Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyers owns the characters, plot is my own.

Chapter 2

As the afternoon dwindled into a stunning sunset, I hurried to finish preparing dinner for Seth. My hands moved with practiced care as I layered the lasagna: sheets, meat sauce, white sauce, a generous sprinkle of mozzarella. With the last layer assembled, I slid the dish into the oven, setting the timer for twenty-five minutes. The familiar buzz of my phone vibrated on the counter, a reminder of the missed calls from the high school. I avoided looking at it. The mere thought of dealing with whatever awaited was too much for me right now. Avoidance was my mind's only shield against the creeping stress.

Satisfied with the kitchen's progress, I strolled to the bathroom near the stairs, steam already curling in the air as I turned on the shower. My head throbbed with the beginning of a headache, urging me to find relief in the hot water. Stripping quickly, I stepped in, flinching as my toes touched the cool ceramic floor before the water warmed. The showerhead's stream washed over me, darkening my hair and tracing rivulets down my back. I leaned against the tiles, letting my thoughts drown in the sound of rushing water. Sandalwood soap filled the air, a small luxury that momentarily eased the chaos in my mind.

When I finished, I wrapped myself in a towel, avoiding the fogged mirror as though it might reflect more than my face. My movements were deliberate as I rubbed coconut oil into my skin, savoring the soothing ritual. Dressing quickly in my usual work attire—black leggings and a long-sleeve V-neck—I pulled my hair into a sleek bun, slipped into my black Vans, and made my way downstairs.

The sound of the front door clicking shut froze me mid-step. Had I missed it opening? I turned toward the foyer just as Seth stepped inside. He paused, as though trying to collect himself or caught in some labyrinth of thought.

"Hi," he said softly when our eyes met.

"Hey," I replied, brows furrowed. Something about him felt... off. More than usual. "I made dinner."

"Alright," he muttered, brushing past me toward the stairs. "I'll eat later. Just need to shower first."

As he passed, the faint smell of alcohol hit me, sharp and unmistakable. My chest tightened with a mix of anger and disappointment. My thoughts stalled as I processed the implications.

"Hey!" I called after him, my voice sharper than intended.

Seth stopped at the top step, his head still down. The disheveled mess of his dark hair was streaked with dirt and leaves. His green sweater bore smudges of mud.

"What's going on?" I asked, though the answer already burned in my gut.

He turned slowly, his gaze heavy and distant. His eyes, shadowed and bloodshot, carried the weight of nagging, obsessive thoughts. The Seth I knew felt far away, lost in some inner storm I couldn't reach.

"Staring contest?" I tried, attempting levity.

He snorted faintly, but his expression didn't shift. Instead, he tilted his head slightly back, as though looking down at me from some unreachable height.

After a moment, his eyes met mine, dull and unfocused. "I drank a little bit," he said, his voice flat and robotic.

The words hit me like a punch to the chest, my breath hitching as I fought to keep my composure. Fury and sorrow clashed within me, my jaw tightening as I wrestled with my reaction. "Seem like such a good idea now?" My voice was edged, though I tried to keep it steady.

"Absolutely not," he said, his tone hardening.

I exhaled slowly, the tension in my chest refusing to dissipate. "I can call out from work," I offered, trying to reach him.

"No!" he snapped, the sharpness in his voice startling me.

"Seth—" I began, my sigh weary, laden with an ache I couldn't quite name.

"I'll be alright, I swear," Seth said, rushing the words out so quickly that it left me with a moment of hesitation. My gut twisted, screaming, hell no, but my heart whispered, it's okay. Fear crept into my chest, tightening with each breath. He reminded me so much of Mom—both in strength and fragility. I tried to remind myself this was supposed to be transitory, but Seth's process seemed endless. I understood, though. This was a wound still raw, not yet scabbed over.

"I love you," I said, breathless. It wasn't just a declaration—it was an anchor, an attempt to pull him back. But the truth was, I was as lost in this delusion as he was. Both of us were broken. The weight of the trauma in our house wasn't just shared; it was intertwined, impossible to separate. Heartbreak consumed us daily, a relentless tide stealing our appetite, our sleep, and sometimes, our hope.

