All recognizable characters belong to someone else, most notably Stephanie Meyer.

Enjoy.

one

It was early. The sky was an inky black, only the barest hint of predawn gray along the horizon. The house around me was silent, save for the gentle hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional whisper of paper as someone flipped the pages of a book downstairs. Shrugging into my robe and sliding my feet into a pair of slippers, I eased my bedroom door open and tiptoed silently down the stairs.

My parents were curled together on the sofa in the living room, a plush blanket spread across their laps, each of them with a book in their hands. They glanced up at me when I hesitated at the foot of the stairs, my father's brows pulling together into the smallest of frowns.

"Nessie," he said, carefully marking his place in his book and setting it to the side. "It's early."

My mother smiled softly, her head tipped onto my father's shoulder, and patted the sofa next to her, lifting an edge of the blanket. I went willingly, curling up in the space behind her bent knees, resting my own head on her shoulder as she dropped a kiss on my temple, her cool arm coming around me and holding me close. She let the book on her lap fall closed, and brought her other hand up to smooth the hair back from my face, tucking it carefully behind my ear.

"Couldn't sleep?"

It was a redundant question, but I shook my head anyway, her gentle touches soothing.

"Have you heard from Jake?"

At the mention of his name, I felt my eyes start to burn, and the lump rise once more in the back of my throat. I swallowed, trying in vain to tamp down the tears. I'd been so certain I had cried myself out, but apparently not. Blinking furiously, I nodded. "He's landed in Seattle."

My voice felt raw, scratchy and rough from fatigue, my entire body drained and wrung out like a limp dish towel. I wished that I could lay down and sleep my way through the withdrawal of missing him, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face, heard his voice, felt that final crushing embrace. It was the sweetest torture.

"It's different this time. Isn't it?"

I nodded again. I didn't know what, exactly, had changed, or why or when, but something had transpired over the past forty eight hours. I had been saying goodbye to Jacob for the past four years of my life, living in three month stints of phone calls and video calls and near constant text messages between visits, and while each time he left was difficult, it had never been this bad. I had never before felt the separation this acutely.

Almost imperceptibly, I felt my mother sigh behind me, and then she was turning to more fully envelope me in her arms, gently wiping away my tears as she cradled my head to her shoulder. My father's hand came to rest on my back as well, hugging the both of us.

"I just miss him so much," I whispered thickly, the tears dropping hard and fast.

"I know, baby," my mother murmured, rocking me slightly as she had when I was a much smaller child, and I was struck with the realization that she did know. She, of all people, could understand. "I know you do. He misses you, too."

Unbidden, the images flashed through my mind again, only a few hours old and tenderly fresh in my memory - the tightness in his jaw, the sadness in his eyes, the way they flickered back and forth over my face like he was trying to memorize the way I looked, those subtle ways I'd changed in the last few months. The way he'd squeezed me so tight I'd thought my lungs would burst from lack of air, lifting me briefly off the ground and letting me go all too soon. The way his touch had prickled at my skin as his fingers had found their way to mine and laced around them as we waited for his boarding to be called. He'd glanced back at me once as he'd climbed the stairway up into the plane, his smile flickering weakly as he raised a hand in farewell, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes and falling more than a little bit flat. Somehow, knowing he was missing me just as much - maybe even more - wasn't much of a comfort.

My father sighed, passing his hand once more over the back of my head before gracefully untangling himself from our embrace. He stood, heading for the kitchen. "I'll get started on breakfast."

His voice sounded impossibly sad, and I glanced up in confusion at my mother through my tears. She smiled gently, and ran her thumbs under each of my eyes.

"There are some things fathers wish they could fix, but they just can't. Their little girl's broken heart is one of them."

I felt a stab of guilt. I was stuck in an impossible place: having Jacob meant missing my parents, and having my parents meant missing Jacob. The two halves of my heart would forever be separated, set at odds with each other, and I wished more than anything that I could bring them together. My very existence should have, but for some reason, all it seemed to do was drive an insurmountable wedge between them, and stick me in a place where I never quite managed to feel complete.

"It isn't your job to try to make everyone happy, Ness," my mother murmured, and for a moment, I was struck with a panic that clenched my hands into fists reflexively before I realized that it was her mother's intuition that was guiding her perceptiveness, not my gift.

"You just find what makes you happy," she continued, ducking her head so that I was forced to meet her gaze. "That's all your father and I could possibly want."

You just find what makes you happy.

The words echoed through my mind over the next few days, rolling around in my subconscious, and laying a foundation for an idea to begin forming.

The following weekend found me home alone, my parents off attending a presentation at the university, the vague shadows of that idea pressing themselves insistently into a firmer desire. When my cell phone rang with the familiar video call request, it seemed like fate herself was handing me a sign.

"What do you think about me coming for the summer?" I blurted out by way of greeting.

Jacob paused mid-step, the grin freezing on his face. He blinked, head tilting to the side as he lifted the phone to stare more fully into the screen.

"Is that a thing?"

Behind him, Quil's head popped up and he managed a quick hello before Jake was shoving him away with a scowl, glancing briefly over his shoulder, and then the background was moving again as he started walking.

I shrugged, my eyes falling to my lap as I tugged at a loose thread in the hem of my jeans. "I don't know. Maybe. I mean, I haven't said anything to my parents yet, but I've been thinking about it."

A door creaked open and shut behind him, and then he was sinking down into the office chair behind his desk at the garage, staring at me silently, his expression unreadable.

I flushed under the scrutiny. "Good talk," I muttered, pulling my hair over one shoulder and fidgeting with it absently, yanking my fingers through the ends of the curls.

"Why?"

I cocked an eyebrow. "Why what?"

"Why would you want to come for the summer?"

I laughed hollowly, shaking my head, already regretting the fumble of bringing up something that was little more than a pipe dream. "Gee, Jake, I really miss you, too."

