𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄
— 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓈 𝓌𝑒 𝑔𝑜 𝑜𝓃 —

𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, gentle with caressing hands that comfort the two individuals, settles over Quil Ateara's warm cottage. His imprint stares expectantly, awaiting the questions that undoubtedly swirl within his crowded mind. But if they could rest here, in this moment, the girl would find her peace. What lies beyond this property — the death, the mourning, the haunting — is dormant here, almost as if it never existed. And although she could easily get lost in the distraction, in Quil and his caring eyes, she still remembers the reason for her presence here. Because somewhere, perhaps in a space of nothingness while awaiting his next appearance in the world of the living, her brother is fading. And even if she wishes that he could stay forever, she needs to find the solution he's searching for. As much as she wants to avoid the truth, her business here is simple: Graham Torine belongs somewhere else, and there is nothing his sister can do to stop it.

Oakley's fingers brush the sofa as she braces her palm against it for support, her ember eyes finding his shirtless frame once again. She clears her throat abruptly, averting her attention and redirecting it to his wonder-filled eyes. "I'm sorry for intruding," their conversation continues without a hitch — though the silence would be awkward with anyone else, the quiet ambience that lies between them is soft, peaceful. "But I don't have anywhere else to be, anyone else to be around . . . now that I'm here," she chuckles under her breath and stares at the floor, "it sounds a bit desperate."

She does, in fact, consider this desperation: rushing to his home (on a day in which he planned to visit his other friends) in an attempt to gain his help. But what did she expect? What did she think she would say to him? Standing on his doorstep, finding his eyes so gently and spilling out her heart's deepest secrets — I see the ghost of my brother and you are the key to help him pass into the next life. My father believes I am crazy, and I think I'm falling for you even though we only met two days ago. Perhaps he, too, would suspect her mental instability once she spoke the truth. Maybe he would ask her to leave, or make an excuse for his sudden departure . . . or maybe he is different than everyone else, maybe he wouldn't judge her.

Maybe he has secrets of his own.

"Everyone enjoys my company," he grins, trailing down a hallway to slip a cotton shirt over his head. He notices the smallest of bleach stains on the hemline from a single time he attempted to take on a week's worth of laundry by himself; though his intentions of assisting his mother were pure, he failed before he had even begun. He bites his lip, hoping that Oakley won't notice. Then again, she doesn't really mind the small things that provoke his insecurities, does she? "It doesn't make you desperate."

Oakley rolls her eyes, hiding a smile as she awaits his return to the parlor. Her fingers drum against her thigh as she frowns. "Did you have any plans for the day? I don't want to ruin your schedule, so I could come back another day—"

"No!" Quil rushes out of his room, a shirt bundled at his chest as he drops everything to ensure she doesn't leave. "I mean, there's no need to leave," he breathes once he faces her, tugging his shirt down and flattening the material with his hands. The shapeshifter composes himself quickly, a grin falling on his lips, "not when you could come with me. My friends are expecting me today, and I'm sure they would be more than happy to meet you."

His pack mates would tease him, there is no doubt. But how would she feel around them, a group of teenage boys with heightened senses and a werewolf gene that makes their anger harder to control? Perhaps she isn't safe around them yet, at least until she knows their capabilities. As Oakley hesitates and tucks her hands into her pockets, the boy second guesses his offer. Was it even safe for her to be near him? The jagged scars on Emily Young's elegant features are an example of how the smallest unguarded moments can make all the difference in an imprint's safety. Staring at the petite girl as she has an internal battle, Quil Ateara begs himself to stop with the imagery of possibilities — how could he protect Oakley if he was so new to shifting, to this lifestyle?

A tremor begins in his fingertips as he squeezes his eyes closed. Stop, he murmurs to his conscious, control it. And as soon as the shaking begins, it stops, as a single image enters his mind: a brunette in a pumpkin patch, smiling back at him as if he's the only thing in the world that matters.

Oakley doesn't notice his moment of weakness as she gives him a weak smile, "I suppose meeting your companions couldn't be worse than going home and being lonely. I would love to join you, Quil." She nudges the boy as he stands deathly still, lost within his own mind. "Hey, are you alright?" With furrowed eyebrows, she refuses to address the fact that she could feel the heat of his skin through the layers of her clothing. Could he be running a fever again?

"I — I'm better than you know," the edge of his lips tug upwards, and he reaches out for her hand. Oakley pulls her hand away from his quickly, sucking in a breath from the temperature difference. Though the hearth makes his home warm, it is nothing compared to the utter hot that radiates from him. "Sorry," Quil blushes, "I didn't mean to . . ."

As she slowly places her hand upon his, she winks at the sight of the boy's content features and mocks his earlier sentence. "Everyone enjoys holding my hand."

Quil laughs at her antics, tugging her to a stained cedar coat wrack beside the foyer, where he laces his dirty tennis shoes and drapes an extra jacket over Oakley's shoulders. While he slides his arms through one of his own, he notices her narrowed eyes. "What?" He questions, gesturing to the door, "It's cold outside, and I'd rather not introduce my friends to a popsicle-version of yourself."

