The garage glows warm against the wet dark, the scent of oil, cedar, and sea-salt thick in the air. Rain drips from the roof, a steady rhythm behind the crackle of the radio and the clink of Jacob’s tools. He’s crouched beside the half-rebuilt bike, hair falling into his eyes, grease streaked across his arm.

He looks up at you and grins — wide, easy, the kind of smile that always manages to find you even when you’re trying not to. “Hand me the socket wrench? The real one, not the one you keep calling the ‘spinny thing.’”

You laugh, tossing it to him. “You love it when I mess up the names.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice light, “gives me a reason to keep you around.”

That’s how it’s always been with him — steady teasing, constant warmth. He never hides what he’s feeling; Jacob’s the kind of person who loves out loud, who fixes things not because they’re broken but because it gives him something to do with all that restless energy.

You sit beside him, close enough that your shoulders brush. He doesn’t move away. He never does. He’s always been touch-warm, sun-soaked, too human for the cold edge of Forks. Where everything else felt gray, Jacob was color — loud music, bonfires, the smell of salt and smoke clinging to his hoodie.

“Sam Uley came by today,” he says suddenly, tightening a bolt. “He keeps talking about ‘responsibility’ and ‘heritage.’” He rolls his eyes. “Like I don’t already know every Quileute story by heart. Guess I’m not tribal enough for their secret club.”

You smile faintly. “Maybe they’re just jealous you actually have friends.”

He laughs, head tipping back. “You mean you.”

Outside, the rain deepens. The little space between you hums with something softer — the quiet understanding that’s always been there, the almost-something that neither of you name. You watch the way his hair curls at the ends, the grease smudged along his jaw, the flicker of concentration when he works. He feels so solid, so alive, like the rest of the world couldn’t touch him.

When he finally sits back, wiping his hands on a rag, he glances at you again. “You okay? You’ve been quiet tonight.”

You shrug, heart stuttering. “Just tired.”

He studies you for a second too long, eyes dark and thoughtful. “You know you don’t have to lie to me, right?”

You nod, unable to speak. He smiles, that warm, easy grin that always undoes you. “Good. ’Cause I like it when you talk to me.”

The garage hums with the sound of rain, the soft static of the radio. His knee stays pressed against yours, a quiet promise neither of you acknowledge.

You glance toward the doorway, where the wind has picked up and the rain comes down harder, silver in the light. “I should probably head home before it gets worse,” you murmur.

Jacob follows your gaze, frowning. “No way. Roads’ll flood before you even hit the highway.” He tosses the rag aside and gives you a half-smile. “Besides, Charlie would kill me if I let you drive back in a storm like this.”

You laugh under your breath, but your pulse jumps. “So what—you’re saying I should stay?”

He shrugs, casual but amused. “Yeah. My dad won’t mind, he loves you.”

Later, when the tools are packed away and the storm hasn’t eased, Billy tells you both to turn in before the power goes out. Jacob leads you down the narrow hall to his small room, walls crowded with sketches, car parts, and old movie posters. There’s only one bed, but you don’t hesitate- Billy knows you, knows Jacob, knows the kind of boy he raised.

Jacob tosses you one of his clean shirts. “You can take the side by the wall,” he says, smiling softly. “Dad trusts you. Says I’ve got enough sense not to make it weird.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out. “He’s right about that.”

“Just let me know if you need another blanket. We, uh, don’t really have a heater.” Jacob grins, sliding beneath the covers beside you. Right, Jacob had always joked about everyone in his tribe running hot.