He sucked in a breath, and looked off to the side, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"Do I?" I challenged, and it was a little bit ridiculous, because of course I knew he didn't mean it like that, but the way he was reacting was churning together with my own embarrassment in the pit of my stomach and making my already tender emotions feel absolutely battered. I stared down at his profile on my screen, and, horrifyingly, felt my eyes begin to glass over with tears. I slid my thumb over the speaker to muffle the sound of my shaky inhale, but of course he still heard it.

"Nessie - are you crying?"

I propped the phone on my knees and reached up to press the heels of my hands into my eyes, wishing I could physically staunch the flow of tears, even if I couldn't keep myself together emotionally. I had been so careful to not let myself fall apart in front of him because I knew he would want to fix it, and realistically, there was nothing he could do. He had a job, a business that he ran that depended on him, family and a pack that relied on him to provide for and guide them. He couldn't just hop on a plane and fly halfway across the world on a Friday night because I was missing him.

"Nessie." His voice was lower, rougher, an undercurrent of desperation wheedling through.

I slipped the sleeves of my sweater down over the ends of my fingers and rubbed them under my eyes, wiping away the tears there.

"I wish I could hug you right now," I finally said after a moment, and the sentiment was so incredibly inadequate, the words so completely underwhelming compared to the way I was feeling, but it was the truest thing I had to say.

"Switch over to voice," he said abruptly, and I blinked, sniffling as I tapped the button on the screen and lifted the phone to my ear.

"Talk to me," he said, and suddenly I understood. With his voice coming through the speaker, right in my ear, I could close my eyes and almost pretend that he was right beside me. It was a weak substitution, but the best thing I had.

"I miss you," I whispered.

"I miss you more." His words were certain, one hundred percent without question.

I shook my head, even though I knew he couldn't see me. "Not even close."

There was a beat of silence. "I wish you would've told me," he said, and I understood what he meant.

"There wasn't anything you could've done."

"I would've tried."

My lips curled up, just the slightest bit, at that.

"What can I do?"

I pulled in a long breath, and tipped my head back against my chair. "Well, if you could figure out how to clone yourself, or be in two places at once, that would be a start."

"Buy a DeLorean, build a time machine. Check. Next?"

I half-heartedly thought about it for a second, but there wasn't really anything else I could have asked for. "Nothing else I can think of at the moment."

He scoffed. "And they say women are difficult to please."

I chuckled self-deprecatingly. "All we want is the impossible."

"Says the vampire hybrid to the shapeshifter." Affection wove a warm thread through his voice, and I smiled at the sound of it, my eyes fluttering closed.

"Were you serious about coming this summer?" The question was hesitant, hope tiptoeing tentatively through the syllables.

"Well," I said, drawing out the word, "the guy I was wanting to see didn't really sound that into the idea."

"He's into it," he said immediately, and my heart did a funny little flip at the longing in his voice. "He's definitely into it."

"Oh, you know him?"

He laughed at that, and something in my chest squeezed at the sound.

"It's just a thought," I hedged. "I haven't even talked to my parents about it yet."

"They can name the hoops, and I'll jump."

"Good boy."

"I'll walk around with a pink rhinestone collar for three months if that's what your dad wants me to do."

I wrinkled my nose, and then laughed. "That's a picture."

"I'm dead serious."

I smiled. "I know you are. I don't think it'll come to that." I paused. "I hope it doesn't come to that."

"Are you smiling right now?"

His question only served to stretch my smile into a grin. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would, actually, yes. Put me back on video."

I felt my cheeks flush. "What a creeper," I muttered, even as I pulled the phone away from my ear and pressed the button.

The smirk on his face softened, his eyes warm as they traced unashamedly over the lines of my face for a long minute. I dropped my eyes after a moment, the intensity of his gaze sparking along my skin like electricity. This was new, this twist in my stomach and the pounding of the blood through my veins, but also the way he was looking at me, like he was dying of thirst and I was a stream in the desert.

"International Wi-Fi and eight megapixel cameras are a poor substitute," he finally said.

I laughed. "It's the crying and the lack of sleep, not the phone."

"You're beautiful," he said, and his voice was so honest and earnest that it broke my heart a little bit, and stole away what was left of my breath. "Even when you're crying and tired."

There were so many things that I wanted to tell him - like how my fingers still felt the brand of his, even six days later, and how his eyes were the perfect shade of brown, not too golden and not too muddy, the iris a clear distinction from the pupil, and how sometimes his smile made me forget what I was thinking because he had this dimple his left cheek and I would look for it, religiously, every time the corners of his lips started to curl up - but I heard a car turn into the driveway, and I knew I needed to talk to my parents before I got too carried away with my wishful thinking.

Something in my face must've given me away, because he grinned - and there was that dimple, teasing me. "Do you want me to stay on the phone?" he asked, and I knew what he was really saying was, do you want me to talk to them with you?

As much as I wanted to say yes, I knew this was something I needed to do on my own. I shook my head.

"Text me later," he said. "Even if it's late."

"I will," I promised, and then, like every other call, we disconnected simultaneously, neither one of us willing to be the one to say goodbye.

My parents were in the kitchen when I made my way down stairs, casually debating whether or not classic literature should still be mandated in public education, my mother reaching down to slip the heels from her feet absentmindedly. They both glanced up as I entered, my mom smiling as she padded her way over to give me a hug.

"Did you have a good evening?" she asked, her tawny eyes flickering over my face. I nodded, and her smile deepened. "How is Jake?"

I wasn't sure if she had heard the tail end of our conversation, or saw something on my face, or if it was just her intuition. I grinned ruefully. "He's fine. How was your symposium?"

She chuckled. "Very divisive, apparently." She tossed a teasing glance at my dad, who raised an eyebrow, smirking.

