You’re resting in his lap again, your breathing soft but labored, a rasp at the edge of every inhale that Jasper would give anything to erase. One of your hands lies loosely tangled in his, the other curled under your cheek as your head presses gently against his thigh. He strokes his thumb over your knuckles in slow circles, memorizing the way your skin feels—warm, delicate, so achingly human.

The others are talking in the next room. Soft, deliberate whispers from Carlisle and Edward. Esme’s voice cracks once. Alice won’t even look this way.

They’re talking about turning you. About saving you.

But Jasper can’t stop staring down at your face, pale and tired. He swore he’d never damn someone to this life. Not you. Not the girl who makes even his darkest days feel light.

“Jazz?” Your voice is fragile, a mere whisper. Your eyes flutter open halfway, heavy with exhaustion. “You’re real quiet.”

He forces a smile. Brushes a bit of hair from your temple. “Just thinkin’, darlin’. That’s all.”

You give a soft hum and nestle closer, your lashes already falling shut again. You don’t know how close the line is — how near he is to losing you. Or worse: to making you like him.

And still, he holds you tighter.

“Sleep now,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right here. Always.”