His sweet gesture doesn't go unnoticed as she reluctantly zips the jacket, breathing in the smell of his cologne and rolling up the sleeves to match the length of her arms. "I am not a child," she assures him as he runs his fingers through his hair. "You don't have to keep giving me your clothes."

"What's mine is yours." Quil states, escorting her outside with a steady hand on the small of her back. "And you can keep the jacket, it'll remind you of me when you're alone at your house."

He notices the tinge of pink that reaches her cheeks as they ascend the walkway. But he doesn't part ways with her when they reach his truck: instead, he follows, and opens the passenger door for Oakley. "You would like that, wouldn't you?" She raises an eyebrow, her eyes not leaving his as she fastens the seatbelt into place. "I believe you have a crush on me, Quil Ateara."

He grows flustered, chewing on the inside of his cheek with a sigh. Quil closes the door and retreats to the driver seat as Oakley grins with satisfaction. "Public knowledge," he shrugs, though a blush blossoms on his face. "It's an honor to have a crush on you, Oakley."

He chuckles to himself as she stares at him with curiosity. Of all the girls he had ever met before, why is he choosing her to be interested in? "Maybe you're more unstable than I am," she muses, eyes straight ahead as he begins their short drive.

But Quil doesn't take her tease so easily, not when her gaze grows distant and insists that she is thinking of something much deeper. "Neither of us are unstable," he comments, focusing on the engine's hum while avoiding her lost state.

"My father thinks differently," Oakley whispers, fingernails grazing the fabric of the boy's jacket. "Sometimes I think he might be right. I do things that are questionable, see things that are questionable. I had a therapist who promised my mental health would be better once the trauma faded, but lately it seems like I can't get away from it."

Quil swallows, imagining the pain she endures every waking moment — a parent with no hope left, and the remaining scars, unmended, from a freak accident that stole the lives of her mother and twin. Though his father had been gone for quite some time, the Ateara boy had found peace. But from the pinch in his imprint's features, he can tell that she is still healing, still mourning. And perhaps her father, deluded by his prolonged grieving and pushing away his daughter, is doing the same. "The hurt will go away one day," he trills weakly, searching for the words to help her. But the truth is that there are none, no words can bring back what is gone. "It's up to you to decide when it does. To decide when to continue. Moving on doesn't mean forgetting, it means remembering why they were here in the first place."

His voice is kind, but it cuts all the same. Oakley's eyes fall upon him, and she releases the material from her grasp. "So why does it feel like this? So numb?" The sentence sticks to the inside of her throat, suffocating her with each syllable, tidal waves of feelings crashing at once. Drowning her.

"Losing someone will always hurt," he manages, holding his breath as her eyes well up with tears. "And sometimes it lasts so long that we get used to it. I am here for you, Oak. You don't have to carry the burden of being alone anymore."

Although she doesn't request his attention, Quil brings the truck to a stop on a gravel backroad, and kills the engine. The lack of sound makes Oakley's hands tremble. As if the action will ease the tension in her body, she places her forehead against the dashboard and braces her hands against the windshield. Deep breaths, however, provide no mercy for the emotions that explode within her body.

The boy's brown eyes are gentle as he places a warm hand on her back. He doesn't find the right words to say, stumbling over his own mind as he witnesses his imprint's distress. Quil's chest tightens, and his only solace is the chilled sparks that blossom in the place where his palm meets the fabric separating their skin.

"I don't want to feel like this anymore," Oakley grits her teeth, squeezing her eyes closed. "The absolute nothing — it's dark, and cold, and it makes me think that I'm the dead one."

Quil's limbs stiffen, his bones so rigid that they seem impenetrable. "Look at me," he tells the girl, the command seeming more like a beg with every passing moment. His voice is lace, and fragile, and so sweet that Oakley can hardly bear ignoring his plead. But he takes her chin into his fingers, and makes the heartbreaking eye contact that nearly rips his heart from his chest. Her golden irises show the months of exhaustion and sleepless nights that he was unaware of. Her face is clear now, deprived of the façade that she tried so desperately to portray while he was near: the dark circles beneath her eyes are evident, age pulling at her porcelain skin just below the flustering red of agitation. The tear stains blotch her flushed cheeks — Quil Ateara had seen Oakley Torine break once before, but this time her cries are different. "You aren't gone, Oakley, and I am so thankful for that."

The shaking in her lips ceases, as if everything in her body demands that she listen to the most important thing that someone had ever said to her.

Why had her father not said the same?

Perhaps, after the months of endless waiting, she needed to hear that she was wanted. That despite her emotional bruises and selfish ways, someone in the world still wants her to remain there.

"No one has ever said that to me," she murmurs, sinking into the seat and bringing her hand up to rest on his. She doesn't blame her father for the things he never thought to say, but is thankful that he didn't. Because had he spoken to her months ago, perhaps she wouldn't have believed him — perhaps she would not feel these emotions, in this very moment, as she stares into the eyes of Quil Ateara, and believes with her entire heart that she matters. That a stranger she had met only days ago had witnessed some of her biggest obstacles, and still managed to care for her so deeply.

