One of my favorite parts of this series is showing the same event from different perspectives—like this golden conversation with Embry and Quil.

Salt upon your skin is anything but sin. – "Like the Water" by Patrick Droney

Quil

I've got two glaring problems.

First and foremost, I have a brother now. That's new.

When Embry filled my doorway, I'll admit I wasn't that focused on what he had to say. I was distracted by the second glaring problem. My mind, my heart, fuck, my dick, were still stick back on the couch with Claire. I almost get what the hype is surrounding imprint sex. I'd only been about to go down on her and I was losing my mind. I can't imagine what would have happened if Embry had shown up a minute later.

Okay, I know what would have happened. I wouldn't have answered the fucking door.

And then I wouldn't know what I do now.

Embry Call is my brother.

Half-brother, I guess, if we're being technical. We have the same dad. I don't know the details, don't know if I want them, but it is what it is.

Embry asked me just now if I was okay with this, having our lives rewritten this way. I found him by the trees at the back of my property, his sports bike parked behind my truck in the gravel.

My head tilts side to side, considering. Am I okay with this? Having a brother where before I had none. Having that same brother be my childhood best friend. Having all my lingering questions answered.

The moments we'd laugh the same way at the same joke, react the same way to the same situation, make more sense in my memory than they ever have before.

I still my head, deciding in the moment. "I feel like I've always known. I don't know, I just—"

"I know," Embry says thickly. "Me too."

We release the same breath at the same time, and it's both surprising and confirming.

And then comes the first time I laugh with Embry, my brother. We laugh until tears are streaming down our cheeks, until my abs ache harder than they have after any workout or grueling call.

I still can't completely comprehend what all of this means. Obviously I know the physical technicalities: his mom, my dad—our dad. Whoa. That's new. But as far as everything else, I don't know.

My mom… there's no way she knows. She's devoted her entire life to me, to my father. She moved in my grandfather after my father died like it was not only her job, but her duty. I can't imagine her doing that so easily if infidelity was a part of the story.

It's too tender a wound to consider telling her before I've got my arms around it.

So I laugh harder, until all that's left is to say what's screaming the loudest in my mind. "Welcome to the fam. I've always wanted a brother."

Embry calls me a liar and claps me on the back, and my mind is back on ten minutes ago, when I told him he wasn't interrupting anything. I was definitely lying then.

"I'm sure the girls will be thrilled," Embry continues.

I straighten up fully. "You didn't tell Beth?" Bethany hates being called Beth, so I make sure to do it at least twice a week.

"You know she hates it when you call her that," Embry says, reading my mind. "And no, I needed to do this on my own. I came here straight after."

This warms my chest like a shot of hard liquor. I'm still learning how to share Embry with his wife, and sometimes, like now, my jealousy wins out. It makes me sickeningly happy to know this before her.

"I only do it 'cuz she hates it so much," I say. "You should tell Jake and Sam, though. Put them out of their misery."

I've had a group chat with the other contenders for Embry's brotherhood. It mostly consisted of Jacob and I sending "come the fuck on, Em" and middle finger and clock emojis. Sam liked to contribute his maturity by sending It's a big deal for him whenever things escalated.

Embry nods. "I'll do it when I get back."

I roll my eyes. "Where are you going? To the end of the world?" For Embry's big life decisions, he likes to contemplate at Cape Flattery, the northwestern most point in the continental U.S. I've been there, and yeah, it's cool, but it's not more spectacular than the woods anywhere else in Washington.

He shakes his head at me, a new light shining in his eyes. Oh, shit. Brotherhood's already making me sentimental. "I've been there once today already." I roll my eyes again, but it stops when he says, "I'm going to pay my respects."

I nod, a small smile tugging at my mouth. "Want some company? I haven't been in a while. We can give him shit together." Maybe by the time we make it to Dad's grave, I'll be able to figure out how I'm feeling.

"What about Claire?"

Ah, yes. The other glaring problem.

Did I seriously tell Claire to masturbate in my bed? In what world is that a good idea? I have to sleep there, and if it smells like Claire, smoke and licorice and sex, that becomes virtually impossible.

I let out an anguished breath, giving him something since the gleam in his eye lets me know he still doesn't believe my half-assed lie from earlier. "She's driving me crazy, Em. I'm sure you heard what she said when you knocked. I'm not strong enough to do this."

I'd come to that realization when Claire was under me twenty minutes ago. She made this little whimpering noise when I blew into her ear. It lit my blood on fire, made me go dizzy, tightened my pants, and squeezed my heart all at once. I pulled my lips lower, and she only squirmed harder underneath me.

I'm not sure when the voice in my head went from saying Claire is forbidden to just wait as long as humanly possible.

"Sure you are," Embry says, capturing my attention again. "Just think about how Sam and her dad will both strangle you if you put a finger on her before she's seventeen."

Okay, so I probably shouldn't mention the whole 'almost giving her head' thing. "Yeah," I say unsurely, "but that's not for six months, and she was ready years ago. You can't imagine the things she's done to try and win me over."

