A/n:

Me: (Spinning in an office chair @ the head of the table, battle cloak whipping with each turn)

Welcome to the roundtable confessions! This is a space to listen to our twilight gangs woes.

LEAH CLEARWATER

Sitting arms crossed, back straight, eyeing everyone like they might spill something stupid.

"I'm tired of being the one that stays sharp. But I'll keep doing it, 'cause someone has to. Just… maybe I'm not as alone in that as I thought."

TANYA DENALI (voice distant, like she's still falling through the moment)

"There was a girl… her scent was carved in the wind. She didn't speak, but her presence felt like thunder held in bone. I think she saw me. I think she judged me. And I think I cared."

SETH CLEARWATER (phased but polite, tail thumping once)

"I think I did something big. But it didn't feel scary. It felt like… falling without the fear part. I trust it. Even if I don't get it yet."

JANE (seated perfectly still, spine straight, voice quiet and cool like steel left out in moonlight)

"I was designed to be feared. To be followed. I do not cry. I do not bend. And yet… the boy smiled at me like I was a wish. Not a weapon. It is deeply disorienting.

And I—"

(she pauses, something flickering behind her eyes)

"I don't want to be a spectacle. This… whatever this is—him and me—I want it to be mine. Not stared at. Not dissected. Just… mine."

CHARLIE SWAN (clean-shaven, holding a lukewarm mug of coffee, not quite making eye contact)

"I still think about Bella. Every time I see the kid's face. Every time Sue brushes my hair. Grief's quieter now. Doesn't mean it left."

SUE CLEARWATER (braid down, sitting with one boot tucked under her)

"I said yes to something soft. I don't regret it. But if one more supernatural child stares into the void near my kitchen, I will throw a pan."

KIMBERLY (chunky headphones around her neck, hands steepled like a DJ about to drop a track)

"Forks is weird. But honestly? Kinda used to that. I'm more worried about Jared. He's been looking at me like I'm a lifeline and a lightning bolt."

ANGELA WEBER (blazer over a band tee, calm gaze)

"I'm seeing things I can't explain. I think I always could. I just… shut it down. But I won't anymore. Especially if Eric's in the middle of it."

(she tucks a loose curl behind her ear and looks toward the center of the table)

"I used to think I was just… background. Now I know better. I'm part of the frame."

ERIC YORKE (fidgeting with a crystal in his palm, trying not to glow)

"The wolves smell like wet dreams and danger. The Cullens vibrate like bad poetry. Embry looked at me like I was worth surviving. I don't know what I am—but I'm not scared of it."

EMBRY CALL (quiet, staring into a mug like it might confess first)

"It's not just about scent. It's about timing. And timing's cruel. But if I step toward it… I think it might not hurt as much."

JARED (shirtless, barefoot, pacing instead of sitting)

"She looked at me and didn't flinch. That messed me up. Not sure if I'm a monster or just starved for kindness."

COLLIN (texting under the table, but listening)

"Everyone's growing up, splitting off, choosing paths. I'm just trying to stay useful. And alive. Both feel like full-time jobs."

PAUL LAHOTE (smirking, but with his foot bouncing under the table)

"I hit Jasper. Landed it clean. And then he smelled something I couldn't laugh off. I've been pissed my whole life. I think now I'm just present. That's scarier."

JASPER HALE (hands folded, eyes shadowed but alert)

"My sins don't wash out. But I train because it makes the pain useful. Paul's got fire. I've got scars. Maybe that's a fair trade."

ALICE CULLEN (legs crossed, gaze flitting somewhere two seconds ahead)

"You ever know something's coming and still hope you're wrong? That's me. Every second. But I saw the glint in Eric's mind. And it wasn't darkness. It was becoming."

ESMÉ CULLEN (standing, apron dusted with flour, steady hands serving warm cookies none of them asked for)

"I've seen peace hold like glassware—beautiful, fragile, always moments from breaking.

But something else is forming now. Not war.

Something sacred. Something sharp.

It feels like the air before childbirth. Or before stormlight hits the sea.

And I've stopped hiding from it.

I'm setting the table.

Let the future come hungry."

EMMETT CULLEN (grinning, flipping a Bone Bit between his fingers like a coin)

"I'm the joke guy, yeah. But someone's gotta keep us from drowning in grief. If I can make Leah unclench for a second, I count that as a win."

⸻

ROSALIE HALE (leaning back, long hair like a banner, eyes assessing)

"Bella was worth saving. I'd do it again. But I didn't come back for old ties. I came for what's next. I know where my loyalty lies now."