"Your mother just likes old things," he said, passing me a takeout carton. I grinned as she laughed, and popped the corner of the carton open to see a variety of dango. I nudged a barstool away from the island countertop in the center of the kitchen and perched gingerly on the edge, picking up one of the skewers and twirling it absently between my fingers as I considered the best way to broach the subject.

My dad dropped into the seat across from me, resting his chin in his hands, and cast an appraising look in my direction. "Penny for your thoughts," he said after a moment.

I hesitated, biting into a moshi ball and chewing as my mom took the stool next to him, their shoulders brushing together as each of them subconsciously leaned closer to the other, and not for the first time, I found myself thinking that they were like two planets in an orbit, orienting effortlessly around each other while remaining locked in tandem by some invisible force. I wondered briefly what Jacob and I looked like, if we seemed just as synchronous from the outside looking in.

"I want to spend the summer in La Push," I finally said, deciding that simple, straightforward honesty was the best policy.

He pulled in a long, slow breath through his nose, his golden eyes studying me silently as my mother's shoulders slumped the tiniest bit, her face a mixture of understanding and resignation.

"That's what you were talking to Jacob about," she said, and it wasn't quite a question, but I nodded anyway in confirmation. "What does he think?"

My dad let out something close to a snort under his breath, and tilted his head to look down at her. "What an absurd question, Bella." There was just the slightest tinge of an edge to his voice, something that piqued my interest and told me that maybe there was something more that he knew that he wasn't sharing with me. I mentally filed that away for later.

"It was my idea," I said, and then struggled for the rest of the words to communicate how I was feeling. It was difficult for me, sometimes, to find a way to phrase the images and emotions that swirled through my brain, itching to be let out through my fingers. Giving up after a moment, and I reached for each of their hands, and they gave them immediately, their palms cool against mine. Pictures flashed through my mind in rapid succession, memories of the last four years, hopping from country to country, fluttering between coast and mountaintops, rainforest and desert, touching on each of the seven wonders of the world that I had now seen in person, the result of my father's passion for an extremely immersive and well-rounded education. I thought of the marble halls of galleries, of museums and relics and ruins, of all the different cultures and languages I'd been exposed to and learned, the sweeping bellows of symphonies and operas, the sharp tang of the scent of Rio at Carnival, or New Orleans at Mardi Gras, the deafening roar of New Delhi and Bangladesh at rush hour. I focused on the deep appreciation I felt for having been able to experience each and every one of them, and then, abruptly, my thoughts flipped.

Memories that weren't actually mine, but that had been recounted to me over and over throughout the years, now with myself inserted into them - the crackle of a bonfire on First Beach, Embry dropping every single one of his marshmallows into the coals; the crash of the tide along the shoreline, Paul's whoop of exhilaration as he dove over the edge of the cliffs; Emily and Kim taking turns braiding bright ribbons through a little girl's hair, a group of dark eyed and darker haired toddlers pulling at my hands to go play with them; Charlie teaching me how to make a fly, Billy supervising as I mixed the ingredients to his famous fish fry, Sue shaping my hands around a ball of fry bread dough; the pounding of ceremonial drums and the shaking of the ground under my feet, wolf pelts draped across dancers' shoulders, their faces hardened and streaked with war paint, Jacob's arm around my shoulders and his voice low in my ear, translating the ancient Quileute; laughter, loud and raucous and free, warmth, a suffocating warmth, wrapping around me and squeezing the breath out of me; an old bike on an even older dirt road, grease creased hands clutching mine over the throttle, a solid warmth at my back, the wind whipping and tugging wildly at my hair, the squeal of delight tumbling up and out of my lips, the joy surging up from the tips of my toes -

Pulling in a sharp breath, I let my hands and my gaze drop down to the table top. I had shown more than I intended to, more than I needed to to get my point across.

I felt more than heard my father let out a long, slow breath, and my mother slipped down from her barstool to round the edge of the counter, her arm coming to rest around my shoulders. I knew that she, as reluctant as she might be to let me go, would at the very least understand this desire, the overwhelming need I felt to push myself out into the tantalizing depths of the unknown, to experience life like my other half did, to make those memories together, and maybe see what else we could make together, too.

My father's eyes flicked over the top of my head to my mother's face, and they shared a long look for a moment. Intuitively, I knew that she had pulled back her shield and was sharing with him, the both of them long practiced in the art of silent communication.

"I want to call and talk to Jacob," he finally said, his gaze moving down to meet mine, and the relief I felt was so strong, so palpable, that I felt myself slump just the slightest bit against my mother's side. Her hand rubbed soothingly across the top of my arm. His expression softened as he looked at me, slipping off his own stool to join both of us on the other side of the island. My mom stepped back, and he stepped forward, enveloping me in his arms. I rested my head against his chest, and felt him sigh.

"Time is a cruel mistress, indeed," he murmured, passing a hand over the back of my head.

The next morning, I woke to find a box on my bedside table.

I pushed myself up against the pillows and reached for it, glancing down at the overnight shipping label and the familiar return address on the front. I slid a fingernail under the packing tape and popped it open to find a brown paper wrapped parcel with a handwritten note on top.

Since I can't be there to hug you in person - Jake.

I pulled back the brown paper to see a small packet of chocolate candies - Hugs, the label read - a handful of pocket-sized hand warmers, and a worn hooded sweatshirt that I immediately recognized. I pulled it out of the box and buried my face in it, practically gulping in the scent. I reached for my phone.

"Talk to me, and I can almost believe this is real," I said when he answered, more than just a little bit breathlessly. I heard a burst of laughter, and glanced a minute too late towards the clock to realize that it was mid-afternoon in La Push and Jake was still at the garage. I felt myself flush, but quickly decided that I didn't care as his chuckle rumbled through the speaker under my ear. I heard the background noise fade away, and a door shut.

"I talked to Edward," he said, and the grin in his voice made my stomach do a series of funny little flip flops.

