notes: thinking i might start posting for random characters from my fandom/character list more often, just whatever inspires me in the moment. feels more fun that way <3
credits: @dollywons
sam uley
sam becomes… gentle. even more than usual.
the first sign is how carefully he treats you, like you’re something he’s afraid to break.
he hovers without hovering, always nearby, always watching in that calm, protective way.
he doesn’t flirt. he doesn’t tease. he just… softens. his voice goes lower, slower, like everything he says to you is deliberate.
• always positions himself between you and danger, no matter how small
• notices every detail, if you’re tired, cold, upset, distracted
• checks in with you quietly, “you alright?” “did you eat?”
• lingers after conversations without realizing
• gets caught staring with the gentlest expression imaginable
• the pack knows instantly, sam never looks at anyone like that
and when you smile at him?
his breath actually catches.
you undo him without even trying.
sam doesn’t confess early, he loves you long before he says it.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
jared cameron
jared is a mess.
the funniest, sweetest mess you’ve ever seen.
he tries to act normal. he fails miserably.
he laughs harder around you, smiles wider, talks faster.
every emotion he has goes straight to his face.
• accidentally flirts constantly
• then gets flustered about his own flirting
• bumps your shoulder every time he walks by
• sits close. like, unnecessarily close
• stares at your lips mid-conversation, then panics
• asks the pack way too many questions about “what if they don’t like me?”
the pack? they clown him relentlessly.
he brings you up every five seconds:
“they said this—”
“they laughed at my joke—”
“do you think that meant something?”
and if you touch him first? even a casual brush of your fingers?
he shuts down. completely.
blushing. smiling. malfunctioning.
jared falls first, falls hardest, and hides none of it.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
paul lahote
paul becomes… impossible.
cocky. loud. smug.
and absolutely terrified inside.
the more he likes you? the worse he acts.
he teases you every chance he gets, pokes at you, smirks at you, calls you every pet name he shouldn’t be calling you yet.
but the second you tease him back?
malfunction.
absolute short-circuit.
he goes still. voice drops. eyes lock on yours like you flipped a switch.
• hoverer supreme, “i’m not following you, i’m just going this way too”
• glares at anyone who stands too close
• gets jealous FAST but tries to hide it behind attitude
• hands shake when you touch him
• stares at you like he’s trying to memorize every inch
he acts like he doesn’t care, but his whole body gives him away.
the pack mocks him constantly —
“bro you’re in love, just admit it,”
and he snarls every time.
but the truth?
if you asked him for anything, he’d give it to you without question.
paul loves like a wildfire he’s desperately trying to contain.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
jacob black
jacob is sunshine around you. blinding. warm. obvious.
he lights up every single time he sees you, his smile gets bigger, his posture straighter, his whole vibe softer.
jacob doesn’t hide it at all.
he tries to play it cool, but he’s the worst at subtlety.
• brings you little gifts he pretends aren’t gifts
• casually touches you all the time
• always finds an excuse to hang out with you
• shows off whenever you’re watching
• listens so closely it’s adorable
• beams when you laugh
jealous jacob?
oh, he gets quiet. close. protective.
one hand on your back. eyes narrowing at whoever caused the feeling.
and when you talk to him softly?
his entire face goes red.
his dimples come out.
he can’t look you in the eye.
everyone in the pack knows he’s in love with you.
like, immediately.
he’s not subtle even a little.
jacob loves loudly, earnestly, and with zero self-preservation.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
quil ateara
quil is adorable about it.
like… painfully obvious, sunshine-level adorable.
he smiles every time you walk into a room, that big, bright, boyish grin he can’t hide even if he tried.
he follows you around like a loyal golden retriever he swears he’s not being.
he just wants to be near you. always.