QUILL ATEARA (limping slightly, but stubbornly upright)

"I left for the right reasons. Doesn't make it easier. Loyalty ain't about staying where it hurts—it's about walking toward what you can live with. Even if it breaks something."

⸻

DIMITRI (leaning in a doorway, adjusting cufflinks stained with something old and red)

"The wild ones always think survival is strength. But strength is knowing when to serve power. I offered them legacy. Some chose pain. Fine. Pain teaches."

⸻

SAMANTHA (SAM) (jaw set like stone)

"You don't get to judge me if you don't know the whole story. I'm not the villain. I'm just the first one to stop lying about the myths we were handed."

⸻

BRADLEY (knife tucked in his boot, but legs kicked up, chewing on a matchstick)

Everything's weird right now. But not bad weird. Just… new.

Like history's being rewritten in real time and somehow I got a front-row seat.

I'm not saying I trust the Cullens,but I do want a future that doesn't smell like ash and nostalgia. Maybe Dimitri's got a point.

Maybe I got a better one. We'll see.

But I'm not bored either.

And if the world's changing, I wanna help shape it.

Better a participant than a leftover.

⸻

CARLISLE CULLEN (tired but composed, sleeves rolled, always the diplomat)

"What we built was fragile, but it held for a time. Now I see the cracks. And I wonder… were we ever meant to keep peace? Or simply delay the inevitable?"

He pauses before tapping his chin.

"What if peace was never meant to last, only to teach?"

⸻

JACOB BLACK (russet hair tied back, arms crossed over his chest, eyes darker than usual)

"I'm holding the line with my back teeth. People think being Alpha is about barking orders. It's not. It's about knowing when to carry weight no one else can name. I miss simpler days. But I wouldn't go back."

BELLA SWAN (barefoot, eyes sunken but electric, voice distant as if dreaming out loud)

"I died once. Maybe more. I don't remember which time broke me and which time remade me. But I know something's growing inside me that shouldn't be alive. And yet it is. And I love it. And I'm scared of what that means."

EDWARD CULLEN (half-shadowed at the table's edge, fingertips pressed together like in prayer—but his eyes are feral with something unsaid)

"I've dreamed of the child. The cambion. Not a whisper of Bella, not the curve of her throat—but it. Our child. My consequence. My crown. My curse."

(his voice wavers, but sharpens again)

"If Didymium is shaping what I abandoned… if she lays claim to what was mine by instinct, not right… then I will become the thing they always feared I was. Not for Bella. Not for the family. For my blood."

⸻

DIDYMIUM (half-visible at the end of the table, wrapped in shadow and silver, voice layered like echo and silk)

"The world thought me dead. A miscalculation. I have seen the root of what you call power—and it rots unless reborn. The singers are keys. The wolves are guards. And I… I am the architect."

BEAUFORT SWAN (toddler-aged, but watching with a weird knowingness, fish onesie glowing faintly in moonlight)

"Guh."

(Pause. Then a blink. Then a subtle nod. Everyone feels it in their spine.)

And now… silence.

Someone shifts in their chair. A tea kettle whistles, though no one remembers boiling water.

In the center of the table, the Bone Bits rattle—unprompted. A breeze moves through the room. Not cold. Just decisive.

E/N:

You hear the rattle too, right?

Drop your seat at the table—who would you sit next to?

Who would you follow into the dark?

Esmé leaned against Carlisle's car, the hem of her mourning skirt brushing lightly against the gravel.

It was a thoughtful outfit—black crepe tea-length with a vintage silhouette, softened by a dove-gray cardigan that Alice had insisted she wear.

The collar was edged in pearl buttons that caught the sun like scattered tears. Her boots were heeled but quiet. She wore no jewelry except her wedding band and a thin ribbon of onyx at her wrist.

The air was damp. Washington was always a little wet, like the forest couldn't stop weeping.

She watched the treeline.

A silence had settled over the clearing—not the absence of sound, but a taut kind of waiting.

Watched Leah's fists clench and her stance stay rooted, tense, rigid—yet somehow more present than anyone else.

The girl hadn't moved since Jane and Seth disappeared into the pines. Not a twitch, not a sound.

But Esmé could feel her emotions pressing through the air like heat through glass.

Grief. Worry. Fury. All braided too tight to separate.

Leah didn't breathe until Seth disappeared behind the trees.