Like our porch kiss. The hugs where she pressed her chest to mine. How summer after summer, her bikini gets smaller and smaller.

One of the last things she said before Embry showed up was, I need to come, Quil. The way she said it wrecked me—a soft voice that split her kiss-stained lips. Her eyes, wide and wild. And damn it, if that wasn't exactly what I planned to do. Make her feel everything and more.

I grip Embry's shoulder harshly enough that my fingers ache. "But don't try to imagine anything."

He laughs. "You can do it buddy. If you hold out, I'll share my winnings." With a final pat on my shoulder, he heads back toward the house.

That's nice of him. My brother's a good—

Wait.

"What the fuck?" I run after him, narrowly avoiding a faceplant brought on by a root. "There's a betting pool on how long I can keep it in my pants?"

The pack's recent betting history includes: whether Embry and Bethany would cave and get Sadie a dog for Christmas (they didn't, I made $46); who will be the first to brave the frigid water and hit the waves (Seth bet on himself and won the whole pot); who would be the next to get pregnant (I put my money on Emily but Sam assured us their family was complete and had the snip to prove it, I lost $28).

(I also put money down on Em and Bethany – they've wanted another baby since they got married in the fall, probably before that if everyone's being honest—they lost one last summer and, I'm sure, have felt it every day. I knew it was unlikely since they're still dealing with the piece of garbage who is officially known as Sadie's biological father. But I secretly hoped they'd give him a fuck you and do it anyway.)

All this to say, I'm not surprised there's a bet on Claire and me. I'm just surprised Embry has that much faith in me. I guess technically everything stayed inside my pants. I wonder if there are stipulations. Do clothes have to stay on? And what are we referring to as sex here? There are a few different definitions, according to Bethany. Because the p-in-v-only definition is "not inclusive to non-heterosexual couples, Quilliam." It grinds my gears when she calls me Quilliam. Probably as much as it does when I call her Beth.

"I'll go in and get your keys so you can hold off a little longer," Embry continues. "If you could wait until January, that'd be ideal. I don't want lucky little Katie Clearwater winning again."

Dear God, please don't let Claire be in my bedroom yet is the first thought I have. The second is, "It's fucking March!"

"Good morning," I say brightly, covering my fatigue with overenthusiasm a few weeks later.

I'll be able to grab a few hours of sleep in my truck while Claire's inside testing, which is good. I never nap harder than the day I come off a shift.

The Clallam County Fire Department building sits in downtown Forks and shares a parking lot with the Public Works building. Going one block in any direction will earn you a spot in front of a hair salon, a post office, a radio broadcaster, and a pharmacy. It's within walking distance to Chinese, Mexican, a burger joint, and a pizza place. (Thus ends the food tour of Forks.)

Last night, I voted for pizza. And lost. The burrito on my plate reminded me with every bite.

"You gonna finish that?" Colton Tate had said, poking a fork toward my leftovers.

The first rule of firefighters: eat what you can, when you can. I think we share that with medical professionals and stay-at-home moms—I'll have to ask Bethany.

I pulled my burrito away from his fork and picked up my own. "Yes."

Colton shot me a look, and I thought he might go for it again, but something over my shoulder stopped him.

Aaron Rhodes – the buddy who hooked me up with the helicopter ride for my date with Claire almost six months ago – slid into the seat next to me, his own food topped with extra hot sauce and sour cream. "Eat up," he told me.

There are six of us on my crew: me, Aaron, Colton, Dave, Omar, and our lone badass female, Mia Shelton. She's tough and buff and in the pecking order, she ranks above me. If you ask her what she's making the crew for dinner, there's a strong possibility she'll make a statement about your balls. There's a hundred percent certainty you won't know if she's joking.

Which is how we wound up getting Mexican in the first place. Nobody wanted to test her after that close call with Omar last summer.

My appetite was pulling a disappearing act because of my sympathy nerves.

Claire takes the SAT this morning, and since I was on shift, I didn't get to see her last night and help her cram last-minute. I headed straight to her house after getting off at six this morning—with an important pitstop to grab about a gallon of coffee for each of us.

Seeing Claire after a shift is always the best feeling. I take a calculated risk every time I go in, and Claire reminds me what I'm fighting for every time I get off.

Not that I'm getting off with Claire.

Thank God she kicked into maximum hyperdrive with her studying lately. It meant I didn't have to confront her after I left her alone to defile my bed. Plus, I finally pried the betting pool numbers out of Embry. I'd feel shitty if I was the reason he lost $300. So I'll just keep hiding the fact that that specific bet was almost over before it began.

I can tell as soon as she climbs in my truck, Claire's hiding something too. It's in the way she won't meet my eyes. Her back is ramrod straight, her gaze unfocused out the window.

"Claire," I say urgently. I move into problem-solving mode. My brain tries to protest because I was just on for twenty-four hours straight, but this is my imprint. She didn't oversleep; I made sure of it. If she's tired, she'll usually play with her earlobe, but her hands sit in loose fists above her knees. I've had this programmed into my phone for almost a year now, so I know we didn't get the date wrong. I give up. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she says too quickly. A lie. "Let's go," she continues, voice robotic.

