A/N: Polite reminder that the archaic formatting on FFN does no favours for this kind of story. Please imagine the at symbol wherever and whenever appropriate.

By the time Jake wakes the next morning, substantially less hungover than usual, his phone is cluttered with enough notifications to make him sweat. Normally, this would be an omen for an absolutely awful day, the kind that would end with Bella scolding him seven ways to Sunday, but today's press is far kinder than what he's used to.

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Why Jacob Black & Leah Clearwater Just Make Sense

Here's why Jacob and Leah are set to be the next hot thing, according to celeb gossip Twitter...see more. Photo via emcattersley

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Y'all know I'm cynical AF but the way he's holding her i-

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You can't tell me they aren't dating. LOOK AT THEM!

He has to admit, the photos were a genius move. He's come to avoid the internet in recent months, letting Bella and her team collate dossiers of must-know information, but he doubts that obliviousness will fly with this new agreement. Surprisingly, Bella's text thread holds no new surprises, and nothing from Alice. Maybe he'll need to nut out the next step alone.

Absent-mindedly, he scrolls through his mentions, flicking over to the verified tab after tiring of the chaotic mess of fan tweets (he's totally not searching for Nessa's acknowledgement, not at all). None of the names really stick out: a few Disney channel stars, a guy he worked with a few movies back, Perez Hilton.

And Leah.

According to Twitter, not only has she followed him, but she's also retweeted a few pictures of yesterday's stunt. She's even quote-retweeted a photoset with a heart.

It means nothing.

Before he can tear his eyes away from the photo, his phone begins to vibrate erratically, her name flashing on the display.

This isn't his first publicity campaign, so why does his pulse thrum in his ears as he answers?

"Hey," he says, immediately chastising himself for his lameness. Hey? How old is he, twelve?

"Morning. I just got off the phone with Em - he's got us booked for ice skating over in Santa Monica at one, and then coffee afterward. Apparently Bella's set it up with a photographer," Leah reports matter-of-factly "We can probably be done by three, as long as we make a bit of a show of it."

"Sweet. You know, I'm basically a pro at ice skating, maybe you saw that Blades of Glory remake I did with -"

Huh. Instead of Leah, he's greeted with radio silence.

He'll have to mention to Embry that Leah needs a new phone so that they can keep in proper contact. She deserves better than some unreliable piece of trash.

Jake forces Emmett to drive around the block twice before he agrees to exit the town car (and that's only after he threatens to dial Rosalie's direct line).

It's not that he's scared of being seen with Leah, not in the slightest, but the thought of being recognised and approached by fans and paparazzi and strangers alike makes his stomach turn. For a man who has steadfastly avoided press tours for the better part of his short career, he's sure put his foot in it now.

True to her word, Leah is waiting for him at the skate rentals counter, poorly disguised with a pair of oversized shades and someone else's hoodie (it's certainly not hers, based on the rolled-over sleeves; he'll need to fix that).

"Hi, sweetheart," he coos, pressing a palm to the small of her back. "Funny seeing you here."

"Black," she greets, discreetly shrugging his hand free. "Shall we?"

"You know the point is to look interested, right?" he reminds her, forcing himself to smile. Just in case.

"I know. I also have a reputation to uphold, and I don't come easy," she says with a smirk, before turning her attention to the attendant.

His opinions of women, as controversial as they may be, have been quoted too many times to count - low-maintenance girls are the best, the kind that'd rather kick back than go out and party. He's stuck to that pretty religiously with his revolving roster, opting for the sort of companion that'd quite happily entertain themselves. The moment they needed him, or asked anything of him, he'd find a reason to kick them to the curb.

There's something about Leah that makes him want to rise to the challenge. Whether it's her incessant acerbic wit, or her unflappable self-confidence, or even her admittedly eye-catching good looks, he can't help but be drawn in. Especially when she's leveraging him with searching looks, fluttering her thick lashes in his direction -

"Jacob Black, for the third time, what size do you need?" Leah asks, trying - and failing - to fight a scowl.

"Sorry, sweets. Nine, please," he tells the attendant, avoiding Leah's gaze.

