Hopeless Devotion ~ A Jasper Hale Story

Chapter Five - Jasper Returns

 Wednesday, August 17th  

Boxes kept showing up like they had a personal vendetta.

I told myself it was coincidence. Timing. Wedding leftovers. Alice over-ordering and rerouting things to my name because she absolutely would. Nothing about the stack by the door meant anything. Nothing about the way my chest tightened every time I signed for another delivery was suspicious.

Completely normal behavior.

However, by noon, the cottage looked like it had survived a minor natural disaster. I fixed that immediately—because if there was one thing I could control, it was appearances. Blankets folded and shoved into the spare room closet. Storage bins stacked neatly, labels turned inward like they might confess something if left visible. The rocking chair went behind the door, angled so no one could see it unless they were actively snooping, which the Cullens never did.

I sank onto the couch afterward, breathless, heart pounding for no reason whatsoever.

"This is fine," I told the ceiling. "I just accidentally curated a theme."

My stomach disagreed.

It wasn't dramatic at first—just a slow, insistent churn, like my body was tapping its fingers on the inside of my ribs. I ignored it. Obviously. I ignored everything. That was my specialty.

When the door opened and Rosalie's voice drifted in, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Tiff? I brought food."

Of course she did. I was ecstatic to see her and have someone with me; however, at the same time, straight panic flowed through me.

I forced myself upright, pasted on my best casual human-being expression. "Wow, what a coincidence. I was just... sitting."

Rosalie glanced around—not suspicious, not searching. Just Rosalie. Beautiful. Observant. Annoyingly capable of noticing things without saying anything about them.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Thriving," I said. "Absolutely living my best post-wedding life."

She set the bag on the counter anyway. "You should eat later."

"Bold of you to assume I won't forget it exists."

A corner of her mouth twitched. We talked about Bella. About the ceremony. About how Alice would have been crying if she could even though she swore she wouldn't. Normal topics. Safe ones. Rosalie didn't push. Didn't look too long at the closed door down the hall or the fact that I didn't eat more than a few bites at a time.

When she left, the quiet rushed back in like it had been waiting.

That's when my body staged a rebellion.

I barely made it to the sink before everything lurched violently upward. My hands shook as I gripped the counter, my reflection pale and wide-eyed, looking back at me like See? I told you something was wrong.

"Nope," I muttered. "Absolutely not."

The door opened behind me.

"Tiff?"

Great. Perfect timing.

Jasper was suddenly there—too fast, too calm—one hand steadying my back, the other pulling my hair away like he'd done it a thousand times already. I hated how safe it felt. I hated how my eyes burned.

"I'm fine," I said weakly, the second it stopped.

"Mmhmm," he murmured. "Convincing."

He guided me to the couch, crouching in front of me, concern written all over his face in that way that always unraveled me. I crossed my arms defensively.

"This is stress," I said. "Or food poisoning. Or karma."

Jasper's gaze drifted, slow and curious.

To the spare bedroom.

To the boxes.

To the evidence.

I followed his line of sight and groaned. "Do not."

His lips twitched. "Did you... buy out a store?"

"They were on sale."

"All of them?"

"I don't appreciate this interrogation."

He laughed—quiet, warm, devastating. "You know, you didn't have to buy everything today."

Heat rushed to my face. "I was preparing for... things."

"Things," he echoed, smiling softly.

We reorganized together after that. Not assembling. Not acknowledging. Just moving and hiding and pretending this was all perfectly normal behavior for someone who was absolutely, definitely not pregnant.

I leaned into his side eventually, exhausted, heart still fluttering like a trapped bird.

This was impossible.

Which meant, obviously, it wasn't happening.

And I refused—absolutely refused—to think about it any further.

I tried to focus on other things afterward. Folding sheets. Sorting the baby-blue blankets I had absolutely not bought for a reason. Cleaning the counters. Labeling bins. Pretending like the boxes were just an abstract art installation I had somehow curated. Each swipe of a rag, each neat stack of linen, was a small victory in maintaining the illusion of normalcy.

But every time I glanced at the rocking chair tucked behind the door, or at the tiny outfits I had shoved into a corner with strategic casualness, my stomach reminded me it was still involved in the conversation. Not loudly—oh no, that would be dramatic—but like a constant, low hum I couldn't tune out.

I was crouched over the low shelf, pretending to reorganize spices I had never touched, when Jasper returned. Quiet, patient. A presence that carried the kind of calm I both hated and needed.

"You still pretending it's all normal?" he asked softly.

I froze. Half a canister of dried herbs in my hand. "Completely."

He crouched beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him even though the room was chilly. "You're not fooling anyone, you know. Especially me."

"I am a master of deception," I muttered, though my voice wavered.

"Mhmm," he said, not pushing, just watching. And that's when the truth I refused to admit anywhere else managed to climb its way to the surface of my consciousness: I was terrified. Not of him. Not of the babies, not even of Alice's wrath if she found out about the boxes—but terrified that my body had started something I couldn't ignore. Something that I might be letting happen.

I buried my face in my hands.

"I can't," I whispered.

Jasper's hand on my shoulder. Warm. Steady. "Yes, you can. And you will. But right now... just let me help."

And somehow, the gentle weight of him made the idea of panic slightly more manageable. Not gone. Not even close. But present. Surrounded by boxes, baby blankets, and the evidence I kept pretending didn't exist, I realized I could at least breathe again.

I looked up at him, eyes wide and honest, and he smiled softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"Whatever's happening," he murmured, "we'll deal with it. Together."

And despite every fiber of my "I am in control and everything is normal" mantra, that didn't feel impossible anymore.