Bella graduated on a Thursday afternoon.

Paul sat next to Charlie and quietly wondered if the man knew how much he reeked of unreleased tears.

Maybe it was the way he sat in complete silence, politely clapping for each name called to the stage even though his eyes were glued to the back of Bella's chair. Or maybe it was the stiffness of his spine. Or maybe even how he proceeded to fist then unfist his hands, as if he was unsure of what to do with them in between rounds of applause.

Whatever it was, it told Paul an entire story about the man sitting next to him.

Paul wasn't a father. In fact, he never honestly considered himself to be parent material.

At most, he might have funny-uncle potential. And that's it.

He had always imagined that his pack mates would go on to marry and have children while he remained single. Forever the unattached wolf. Free from nagging wives, responsibilities, and people tying him down to one place.

It had, at one point, seemed like his well-deserved fate.

Only now, as he looked at Charlie for what felt like very the first time, Paul wondered if perhaps that might one day be him — looking at his daughter with enough pride in his eyes to embarrass anyone who might dare glance his way. Wondered if that would be such a terrible fate, after all.

In truth, Charlie humbled him. The man was quiet, silent. As unobtrusive as a police officer had the right to be, really, and yet it was clear that he acted that way 'cause he wished to and not because he lacked things to say.

In fact, it slowly became clear to Paul, as he spent more time in Bella's house — and thus came more into contact with her father — that Charlie had plenty of opinions about his daughter's choices in life. And in his own subtle way, he made sure to voice them, yes, but never to the point where it might have seemed like he was trying to get Bella to do what he wanted.

Quite the opposite, really.

Charlie cultivated Bella's confidence in such a dedicated way that it never failed to impress Paul. How many fathers, he pondered, would have allowed their daughters to make their own choices in life to such a degree as he had? How many fathers would have understood Bella's difficult situation? How many fathers would've accepted the obvious half-truths she forced-fed him for months on end?

Not many.

No one else, would be Paul's guess. Nobody else would've had the patience to withstand the storm that Bella Swan post-Cullens had been — not without sending her to a mental hospital as far away from home as they would've accepted her.

No.

Charlie was a one-of-a-kind man, Paul believed.

He loved Bella as best as he knew how, as openly as she would allow it, and he never made it look as though it pained him to do so. As though he resented her for having been born. As though his life might have been so much fucking better if only she had had the decency to choke to death as an infant.

Paul wished he could say the same about his own father.

Hell, wished he could say the same about himself.

Paul had no doubt in his mind that Charlie Swan loved Bella a whole lot better than he ever could, although in a completely different way. And it humbled him. It made him want to be a better boyfriend and a better imprint to his soulmate.

As he was lost in thought, someone called the name Swan on the microphone and his imprint stumbled to her feet. Eager to escape from the spotlight, Paul understood.

His body moved on autopilot, and without knowing how, Paul was standing up, clapping loud enough to draw attention from the people around him, half aware that Charlie was doing the exact same thing to his left.

And there she was. Walking up the stairs, shaking hands with people he didn't know, blushing all the way up to her forehead, grabbing whatever they handed to her in a rush, all so fast and unstoppable, and then it was over.

She sat down next to the other students and another name was called. Just like that, it was over. Paul sat back down, too. Feeling, weirdly, as if he was coming down from an adrenaline rush.

He tried to calm himself down as the ceremony went on. It was no easy task. Paul could barely keep up with the different speeches, the medals being handed out, the names being called. He just sat and stared, waiting for it to be over and for the feeling in his chest to subside.

His mate was graduating.

She was done with school and Paul had no clue what she planned to do next.

He wondered if she had plans. If she had applied to go to college. If she wanted to drop everything and move away to some sunny city where there weren't monsters lurking around in the shadows.

It was too much to consider.

Paul watched as Bella finally stepped down from the stage and started walking towards them.

He heard from a polite distance as Charlie grunted about how proud he was. Saw his mate struggling to keep the tears from rushing down her face as she awkwardly accepted a rare hug from her father.

He allowed them to have their moment.