He pays for their skates and guides her to the stands, making sure to touch her elbow in a concerted effort at chivalry. They lace their skates in silence, threading the ratty cords through countless eyelets, but she makes a point of leaning in to whisper in his ear as soon as she's finished. Sure, it's perfect fodder for an article, but he can't deny the way her breath on his skin commands a healthy flow of blood to a certain region.

"I want you to grab my waist at some point when we're skating. Make it look candid, like you're steadying me or something. I'll play along."

His brain seems to fuzz out shortly after she breathes I want you, but Jake nods all the same.

Get physical.

He can do that.

They skate side by side for a few warm-up laps, Jake trailing slightly behind Leah's graceful form. He's definitely got more technical skill, what with his months of one-on-one coaching, but he'd much rather watch Leah's tentative acclimation to the sport. She's a little shaky at first - nothing that a light touch to the arm can't correct - but she picks it up quickly, experimenting with long, sweeping strides that convey a natural ease. Before long, she's hazarding attempts at zig-zags and clumsy turns, carving painfully slow circles around him as he glides ahead.

Leah wiggles her eyebrows at him, mouthing "don't forget."

Right. The shot.

The reason they're at the rink.

He takes her hands for their next lap, towing her along as he skates backwards. She's laughing and squealing and when her blade skips on the ice, it's truly a natural response to encircle her waist to steady her path. They coast to a stop against the barricade, the icy metal pressing firmly against his back, and with her flush against him, it's like something in his brain short-circuits. One minute, he's admiring her rosy cheeks and pink nose, watching the way her short hair ruffles in the wind, and the next, he's leaning in to make an impossibly stupid decision.

Before his lips can meet hers, she rocks forward on the toes of her skates to press her chilly mouth to his jaw, blowing puffs of warm air across his skin.

"Are you fucking stupid? This is our first freaking date. Don't make me cut your fingers off with the blades," she hisses, leading him back into the fray with a smile. "One more lap?"

He's too worried about his extremities to decline. "Sure."

They've circled the rink too many times to count, and they're beginning to attract some attention - technically the reason they're there, but that doesn't mean he enjoys it. The stares, the whispers, they make his skin crawl, even with one of the most gorgeous women he's ever seen by his side. Generally, leaving his house has come to suck.

Still, because he made a promise to Bella, he plasters on his best attempt at a happy face as Leah leads him in a final slalom, guiding him through the increasingly packed stands to unlace and return their gear. Because peace is never truly an option, they're finally approached by the exit gate by a mom and her kid - who, for the record, is way too young to have watched any of their movies. Regardless, he agrees to a picture, transforming his expression into the signature beam that's made him a heartthrob for teens across the nation. Of course, the sunny facade slips as soon as they're out of sight, but the fans don't need to know that.

The fans feel special, and then they leave. That's the deal.

They have to perform the same charade another three times before they arrive at the next item on their itinerary, but Jacob makes sure to tamp down his annoyance. After all, it's been a pretty sweet day (aside from his rink-side faux pas, on which he refuses to dwell).

Leah pauses on the sidewalk to snap a picture of the cafe exterior, muttering something about post frequency and algorithms and branding. He's quickly coming to realise how much she can sound like Bella - and how much he needs to learn about their alien world.

"Don't worry. I won't post that one until we leave," she assures him, ushering him to a secluded booth in the back. "What kind of coffee do you want?"

He tilts his head at her, a slow smile crossing his lips. "And what if I wanted tea?"

She scoffs. "Tea is for grandmothers and people with too much time on their hands. You're getting a macchiato."

He shakes his head, not bothering to hide his smile. As annoying as she is, she's beginning to grow on him. He slides his phone out of his pocket - three-fifteen already? - to check his notifications, hoping and praying that nothing has gone awry in the brief time his attention has been diverted. Only a few texts to read, and only one chain that matters.

[TEXT] Bella Cullen, 2.39 P.M.

Good work at the rink. Photog. just sent some proofs - promising. Need to talk social media strategy ASAP.

[TEXT] Jacob Black, 3.17 P.M.

I'll check with Leah - she was saying something about instagram before.