"Did you order your pink collar?" I asked.

"And the personalized dog bowl. It'll be here just in time."

"And when would that be?"

He deliberately paused, stretching out the anticipation, and I let out a huff. He laughed, finally giving in. "Next Thursday."

"Next Thursday," I repeated faintly, feeling almost lightheaded with giddiness. "That's only five days."

"Yeah, I know. I had to pay for expedited shipping and everything."

His joking words only halfway registered in my mind. I slipped my arms into the too-big sleeves and shoved my head through the opening at the neck, pulling it down over my chest and curling myself around the extra material. If I closed my eyes and concentrated, I could almost pretend that he was there, his arms slipping around me, his chest pressing against my back. Almost, but not quite.

"Still not the same," I murmured, blinking my eyes open with a sad smile. I reached for the little packet of candies, turning it over in my hands absently.

"Five days," he said, and even through the phone speaker and the seven thousand miles that separated us, I knew his voice well enough to hear the little catch there, the one that told me that he was just as ready for the next five days to fly by as I was.

"Five days," I repeated. "Will you come pick me up at the airport?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice a little rough. "I'll be there."

"Hey Jake?" I said, and then didn't wait for him to answer. "Thank you.

There was so much unsaid that I tried to say in those two little words - thank you for understanding, thank you for knowing exactly what to do to make me smile, thank you for always, always finding ways to show me how much you care.

He pulled in a breath and let it out slowly, and I knew he understood everything I hadn't said. "Sure, sure."

The next five days seemed to drag on, and I spent more time at the piano trying to drown out the ticking of the clock than I had in a long time.

My mother flittered back and forth, her arms full of laundry, triple and quadruple checking my bags, and on one of her passes back from my bedroom she paused long enough to set an MP3 recorder on top of the piano.

"Record that one," she said, referencing the melody that I'd been plunking out. "Your father will want to hear it."

Grateful for the challenge of playing for the recorder, I pulled in a breath and pressed the button, my fingers tracing their way across the keys with perfect muscle memory.

The morning of my flight found the two of us in the kitchen before sunrise, my mother turning out a breakfast spread that would've fed both wolf packs for at least two days. She pressed me down into a seat and handed me a fork as she slid a heaping plate of pancakes towards me. Obligingly, I ate a few bites before dragging the tines of the fork through a pool of syrup mindlessly, my mind racing and butterflies taking up every spare inch of my midsection. I glanced at the clock. In almost exactly twenty four hours, I would be with Jacob. The thought made my stomach flip in nervous excitement, and I set the fork down next to the plate, unable to eat any more food.

My dad paused as he stepped into the kitchen, one of my bags in each of his hands. He set them carefully next to the back door before crossing over to my mother. "Bella," he said as he rubbed her shoulders gently. "Sweetheart, I think she's had more than enough food."

She stared down at the skillet in front of her, where she was scrambling two dozen eggs, and then blinked several times as if breaking herself out of a trance. She glanced over at me, and I hid a smile in my cup of orange juice.

"Well," was all she said as she reached over to turn off the stove burner, and I knew that if she were still human, her face would've been flushed a bright red. My dad caught my eye over her head and winked, grinning, and I choked a little over my juice. "At least she won't be hungry," she finished, darting back to her bedroom for her purse.

I eyed the short stack in front of me, and then tipped my head towards it. "I don't know if I can spare any, but she'd probably make you some too, if you asked," I told my dad, and we both snickered.

By the time my bags were loaded into the car and we were ready to go, rush hour traffic was in full swing, but it didn't seem to faze my dad. He steered with a single finger at the bottom of the wheel, maneuvering effortlessly through the bustling hive of vehicles as my mom rattled on in the back seat about making sure I had a sweater in my carry on and to make friends with the flight attendants and did I remember to pack a travel roll of toilet paper in my purse.

"Mom, I'm fairly certain that the airplanes have toilet paper," I said as my dad shook his head, glancing up at her reflection in the rearview mirror and grinning indulgently.

"You never know," she said mildly, digging through her purse and producing a travel packet of Kleenex, which she tossed over my shoulder and into my lap. "It's a long flight. They might run out."

Trust my mother to think of every impossibility. I rolled my eyes, but tucked the tissues down into a side pocket of my purse.

"What about snacks? Do you have enough of those?"

"Snacks?" I twisted around in my seat to look at her. "They have those on the airplanes, too, you know."

She leveled me with a look, and reached down for a plastic bag at her feet. "Airplane food is disgusting," she said, producing a handful of single-serve packs of trail mix and beef jerky and peanut butter crackers. "And the food court in the airport will cost you more than the rest of the summer put together."

My dad snorted at that, and I tipped my head to the side, acquiescing her point. Wordlessly, she held out the snacks, and I took them.

I slid the shade up on the window next to me, and peered out, picking up my phone to snap a picture of the Tokyo skyline and text it to Jake.

Deja vu, he texted back, and then sent a candid photo of Billy, Rachel, Paul, and his two nieces around the kitchen table at Billy's house, remnants of their dinner spread in front of them.

12 more hours, he said, and for him, with the time change, it was.

At least you'll get to sleep through most of it.

I was scheduled to land in Seattle just after seven o'clock in the morning local time. Tokyo was sixteen hours ahead, though, and with twelve hours of flight time, plus a healthy layover in Los Angeles, I would have a full day of travel during the span of his overnight hours, only to set my watch back and, in essence, erase all that time away once I landed.

Not likely, he texted back, and I grinned at that. At least he might be awake to keep me company through most of it, courtesy of the airplane's Wi-Fi.