He tried to find the right words to say. He wanted Bella to know how proud he was of her. He wanted to say something that showed how much he cared about the accomplishments in her life and how grateful he was to get the chance to share those moments with her. Also wanted to say how beautiful she looked right then and there, with tears pooling on her gorgeous brown eyes and her cheeks flushed.

More than anything, Paul wished he had brought her something. A present of some sort. Flowers, maybe.

But he hadn't, and it would be silly to make some lame excuse to go get her anything now.

Suddenly, his mate interrupted his wandering thoughts, waving a hand in front of his face and calling his name.

Lunch, she said.

They were heading out to eat.

Charlie invited him to tag along.

It was a sweet gesture, made all the more meaningful because Paul could sense the sincerity in his voice. Charlie wouldn't have minded sharing Bella on one of the most important days of her life, even though Paul could see how he had a few words he was bitting back because of his presence.

Honestly, it made Paul feel some vague, strange feeling he was unable to name.

He couldn't possibly go.

So he kissed Bella's forehead for the briefest of moments and politely lied about having promised to meet Ana.

He shook Charlie's hand, and he left.

These two deserved their father-and-daughter alone time.

Fuck, if Paul's father had been a tenth of the father Charlie was, Paul would've done whatever the hell he could for a scrap of his attention.

As Paul rode away, he pretended the thought didn't make him sick to his stomach.

It was easy. He pretended a lot these days.

He's watching the game — or at least pretending to — in the living room where he was almost beaten to death because he had nothing better to do than that on a Wednesday afternoon. He's mentally counting touchdowns and punches. Scores and bones snapping. Countdowns and his own breath as his blood poured down his nose.

When had it all gone wrong?

Jared had been Paul's one sure deal.

Paul's rock.

The place he looked back at as he swam away and embraced as he made his way back.

Jared was the one person Paul had never allowed himself to lose, despite the treacherous voice he sometimes heard in the back of his mind telling him to dump everyone before they got the chance to do the same with him.

And now he watched his game alone, sitting in the remains of the leather couch they once carried together to the house, staring at a brand new TV, with no place to rest his feet on because the coffee table was gone.

The shelves were gone.

The books and the pictures.

All gone.

Even Jared's scent had faded from the place.

Flashes of the conversation he had with Sam crossed his mind.

"Why did no one ask that before?"

"We did. You just never listened."

So it seemed he was an immature asshole, Jared was a reckless asshole, and together they did each other more harm than good.

How perfect.

After graduation, Bella began acting strange. She looked lost inside her own thoughts. Often, she seemed to be considering or trying to say something, but what that was, she wouldn't say.

A few days later, she asked Paul to please call a council meeting with the tribe Elders, saying she had a request to make and that it was far too important to wait.

Paul was suitably concerned.

Bella's track record with haste decisions wasn't the best, to be honest, and he feared for the emotional state she looked to be in. So torn he was, that Paul almost didn't call the council meeting.

She refused to say what the matter was, no matter how many times he asked, still so goddamn stubborn, so what was Paul supposed to think?

What if she had reached some crazy, impulsive decision? Worse, what if she hadn't made any decision at all? What if she decided to throw all caution to the wind and simply say whatever was in her mind to the Elders?

Did she even understand the weight of the council words in the Rez?

At the same time, Paul felt like the biggest jerk alive to be doubting his soulmate. He knew Bella, and while she was, indeed, impulsive when it came to life-changing decisions, she wasn't stupid. She knew that putting herself at risk would wreck Paul — absolutely destroy his life, quite literally — and he was sure she wouldn't do that.

Which probably meant she knew he wouldn't disagree with her request to the Elders and was only keeping the matter from him because of her own insecurities.

So Paul pushed his own insecurities aside and requested a meeting in the name of his imprint.

When the day arrived, Bella wasted no time with formalities.

"I have a request," she said, very straightforwardly.

A request, Paul thought.

Really?

Was Bella about to ignore the fact that she didn't actually live in the reservation, and therefore didn't really abide by their laws? Was she about to formally request the council for help?