Seth finally took a decisive breath, his voice quiet but steady. "I love you too, sis."

I shrugged, releasing a long sigh. "It just takes time, I guess, huh?" I longed to see his smile—the one that could light up a room, spark laughter from anyone who saw it. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd seen it.

"I guess," he murmured, his dark eyes shimmering faintly, like pebbles kissed by the ocean. A silence stretched between us before he cleared his throat. "I just wanted to try numbing it… see if it'd make a difference."

I tilted my head, studying him. "Did it?"

He shivered slightly, his frame seeming smaller under the weight of his regret. "Not at all."

It was clear he was fighting tears, barely holding himself together. And I felt helpless. All I could do was turn back to the kitchen. I grabbed three bottles of water and headed upstairs, finding his door ajar.

Seth was already in his room, curled into the fetal position on his bed. His back faced me, muddy shoes still on, and one of his sheets lay crumpled on the floor. The room was unbearably hot, the sun's heat trapped from the long day. The dank scent of sweat and hangover hit me immediately.

"You need to drink water," I said, setting the bottles down by his mattress. He didn't respond.

Suppressing my annoyance, I moved to the window behind his bed, wrenching it open to let the evening air in. Leaning over him, I gently patted his shoulder, but stopped when I noticed his steady breathing. He'd fallen asleep.

The sight of him, vulnerable and peaceful for the first time in what felt like forever, softened something in me. His chest rose and fell in rhythm, and the fading sunlight illuminated his golden-brown skin. He looked like an angel. My heart ached as I studied his face, round and youthful, though his cheeks had thinned from the stress. I gently brushed the stray leaves from his tangled dark hair and smoothed it away from his face, noting a small cut along his jaw I hadn't noticed before.

I stood there for a few minutes, just listening to him breathe. It brought a rare comfort that seeped into my core.

The loss he carried was incomprehensible to most, but I saw it in every glance, every movement. At least he still spoke, even if it was only during brief moments of functionality. I remembered a counselor once telling me that people handle grief differently. For some, life ran on autopilot; for others, it shut down entirely. Time, they'd said, was the only true healer.

But I couldn't bear for Seth to feel abandoned. I'd do anything for him—always. This love, this fierce devotion, was the only thing keeping us tethered to some semblance of hope.

With a sigh, I leaned down and kissed his forehead, careful not to wake him. After slipping off his boots, I quietly left the room, discarding the crumpled leaves from his hair in the trash as I went.

Back in the kitchen, I had an idea to ease my mind for the evening. I plated half the lasagna on a large serving dish, wrapping it neatly in foil, and grabbed my truck keys. A visit to old man Quil felt overdue—and maybe he could help.

I loaded my things into the truck, taking one last look at the house before pulling away. The drive wasn't far, and soon I was parking in front of Quil's familiar red, single-story home.

Stepping out into the crisp evening air, I carried the plate and made my way up the concrete steps. Each footstep crunched against fallen leaves as I approached the screen door.

I knocked, watching the dimly lit hallway for movement. Soon, a thin man stepped into view. Quil limped toward me, opening the door with a warm smile.

"There's my lil' Lea. Right on time," he greeted cheerfully.

I sighed with satisfaction just from hearing his voice. "Hiya, I brought you guys some home-cooked food," I said warmly, gliding past him through the dimly lit hallway until I reached the kitchen.

"Oh, my dear," he said with a chuckle. "I tell you this all the time, you know? You don't have to do this for an old withering man like me."

After placing the serving plate delicately on the granite countertop, I turned back to face him. His wrinkled smile—marked by the absence of a canine tooth—always brought me relief. He looked genuinely pleased to see me, which made every visit worthwhile.

"Nonsense!" I shook my head, waving off his humility. "Where's your mini-me?"

"Quil?"

I gave him a look as if to say, Who else?

"He's pulling a double at the shop. Old man Douglas crashed his truck into the hardware store down by the quarry."

"Wow. Hope Douglas made it out okay."

"Oh, sure," he replied with a dismissive wave. "Just too much moonshine in his veins."

I raised an eyebrow, nodding knowingly. The explanation made perfect sense.