We reached cruising altitude, and I sat back from the window, tucking my earbuds in and flipping absently through a couple of magazines in the seat back pocket as the stewardesses made the first of several drink rounds. Jacob sent me various pictures - a plate of peach cobbler; Maddie, his oldest niece, wrapped in a hooded towel, fresh from the bath; the opening pitch of a Mariners game on the TV in Billy's living room - and I snickered as I responded to each one with the same picture of the back of the seat in front of me. At some point, they dimmed the cabin lights and put on a movie, and I halfway watched as I grazed on a packet of trail mix. It was something with Jim Carey, one I was positive that Jacob probably knew by heart. I snapped a picture of one of the scenes and sent it to him.

Chhhiiitttyyyyy! he responded, and I snorted as I shook my head. Of course.

At least it's not Gladiator, he said, and I grinned. For some reason, the fact that I had watched the movie and not immediately hated it seemed to bother him. I had a feeling it had something to do with the amount of screen time that Russell Crowe spent shirtless.

Maybe I'll request it after this one's over, I teased.

Wait a few hours, and you can watch a Native reenactment.

I felt my cheeks flush at the picture that statement painted, and decided maybe Russell wasn't all that great, anyway. Since when have Quil and Embry been into wrestling?

Funny, he texted back.

The minutes felt like they crawled by as the first movie ended and they started another, some sci-fi title that I had never heard of and had absolutely no interest in. Jake sent me a photo of the living room of the apartment that he shared with Quil above the garage, and then one of his room, the bed unmade and clothes strewn all across the floor.

Typical, I said. When was the last time you did laundry?

Don't remember, he texted back, and then, Something to keep you busy while you're here :)

I snorted, typing out a Keep dreaming! as another picture came in, this one just a black screen. I glanced at the time. It was just before ten in La Push.

Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise, I texted, quoting one of my father's favorite proverbs.

Early bird gets the worm, he replied, and I sent him a gif of a worm. He responded with one of a bird.

Sleep tight, I said, adding on a heart emoticon on a whim.

8 ½ hours was all he sent back, and then Xo.

Despite his claims that he wouldn't sleep, he must have dozed off at some point. I didn't hear from him for the rest of that flight, or during my four hour layover in Los Angeles. I called my parents to check in with them, and wandered around the terminal to stretch my legs as I sipped a ridiculously overpriced coffee. The airport was relatively empty as late - or early, however you looked at it - as it was, and I had no problem finding a vacant row of seats in front of my next gate.

I pulled out a book and attempted to read, but my eyes kept glazing over, and I reread the same page several times without comprehension before I gave up and stuck the book back in my bag. Several business men and women in sharply tailored suits, clutching laptop bags and espressos for dear life, began taking their places in the seats surrounding me, and it wasn't long before boarding was called. I tucked my carry on into the plane's overhead bin, and dropped down into my seat to snap another picture out the window. It wasn't anything more than a black oval in a pale gray expanse of wall, a few red lights blinking in the emptiness.

Rise and shine, I sent, along with the photo.

Moments later, my phone vibrated, and I glanced down with a grin.

Good morning, sunshine. And then, almost immediately, I can't wait to see you.

My grin softened into an affectionate smile as I thought of him, bleary eyed and bed-headed, typing out messages still half-asleep. Me too.

Hopping in the shower, he said, and then fifteen minutes later, a picture of the front of the garage, through the windshield of Jake's El Camino.

The next time I get in this car, you'll be with me, he said, and I felt my heart give a funny lurch at the thought that he really was that close, that in less than three hours, I would be seeing him, hugging him and smelling him and hearing his voice without the constraints of phone speakers and international calling.

Drive safe, I texted.

Fly safe, he responded. See you soon.

Rain lashed steadily against the windows as the plane began its final descent into Seattle, and we had to circle the airport several times before we were cleared to land. My knee began bouncing anxiously as we taxied down the runway, my fingers plucking at a loose piece of upholstery on the armrest as I sat as close to the edge of the seat as the safety belt would allow. A strange energy buzzed through me, an invisible hook catching behind my navel and tugging me forward, as if my body itself knew that Jacob was close and it wanted to do everything it could to expedite the process of getting to him. As soon as we rolled to a stop at the gate, I was on my feet, swinging my purse across my body and hitching my carry on up onto my shoulder. I led the exodus down the jet way, and followed the signs for baggage claim.

I had to work to slow my steps, and finally fell in line behind a young woman pushing a stroller, concentrating on maintaining an acceptable distance as I followed her to keep myself from breaking out into a flat out run. The energy that had buzzed through me on the plane was now tingling down my spine and in my fingers, my pulse thrumming somewhere high in my throat. I bounced on my toes as I waited for the escalator's torturously slow descent, and let out a breath of relief as the man in front of me stepped off, clearing the way for me to hop the final three steps.

I turned instinctively to my right, my eyes already searching for the form that I knew I would find, breaking out into a jog as I caught sight of him, a literal head and shoulders above everyone else.

I wove my way through the crowd, my feet pounding out a drumming beat in time with my heart - Ja-cob, the beat seemed to sing, Ja-cob, Ja-cob.

His eyes locked with mine over the sea of heads separating us, and he began moving towards me as well, his gaze never wavering, those brown depths melting with intensity, a grin stretching up the corners of his lips.

I dropped my bag and I wasn't sure which one of us reached the other first, but in the next second, it didn't matter. He caught me up around the waist, and I sucked in a breath at the impact of his body against mine, and then nothing mattered, other than the grip of his fingers digging into my rib cage as he swung me around and the warm, rough rasp of his cheek against mine. My arms locked around his neck and his hand slid up the curve of my spine to the back of my neck, burying into my hair, cradling me to him.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the burn of tears as it all crashed down over me – the scent of his laundry soap, cologne and coffee mingling in with the spice that was just him, earthy and woodsy in the best way. I had thought I'd been prepared, thought that all of the time I'd spent imagining and counting down to this very moment in my mind would've somehow lessened the impact of it, or at the very least helped me to keep my composure.

I was wrong.