I shake my head, turning the radio off. "No. What's the matter? What happened?"

She shakes her head back at me, not meeting my gaze. "I—"

I wait, but that's all she says.

"You… you what?" I prompt.

Her lip starts to tremble before her teeth clamp down on it. "I—" she says again, just as unsuccessful.

I reach over for her hand, and she lets me take it, but doesn't return my squeeze. "You what, Claire? What's going on?"

She bites down harder on her lip, and in the split second her eyes land on mine, I see them filling with tears. She breaks her stare. "Let's go. I don't want to be late."

"You can't take the test like this," I protest. "You're shaking."

Her jaw tenses as she works to stop her quivering muscles. And, because she's Claire Young, they stop—the tremors and the tears. All the willpower in the world.

I want to sit right here until she tells me, but she's right. There's not enough time to outwait her stubbornness. I have to concede this.

Painstakingly, I put the car in drive. "You're telling me after, okay?"

She makes an uncommitted noise, but when I go to pull my hand away from hers, she holds onto it so tight the bones ache.

The ride to her school is dead silent aside from the sprinkles on the windshield. It's a very gray day, even for the area. The air feels thicker, like it has a presence of its own and is making sure everyone pays attention. Claire doesn't touch her coffee, doesn't put on her motivational playlist or scroll her phone.

When I park, I turn to her again. My fingers are numb from her grip. "Claire—"

"Don't." She blinks down at our hands, only noticing for the first time how hard she's holding me. She doesn't let up. "I have to do this. And then—" She cuts herself off again when her voice starts to shake. There's that willpower again. "I have to do this," she whispers into the dead space between us.

I want to tell her she doesn't. That there are other test dates later this year. She has an entire year of school left. If she lets me, if she just tells me what's wrong, I can fix it. I can carry the world for her.

But she'd never let me carry her problems for her, not when her mother raised her to carry herself.

So I swallow the rock lodged in my throat. "Okay. I'll be here."

With that, Claire releases my fingers, picks up her backpack, and throws open the door.

I wait. And wait. And wait.

I stare at the door so hard my eyes cross and droop and sting. Still, I don't look away. I couldn't give a shit about the fucking test anymore. I just need to know what's happening inside Claire's mind, her heart.

Four hours. That's how long the SAT takes. I don't leave my spot, not when my stomach growls at me for sustenance, not when my bladder screams for relief, not when my body begs for rest. I just sit and stare at that goddamned door and wait for Claire to return.

I find a renewed sense of energy when the first few students trickle out. Over the next few minutes, the throng thickens. I spot a few of her friends, but she's not among them.

"C'mon, Claire." I drum my thumbs on the steering wheel.

The flow mellows, teachers and administrators joining the masses now.

Still no Claire.

A teenager about Claire's age comes racing out of the front, and he piques my interest. My alarm grows louder as he sweeps the parking lot and blares when his eyes land on my truck, on me. He takes off, coming my way.

I'm already on the pavement by the time he reaches me.

"You're Quil, right? You're with Claire?" he asks, not breathless even though his face is red. He gestures over his shoulder. "She finished the test, but I think—I think she's having a panic attack."

His features snap into place in my memory, and his name leaves my tongue as it forms in my head. "Jaxyn."

He nods, turning over his shoulder. I don't give him even a second to doubt whether I'm following.

I'm not following—I'm leading.

I can hear Claire's heart now, racing. Her breathing, shallow and unsteady. Faster. Have to move faster. I wrench open the front door. It might have been locked. Oops.

Jaxyn trails behind me, and if he questions how I know where to go, he doesn't say anything.

When I round the last corner, I spot a cluster. A few of Claire's closer friends are there, talking and murmuring. I don't waste my energy listening in. A teacher-looking woman crouches over a lump on the floor.

Claire.

"Move," Jaxyn says behind me, and they part.

She's on her side, like maybe she was going for the fetal position but didn't have enough energy. One hand is tucked under her head, and the other is pressed in a fist against her breastbone, the way people do when they have heartburn.

Claire isn't crying, but every breath she takes sounds labored, and her chest rattles with the effort. It makes mine do the same.

Something's come loose inside me.

I ache to hold her. I drop to my knees, not sure what else to do. I have to be closer to her.

Someone behind me mumbles something, and once again, my brain's too occupied to comprehend it. But the lingering presences at my back slowly fade, and then there are only two heartbeats in this hallway—mine and hers.

I go for humor. "Was the test that bad?"

She looks up at me in surprise, like she didn't notice I was here. She opens her mouth to speak but only lets out a whisper of breath. Even that sounds painful.

My chest burns. Eyes burn. I try another tactic. "Or would you prefer if I said it was horrendous?" Still nothing. "Atrocious? Terrible. Brutal. Abys—"

"My mom," she says suddenly, locking eyes with me. The intensity in them steals my breath. "My mom has cancer, Quil."