Leah Clearwater stood several feet away, utterly still—frozen in the same stance she'd arrived in, arms tense, weight pitched slightly forward.

Her body didn't move, but her entire focus had tunneled in one direction.

Seth.

And Jane.

The anxiety radiating off her was nearly visible. When her phone cracked in her palm—just a soft crunch, plastic giving under pressure—it didn't surprise Esmé at all.

Her phone shattered in her palm.

Seth wasn't the only one in over his head.

Esmé exhaled slowly. Her breath fogged in the air.

She reached into the backseat, retrieved the spare phone Carlisle had charged for emergencies, and lobbed it gently through the distance.

Esmé blinked, then gently called "Leah."

She didn't raise her voice.

She didn't have to.

Leah's eyes snapped toward her, sharp as a thrown knife—she caught it without looking. Thumb already flying.

:Emmett. Volturi. Seth. Status.:

The screen glowed.

First response:

Lee, calm your paws. Pup's fine. Volturi Demoness is stable. I'm texting from two thumbs and playing Geometry Dash with one toe. We're golden.

Second:

Another buzz.

"Don't worry, Lee. I got sum Bone Bits and a lighter."

Leah's jaw twitched. She didn't smile, but the heat under her glare cooled a little.

Esmé tilted her head.

Then, Esmé's gaze slid past Leah—to Embry Call.

And beyond him: Eric Yorke.

Oh.

Esmé didn't need to guess. It bloomed loud and messy across both their faces—the loaded silence, the bright-shocked tension.

Eric's expression flickered somewhere between reverence and hunger.

Embry looked like a deer about to bolt, if not for the sudden betrayal happening somewhere below the waist.

Frozen. Shaking. Wide-eyed.

But not stepping back.

If anything, his breath had deepened, chest rising slow, like bracing for a shift that wasn't physical.

Esmé didn't look away. Not yet. There was something holy about first recognition. And something terribly, achingly familiar.

It wasn't just that he froze. It was where he froze—on the edge of something irreversible.

She felt it like a pulse under her skin. Like old scars humming.

It would've been funny, if it weren't so honest.

Leah exhaled through her nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

She texted so fast the screen glowed like static. Probably Emmett.

Esmé could guess the tone even without seeing it—irreverent, breezy, tinged with teasing affection.

There was effort behind Leah's silence. Stiffness. But also restraint.

Emmett filled the same space Emilio once did, Esmé realized.

That unspoken role—the one who teased, who didn't flinch at sharp words, who knew how to joke through grief.

Esmé saw it in the way Leah's jaw unclenched ever so slightly as she typed. Saw it in the way her shoulders didn't quite fall, but shifted.

Esmé's eyes crinkled.

"Emmetts humor is an acquired taste," she murmured. "But it's good for us."

Leah didn't answer, just nodded once, the line of her mouth still a blade.

Esmé watched her.

There was something so familiar about the way Leah carried her pain: shoulders tense, jaw clenched, always the last to soften.

Leah's face didn't betray much, but Esmé caught the flicker of it. Leah's mouth twitched.

Leah looked at her. The look was wary, not hostile. That was progress.

"Different kind of brother," she said quietly. "Same sized heart.Stupid jokes and all."

Leah hesitated, then reached into her hoodie's front pouch and pulled out the egg carton.

"He said you'd know what to do with these."

Esmé held out her hand.

Inside, the Bone Bits sat like crude holy relics—vampire teeth and fingernails, dipped in phosphorus and sealed with napalm glue. A little project born of Emmett's reckless humor and the pack's necessity.

"They came up with the name one night after watching a vampire show that got all the lore wrong," Leah murmured. "It was a joke. Then it stuck."

"Who names things like this?" Esmé murmured as she accepted it. "Your pack's humor. And Emmett's eternal fifth-grade sensibility… a dangerous mix."

Leah huffed. It wasn't quite a laugh. But it wasn't a threat either.

Inside the carton, beneath stickers and pack graffiti, lay sharpened teeth and nails dipped in phosphorus and napalm glue. The pack's final fallback—just in case.

Esmé turned toward the house, tucking the carton under her arm like a hostess carrying cookies. In a way, she was.

Esmé turned toward the house.

"You're welcome to come inside. Let them figure themselves out."

Leah didn't move. But her eyes followed her.

Leah hesitated. Then shrugged. "I'll come when Seth texts. Or phases back."

"Mm," Esmé hummed in acknowledgment. "Hard not to hover."

"You don't hover?" Leah asked, half-suspicious.