The sheer relief I felt being in his arms was completely overwhelming and consuming, splintering my heart with its magnitude and fusing it back together with the heat of his embrace.

"Don't cry," he murmured, and it was only then that I realized that the tears had overflowed and were coursing thick and fast down my cheeks. I tucked my chin to press my forehead against his neck, breathing him in as his fingers combed through my hair, sending little fissures of pleasure down my spine. His cheek pressed against the side of my head, the slight sway of his body that I doubted he was even conscious of soothing me as the sea of people parted around us. I could feel the weight of their stares, but I didn't care, and apparently, neither did Jake.

I wasn't sure how long it had been when he finally loosened his hold around my waist and I slid down a few inches until my feet were flat on the floor once more. His hands came up to my cheeks as I tipped my head back to look at him, his thumbs tracing ever so gently under each of my eyes, wiping away the residual dampness there. My smile threatened to split my face in half as I drank in the sight of him, his hair mussed from air drying, a shadow of stubble across his jaw, eyes that were flickering back and forth between my own.

"Hi," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

I felt rather than heard the chuckle that rolled through him as a lazy smile curled up the edges of his lips. His forehead tipped forward, resting against mine, and his eyes fluttered closed as he let out a breath that fanned over my lips. My breathing hitched, my heart pounding so loud in my chest that I was sure he could hear it because I could hear his, uneven and thready, but he didn't move any closer, just held me there as we shared the air between us. His thumb brushed a circuit over the curve of my cheek, and his eyes finally opened, dark and heated and a little bit unfocused.

"I'm glad you're here," he murmured, and before I could respond, he was pulling in a breath and straightening up, the pads of his fingers tracing a blazing trail down to the line of my jaw as he let his hands drop away. The sudden wash of cool air over my face left me feeling dazed and flushed, and I took a deep breath, glancing around to get my bearings.

"Let's go get your bags," Jake said with a smirk, nodding over towards the baggage carousel, and I let out a laugh when I realized a second later that mine were the only bags left, and the security officer was staring at us exasperatedly. I felt my cheeks flush, but Jacob seemed entirely unconcerned as he slipped his fingers through mine. He reached down with his free hand to shoulder my carry on - which, I realized with another flush, I'd almost forgotten - and then led the way over to the conveyor belt that was spinning lazily, the bright red bows my mom had tied around the handle of my suitcases entirely unnecessary now.

He plucked up the first bag, and made to pull his hand away to grab the second, but I squeezed my fingers around his tighter and reached for it instead with my free hand.

"I can carry that," he said, tilting his chin towards the bag as I pulled up the handle.

"You've got your hands full," I told him, staring pointedly down to where our fingers were laced together.

He gave me a look, one that clearly said that he was trying to be a gentleman, but I smiled sweetly, and he caved like a house of cards, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation.

"Hands full," he muttered, knocking his shoulder lightly against mine as he led the way towards the exit and down the sidewalk to the parking garage. "You can say that again."

He slid my bags carefully under the bed cover he kept on the El Camino, and then came around my side of the car to unlock the door.

"You know," I said as I dropped onto the seat and reached for the seatbelt. "You could install automatic locks."

"Where's the fun in that?" He waited until I was settled and shut the door, loping around the back of the car to slide into the driver's side.

Two cardboard cups in the cup holder on the floorboard caught my attention, their coloring familiar, steam still curling up from their lids.

"Please tell me one of those is for me," I said, glancing over at him, and he chuckled, reaching for one and passing it over. I took it, lifting it to my nose and inhaling deeply. "You perfect man," I sighed happily, taking a sip. It had just the right amount of cream and sugar.

Jake glanced over at me out of the corner of his eye, one of his eyebrows quirked up. "Are you talking to me, or the coffee?" Amusement warmed his words, and I glanced up at him from under my lashes.

"Tall and dark," I said, grinning impishly. "Just how I like it."

He barked out a laugh at that, cranking the engine and throwing it in reverse, barely glancing at his mirrors as he pulled out of the parking spot and maneuvered the car around to the exit lane of the garage.

I ran a finger absently over the lettering on my cup, the name of my favorite coffee shop in Forks, and realized belatedly that he would've had to go entirely out of his way earlier to get there. I took another sip, and savored the liquid as it flowed over my tongue.

"Thank you," I said once I had swallowed, and he looked over at me, brows raised in question. I lifted the cup in my hand, and he smiled, reaching over the armrest for my free hand, his fingers curling around mine.

"Sure, sure," he said, his thumb rubbing over the back of mine.

A companionable silence stretched between us as he drove out of Seattle, suburbia giving way to thick forest, the roads winding gently as the elevation began to decrease the farther west we traveled. The irony wasn't lost on me - when we were apart, we were in near constant communication, and now that we were together, we fell comfortably into silence. Absently, I wondered why that was, if the unease of being apart bred a sort of desperate neediness that faded away once we were in each other's company.

Jake's phone chirped out a notification, vibrating from its place on the dash, and he reached for it, glancing down at it before handing it over to me. Confused, I took it, looking down to see my mom's name flashing across the screen.

"You forgot to text her and tell her you landed," he said, and I swiped my finger across the screen to answer.

"Sorry," I said by way of greeting. "I made it, I'm fine, we're in the car headed to La Push now."

She chuckled. "All right. I just wanted to check and make sure. I love you."

"Love you, Mom. Dad too. Bye."

I disconnected the call and set the phone back on the dash, drinking the last dregs of my coffee and wedging the empty cup down into the cup holder before settling back into my seat. Despite the caffeine boost, my eyelids felt heavy, the letdown of twenty four hours of adrenaline settling sluggishly in my limbs. Jake lifted the armrest in the center of the seat, beckoning with a tilt of his head.

