nineteen.

(Leah)

Leah wakes to darkness, hot and sweaty underneath a pile of blankets, still dressed in yesterday's clothes. It takes her a moment to remember where she is. A moment of staring at the huge NASCAR poster stuck to the opposite wall, at the faint shadows cast over it by the hallway light before she realises that she's in Jacob's bed.

Jacob's bed.

Huh.

She kicks off the stifling blankets and glances at the digital clock on the nightstand. It's early — too early, even by her own standards — but she's awake now, and knows she won't go back to sleep even if she lays here for another hour with the curtains closed. Sleep hasn't come so easily since . . . Well, she doesn't sleep easily these days, and rarely for long, but last night is the first that she remembers sleeping dreamlessly. And it is the first morning that she feels entirely relaxed. Comfortable, even, despite the slight ache in her muscles from walking so far and for so long yesterday.

The memory of the day starts coming back to her, slowly at first and then all at once: the clearing, the journey back, the temptation of sticking around for just that little bit longer . . . although she still has no idea how she wound up in the box bedroom at the back of the house. Jacob's bedroom. Jacob's bed.

Huh.

Where is Jacob?

She half-expects to see him on the floor when she rolls over, but it's not until she finally gets up and pads quietly into the small living room, barefoot and braiding her hair as she goes, that she peeks over the back of the couch and finds him sprawled over it, his long legs dangling over the arm and his mouth slack. Sleeping. Snoring.

The couch is no bigger than a loveseat, really. He can't possibly be comfortable, squished up like that, and yet that drawn look upon his face which was there yesterday has almost disappeared. The worn lines, the unhappiness lingering there, the shadows — it's all gone. He looks younger in his sleep, she decides. Just like when he smiled . . . That is, if she ignores how his new body and his impossible height and his thick muscles don't quite match up with the rest of him. Who he really is at heart.

Seth looks like that, too.

Seth.

She has to get home. But something feels wrong about slipping out of the door before dawn without a goodbye.

Leah ties off the end of her braid, still feeling oddly moved to the core as she studies Jacob. He gave up his bed, carried her to it; he piled all those blankets on top of her so that she wouldn't get cold; he even took her shoes off, for crying out loud.

She leans down to touch his shoulder. "Hey."

Jacob jerks awake, his eyes snapping open in panic and searching wildly around him for the threat. "Leah?" He blinks sleepily — and damn, she feels guilty as hell. "S'going on?"

"Nothing," she murmurs quietly, apologetic. "I'm just going home. I'll be back later, 'kay?" She hasn't forgotten her promise to offload all the casseroles in her fridge into Billy's.

Jacob relaxes almost instantly, his eyes fluttering shut again as he sinks back down into the couch and mumbles something which she thinks translates to stay, but the words are garbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"It's barely even sun-up," she says gently. "Why don't you go sleep in your bed? Come on."

It's like coaxing a child, but eventually she manages to lead a sleepy Jacob down the hallway and into his own bed. He falls back to sleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, breathing deeply with the smallest of smiles on his face. His feet are hanging so far off the end of the bed that they almost touch the floor, but it doesn't seem to make him any less comfortable than he looked on the couch. He's out for the count.

Hopefully he stays like that for a while. He can't have gotten any decent sleep since Quil phased — and maybe not even before that. He has been so busy, so run ragged with looking after Seth and — and her, she thinks with a slight pang of disappointment. And with this other vampire, Victoria, the one who Embry told her about . . . It's no wonder Jake is able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. He must be exhausted.

Leah spots her battered sneakers at the bottom of the bed and slips them on before tiptoeing out of his room and out of the house, Jacob already lightly snoring again behind her.

It feels like December outside — not the end of March — and she shivers in her sweater, clenching her fists together inside the thick sleeves. It's almost as if her body is protesting, urging her to go back inside where it is warm and safe and . . .

She shakes herself. No. Later. She'll come back later.

With exaggerated movements, Leah sets off down Billy's ramp and across the reservation. She tells herself that's it's only to keep herself warm rather than to force herself onwards, and she's only half-convinced herself by the time she makes it to the end of the dirt track that stretches from Quileute Street to Jacob's house and back.

And that's when she sees Sam.