"I build kitchens," Esmé replied, "then let everyone forget I'm there."

She turned fully toward Leah now, her expression soft but sharp in the way only mothers could manage.

"Emilio was quieter than Emmett. More… internal. But when he laughed, it was real. Big. Like he'd been holding it back too long."

She paused. "Emmett's different. He charges into grief like a wall to break through it. It's not better or worse. Just… different."

Leah was silent.

Then: "Yeah."

That was all. But it was enough.

Esmé had learned—over the years, over the silences—that you didn't earn trust from wolves by prying.

You earned it by staying. By listening. By not flinching when they growled.

Leah's eyes flicked to the porch, then back to her.

"You're not scared?"

"Terrified," Esmé said softly. "But it's nice having more children around."

She turned toward the house, the carton tucked under one arm, then paused.

Looked back.

"Would you like to come in? I made oatmeal raisin. And snickerdoodle, in case the cinnamon makes you feel better about the chaos."

After a long moment, Leah hesitated.

Eric's eyes flicked toward her—just a fraction of a glance, but Esmé caught it.

Saw the way his chest moved like he'd just surfaced from underwater.

His stare wasn't shameful.

It was aware. He knew she'd seen him—seen both of them—and somehow, that made it real.

Esmé didn't offer a smile. She offered presence. And he held her gaze, then nodded once.

Grateful. Or scared. Or both.

Across the space, Embry's eyes, wide and shaken, found Leah's.

And Leah—who hadn't moved for minutes—twitched.

Just once. The faintest shift of her jaw, the subtle lowering of her chin.

She saw it, too. And she didn't look away.

Esmé inhaled slowly, deeper this time. There it was again—that vibration in the air, like a distant hum.

She'd learned not to ignore it. Her sixth sense didn't speak in words, but in texture—a feeling like the light shifting before a storm.

A wrongness or a rightness before it took form.

Something was rippling out from this moment, from these woods. Not doom. Not safety either. Just change.

And not all of it had roots here.

She blinked, and an image bloomed behind her eyes—blurred motion, fists raised in the clearing behind the house, muscles straining, not in anger but in practice. A ghost of movement, sun glinting off pale scars. Jasper.

And someone else.

Esmé didn't flinch. Her sixth sense wasn't always literal, but it lingered—like the scent of something just burned, the residue of energy shifting from one soul to another.

And lately, it had been tugging toward the beach, curtesy of the revised truce.

Toward Jasper.

Toward someone who never quite stayed angry long enough to stay broken.

Paul.

Of course.

Her attention drifted back to Leah just as the younger woman reached into her hoodie and pulled out the egg carton. Esmé met it with both hands, like a communion.

Something's coming, she thought. And some of us are already being sharpened for it.

Then—because Leah didn't know how to say yes without it sounding like surrender—she just followed.

Esmé didn't need more than that.

Behind them, the woods stirred—Jane and Seth gone, the others spread across different edges of tension.

Everything was shifting. Maybe not breaking yet, but softening in odd places.

They walked together. Quietly.

The Bone Bits clicked faintly inside their carton, like dice shaking for a game no one had agreed to play.

The sound of fists meeting flesh was sharp but steady—rhythmic, like rain on metal.

Behind the Cullen house, in a clearing not meant for spectators, Jasper Hale moved like a memory—fluid, efficient, cruel only in how calmly he anticipated pain.

His boots kicked up dust that hadn't seen sun in days.

His sleeves were rolled, exposing forearms mapped in pale scars, and his expression was unreadable except for the subtle tightness in his jaw.

Paul Lahote hit the ground.

Hard.

He grunted but didn't stay down. Didn't swear either. Just rolled his shoulders, spat into the dirt, and stood again—bare chest heaving, tattoos flexing across every inch of skin.

Black lines crawled down his ribs, over the sharp hook of his collarbone, wrapping his back in symbols both Quileute and not.

He hadn't bothered with shirts in weeks—not since anger stopped needing to be clothed.

They circled again.

The grass was torn up now, flecked with blood and sweat and something more electric—ego maybe.

Grit. Whatever it was, Paul was holding his own. Barely.

Jasper's knuckles flexed.

Paul narrowed his eyes. "Gotta ask, man. You ever reconcile all that Confederacy shit?"

Jasper didn't blink. But the corner of his mouth dipped.

Paul kept going.

"Like… is that why you always look like you're in pain? 'Cause you're surrounded by real seasonings now? Real ones. Forks got a whole spice rack, and you got taught to burn it down."