"C'mere," he said, unlatching the seatbelt and tugging my arm. I scooted, my feet straddling either side of the console on the floorboard. His arm slipped around my shoulders, and I leaned into his side, my drowsiness only increasing as the warmth of his body heat seeped into me. He set the cruise control, and settled back against the seat into a more comfortable position, stretching his legs out beneath the wheel.

"Sleep," he murmured as I felt my eyes start to flutter closed. "I'll wake you up when we get there."

I woke to the sound of the car's tires crunching over gravel, and lifted my head, blinking groggily out the windshield as we turned down Billy's driveway. The house looked quiet, the doors and windows all shut securely, and I looked over at Jake in question.

"Dad had a doctor's appointment in Port Angeles," he said in explanation as he pulled up under the old carport. "Rachel went with him. They should be back later this afternoon."

I nodded automatically, still not quite awake. Jake reached across the wheel to put the car in park and switch the engine off with his left hand. I realized that his other arm was still wrapped around me, and I scooted forward, yawning into my elbow as he flexed his fingers.

"Sorry," I said when he winced. "I didn't think I'd really sleep, much less for the whole trip."

"You were tired," he said simply, as if that justified it all, and to him it probably did. I turned in my seat, reaching for his hand and rubbing it between both of mine.

"Better?" I asked after a moment, and he nodded, a glint in his eye.

"Yeah. But you don't have to stop."

I grinned at him, my fingers gentling their pressure to trace over the skin of his hand, my eyes following their progress. They were familiar hands, with long, calloused fingers and rough palms, a shadow of stubborn motor grease in the creases around his knuckles and under his fingernails, a vein running between the ridges of his second and third fingers, zigzagging sharply across the back of his hand to wind around his forearm. I followed its path up to his wrist with the tip of my finger, and felt the tendons there flutter and twitch in response to my touch, a muscle in his arm jumping involuntarily.

I had known these hands my entire life, had been touching these hands my entire life. They had held me, wiped my tears, tossed me up into the air and caught me, time and time again. They had tightened over bicycle handlebars, wrapped around fishing reels, plucked at guitar strings as mine danced across piano keys in beautiful harmony.

And now, this hand was slipping through mine, his fingers nestling firmly, perfectly, in the spaces between mine, his thumb rubbing up over the ridge of my knuckles and down through the center of my palm, leaving a tingling trail in its wake.

"We should go inside," he finally said, his voice a little rougher and pitched a little lower than I was used to. I glanced up to see him watching me, his eyes so deep and so open, making sure I had no doubt of the effect my touch had on him.

A little shiver tripped down my spine, and I found myself contemplating all the other ways that I could touch him, the same but not the same, and see that look on his face again.

Instead, I pulled my hands away, and watched equal parts disappointment and relief flash across his face, and I couldn't decide which intrigued me more.

By the time the last of the guests had called it a night, the impromptu welcoming party ending with a round of hugs and promises to see each other soon, twilight was hanging heavy in the air, the sun's rays just barely keeping their grasp on the indigo sky. I eased out the screen door carefully, letting it snap shut behind me, a glass of iced tea in each hand as I made my way across the porch.

Jake was whistling a nameless tune, his hands working a knife around a block of wood that had yet to take a set shape. He glanced up at me as I took a seat next to him, the old porch swing creaking and groaning in protest, and smiled, reaching out to take one of the glasses.

"Thanks." He took a long drink, condensation dripping off the bottom of the glass and onto his old pair of cutoff sweats. He'd ditched his jeans earlier, and toed off his ratty Converse by the front door. One black-socked foot kept the swing rocking at a slow, steady pace.

"You're welcome," I murmured, settling back against the swing and drawing my feet up underneath me. The cicadas were out, as well as the bullfrogs, and a few fireflies twinkled across the vast expanse of lawn, where several kids' toys and a corn hole board had been strung out after dinner. Just on the other side of the wall, in the kitchen, I could hear Sue finishing up the rest of the dishes, while Rachel cajoled her youngest into pajamas. Paul, Charlie and Billy were talking sports as Paul went around the den collecting all the folding chairs they'd set up for everyone.

"I should go help them."

The whistling stopped, along with the swaying of the swing, and a warm hand landed on my arm. I glanced over at Jake, and he shook his head, just the slightest twitching back and forth.

"Stay with me."

I felt a warmth in my stomach, one that bubbled up and rose to my cheeks. "Okay."

I sat back once more, resting my head back against the swing, wedging my cup more firmly in my lap and letting my eyelids flutter closed. It had been a long day - days, I mentally corrected myself, adding up the hours of time change that I'd flown through. With all the excitement of traveling, seeing Jacob, and being passed from person to person all afternoon, it was no wonder I was exhausted.

"Tired?" Jake asked, breaking the silence. I felt my lips quirk up. Despite the fact that my father was the only one to actually possess the gift, there was never a shortage of people surrounding me who seemed to be able to read my mind.

"Mhm." I nodded, my eyes opening in time to see him lean forward, setting his knife and block of wood down on the porch, and our two tea glasses next to them. He angled in his seat, one leg tucking beneath the opposite knee, and I moved into the space beside him effortlessly, leaning back against his chest.

Absently, my hand went to his forearm where it rested along the length of my thigh and traced over the downy layer of dark hair there. I tried to remember the last time we'd sat together on this swing, and decided I must've still been wearing bows in my hair and passing for a six year old. Even before my family had left Forks shortly after my second birthday, I hadn't spent much time away from the big house, or my parents' cottage. After all, how do you explain the sudden existence of a rapidly growing supernatural child who resembles her parents too closely to be a coincidence to the average human who might happen across her?

"Do you remember that time you taught me to ride a two wheeler in the front yard?" I asked after a moment.

I heard him snort behind me, felt his head shake. "Your dad was pissed that I beat him to it."

I grinned. "Mom was pissed you didn't make me wear a helmet."