Great. Just great.

Against the rising sun, Sam falters a step in what looks like a very purposeful strut, almost as if he is forcing himself onwards, too. Onwards to his execution. It's almost funny.

And it would be, if he didn't look just as surprised to see her as she is to see him. Perhaps he doesn't want anything to do with her anymore, either. She's not going to begrudge him if that's the case, but neither is she going to let him bother Jacob.

How he knows that Jake is back on the Rez, that he's home, she doesn't know, but suddenly Leah wishes that she'd swallowed her pride and had taken the Rabbit. (She has total faith that Jacob could very easily knock out a Sam-shaped dent from the hood. She doesn't even think he would blame her for it.)

For a split second, she considers running. Back to the house — back to Jacob, because she knows exactly where Sam is going and what he plans to do. But she has never backed down from a fight before, and she's not about to start now. Especially not because of Sam Uley.

"Leah —"

"He's sleeping," she tells him before he can say anything more. She can hear how harsh she sounds, but she can't bring herself to care. He deserves it, every single bit of hostility. "Leave him alone."

But Sam is so used to her anger by now that he barely flinches. Or maybe he is just that determined. "This can't wait."

"You've waited this long, I'm sure you can wait for him a few more hours. Until he's ready."

Sam's face hardens in the cold light. "So he thinks he's in charge now? Is that what he wants?"

"That's up to him," she says firmly. This — telling Sam, it's none of her goddamn business and neither does she want it to be. This is their mess. Not hers. "Either way, it's his right to choose, isn't it?"

Sam's nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. He looks her up and down, scrutinising her, eyes narrowed. "So you know now, then."

Leah crosses her arms over her chest, holding her ground. "That you got your ass kicked? Yeah," she scoffs, "I know all about that. Sounded like you deserved it, in all honesty." It's satisfying when Sam's cheeks go a little redder than the new sun, and she smiles, feeling spiteful. "How did it feel to be bested by a sophomore?"

(Granted, Jacob doesn't look like a sophomore . . . but who's counting?)

When Sam doesn't answer, Leah's smirk only deepens. "That bad, huh."

Sam exhales, a long and purposeful breath through his nose, truly aggravated. Good. "I wanted to sort this with him first before I spoke to you about it."

"Me? There's nothing to say."

"You've heard his side — you haven't heard mine."

"And I don't want to," she says as Sam frowns. "It's too early for your shit, Sam. If you really want to speak with Jake then you can come back later, not when he's sleeping. Or better yet, wait for him to come to you."

Either way — she's not leaving until Sam does. There is no way in hell that he's getting past her to wake Jacob up from the first decent sleep he's going to get before the world comes crashing down on him all because of what Sam has done and what Sam wants.

"We haven't got that much time anymore, Leah," Sam says, sounding rather uppish about it. "Now that Bella's back, that redhead is going to come looking for her again. We need to be ready for it whether Jacob thinks he's Alpha now or not."

Not, she wants to say, but it's nice to know that she can make Sam suffer a little bit more if she wants to. "How did you know he was back?"

"Jared was on patrol last night. He saw you two. And now — I feel it, that Jacob's close."

"You feel it?"

"Alphas can feel their pack," Sam explains in the way he might be talking to a child. Slow and deliberate, as if having to do so is extremely annoying to him. He looks directly at her, his eyes wide but fierce. "He might have thrown my leadership into question — maybe the pack's having trouble . . . obeying at the moment, but I guess there's some things he can't fully take away from me until he decides to."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said," Sam grunts. He jerks his head, looking pointedly over her shoulder. "Are you going to let me past or what?"

"No."

He shakes his head, almost like he's disappointed. "I see you're still as stubborn as ever."

"Damn right." Leah firms her chin and tightens her arms over her chest. "And I'm not leaving until you do."

Sam raises an eyebrow, considering her, and for a moment Leah thinks that he might try to slip past her — and she knows she has absolutely no hope in hell of trying to catch him, if he does — but then he shakes his head again with a roll of his eyes. "Fine."

She waits, resisting temptation to shoo him away with her hands, until Sam drops his arms and sighs, rolling his shoulders. "Come on, then."

"If you think I'm going anywhere with you . . ." A noise of disgust rises in her throat, and she doesn't bother clamping down on it.