• always in your space, but in the gentlest way
• laughs at literally everything you say
• brings you snacks without realizing he brought you snacks
• stares at you like you hung the moon
• gets flustered SO easily, pink ears, shy smile
• tells the pack “i’m not obvious” while being the most obvious
if you compliment him?
he completely short-circuits.
tries to play it cool, fails, grins like an idiot.
and when you touch him, even just your hand brushing his?
he freezes.
smiles.
melts.
quil doesn’t confess because he thinks he needs the perfect moment, not knowing that every moment with him already is.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
embry call
embry is the softest disaster you have ever met.
he becomes so gentle with you it’s ridiculous, slower movements, quieter voice, like he doesn’t want to startle you or say the wrong thing.
he’s the type to rehearse conversations with you in his head.
and then panic when you actually talk to him.
• blushes every time you say his name
• trips over his words constantly
• stares at you and then looks away immediately when you catch him
• tries to give you space because he doesn’t want to overwhelm you
• but then wanders right back to you because he literally can’t help it
• tells jacob and quil everything, they tease him nonstop
embry is the king of “i brought you this because i thought you might like it… but you don’t have to keep it… but if you want to… that’s cool too…”
and if you lean your head on his shoulder?
oh he’s gone.
broken.
heart pounding loud enough the whole pack can hear it.
embry doesn’t confess because he’s terrified you’ll say no, even though everyone else can see you’re just as gone for him.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
leah clearwater
leah is intense.
not in a scary way, in a focused way.
she pays attention to you like she’s trying to read every thought in your head.
she doesn’t flirt.
not obviously.
her version of affection is quiet, subtle, protective.
• walks you home without being asked
• gives you her jacket and pretends she’s not freezing
• stares at anyone who even looks at you wrong
• always positions herself beside you in group settings
• notices when you’re uncomfortable before anyone else
• gets flustered when you compliment her, looks away, bites her lip
the pack sees it instantly, especially seth, who mocks her lovingly.
but leah refuses to admit it.
she pretends she doesn’t care.
but her eyes soften every time she looks at you.
her voice warms when she says your name.
her whole posture relaxes when you smile.
and if you touch her hand?
she stops breathing.
literally freezes like her entire system rebooted.
leah doesn’t confess because she’s scared, of losing you, of being too much, of you not choosing her back.
but she loves you with a loyalty sharper than anything else she carries.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
seth clearwater
seth is pure sunshine around you.
the softest boy on the planet.
and the most whipped.
he follows you everywhere, smiling, laughing, talking to you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
he’s so obvious it’s hilarious.
• brings you flowers he picked himself
• compliments you constantly
• shares his food with zero hesitation
• always asks, “are you okay?” even when you’re clearly fine
• beams every time you look at him
• gets teased by literally the entire pack, especially leah
seth acts like being near you is the highlight of his day.
and honestly? it is.
if you hold his hand?
he turns bright red but holds yours tighter.
if you hug him?
he clings.
absolutely clings.
and when you say his name softly?
he lights up like you handed him his entire future wrapped in ribbon.
seth doesn’t confess because he’s waiting for you to make the first move, not out of fear, but because he doesn’t want to scare you or rush anything.
characters: sam uley, jared cameron, paul lahote, jacob black, quil ateara, embry call, leah clearwater, seth clearwater
summary: headcanons/scenarios of how each of them reacts when you show up wearing their hoodie or flannel, from teasing and possessive to soft and quietly affectionate moments that feel like home.
tags/warnings: lowercase writing, fluff, comfort, established relationship, implied intimacy, protective behavior, light teasing, gender-neutral reader, wolf pack x reader, cozy vibes
credits: @dollywons
Sam Uley
Sam’s hoodie practically swallows you whole, oversized, heavy, and carrying that distinct scent of cedar, pine, and something purely him. When you walk into the room wearing it, everyone notices, but no one says a word. They don’t have to. The way Sam looks at you says it all.
He’s talking to Jared when he sees you, mid-sentence, and the words just… stop.
His gaze trails over you, quiet but unreadable, the kind of look that feels like a touch.
You fidget, tugging the sleeve over your hand. “What?” you ask, pretending not to know.