Still, Jasper said nothing.

"You got the face of a man who either killed abolitionists or fronts a sad-ass rock band," Paul added, ducking a jab.

"If it's the latter, I want front-row tickets. Never been to a rave. Might as well. With the way death keeps popping up like a bad joke."

That got Jasper to pause. Not laugh—just pause. Like he was recalculating how many emotions to allow in this hour.

Then: "I fought for the South when I was young. Thought it meant honor. Meant home. But all it meant was dying slow for rich men who never bled."

Paul stopped. Only for a second. "So… you're not a racist?"

Jasper tilted his head, slow and sure. "Wouldn't be here if I was."

The silence that followed felt earned.

Paul scratched the back of his neck. "Damn. I was ready to square up for historical reparations."

"I'm flattered."

"Still think you look like a tortured frontman though."

Jasper grinned. A rare thing. "That one's fair."

They moved again—close, quick. Paul lunged low, sweat streaking his chest, the soles of his feet kicking dust from the grass.

Jasper sidestepped, twisted, then planted his palm squarely between Paul's shoulders and shoved.

Paul staggered forward, caught himself, and this time… laughed.

It was low and surprised—like a wolf remembering how to play.

Jasper blinked. That's new.

And then it hit him—not the blow, but the presence.

The hum that came with connection. That quiet, coiled wire of energy Jasper only felt around the others when they were circling grief or anger or need.

But this wasn't grief. Not exactly.

It was willpower. Raw, stupid willpower. The kind you couldn't teach.

The kind that stayed after the rage ran out.

Jasper tilted his head. "You're not angry."

Paul rolled his neck. "Not right now."

"Then why keep going?"

Paul shrugged. "Don't want to get replaced."

Jasper studied him. "No one's replacing you."

"Tell that to the pups," Paul muttered. "Or the dead."

The air between them stilled.

Jasper didn't answer with words.

He took a step forward.

So did Paul.

Their shoulders nearly touched.

Jasper's voice, when it came, was quiet. "You're not easy."

Paul's grin came crooked. "Neither are you."

They went at it again, and this time Paul got in close.

Fast. His fist connected with Jasper's rib—crack—then spun with the next, a quick elbow to the shoulder.

The combo landed.

Jasper stumbled back, sliding across the dirt, boots skidding. But he stayed on his feet.

He landed—unknowingly—right in the patch where Jacob, Leah, and Collin had once stopped cold mid-run, noses twitching. The place that smelled… off.

Jasper straightened, then stilled.

His eyes flicked, hazel bleeding under the black. The scars across his forearms caught the sun.

Then—he sniffed.

Slow. Sharp. Twice.

Paul was already swaggering over, half-smirking. "Pussy ran as soon as I got a hit in, huh?"

But Jasper didn't turn. Didn't move.

Paul's smirk slipped.

Jasper asked, low: "What do you smell?"

Paul frowned. Stepped closer. Sniffed once. Then again.

His brows drew tight.

Rust.

And something else.

Familiar, but not quite.

"Is that—?" Paul started.

Jasper's voice cut in, flat and sure: "Not Victoria. But close. Too close."

Paul sniffed again. "Same aftertaste. Like metal. Rage. You think she made a copy?"

"Or something worse," Jasper murmured.

Paul was quiet. Then: "You always this chill about impending death?"

"Depends on the day."

Paul folded his arms. "You got that MO. Like someone who got hit with a curse and made it a side hustle."

"Speaking of side hustles…" Jasper knelt, scooping a loose tooth fragment from the dirt and turning it over with a practiced flick. "You asked about the Bone Bits?"

"Yeah, where the hell do you get casket teeth? And vampire fingernails? You got a… what? A creepy-ass dental plan?"

Jasper didn't smile. Not exactly. "I got a contact. Codename JJ."

"JJ?"

"Stands for Justified Jackal. Runs a network outta Quebec. If you've got the money, he's got the supplies. Forgeries, smuggled relics, tactical salvage."

Paul stared. "You're kidding."

"No."

"That's the most badass shit I've ever heard," Paul said.

Then, after a beat: "Can he get me a fake ID that says I'm thirty-one and emotionally available?"

Jasper shrugged. "If you can afford the shipping."

They were both quiet after that. But not heavy.

Just bracing.

Because the scent still lingered. Still twisted in the grass like a half-finished thought.

Something was coming. And it wore the perfume of recycled vengeance—aged in blood, bottled in fire.