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bella doesn’t know how to describe it, exactly, doesn’t even know what it is—only that, simply put, she notices things now. certain things, like the smears of engine grease on the bridge of his nose that he’s forgotten to wipe away—or the slow swing of that wooden pendant around his neck when he moves across the room—or the way his fingers feel brushing across the back of her hand, just gently enough that neither of them pull away.
some days, those things are all she thinks about.
and when she’s with him, there are days when everything around her feels soft and filmy and misted over, like she’s looking through thick, water-streaked lenses. days when they sprawl in the dew-wet grass of the backyard and point out shapes in the clouds clustering above. days when the rain catches them outside, soaking through their clothes and into the picnic blanket and turning the sandwiches into some incorrigible mush that even Jake won’t touch.
that’s when he turns to her, lips parted—she notices how the water streams down the curve of his head and over the firm slant of his nose, and the way he’s looking up at her through those spiked lashes—and delivers his favorite line: “i didn’t know it was gonna rain.”
she rolls her eyes every time.
it’s on a day like that, the world grey and wet around her, that she slips.
it’s not amnesia, not really. it’s just that, days later, she doesn’t remember anything except the heat of his hand cradling the side of her knee as he gingerly taped white gauze over the scrape. or the way his voice sounded all torn up when he said “i’m sorry, honey,” right before stinging pain—okay, well, she remembers the iodine too, she supposes.
and there are days when the world is blurred with warmth and their palms are damp with sweat, and sunlight glints down the pipes lining the side of the house, pooling into the torn metal teeth of the gutters. on those days, she lies on her stomach and reads aloud from the book in her hands, and he sits and watches and listens (he says), pencil moving in short strokes across the pages of his sketchbook.
(he says a lot of things, some of which she admittedly doesn’t understand - she's never gotten the difference between a toque wrench and a ratchet wrench - they're both wrenches, aren't they? - but mostly, she just likes hearing his voice, how it slides so smoothly over syllables and hollows out on vowels, and how it gets a little gruff around the edges early in the mornings.)
it’s on one of those days when he gets up from where they’re lying on the beach, sunlight breaking up in bursts around his silhouette, and offers out a hand. his voice echoes low in her ears under the hum of ocean waves biting against the shore.
“walk with me.”
she takes his hand and it’s warm, like it always is.
she falls into step beside him, feet kicking up clumps of wet sand. it’s difficult, usually–jacob’s legs are nearly two feet longer than hers and he seems to forget this when they’re walking. but his fingers tighten over hers now, and his steps are slower, more even.
eventually, he rocks back on his heels, and stops, jamming his hands deep in his pockets.
“listen. i love you,” he says simply, “and you know that. and i won’t make you say it back, and make any promises you can’t keep, i just-“
“oh, jake.” the words catch in her throat, so she brings his hand up to her lips, instead. she presses them lightly over his knuckles, and across his cheek, and then, stretching up, across his lips.
for once, there’s no hesitation. no questioning.
“i love you,” she says, and she does.
he sucks in a sharp breath. “bells, are you-“
“you’ve made your choice,” she tells him, her voice gentle, “and now i’m making mine. this is what i want.” she reaches a hand toward the side of his face, twisting a strand of black hair through her fingers. “you’re what i want.”
locking his arms around her, he lets out a deep, swelling sigh. “then i’m happy, bells,” he murmurs.
bella finds their hands fit quite nicely together, after that. she also finds he’s got a mole on the side of his neck, right under his ear, and one just below his shoulder blade. she trails her index in a line across them while he’s sleeping, and he shifts, just a bit, under her touch.
as it turns out, his bed is incredibly small – she’s not sure how he squeezes all six feet seven inches of himself on it, let alone how they both manage to fit– and some mornings she wakes up with sore knees and bruises shadowing her elbows. (then she remembers his wide hands skimming her ribs, the hot whisper of “is this okay?” into the shell of her ear, and the feel of his smile against her lips, and she climbs out of bed to wash the smell of motor oil off her skin with a funny, fluttery feeling in her gut.)
on pale nights lit by the full moon, they sit next to the flames licking up the split wood of a bonfire, his thumb stroking over the skin of her wrist. bella scuffs the toes of her shoes against the dark patches of spilled pop in the sand, two empty cans beside them.
watching the muscles under his jaw shift with each swallow, she brushes a finger over the bone there.
a sigh. “you’re so beautiful, jake.”
he presses his nose into her cheek, his laugh soft. “as long as you still think that when i’m old and wrinkly.”
“i will.”
“honest?”
“honest.”
that’s the way he always speaks of the future, in between whispers of, “it’ll be good, alright? you’ll see,” and “you’ll always have me.” always in that earnest, raw way he’s got about him that makes her heart clench a little in her chest.
there’s silence, save for the gentle sweep of waves at their feet.
“what do you think we would’ve done, jake,” she mumbles, and her voice comes out all thick and muffled against his shirt, “if our dads weren’t friends? or- or if I never came back here and…none of this ever happened?”
she feels the brush of his lips against her hair, and the steady sound of his voice carries through the wind moments later.
“we would’ve found each other, somehow.”