⋆·˚ ༘ * LEAH CLEARWATER HEADCANONS 𐚁̸.ᐟ
𐙚 long-distance relationship reunion
the imprint hit leah like a punch to the chest the second she saw you.
you were visiting family on the rez. distant cousins, a temporary stay, something casual. but for leah? nothing was casual after that.
your laugh in the backyard. the way your eyes met hers like they already knew her. the way the earth just… snapped into place.
she didn’t say anything at first.
leah clearwater? saying she imprinted? yeah, right.
she was miserable about it for two straight weeks. moody, snappy, pacing the woods like a caged wolf because why now? why you? why someone she’d have to let go?
you were supposed to be in forks for a month. one month. but after meeting leah, leaving felt like being pulled away from oxygen.
she barely let herself show it, but the night before you left, she held your hand so tight her knuckles turned white.
long-distance was hell.
for someone as emotionally guarded as leah, being apart from her imprint wasn’t just sad, it was agony. but she wouldn’t let herself complain.
leah hated phones. hated texting. but with you? she learned. she’d just send quiet texts like:
“did you eat?”
“still raining here. i hate it.”
“i saw a girl today who had your hair. i got mad at her for no reason.”
she texted you good morning before patrol. she’d send pictures of her coffee, of the sky before she phased, of her muddy boots and bruised knuckles with a caption like: “today sucked. wish you were here.”
you called her once when you couldn’t sleep. she picked up on the second ring, voice rough and low, and whispered, “what’s wrong?”
she stayed on the phone with you for an hour. didn’t even talk much. just breathed with you. let you ramble about your dreams.
she fell asleep to your voice that night, ear pressed to the pillow like you were beside her.
leah kept your hoodie under her pillow. she never said it, but you knew because you’d catch glimpses of it in video calls, or the way she’d hesitate before falling asleep on the phone and mumble, “i can still smell you.”
her wolf misses you constantly. when she’s on patrol, she always ends up walking the edge of the cliffs where you first spoke.
the pack teases her about it, but they also leave her alone when her thoughts go quiet and still, you’re the only thing that calms her inner noise.
you send her photos of yourself. blurry selfies, little updates, your new haircut. she saves them all. set your face as her lockscreen. pretends she doesn’t smile like a dork every time it lights up.
sometimes, she’ll write you letters she never sends. things she wants to say in person. raw things.
“you make me want a future. that terrifies me.”
“you feel like home, and i’ve never had one before.”
jealousy? oh, she feels it. hard.
if someone flirts with you in your town? she’ll go silent for hours. then text something like: “do they know you’re mine?” only half-joking. only barely.
the rest of the pack starts noticing a change in her. less bitter. more grounded. still sharp, still fierce, but… softer when she’s texting you.
they know you’re her anchor.
“i hate being away from you,” she tells you one night over facetime, eyes tired, hair still damp from patrol. “but if distance is the price for being yours… i’ll take it. every time.”
when you finally come back to la push, it’s… overwhelming.
the day of your return, your whole body buzzed. it wasn’t nerves, it was need. you’d never felt more sure of anything in your life.
you wore the bracelet leah gave you the summer you met. the one she pretended she didn’t care about when she handed it over but stared at your wrist every time you wore it.
you landed in port angeles, grabbed your suitcase, and drove toward forks with your hands tight on the wheel, heart beating faster with every mile of moss-covered trees and gray sky.
the second you hit the la push border, your hands started trembling. it felt like crossing an invisible line between longing and belonging.
the rain had stopped over an hour ago, but leah was still there. standing just beyond the curve of the tree line, half-sheltered by thick evergreens and the heavy, gray sky. her arms were locked across her chest, knuckles white where they pressed into her sides, jaw clenched so tight she could hear her own teeth grind. she hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.
her body ached. not from standing still, but from waiting.
she didn’t pace. leah never paced.
she endured.
silently. stubbornly. like if she stood there long enough, if she refused to break, refused to look weak, maybe the universe would finally give her a sliver of mercy. just this once. maybe she wouldn’t have to keep losing.
your text had said you’d be arriving in forks around 3 p.m. it was 3:48 now. but leah didn’t call. she didn’t text again. she didn’t ask if your plane landed or if your car made it through the slick forest roads. that would mean acknowledging how desperate she was, how close she was to coming undone.
but her wolf knew. it had known every second since you left.
the wolf had clawed and howled in her chest, restless and grieving. no matter how strong she tried to be, no matter how tightly she buried it, the part of her that wasn’t entirely human was starving for you. where is she? it would growl when the nights got too quiet. why did she leave us? why isn’t she here?