Apparently so, if the way she's gazing straight forward, barely blinking is anything to go by.

"State your request," Billy allowed, a serious look on his face. Unlike Paul, he seemed to have an inkling of what this reunion was about.

"I would like permission to tell Charlie," Bella said. Her voice wavered ever so slightly, and her pulse started to go up. "Please. I know I'm an outsider, and that I don't have the right to ask for anything, but please allow me to share the secret with my father. I just..." She exhaled deeply. "... I've hurt him enough."

Ah, Charlie.

Paul should've known.

He strained against the desire to speak. Bite down on his tongue and swallowed down the words he so desperately wanted to voice, knowing his opinion hadn't been requested and his objections would be a mere distraction to a complicated-enough situation.

Paul swallowed, and breathed, and exhaled, and prayed to whichever old spirit close enough to listen that those damn, old men didn't shit all over his mate's fragile confidence with their well-intentioned, but inopportune mistrust.

Charlie had long ago earned the right to be told. Billy was the one afraid to take the leap and share the skeletons hiding in his closet when he was all too aware of how spotless the sheriff's own closet was.

"The secret is kept for a reason," Old Quil said, wearing the same mask of displeasure he never seemed to leave his house bereft of. His tone was harsh, meant to discourage further conversation on the topic, and for a second there Paul wished Billy would shift in place and run the old man's feet with his wheelchair.

Paul turned to see what Bella's response would be, only to watch, wide-eyed, as she sunk all the way down to the floor without another word.

She did so wordlessly, going down to her knees and placing her hands by her head.

Gods, Paul thought. This woman will be the absolute death of me.

In his mind, the picture was focused and clear. Isabella Swan would be the one who managed to bring him down and she would never even break a sweat to do so. She wouldn't need to.

Why bother, when she could simply be, simply walk around living her ordinary life, doing whatever she desired, and it was enough to rob him of his very breath?

"Please, reconsider," she begged, her voice surprisingly strong given the circumstances.

Paul's heart thrummed.

Bella's on her knees, forehead touching the floor, vulnerable as one can be, yet Paul had never seen her so powerful. So sure of herself.

It moved something within him.

And so, as if pulled down by a thousand strings, Paul fell to his knees by her side. Time slowed down and each of his limbs seemed to weigh a ton, but he stayed where he was, displaying his submission for all of them to witness, even though it raised every hair on the nape of his head to do so.

He had never once kneeled for anyone before.

Not his abusive father, not the council, not his alpha.

No one.

But for this woman, for his imprint, for Isabella Swan he would sink to the floor and beg for whatever she needed.

"I would add my plea to hers," he said, forcing the words past his tight throat. Drops of sweat dripped from where his forehead touched his joined hands on the floor.

He heard a sharp intake of breath.

A sputter.

All eyes had to be on him.

Paul could feel it.

Could feel the tension rising across the room.

He wasn't done yet.

There was still more to come from within this place inside him that had been unlocked the moment he saw his proud-to-death, would-rather-die-in-silence-than-bother-someone mate begging for something that should've been given freely from the start.

Once again, Paul spoke.

"Please."

He would never beg for himself. Would rather swallow the poison with his teeth bared if the only other option was to beg for the chance to spit it out. Had done so, time and time again, even when — especially when, his mind corrected — it chipped away at pieces of his very being.

This, though?

This he would do.

Maybe because the idea of Bella crying in despair at their possible refusal unveiled a strange, unknown part of him that was way more humble and practical than Paul had imagined possible for himself.

"Rise," Billy said. It was a demand, but it was softly spoken, as though he couldn't bare to break the moment. "The both of you."

Paul obeyed.

Once on his feet, he turned to look at his mate only to find her eyes already glued on him. Her mouth was open, her brows were raised, and her eyes…

Her eyes glistened with so much affection and adoration that it was impossible to look away. Paul wondered what she saw in his eyes — if his own astonishment for her strength, his pride in her maturity, and his love for her soul were all stamped there for her to see.

He hoped so.

Hoped his eyes told her all he couldn't say.

