily paled somewhat, her skin becoming pasty with the sudden fear and pain that shimmered in her eyes. She licked her lips, clearly upset with something I had implied, and hesitantly asked, "What about Paul, though…?"

Confused, I blinked at her, nose scrunched in thought, and slowly asked, "What about him? He's welcome to come along, if that's what you mean!"

"No, I just…" Emily hesitated again, her face shooting to the closed bedroom door and then back to me. She wanted to say something but, for whatever reason, would not do it. "Paul isn't able to leave La Push because of his ties to the rest of the Pack. It would hurt him – and eventually you."

My heart stopped, before beginning to race, worry coursing through the veins and arteries inside. Everyone was so mysterious about the boys, keeping quiet about their abilities, theirs strengths, and their…weaknesses. "What do you mean?" I slowly asked her, feeling faint.

"When one of the boys falls in love," Emily carefully explained, "something…interesting and beautiful happens. Sam and I have it. Jared and Kim have it. You and Paul do, too." As my mouth opened, Emily hastily suggested, "How about you go and ask Paul tomorrow? He can explain it better than I could!"

Wisely letting that subject drop, I decided to pick back up on our earlier conversation. "You said earlier that Paul is temperamental, Emily," I mumbled, getting quieter with each word and blushing brightly. "Do you, um, mean that Paul will be rough with…with sex?"

"…Oh, Sammy." Emily gently put her arm over my shoulders, squeezing lightly, and leaned her head against mine. "You shouldn't worry. Paul is quick to anger. But Paul is also, as you see, a real sweetheart. He loves you and wouldn't want to hurt you. Your first time together will probably be very gentle."

"Okay," I mumbled, leaning into her hold. She smelled nice, like flowers, and her body was warm against mine. In that moment, I was reminded strongly of being hugged by…

Tears brimmed in my eyes.

…Mom.

"Well, I suppose you need to change clothes. My shorts will fit, but you're much curvier that Leah or me, especially in the chest. I don't think that our shirts will fit. I'm not sure what to do," Emily apologized while glancing down at me, a confused frown pulling at her lips.

Embarrassed, I turned to the side and, while biting down on my cheeks, said, "Don't worry about it, Emily. I can wear my shirt from earlier…"

Just the thought, however, made me nauseous. Zachary had touched it, had put his hands atop it and, for the briefest of moments, under it. I warily picked the purple top up and looked down at the soft, cotton material. My nose twitched, catching the faint scents of deodorant and cigarette smoke. I retched, holding onto my nose. God! It even smelled like him! I must have turned somewhat green around the gills because Emily pulled the shirt from my shaking hands. She walked off to toss it into the hallway, only to jump at the sound of somebody knocking at the door.

We both turned to face the bedroom door, which had opened just enough that a small sliver of shimmery golden light slipped in from the hallway and into the mostly dark bedroom. A hand slipped in, the light catching on a silver engagement ring, which matched the ring that Emily wore. Its fingers were clutched loosely around the collar of the solid black shirt in its hold. Laughing softly, Emily immediately relaxed and smiled warmly at the enormous shadow dancing around between the bedroom door and the carpet.

"…Emily?"

"Right here, Sam," Emily reassured him, walking to the door and patting his hand with her own. She opened the door enough to kiss his cheek but refrained from opening it far enough that her fiancé might see me. The Quileute looked down at the shirt in her hands. "Is this…?"

Both Sam and Emily stepped into the hallway, where I could not hear them, and whispered back and forth for a minute, before Emily returned alone. "Here you go. It's Paul's shirt." I stared down at it, and Emily urged, "Go ahead and put it on. It smells like him and, believe me, wearing his clothes will help. It will calm him down, too."

"Thanks," I rasped, biting back tears at the familiar smell of the shirt, which I had pressed to my nose almost immediately after accepting it.

"You're welcome, sweetie," Emily kindly said while standing up. She opened the door, turned back around to face me, and added, "I'll be in the kitchen. If you need anything, just call for Sam or me, okay? Paul, too…"

After I agreed, Emily left the bedroom, and I listened to the soft sounds of her footsteps treading lightly through the hallway, down the stairs, and into the floor below. Voices whispered to each other. Overall, however, it was very quiet in the house, and I was very much alone again. So I pulled the shirt on and snuggled into the softness of the old t-shirt, sniffing happily at the thin collar. It was warm still. It smelled really good, too.

Like Paul…

***Author's Note***

Several things that I have hinted at are coming out! Sammy's Mom is sick, her Dad is a complete assbutt (I love Supernatural), and La Push High School is anything but fun with people like Jared and Zachary hanging around there. But Sammy is slowly finding that there are good people like Paul, Sam, and Emily who are willing to help her find her way. She was pretty confused emotionally this chapter, but that will get better! Paul said Sammy has fire, and Paul is right. It is just going to take some time before Sammy figures it out for herself. Like I said, Dear Hothead is going to be a really looooooong story! ;)

Question: What do you all think of the Paul and Sammy fluff? What about her conversation with Emily? I'm pretty nervous about everybody reading that part... :P

PRETTY PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!

Update = 225ish

:)