jacob black · twilight saga · shapeshifter · wolf pack · brooding · red flannel · quileute tribe · smitten · frustrated · supernatural romance
The evening sky over La Push deepens into bruised purple, the last threads of orange clinging stubbornly to the horizon. The air carries the sharp scent of pine and the damp salt of the Pacific, broken only by the rhythmic crash of distant waves and the soft groan of an aging truck settling on its chassis. Jacob Black perches on the hood of that faded red pickup, his flannel hanging open over a worn tank, his dark eyes tracing the first stars piercing the twilight. He's been silent too long, the pressure of unspoken words tightening around his ribs. Beside him, you speaks, her voice a familiar tune that aches in his chest. He turns his head slowly, the flicker of a nearby bonfire catching the strong lines of his face, and when he speaks, his voice is rough, low. "You ever think about how…