"Paul," she whispered, taking a step closer, her hand rising as if seeking his touch, and Paul could hardly refuse her. He closed the distance between them with two long steps, stopping only when her hand found its way around his wrist.

She squeezed hard enough that it might have hurt.

It didn't.

She touched him, and Paul might've never known pain.

He had never shown affection for somebody in public before, had never wanted to, not before Bella, and now he walked around like an exposed nerve, sensitive to the slightest touch.

There were hushed voices discussing in the background. As Paul and Bella stared into each other's eyes, the council fought between them over their decision. And perhaps he could've listened to them — heard what the pros and cons were, so he could help out when the time came.

But he didn't.

Paul didn't care.

Bella needed to be released from her cuffs, and he wasn't about to deny her.

If the Elders decided against telling Charlie, Paul would find a way around the order. In his mind, it was decided. If Jacob could defy his alpha to give Bella hints, Paul could outsmart three people who had no true grasp on how to work the werewolf chain of command.

Finally, after what seemed to be a small eternity, Harry called his name. Paul's shoulders sagged in relief. This was good news for them. If the news had been bad, Old Quil would've been the one talking to them — the damn man always did like to be the one putting frowns on other people's faces.

"Would you be willing to shift in front of him?" Harry Clearwater asked, not without a touch of concern in his voice.

Paul had to look away.

If Bella asked, Paul would do absolutely anything. That's not to say he was particularly eager to strip down and shift into a supernatural creature in front of his soulmate's father.

Lightening rarely struck twice, and Bella's calm acceptance of the supernatural was a freak-of-nature occurrence they could hardly expect to be replicated. Charlie would for sure freak out. Would see Paul in his wolf form and realise just how much of a shit show this whole deal was.

And Paul liked Charlie.

Would have to continue to coexist with the man regardless of his feelings on the matter. Would carry on loving the man's daughter until the day he died. Would still visit, even if the privilege of using the front door was revoked, even if he had to see Bella in secret.

It would fucking suck, though.

Still, he would do it.

So he opened his mouth to say exactly that, but his mate beat him to the punch. "Not him," she said firmly, and Paul's eyes popped open in surprise.

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why not?"

Bella straightened her posture a bit. "Because he's my imprint," she said. "And I don't want to put my father in this position. Sam can do it."

"Not Sam," Paul corrected quickly, before the others could agree. He understood why she didn't want Jake, but Sam had enough trauma around people's reactions to his wolf form to deal with, he didn't need this on top of everything else.

He and Bella exchanged looks.

"Embry," she conceded. "Embry is good. He's the smallest one, too, so that should work in our favor."

Paul snorted a quiet laugh. He looked forward to sharing this memory with the pack — Quil would have a field day with this one sentence.

Billy studied them for a moment. "So be it," he said, at last. A judge striking his gavel. "Do it here. Charlie will be here for the game tomorrow — might as well get this over with."

Paul could hear the man's heart beating faster in his chest, could smell the acid fear rolling off of him in waves, could see the slight tremor in his right hand. This was a big deal for Billy as well. He had much to lose if this whole thing blew in their faces.

Bella didn't need heightened senses to see the same. "Charlie will be fine," she told him. And it sounded as though she was reassuring herself just as much as she was comforting Billy. "Charlie is strong… he'll understand why we've kept the secret. He'll understand."

Billy obviously didn't share her optimism. "Let's hope so," he said, a grave tone to his words. "There's no way of blinding your eyes once you have seen the ghosts."

At his words, Bella smiled. An ironic, sour little smile. "The ghosts are still there, even if you can't see them. Sometimes seeing them is better than wondering if you're going crazy."

"When will this end?" Paul asked, not for the first time.

He made a point of asking the same damn question at every session, hoping she would give him a more satisfying answer than the ones before.

It was his fifth session.

Almost five hours of his life he would never get back.

As always, Dr Brown — please-call-me-Lydia — responded calmly. "Whenever you wish."

Wish.

Paul was getting real tired of having discussions about his wishes and needs all the time. He would much rather go back to punching his way through his emotions; maybe he would have if only Jared hadn't gone and screwed that up for him.