"You're not going to let me talk to Jacob, so you can at least let me explain to you my side of things. Come on," he says again, "I'll walk you home."

"I don't think so."

"Why? You're not going back to Jacob's, are you?" he asks, eyes flickering back over her shoulder and towards the Black's as if he can see all the way down the winding dirt track. "I'm surprised he let you come out here on your own."

"What do you care?" What is it with these boys thinking she needs to be given permission? "I'm fine as I am, thanks. I can take care of myself."

And just to prove it, Leah starts marching home.

She hears Sam hesitate, his feet dragging against the gravel, the sharp intake of breath, but then his footsteps pick up. Following hers, matching them stride for stride. She's undecided whether to be annoyed about it or thankful that he didn't decide to take advantage of the opening and head towards the Black's instead.

The silence is . . . not weird, exactly, because she doesn't have anything she wants to say. At least, not to him. But she can sense how awkward he feels about it, and knows that whilst she doesn't have anything to say to him, there are clearly things he wants to say to her.

Leah almost tells him to spit it out, whatever it is, but that would involve initiating a conversation she has no interest in. So she keeps walking, keeping her eyes fixed on the path ahead and willing her legs to be quicker, her strides longer.

The last time she'd seen Sam, he had followed her then, too. He'd stood in her bedroom, just as uncomfortable and awkward — because she had purposefully made it so, undressing out of her funeral garb as they had argued. She had taken her frustration out on him, hating herself for showing such weakness to him earlier that morning.

She won't be doing that again. She knows the truth, now.

Not that she's allowed herself to think about it. Imprinting. Leah has always believed that Sam was taken from her — that he let himself be taken — but the real truth of it is just that much worse. She'd only just gotten used to the lie! She had only just let him go! She had been too tired to keep clinging onto a love which didn't exist anymore because Sam — he was never coming back; he was never going to choose her instead. Except now — now, it was so . . . so final.

Would he have come back if it hadn't been for that — what had she called it again? That mystical higher power.

She'll never know. And she's not sure she wants to. It's far too late for that sort of thinking. It has been nearly two years. Two years. She has moved on. She doesn't love Samuel Uley anymore — not like that. Maybe the memory of him . . .

"You seem . . . angry," he says eventually, breaking the dreaded silence.

A grunt. "Can't possibly think why."

"I didn't mean to hurt Jacob," he begins to tell her, as if that is the explanation she is looking for. How little Sam knows her these days. "It just . . . Things are worse as a wolf, sometimes. Everything is heightened. Amplified."

She doesn't look up at him, walking beside her so easily. Doesn't want to. She can't walk home quickly enough, can't wait to slam the door in his stupid face. "Sounded like you meant it to me."

"And I didn't mean to hurt you," he continues as if she's not said anything.

"Not that you've cared about that before."

Sam sighs. "I do care, Leah."

"You're funny."

The growl of annoyance rumbling in his chest is not entirely human.

"No, really, you are," she ploughs on regardless, feeling as ridiculously calm as she sounds. She really does not care anymore; the door is well and truly closed. "You think you hurt me? You didn't do a thing to me that you've not done already. I was hurt, yes, but I got better. It took me a long time, but I'm over it now."

"You would say that, especially now, but once things calm down you'll realise that imprinting doesn't erase history, Leah, and you —"

"I'm over it," she says again. "I don't love you anymore."

It's the first time she's said the words out loud, and it has taken her a long, long time to be able to say them, but she knows it to be true — something she's slowly come to realise over these last few weeks and knows with absolute certainty now. The honesty makes her feel lighter than air. Free of a weight she hadn't been aware she'd been carrying, so used to dragging herself and the rest of the world down with her . . .

"Well I do!" Sam explodes, and they both freeze — even as shock crosses his face after the words leave him, echoing out into the world around them.

For a moment he looks so visibly crushed, so disappointed with himself, that Leah wonders how long it has been that he's been holding this in.

He closes his eyes and exhales loudly, running a hand raggedly through his too-short hair. Tearing at it. "Just because . . . Imprinting on Emily, that doesn't mean that I didn't love you. That I don't still love you, Lee."

And Leah . . . She can't — no.