After a beat of silence, he coughed harshly, breaking the quiet. "Heading to work, are ya?"

"Yeah, I am." I tilted my head. "And I hope you're not puffing on any cigarettes, Unc." I always loved dropping by to see old Quil. I'd called him "Unc" as a term of endearment since childhood. He was like a father to Seth and me growing up. My words must have amused him because he gave me a wrinkled, toothy grin.

"Trying to follow the doctor's orders," he said, chuckling. "But I swear, I could diagnose myself better than any of the junk they try to sell me."

I mocked him playfully, putting on my best smoker's rasp. "Yeah, yeah, sure you could," I teased.

He chuckled, his laughter deep and hearty. "You ain't got nothin' to worry about."

Leaning against the cool countertop, I let the humor settle. But my thoughts drifted back to Seth, and the familiar anxiety crept in. My fingertips played nervously with the edges of the cupboard below. "Actually, I came to ask for a favor."

"Anything, my dear. You know I owe you."

"Can you..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "Can you have Quil check on Seth tonight when he gets back from the shop? Just make sure he's okay while I'm out?"

Quil's face fell faster than a stone in water. "He's not asleep by now?" he asked, his lips parted in disbelief, his eyes wide with concern.

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant despite the storm brewing inside me. I didn't want to worry him too much; we'd already given everyone enough grief. "He is, but... you know how it's been lately. Just stressful." I didn't want to mention Seth getting drunk. Quil was getting too old for that kind of concern.

He nodded slowly, scratching the back of his neck. "I'll give him a call and have him stop by."

"Thank you," I breathed, feeling a wave of relief wash over me.

Quil's gruff voice was comforting. "Of course, honey. We've got a sort of pack with you two. I still remember the day little Quil was pickin' on ya, and you stomped right up those steps to have a talk with Molly and me. Judging by your size, we'd have thought you were twice your age if we didn't know better. Only five years old, with the mind of an old bat like me."

I dissolved into laughter, shaking my head. "I've always had quite the personality, you know?"

"Oh, I'll never forget it," he said confidently, though his expression turned serious. "Do you think Seth's losing it?" He gestured toward his head, twirling his finger in a circle, his eyes filled with concern.

I hesitated but knew Quil's house was a safe space. "I think he's close to the edge."

"What makes you say that?"

"You know when you just... feel it? Like someone's drifting away? His eyes today... they were vacant, like he's already gone, and his body's just on autopilot." My voice trailed off as my thoughts spiraled. The sight of Seth's pain was overwhelming, soaking into me like a poison I couldn't shake.

Quil nodded thoughtfully. "It's breaking your heart, girly, especially after all you've been through." He paused, clearing his throat as if catching himself. "I'll have Quil call Paul. Maybe he can check in sooner and hang out with him a bit. That'd be good for him, ya know?"

I exhaled, letting his words wrap around me like a warm blanket. "That'd be great. Having more people around would help ease the loneliness."

"Don't worry, we've got your back, girly."

"Thanks, Unc," I said earnestly.

"Don't mention it. And thank you for the food—and for just being an amazing human being."

Tears stung my eyes as I smiled. "You're amazing to us. Don't know what we'd do without you."

He waved me off. "Oh, please. You keep me fed."

I walked over and hugged him, his skeletal frame somehow warm and steady. His embrace was comforting, grounding me in a way that made the heaviness in my chest feel lighter.

"Now, get on to work before you're late," he said, giving my forehead a quick kiss. "I love you, but I've told you a hundred times—I don't like you working downtown."

I laughed softly, choking back my emotions. "It's just temporary, until I find something better."

As we let go, the room felt lighter, the air calmer.

"Be safe, now," he added.

"I will."

Walking back toward the screen door, I glanced over my shoulder. "Make sure one of the guys calls me before they head out, okay? Just to let me know everything's fine."

"Of course, darlin'. Don't worry. Quil and Paul have got Seth's back."

That was all the assurance I needed. "Love you!"

"Love ya, girl. Be safe!"

With a smile, I stepped out into the cool night air, his words lingering like a protective charm around me.

