Hopeless Devotion ~ A Jasper Hale Story

Chapter Four - Shopping Spree

Monday August 14th

I woke to knocking.

Not sharp. Not urgent. Just... persistent.

I blinked up at the ceiling of the cottage, disoriented for a moment, Jasper's absence hitting me like muscle memory reaching for something that wasn't there. The room was too quiet. The light filtering through the trees told me morning had already slipped past me.

The knocking came again.

I groaned, dragged myself out of bed, and pulled on one of Jasper's hoodies out of habit. When I opened the door, a delivery driver stood there with a clipboard, glancing down the path like he wasn't convinced this was the right place.

"Uh—delivery?" he said. "Actually... deliveries."

I frowned. "Plural?"

He gestured behind him.

There were boxes.

Several of them.

Stacked neatly. Labeled carefully. All with my name.

"That's... weird," I muttered, signing where he pointed.

Once he left, the silence rushed back in—thicker somehow. I stared at the boxes for a long moment, arms crossed, trying to remember ordering anything recently.

Wedding fog, I told myself. Emotional spending. Retail therapy. Normal.

The first box was light.

Inside—wrapped carefully—was a mobile. Wooden hoops. Felt mushrooms and moons and tiny stitched stars. Earthy colors. Delicate. Thoughtful.

I froze.

"...Okay," I said aloud. "That's odd."

The next box held a small lamp with a warm glow and a woven shade shaped like a mushroom cap. Then a quilted blanket, forest green, stitched with tiny leaves along the edge.

My chest tightened.

I kept opening boxes, but slower now.

A framed print of a rabbit in a clearing. Fairy lights. A rug patterned with foxes and owls. A flat-packed wooden dresser—far too small to justify for any adult purpose.

Each item alone was explainable.

Together, they were not.

"This doesn't mean anything," I said, sharper now, as if the cottage might argue back. "I like cozy things. Woodland themes are in. Alice probably sent links."

My hands were shaking.

I didn't assemble anything. I didn't set anything out. Instead, I carried the boxes one by one down the hall to the spare room. The door shut softly behind me, like a secret sealing itself in.

Out of sight.

Not gone.

The rest of the day felt... wrong.

Food didn't sit well. I blamed nerves. The smell of coffee turned my stomach, and I blamed stress. When I caught myself resting a hand low on my abdomen, I dropped it like it had betrayed me.

Impossible, I told myself firmly.
Vampires don't work like that.
I don't work like that.

Jasper would have known. Carlisle would have noticed. Someone would have said something.

Right?

By evening, exhaustion settled into my bones in a way sleep didn't touch. I curled up on the couch, staring down the dark hallway that led to the spare room.

"This is nothing," I whispered. "Just bad timing. Just my brain spiraling."

The forest outside watched in silence.

There was a knock just after dusk.

I startled, heart jumping like I'd been caught doing something wrong—though I couldn't have said what that was yet. I pulled the hoodie tighter and opened the door.

Rosalie stood there, arms crossed, expression sharp.

Her eyes flicked past me into the cottage.

"You eat today?" she asked flatly.

I blinked. "Uh. I had... coffee?"

Her jaw tightened. "That's not an answer."

She brushed past me and checked the fridge, the pantry, making a low sound in her throat.

"Tiffany," she said slowly, "you are not surviving on vibes."

"I'm fine," I insisted—right as my stomach twisted unpleasantly.

Her gaze snapped to me.

"...Sit."

I obeyed.

She cooked quickly and efficiently, filling the cottage with the sounds and smells of something solid. Normal. The kind of food you made when someone needed grounding more than praise.

"You didn't say goodbye properly," she said without turning.

"To Jasper?"

She nodded. "He lingered. Tried not to."

"That tracks," I murmured.

She set a plate in front of me. Warm. Simple. Undeniably real.

"Eat."

I did.

Later, she put on something loud and ridiculous and didn't comment when I curled inward or went quiet. Halfway through, she nudged my foot.

"You okay?" she asked.

I hesitated—just long enough to matter.

"I think so," I said. "Just tired."

She studied me, then let it go.

When she left, the cottage felt quieter—but warmer, too.

Afterward, I slipped down the hall and into the spare room.

Boxes lined the wall. Neat. Intentional. Temporary—at least that's what I told myself.

I reorganized them instead of opening them again. That felt safer. More reasonable. When I finished, I pulled out my phone.

Order confirmations.

I scrolled.

And scrolled.

"Oh," I whispered.

More deliveries.

Tomorrow.

My stomach flipped—not violently. Just enough.

"It's nothing," I told myself. "Stress. Clicking too fast. Hormones aren't real."

I shut off the phone like it could argue back.

Before leaving, I looked once more at the stacked boxes. At the space I was carefully not filling.

"Please don't let Rosalie notice," I murmured.

I turned off the light and closed the door.

Tomorrow could deal with itself.