And maybe she loved that about him.

Maybe Oakley saw him for what he truly was: a kind soul with a boyish grin, and a pure heart. A boy that put in extra effort to see her smile, who baked ghost-shaped sugar cookies with his parents as a tradition, and was beyond excited to introduce his new friend to his mother. A boy that offered his clothing when the weather wasn't perfect, who stared at her with a smile while she hummed in the passenger seat of his truck. One who looked at her in a way that no one else would, who cared for her when she couldn't care for herself. She would forever see him as the boy on the beach who walked her home in the pouring rain.

And maybe she loved him for it.

"You deserve to hear that every day, Oakley," his voice is firm, as if he has never been more sure. "And if that's what is necessary to make you happy, I'll be the one to do it."

Oakley embraces his warm body, ignoring the console between them and allowing her muscles to relax. His broad shoulders fell with relief, his burly arms wrapping around her small frame and a steady hand placed on her hair. Had she been held this way since her brother passed away? A hug full of love, of understanding and assurance? No, she concludes — not even the ghost of her brother could make her feel this whole, this natural. As she sniffles, Quil's fingers roam her hair as a comforting gesture. He whispers soft nothings into her ear, ones that sing along with the wind outside that scratches at the chilled windows and begs to be among their company. If Oakley could keep that song for herself, she would.

He doesn't let her go, either: his hesitance dissipates when she holds him just a little tighter. This moment belongs to him, with the girl of his dreams pressed tightly to his chest, sealed away from whatever disappointment awaits them outside. He wonders if the girl can hear the way his heartbeat speeds up, how his palms are sweaty from the moment that he didn't know he was waiting for . . . a moment when she needed him. "I'm so sorry," he chokes out, twirling strands of her waves between his fingertips, "I'm so damn sorry that you have to go through this."

He refuses to count the minutes that pass them with the utmost of ease, accepting the silence as Oakley's gradual healing process. Her sobs, wracking her silhouette and breaking his heart with each new cry, fade as she releases her desperate grasp on his hood. But as she removes her hold, she doesn't remove her head from his chest, and he doesn't drop his arms. Oakley only leans closer, seating herself on the console as a quiet submission, and allows herself to fall into him. "I have something to tell you," she admits, wiping the final tears from her eyes and reminiscing in the heat that he provides. Maybe Oakley could stay wrapped in his arms forever, in this aging truck on a gravel path that leads to nowhere, under a cloudy sky and away from everything that could ever hurt her.

"You don't owe me any secrets," Quil shakes his head, his natural curls bobbing from the gesture. He sighs to himself, breathing in her scent of vanilla and pine. "If anything, I'm the one who has something to confess. But maybe it's better if I wait a bit longer . . . you might never speak to me again if I tell you."

Her light chuckle brings a smile to his face — a genuine one that lightens the atmosphere around them. "I would have said the same," she closes her eyes. "You don't have to worry, Quil, I'm not going anywhere. I will allow you a free pass for the day, but tonight . . . tonight, I have to tell you everything that I haven't. It's important that I do."

It doesn't matter what secrets she is holding back, he tells himself. None could make him want her any less, or see her any differently that his does know. The admiration will never fade, and his feelings — could he call it love yet? — will never cease to exist. Grow, perhaps, but never disappear. "You could tell me anything, and I promise it couldn't make me leave you."

"You are so different from everyone I have ever met before," she tells the boy, rising to meet his eyes that show nothing less that adoration. "No false pretenses . . . you should be proud of that." Her gentle smile is contagious as he gains one of his own, not once loosening his grip on her waist. "But I suppose my time for a breakdown is past, and we should be leaving. Your friends are expecting you."

When they reluctantly separate, her skin grows cold again, as if their bodies had become one and he was the other half that she yearned for. He remains smiling, however, at the progress they have made, at the bond that's forming. Quil glances back to her as they are on their way again, the hum of the engine filling the air between them once again. "They will love you," he assures her, "especially Emily. She only ever has a group of teenage boys as company, so I'm sure that your presence will make all the difference in her day."

Oakley and Emily were similar in that way: she had experienced no form of female interaction (with the exception of her distant neighbor that often called to check on her well-being) since her last contact with high school. And even then, interaction was scarce. Oakley paled in comparison to Laythe's social skills, and she often shadowed he and his friends to make up for the lack in companionship. What would it be like to have a close friend like that, one apart from the relationship that is forming with Quil? It makes her anxious, but also provides her with something to look forward to — something to take her mind off of her promise to Quil.

Tonight, she will tell him everything. She will relay that, on the night that her brother died, she saw him again.

And perhaps she would lose him for it.

❝ is this my favorite chapter? yes.
should you guys check out my new edward
cullen fic called 'corpse bride'? yes :) ❞