A little while later, I sat in my car, waiting for it to be 6:00 p.m. The clock read 5:58, and the fear in my chest started stirring, threatening to take over. It wasn't real danger—just an angry knot of nerves pushing me toward anxiety I didn't need. I switched off the radio, took a deep breath, and hopped out of the truck, scanning the parking lot. A few scattered cars dotted the area, but nothing suggested the bustle of a busy hour. Distant traffic hummed faintly, far enough away to be a background noise. I let the chirping of birds fill my ears instead as I approached the club's back entrance.

Resting my hand on the door's peeling paint, I pushed it open, wincing as splinters from the rough wood bit into my palm. Black paint flakes crumbled to the cement as the hinges squealed in protest, their warning drowned by the wall of noise beyond. The thumping bass of music clashed with boisterous conversations, enveloping the space in chaotic energy.

I clocked in quickly, not wanting to waste time, then checked my phone. No new notifications. Quil's words lingered in my mind, and I sighed, slipping the device back into my pocket.

The bar sat in the back-right corner of the club, its dim glow competing with the haze of smoke curling through the air. The usual patrons were already here, cigarette smoke forming lazy spirals that caught the tarnished glow of the bar lights.

The double doors to the prep room slammed open, yanking me from my thoughts.

"Leah!"

I rolled my eyes. "Laurent!" I shouted back, already bracing for whatever inconvenience he was about to drop on me.

"Don't hate me," he said, his olive-toned hands placing the cash count sheet next to me. "Maggie called out."

"Oh, fan-freaking-tastic. Does this mean I'm closing by myself?"

"Nah," he reassured me, "Emmett's shift starts in an hour or so. He'll be here with you."

"Thank God," I muttered, relief washing over me. "I told you, Laurent, I'm not closing alone anymore."

"I know, I know. That's why I'm taking extra precautions. If there's only one barback, there needs to be an extra bouncer for graveyard shifts."

"Thank you."

Laurent flashed his trademark bright smile, his eyes gleaming with reassurance. "Of course."

"Alright," I said, picking up the sheet, "I'll count this up and get started."

That was all he needed to hear. He turned on his heel and disappeared through the double doors. "Thank you, my dear! You're the best!"

"Mmhm," I hummed absentmindedly.

The night crept on, the club gradually filling. Dancers began their routines, and the regulars started throwing money. Same old, same old.

By the time Emmett arrived, the crowd had thickened. His towering presence was hard to miss. With his glowering blue eyes and chiseled face, he exuded a mix of intensity and calm. His strong, confident demeanor always had a way of making people stop and stare. He caught my eye and grinned, flashing those dimples that seemed out of place on someone so imposing.

I returned a weak smile, knowing how much he hated the long, grueling hours here. Being a bouncer wasn't glamorous, but it paid the bills and left some extra for fun. He'd probably settled into the monotony by now, especially after a wild adolescence. Back then, he was the kid always in the principal's office, never worrying about consequences—and, of course, a notorious flirt.

As he wove through the crowd, greeting a few familiar faces, he finally made his way to me. With a smirk, he started gyrating to the music, his ridiculous moves an exaggerated parody of dancing.

I burst into laughter despite myself, momentarily distracted from the growing chaos of the bar. "What the hell are you doing?" I choked out between fits of laughter.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning and sticking his tongue out just slightly. "Hey, I got a good laugh out of you, didn't I?"

I shake my head and continue tending to the jubilant crowd, their voices rising in a chaotic symphony of inebriated songs and laughter. Strangers rubbed shoulders as though personal space was an outdated concept, unconcerned by stepped-on toes or the suffocating closeness of bodies. The stench of sweat and spilled liquor clung to the air, blocking out any errant thoughts. That's one of the things I enjoyed about the job—it forced my focus entirely on the task at hand, leaving no room for anything else.

Suddenly, a pair of ivory elbows slammed onto the bar next to me, making me jump and curse under my breath. The abrupt motion sent the vodka I was pouring splashing onto my black apron, just shy of soaking my shirt. I loathed the stench of alcohol when it clung to me like a second skin.

