Ashes

→ epilogue.

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"I WANT TO VISIT my dad's grave," Leah announced to Jake as she gazed at him. His eyes caught hers as he squeezed her hand tight, so tight he was certain her fingers were numb. "With you."

"Are you sure?" His voice was nothing more than a slow, hesitant rumble with concern lacing each letter and vowel. He frowned in confusion and felt his brows furrow over his eyes.

She pushed some half-dry hair behind her ear and twisted her earring, fidgeting. 

He was struck with her smooth brown skin and her long, heavy black eyelashes spiked with the faint beads of water that lingered from her shower. Like he always was. 

Because she was his, all his, and nothing—not even Fate itself—could take her from him. He'd rip apart the world if it tried.

"Yeah," she murmured. "It's about time. And it's the anniversary." Her smile weakened, thinned. 

There was a glimmer of sadness in the depths of her dark eyes, and he ached to soothe her pain. But even his own pain of losing his mother had never diminished, never eased. 

All he could do was stand at her side and lend her his strength.

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The graveyard was silent and still and quiet. Beneath their feet, the dead, unattended grass crunched noisily, and it was the only sound for miles. 

Her hand was cold and small in his, her fingers laced between his, and he kept stealing glances at her, concerned. 

She hardly visited Harry's grave, and if she did, it was by herself or with her brother. He'd always been understanding—her grief was a raw, bleeding thing, and she hated being vulnerable even after a year together—but he was curious why she was inviting him now. 

Whatever her reasoning was, he'd be here for her and be her rock. He loved her. Unfathomably. Endlessly. Not like Bella, which had been an infatuation and had left him broken and twisted and shattered. No, with Leah, it was simple and easy, like a free-fall he never wanted to stop, a dream that he never wanted to wake from. Something bright and bountiful and warm. 

She didn't say anything as they walked, his arm curled around her hunched shoulders, her free hand tucked in the pocket of her jacket. The jacket, he knew, she didn't need but they both wore one for propriety's sake. Two people walking around in below sixties in Forks would draw unwanted attention. Attention they couldn't afford right now. They drew enough as it was. 

Even after a year, he still marveled that this beautiful creature—who knew his pain and understood the ridges of scar tissue on his soul, the balm to his fire, the fierce little mate he'd thought he'd never have—was his. That she'd chosen him of all people. 

When they reached Harry's grave, she shuddered and then knelt down, ignoring how last night's rain no doubt soaked into the knee of her jeans. She was so, so different—something about her had softened, had shifted, and it was like the sun coming out after a long bout of storm clouds. 

"Hey, Dad," she whispered, and he closed his eyes at the sound of her voice. Normally she sounded gruff and brisk in a kind of detached manner but now? Now she was fragile as thin-spun glass and calm. 

He'd expected pain, sorrow, anger in her tone but heard none of it. Instead she was cool, her voice collected almost, as she began to ramble. She talked about everything and nothing, from the most minuscule of things to the largest dramas.

Jake watched as she unfolded her knees and sat square on the ground, obviously uncaring if there would be a wet patch across her ass. He felt his mouth curve into a smile. That was his girl. 

She continued like that for at least an hour, pouring her heart out to the gravestone, and when she began to cry, overwrought with emotion, he couldn't stop himself from crossing the distance he'd put between them to give her a little bit of privacy and wrapping her in his arms. 

"Sh, sweetheart. I'm here, honey," he murmured, kissing her hair, and then pulled back and met her red-rimmed, runny eyes. 

As he stared into her eyes, some missing, jagged part of him filled. 

All his life, he felt like he'd been missing something—something important, crucial—and he'd thought he'd found it in Bella Swan. He looked at the imprints and his friends and ached so fiercely, it nearly bowled him over. 

Since he phased, he'd never thought of Leah in a romantic light until recently, when he'd seen how vulnerable she could make herself and how protective and loyal she was as his second-in-command. She soothed him in ways he'd never imagined he needed. Where he was too harsh and brash, she could be soft and delicate like a baby animal's down. When he hesitated, she took charge. When he needed quiet, she was silent and just held him. 

She everything he wanted and needed. 

And he realized how he felt about her.

"I love you," he said finally, the words ringing out, echoing off the barren trees. "I love you, Leah Clearwater. Until my heart stops beating."

She laughed a hiccupping, choked little laugh and blinked rapidly. "I love you too, you idiot." She leaned forward and kissed him soundly, her mouth salty and damp from her tears. "Always."

They held hands on the walk out and even after, in the car, as he mused how strange but perfect his life had turned out.