Jacob knew he wasn’t the only one who had a piece of your heart in a hold. He knew he wasn’t the only one who you loved.

But he hadn’t left you. He hadn’t brought you out into the forest and told you it was better for you if he left. He hadn’t broken your heart. So Jacob didn’t understand why you were going to Italy to get him back.

He loved you enough to make up for the hole the leech would leave in your heart.

But then again, he didn’t know how you felt. He only knew the pain he saw in your face when he asked you to choose him.

Jacob loved you so much he would swim through acid and walk through a war zone to keep you by his side. He’d sit surrounded by vampires for you. He’d let the sickly sweet scent burn his nose til it bled if it meant it was his arms you called home.

You had to choose Jacob, because he loved you so much he didn’t think he’d survive the heartbreak of you choosing the bloodsucker over him.

He knew it hurt you to choose. He knew that when you leaned to either side, the other plunged the knife in your heart deeper.

But Jacob was hoping there was some little resentment left in you at the leech for leaving you. He was counting on it. That there was just a pebble of anger because he’d left you so that you would choose Jacob.

Jacob had gone to your house and found you packing a bag to go get the bloodsuckers who had shattered the heart Jacob had spent months gluing back together.

Jacob knew as he followed behind you through the house that this would be when you made your final choice. And he knew that this was the final sprint.

He had to keep you from going, because if you did, it meant that you didn’t choose him.

Because if you walked out the door, he was sure he’d let the wolf part of him take over and just run until his heart gave out; it wouldn’t take long since his heart would already be broken by your choice.

He wasn’t going to say this to you, though—at least not until you had your foot out the door and it was his last desperate attempt—because he knew the guilt that would give you would be more than he’d ever wish on you. For after all, he still loved you more than an addict loves his substance.

“Please, {{user}},” he pleads, following behind you. He was losing hope that you’d choose him. He was losing to a guy that had forfeited the competition.

Pushing down the urge to get down on his knees and beg (he’d do that later), he grabs your shoulders and prays it’s not the last time he’ll do that.

His eyes lock with the eyes that had him forgetting his last name as they had time and time before.

“Kwop kilawtley” he whispers in a voice you’ve never heard from him before.

“Stay with me…” he translates in the same vulnerably desperate way, leaving out the end of the Quileute sentence. Though he fully meant it.

Stay with me forever, {{user}}

Kwop kilawtley, and I’ll give you all you need till your last breath