I shot a glare toward the culprit, my gaze sharp and unforgiving. Of course, it was Emmett. His laugh followed almost immediately, starting as a small, shaky chuckle before growing into a full-throated guffaw. He clutched his stomach, his blue eyes rolling skyward, biting his lip to contain his amusement.

I folded my arms, arching a brow, and waited. His laughter grew louder, like a busted water main flooding everything around him. With a punch to his shoulder, I tried to stifle his glee, though the ache in my knuckles told me he barely felt it.

"Lee, you hurt me!" he whined dramatically, rubbing his shoulder with an exaggerated pout.

I motioned toward my apron. "I was doing just fine, Emmett. Then you show up like a damn tornado."

He smirked. "A sexy tornado, thank you very much."

I rolled my eyes, though his antics managed to pull a reluctant giggle out of me. "You're lucky I didn't drop a glass. I could've cut myself, you storm of chaos."

Before he could retort, a small voice called out over the noise. "Hey, Lee, can I get another bottle of tequila for table two?"

I turned to see Jessica, her petite frame weaving through the throng of people. Her ponytail swung behind her as she placed her tray onto the bar with an audible thwack, her expression hovering between annoyance and exhaustion.

"Only if you do a body shot!" Emmett teased, his grin wide.

She scoffed. "Off Leah? Any day, hotshot."

Emmett's brows lifted. "I'll be the first to witness." His deadpan delivery drew synchronized eyerolls from both of us.

Shaking my head, I crouched to retrieve the tequila. "Anything good yet?" I asked, handing her the bottle.

"Decent so far. Some guy tipped me fifty," she said with a shrug, her tone betraying cautious optimism.

"Maybe it's a sign of a lucrative night ahead," I offered.

"Let's hope!" She rolled her eyes before grabbing her tray and disappearing into the sea of bodies.

As she left, Emmett sighed theatrically. "I just want her to sit on my face," he said, staring after her.

I groaned in disgust. "Why do you feel the need to tell me these things?"

He grinned unapologetically. "You're my confidant. Lucky you!" He clasped his hands in mock prayer. "But seriously, I'll be scanning IDs outside. If you need me, grab the walkie, 'kay?"

I gave him a thumbs up, rolling my eyes as he pressed uncomfortably close. "For fuck's sake, Emmett!"

Laughing, he stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Thank you, Clearwater! You're the best!" He skedaddled off, leaving me shaking my head as I dove back into the night's chaos.

The crowd began to thin, giving me a moment to check my phone for messages from Paul or Quil. That's when I spotted Angela waving at me from across the room. I waved back, my smile masking the exhaustion she always saw through. She motioned for me to meet her outside, and I nodded, turning to call Laurent for cover.

Before I could move, a sharp whistle cut through the din. My gaze landed on its source—a man with rich blond hair and striking features that demanded attention. His pale blue eyes melted into a faint green at the edges, captivating and unnerving all at once.

"What can I get you?" I asked, forcing a professional tone.

"Whiskey on the rocks," he replied, his smirk revealing perfect pink lips.

Nodding, I poured his drink, but the way he watched me sent a shiver down my spine. When I slid the glass toward him, he motioned for me to lean closer.

"Yes?" I asked, wary.

He chuckled softly, his voice smooth as honey. "How would you like to make some extra money this weekend?"

Alarm bells rang in my head. "Excuse me?"

He raised his hands defensively. "Stay open-minded. My wife and I run an exclusive club. We're looking for participants for a private auction. One-week contracts, fully consensual. No shady corners, no coercion. You'd know every detail before agreeing."

I narrowed my eyes, backing away. "Are you a pimp?"

He burst into laughter, nearly choking on his whiskey. "Absolutely not. Look, here's my card." He slid it across the bar along with a few hundred-dollar bills. "Think about it."

Before I could respond, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "There's something about you. It's worth asking."

He straightened, winked, and disappeared into the crowd.

Staring at the cash and card, I whispered the name aloud. "Jasper Whitlock?"

Holy shit.

Author's Note:

Hey, hope you're enjoying the story thus far you can review if you'd like, or if there are any suggestions, I like to hear as much feedback as I can. This is a way of distracting myself from the madness going on in our world these days.

I hope you stay safe!

With Love

A