[TEXT] Bella Cullen, 3.17 P.M.

Good. Let me know the outcome.

[TEXT] Jacob Black, 3.18 P.M.

Yes boss.

[TEXT] Bella Cullen, 3.18 P.M.

Bella Cullen disliked this message.

"Aw, pining over your manager again?"

He scowls up at her. "It's not like that. Hasn't been for a long while."

"Ooh, touchy," she comments, straightening the table marker on the flat-top. "It was like that for me and Em for awhile, and then he realised he was actually into dudes. Probably better if you don't fuck your manager, anyway."

Jacob blinks at her. "Embry's...gay?"

"God, you're one-thousand percent the least intuitive person I've ever met...but yes. He's currently lusting over Ansel Elgort, if you have a hook-up?"

He shakes his head. "Never met him."

Leah jokingly smacks the table. "Goddamn it. That would've made for an excellent Christmas present."

The waitress silently slips their coffees on the table, nodding at Leah as she thanks her. Leah slides his glass across, some ridiculously skinny thing that could barely hold a decent-sized drink. He reaches to grab it, but she slaps his hand away.

"Hold it. I need a photo first," she scolds, angling her phone. "Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Hand," she says simply, pulling his arm until it rests across the table.

There's an intricate art, he learns, to taking the perfect social media shot. His arm is twisted this way and that, moved by the minutest of inches until Leah deems the composition acceptable. Then, she slots her hand in his, making sure that his thumb flexes just so, showcasing his instantly recognisable crown tattoo. The final product is an exceptionally well-framed picture, he begrudgingly admits, admiring the artful shot of their hands bracketed by their beautifully concocted drinks.

"Alright, you can drink it. What should the caption be?" Leah asks, furrowing her brow as she taps away at her phone.

"Uh...coffee?"

"Ah. I see why you have a manager," she quips, puzzling over the image. "What do you think of this?"

He takes her phone in hand (note to self: procure a more reliable device) to review the post. It's pretty seamless - geotagged, hashtagged, and quite simply captioned: I'm looking for a tall, dark, rich cup of coffee.

He snorts. "I think that'll do."

"Good. I'll post it once we leave so we don't get any visitors. Right, let's talk about rules."

He lowers his glass. "Rules?"

She hums. "Yeah. Nothing too crazy. I'm thinking we need to at least like each other's posts, and comment whenever it suits. Give the fans something to speculate about."

Jake nods. "That seems reasonable."

"Awesome," she murmurs, glancing at her phone. "Well, Em's around the corner. Need a lift?"

"Please," Jake says, sculling the last of his drink. "Anything to avoid Emmett."

Embry deposits him at his apartment's vestibule after an uncomfortably silent drive - quite possibly the longest twenty minutes of his life - with a curt goodbye. Leah barely glances his way.

Perhaps she's tired.

He collects a small stack of mail from the concierge, flicking through the envelopes as he waits for the elevator. The bulk of his mail is routed through GoldenEye's offices, allowing Rosalie to scan his post for crazed fan communications, anthrax, and any other matters that best remain unseen by the talent. The acceptable contents are forwarded to his building, where he can then peruse the content at his leisure. It's never overly interesting, but he's a creature of habit.

Jake steps into the elevator, swiping his keycard and hitting Penthouse.

Award season brief - save for later.

B-lister party invite - bin.

The final item, a sealed envelope, piques his interest. Has Rosalie finally slipped up? He flips the letter over as he pads into his living room, scanning the back for details.

B. Black.

Instant bin.

Before he commits to getting absolutely trashed, he remembers his agreement with Leah - his acknowledgement of the rules. He pulls up Instagram, ignoring the notifications rapidly accumulating in the activity tab, and navigates to Leah's account. Her post from earlier has already garnered a ridiculous amount of attention - likely due to his fan accounts rabidly commenting on and sharing the post - and he's more than happy to feed the fire.

Keeping it basic can't hurt; a simple eye emoji is surely sufficient for Leah's tastes.

He throws in a like for good measure, too, before switching his phone off.

Now, there's only one pressing matter remaining for the afternoon: determining where on earth he could have possibly left last night's whiskey.