He chuckled at that, his fingers tracing over the faded strands of the bracelet I wore around my wrist - a larger version of the one he'd made me for my first Christmas, almost ten years ago.

"Almost time for another one," he said, and I hummed in agreement. I never took it off, except when one of the threads would wear out and Jacob would replace it, braiding the old strands in with new. Every time he'd flown out to meet me over the past four years, he'd brought a small throng of leather thread with him, just in case, and I'd sat with him and watched as his fingers deftly unknotted and rewove each piece. Though I knew the traditional meaning, a Quileute token of promise, none of the other imprints wore one, and I cherished it as something unique to Jacob and me.

"Did you think," I began hesitantly, my eyes tracing over the familiar pattern of the bracelet. "I mean, is this weird for you? The way things have changed?"

I didn't even really know what I was asking, but I had a feeling that he would understand. He always did. The swing slowed to a stop, and he set it into motion again with a nudge of his foot.

"Is it weird for you?" he countered, and I didn't miss the way he answered my question with a question.

I shook my head automatically, and then stopped to think. Memories of my childhood rolled through my mind, the way our relationship had morphed effortlessly from that of siblings to best friends. And then I thought about that night, almost two weeks ago now, when he had shown up at the charity gala I'd played for, totally out of the blue, in a full tuxedo. The way his eyes had locked on me the second he'd stepped into the ballroom, the way his thumb had brushed over my knuckles when he'd taken my hand and led me out onto the dance floor. The way he'd sheepishly confessed to having my mom teach him to waltz in his hotel room an hour before as he'd led me hesitantly through the steps. I hadn't been able to take my eyes off him, how his shoulders filled out his jacket, or how his hair fell over his forehead, no match for the gel he'd combed through it. He'd looked at me as if I was the only person in the whole world, and I couldn't say that I'd noticed anyone else in his shadow, either.

He shifted behind me, and I turned to face him, drawing my knees up to my chest. His expression was carefully blank, his eyes guarded as they watched me silently.

"It's different," I amended, my face flushing as I dropped my gaze. What a strange conversation, I mused to myself, but Jake and I had always talked - about everything.

"I feel…" I trailed off, searching for the right words. "I feel like I want to be close to you, all the time. And I feel like I want to reach out and touch you, like it's second nature to me, like it's as natural as breathing, but then when I do - " I felt myself flush. "Well. It's just different."

A beat of silence stretched between us, our breathing blending into the nighttime symphony of chirps and croaks and the breeze rustling the trees.

"Yeah," he said after a long moment, his eyes on my fingers as I picked absently at a hangnail. "I know what you mean."

I felt a flood of relief that I wasn't the only one. "Is it always like this?"

He barked out a laugh at that, I realized belatedly the absurdity of my question. There wasn't exactly a handbook for us to go off of when it came to us. "I don't just mean that," I clarified, glancing up at him. "Do all - relationships - " I stuttered over the word - "feel like this?"

I thought of my parents, my aunts and uncles, Carlisle and Esme, Paul and Rachel, even Sue and Charlie. And then, with a flush of chagrin, I thought of Jacob's past - one that I knew included my mother.

"Was it like this for you? You know - before?"

Before me, I meant, and as much as I knew that that part of their lives was long gone and buried, and as awkward as it felt for me to try and think about Jacob with anyone, some masochistic part of me wanted to know.

"Nessie," he said, his voice low in the growing dimness. I had halfway expected a teasing retort, a break of levity that would allow us to slip back into an easy banter, but his tone was serious, and I simultaneously felt myself not wanting him to continue and wanting more than anything for him to continue.

He dipped his head to catch my eyes and hold them, the absolute certainty there calming my fluttering nerves.

"I've never felt like this before," he said, surety in every steady syllable. "Not with anyone else, ever."

I pulled in a breath, the words sinking down into my chest, a glowing warmth in the vicinity of my heart. He held out his hand, palm up, and I took it.

"Where does that leave us?" I asked, and his arm moved against mine as he shrugged.

"Wherever you want."

I flicked my eyes over to him, and then back to our hands, laced together on top of my knee. My next question danced on the tip of my tongue, tiptoeing one hesitant step forward before jumping two steps back.

"What do you want?"

"I want you," he said immediately. "In whatever way and whatever capacity you want me."

It was the truth - instinctively, I knew that, just as I knew that the sky was blue and the grass was green. But it hinged just this side of a cop-out, and I realized, with a start, that there was more that he wasn't saying. I glanced up at him, my eyes narrowing as my head tipped slightly to the side.

"And what if I don't know what I want?"

He drew in a long breath and held it for a second, letting it out through his nose, his eyes moving slowly across the landscape in front of us. His head turned in my direction, his gaze following, and for a split second, I saw the mask of careful neutrality slip. His expression softened, his eyes warm with something that felt a little more intense than simple affection as they flickered back and forth between mine. The hand that was still laced with mine lifted, bringing my fingers with it as he ran a knuckle down the side of my face from my temple to the hinge of my jaw, lingering there for a moment before dropping back down into my lap. I dropped my gaze with it, feeling my cheeks flush, knowing that the gesture was meant to call my bluff in not so many words. I scooted closer in silent response, leaning my forehead against the tip of his shoulder, his skin warm through the cotton of his shirt. His hand untangled from mine, slipping behind me to run from the crown of my head down over the curve of my neck, holding me there for a brief moment, and then continuing, an agonizing trail over the line of my spine. Warm pleasure rolled a tremor through my shoulders, and he paused at the small of my back, lingering there, his fingers rubbing back and forth idly. Unconsciously, I leaned forward, my head nuzzling into the hollow of his neck, his arm tightening around me, his free hand slipping up over my arm as I wound it around his waist.

"Then," he finally said, and I started a little at the sound of his voice, forgetting for a moment that I had asked a question, however inane it'd been. "I'll just be here. And when you figure it out, you can let me know."