Caring is one thing. Loving . . .

No.

She stumbles as she puts distance between them, turning, her world spinning, readying herself to run. She has to get out of here. Everything feels wrong —

Sam's hand clamps down on her arm and pulls her back with enough force that she almost falls. "Leah, wait, please, hear me out."

"Get off," she snarls, wildly wrenching herself free of his grip which feels so . . . off. He's not the person she wants touching her. But Sam holds on to her with ease, his strength nearly as immeasurable as Jacob's. "No! You can't do this to me, not now! I've said goodbye to you —"

"I'm not asking for . . . for that," he says, struggling to get the words out, but she knows what he means. He's not asking for her back or for them to be together again. "But you understand now, don't you?"

No. She doesn't understand. She breathes in and out, once, twice. Begging for the calm she'd been in possession of only moments ago. She breathes again. "Let go of me, Sam."

"No! Not until you tell me that you understand! Me and Emily, you and Jacob —"

"Me and Jacob?" Leah barks a hard laugh, and it hurts her throat. "There isn't a me and Jacob, not like there's a you and Emily. We're completely different."

"The circumstances are different, yes, but, Lee-Lee, it's exactly the same —"

"Don't call me that. Don't . . . Don't compare us. I'm nothing like you. You left me, Sam! You don't get to be pissed that I've moved on!"

And if it wasn't for how so very miserable Sam looks when he next speaks, how defeated he sounds, Leah would have continued struggling out of his hold. "I didn't want to leave," he says. "It wasn't something planned, you know that now, don't you? I didn't go behind your back —"

She starts fighting again, and, this time, Sam lets her go. "You still left! She could have said no, but she didn't! And you — you chose to stay with her!"

"There was no choice!" he argues. "You know it's something that can't be fought!"

"You didn't try!"

"I didn't know how! And even if I had done, I would have failed! How can you still not understand, even now?"

She wants to scream. "I thought I did, but now you're telling me . . . You need help, you know that? You can't love both of us."

"I can. I do, because there's two of me — the man and the wolf. I have to be with Emily — the other part of me, it has to be with Emily, I wouldn't have it any other way. I can't have it any other way, but if the man — he would have chosen differently." He swears violently. "It's so hard to explain."

"Why now? You've had two years, Sam. Two years. So why do you have this sudden need to start excusing yourself now?"

"After what happened with Jacob . . . When he told me — when I found out that he'd imprinted on you, I saw red. I was so jealous —"

She freezes. "What did you say?"

His words come out in a terrible rush. "I was so jealous, Leah. It's no excuse, I know it. And I knew nothing would change because it's impossible, I can't leave Emily, not ever. I'd die if I tried. But I . . . I love you, too, and I just — I saw red," he says again lamely, unable to offer her anything else.

"No. You said —" The world has tilted on its opposite axis and then righted itself all at once, throwing her off balance. "You said . . . Jacob. You said that he imprinted on me."

Sam looks like he's about to fall over. "He didn't tell you." Silence. Heavy silence. And then, "I just thought . . . You were coming from his house, and you smell like . . . Your scent is all tangled up with his like — like you spent the night . . ." His throat bobs. "Oh, God," he gasps out. "You really didn't know."

Suddenly everything Sam has been saying makes sense.

You understand now, don't you?

Me and Emily, you and Jacob . . .

You know it's something that can't be fought.

But clearly Jacob has been fighting it. All this time . . . He imprinted on her, and he hasn't told her. He knew. He knew.

He knew.

And Sam . . . They all know. But she didn't. Embry, Quil . . . Seth . . .

Leah can hardly recall what it is to breathe. "When?"

"Last week, when you —"

"No," she says suddenly. She doesn't want to know, doesn't want Sam to be the one to tell her these things. "Don't."

Sam nods once. It might be the first time that she's seen him look so guilty. He didn't even look guilty when he told her he didn't want her anymore. He was nothing except stone-faced, oddly detached, distracted . . .

"I can't listen to this."

"I'm sorry," he says, his deep voice low, remorseful. "I thought —"

"Just — don't." She doesn't care if it sounds like she's begging, if she's choking on her words. "Don't."

She flees.

For once, Sam doesn't follow her.