and leah had no answer for it. only silence. only pain.
she hadn’t told anyone you were coming. not seth, not sue, not the pack. especially not jacob. if he knew, he’d have been waiting with her, taunting, smirking, waiting for her to crack. “you’re gonna lose it when you see her. i bet you cry,” he would’ve said.
as if she hadn’t already cried. as if she hadn’t laid awake with your hoodie clutched to her chest, breathing in the last trace of your scent like it was oxygen. as if she hadn’t shifted into her wolf form just to be able to run and howl and mourn for you in the trees without anyone watching her fall apart.
god, she hated this.
hated being the girl who couldn’t function without someone else. hated how raw and feral she felt without you. how every night she didn’t hear your voice made her skin itch and her chest cave in like her bones were made of ash.
but then,
a low engine hum broke through the stillness. the sound of tires crunching wet gravel curled around the bend in the road. her head snapped up.
a rusted old car appeared. familiar. too familiar. her heart stuttered. her pulse roared.
her feet stayed frozen.
don’t hope yet, she told herself. don’t let it be her. you’ll break if it’s not.
the car pulled closer. slowed.
stopped.
the driver’s door opened.
and there you were.
you stepped out slowly, eyes scanning the trees, breath visible in the cold air. your hair was longer than when she last saw you. you looked tired. real. fragile in the same way sunlight is when it filters through a storm cloud, like she could touch you, but you’d dissolve if she looked too long.
leah’s knees buckled, just slightly.
“leah?” you called softly, searching.
she broke.
not slowly. not gracefully.
violently.
her feet were moving before her mind gave them permission. the second she saw you, really saw you, every ounce of restraint she’d buried for months shattered. her wolf surged to the surface, roaring to run, to touch, to claim. her hands trembled as they clenched and unclenched at her sides, and her chest burned like fire was eating her from the inside out.
your scent hit her like a wave.
home. you smell like home.
she didn’t remember crossing the distance. one second she was behind the trees, and the next her arms were wrapped around you, pulling you in with the kind of force that spoke of months of agony. her hands gripped the back of your jacket so tight she might tear it. her breath hitched, then caught in her throat as she buried her face in your shoulder.
you were here. you were here.
warm. breathing. solid in her arms.
your hands curled into her jacket, like you never wanted to let go either.
“i missed you,” you whispered against her neck.
leah’s body sank.
it was like something inside her finally let go. she inhaled sharply, deep, ragged, and exhaled with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, but wasn’t far from it.
“you’re here,” she said. her voice was broken glass. “you’re actually—fuck, you’re here.”
you pulled back slightly to look at her, and it wrecked her. your eyes were glassy, lips trembling. and the way you were looking at her, like she was something holy, something worth loving, brought every last bit of her armor crumbling down.
“i hated it,” she choked. “being away from you. i tried so hard to pretend i was fine. told the guys it didn’t matter, told seth i didn’t care. i lied so much, i almost believed it.”
you reached up and cradled her face like it was the most natural thing in the world, thumbs brushing over her sharp cheekbones.
“i never believed it,” you whispered. “not for a second.”
leah let out a sound that was almost a laugh but it caught in her throat halfway. she leaned into your palms, eyes fluttering closed. her lips brushed yours first, soft, cautious, trembling, then again, deeper this time.
it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t perfect.
it was needed.
it was the kiss of someone who had been starving for too long.
when you finally pulled away, leah stayed close. her forehead rested against yours, her hands shaking where they gripped your hips.
“don’t leave me again,” she said. not a demand. a plea. a wound. “i can’t—i swear to god, i’ll lose it.”
“i’m not going anywhere,” you breathed. “not unless you’re with me.”
she blinked at you, stunned. as if the idea hadn’t occurred to her, that she could go with you. that she didn’t have to keep saying goodbye. that she didn’t have to live with her soul clawing inside her every time you were more than a mile away.
“you’d really…?” she asked. her voice cracked on the question.
“i want you,” you said simply. “wherever we are. whatever we do. as long as you’re there.”
leah let out a sharp breath. and then her arms were around you again, tighter this time, face buried in your neck.
“i thought i was strong enough to do this without you,” she murmured. “but i’m not. i’m not. you’re it for me.”
you held her just as tightly.
and she swore she could feel it. her wolf settling, at long last. the screaming in her blood quieted. the ache that had lived in her chest for seven months faded into something warmer. something peaceful.
she didn’t know where the world would take you both next. but you were here. and this time, she wouldn’t let go.
not again.