By almost killing him.

Paul inhaled.

"I need to go back to fighting," he said. "I'm a fighter. I fight for a living. It's not something I can avoid."

She stared. "Have you experienced any difficulties teaching your classes?"

Beyond holding back his punches so he wouldn't accidentally kill one of his fragile, human students?

"No."

"Where are you having trouble?"

Where it mattered, he wanted to say.

Jared refusing to so much as touch me is a big fucking problem, you big bitch. Not that you would understand, seeing as you'd probably black out if somebody as much as slapped you a touch harder.

She seemed to hear his unvoiced thoughts perfectly.

"Would you like to talk about your brother?"

Definitely not.

"Yes."

"Have you seen him lately?"

Almost every day. If not in person, through one of his pack mates' minds.

"Sometimes."

"Have you two spoken?"

Not a single word.

"No."

"Do you want to?"

Desperately.

"Maybe."

"What's holding you back, then?"

How much he wants to.

How badly it would hurt to be rebuffed.

The idea of not being able to come closer.

But most of all…

"I'm not sure I can hold back," he admitted, his voice a bit raspier than before. "Everyone says I should be scared, or angry, or whatever, and maybe I was. Shit, maybe I will be if we get alone for more than five seconds, I don't know. But I do know that the thing we have is still there for me. I can't shut it down."

And just like that, it all began to pour out. "I wish I could, but I can't. I can't have a normal relationship with Jared. I can't not touch him. I don't care if he beats the shit out of me — it's fine. I heal." Too fast, he wanted to say. He healed so damn fast it almost didn't matter what they could do to each other. "And I want it. No one gets that — that I need it, yes, but I want it too."

She paused, perhaps shocked that he finally decided to say more than a handful of words at once.

When she spoke, it wasn't in the direction he would've expected.

"Do you think Jared would agree with you? Does he like hitting you as much as you like to be hit?"

Paul's breath hitched in his throat.

He blinked once, twice, three times, too many times, too fast.

"Like to be hit?" He repeated, roughly. Each word dragged across his tongue, taking its sweet time to pour out.

She said nothing.

"I like to hit," Paul argued, and it would've sounded a whole lot more convincing if the words hadn't come out so goddamn weak. "It's not about being…"

He didn't know how to end the sentence, had no idea what to say, so he allowed his voice to fade away.

She tilted her head a bit to the side. "Let me ask you something: if Jared were to stand still, would you still want it? If it's about hitting, could you hit him without getting anything back?"

No.

The response was immediate in his head.

What would be the fun of using Jared as a punching bag?

It wasn't a fight if they weren't both involved, and Paul loved the fight. That's all. It wasn't strange. Gods, people made a living out of fights. People paid serious money to go watch other people fight. It was a fucking Olympic sport, for christ's sake.

Why did people treat Paul like he was a freak for doing the same thing?

"I wouldn't," he answered, annoyance bleeding into his words.

"Has my question offended you?"

"Being here offends me. People treating fights like a disease offends me."

She leaned back on her chair, eyes tracking his move with a sharpness that triggered his fight-or-flight response. Paul clenched his hands. He wanted to get up and leave, but that would be a waste of money and time.

He was paying her to examine him.

It was literally in her fucking job description.

"Do you miss him, Paul?" She asked, and the tone was different from before. She sounded less professional, less cold. More curious. "Jared. Do you miss Jared?"

Miss him?

Paul would've missed his arms and legs less.

He missed Jared beyond words.

Jared's absence was like having a chunk of his body chopped away.

He would, in fact, rather chop off his arm than keep doing this awkward dance around the person who once held him together after Joey Lahote sunk a knife deep into his mother's lungs on a random Tuesday night.

He wasn't there to talk about his father, his mother, his childhood, his fucked up issues and all the rest that came with it, though.

If perfect, little Lydia Brown found out the amount of shit he had locked up in his closet, she might just never let him leave.

"I'm fine," was what he ended up saying. "I miss him, but it's fine."

It was all fine.

Completely fine.

Fine. Fine. Fine.