His lips twitch, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “That’s mine.”
“You left it in bed,” you counter, chin tilted up. “Finders keepers.”
He doesn’t argue. He just steps closer, brushing his thumb along your jaw, murmuring, “Keep it, then. Looks better on you anyway.”
When the others start teasing, Sam only gives them one glance, and suddenly, the jokes stop.
Later, when you’re alone, his fingers hook into the hem of the hoodie, tugging you toward him until you’re chest to chest. “You know what that does to me, right?” he murmurs, voice low, rough.
You just smile into his chest as his arms wrap around you, the warmth of him bleeding through the fabric that already smells like home.
To Sam, it’s not just a hoodie, it’s a claim, a quiet, unspoken promise that you’re his and he’s yours.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
Jared Cameron
Jared’s flannel is soft from wear, faded plaid, sleeves rolled, the faint scent of smoke and soap clinging to it. When you show up wearing it, he’s instantly grinning, that signature, cocky grin that makes his dimple show. But underneath the teasing, there’s that warm, full-hearted love that makes his chest ache a little.
“Well, damn,” he drawls, eyes roaming over you with a playful spark. “That mine?”
You shrug, feigning innocence. “Could be anyone’s.”
“Mmh,” he hums, stepping closer. “Nah. I’d know that shirt anywhere. Looks better stretched across you, though.”
His fingers find the edge of the fabric, brushing lightly against your skin as he teases, “Didn’t even ask, huh?”
You smirk. “You would’ve said no.”
He shakes his head, smile softening. “I would’ve said take it. Didn’t know seeing you in it would knock the air outta me, though.”
The others tease him for letting you “steal” his clothes, but he doesn’t care, he likes when people see you in his things. It sends a small, primal jolt through him every time.
Later, when he pulls you into his arms, his voice softens. “You know, I didn’t realize how much I’d love that look on you.”
He kisses the top of your head, murmuring, “Smells like me. Feels right.”
Jared’s teasing is loud, his affection louder, but when you wear his flannel, the laughter quiets into something softer. Something that feels like home.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
Paul Lahote
Paul doesn’t do subtle. When he sees you in his hoodie, the one you stole from his room without warning, there’s no mistaking the reaction. It’s pure, instinctual, a mix of shock, pride, and something darker. He’s always on edge, always running hot, but that sight? It makes him still.
You walk up to him at Emily’s, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, the sleeves hanging long past your fingers.
The second he looks up, his jaw goes tight. “You’re wearing my hoodie,” he says, voice low. Not angry, just stunned.
“Yeah,” you say casually. “It’s comfy.”
His nostrils flare slightly, his gaze dragging down your frame, his hoodie hanging loose, your hair messy, his scent all over you.
“You have no idea what that does to me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair as if to keep his temper, or something else, in check.
The others notice his reaction instantly and start teasing. “Easy there, Lahote. You look like you’re gonna combust.”
Paul glares. “Shut it.”
When you try to laugh it off, he steps closer, lowering his head until your foreheads nearly touch. “You can wear it whenever you want,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Just… don’t be surprised if I can’t keep my hands to myself after.”
Later, when you’re curled up in his arms, he tugs the hood over your head and kisses your forehead. “Smells like home,” he whispers, quiet, reverent, almost gentle.
For Paul, your wearing his clothes hits every instinct at once, protective, possessive, and completely undone by the thought of you choosing something that belongs to him.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
Jacob Black
Jacob’s hoodie isn’t fancy, just a worn, dark one that’s clearly seen too many days of grease and sawdust. But to him, it’s comfort. Familiar. And when he sees you wearing it, it’s like watching a piece of his world fit perfectly into yours.
You don’t even announce it, you just show up at the garage, sleeves too long, the hem nearly hitting your knees.
He turns around mid-laugh with Quil, then freezes mid-word.
“Is that—” His brow furrows, then softens instantly. “—my hoodie?”
You grin, tugging at the hood string. “Was cold.”
“Could’ve told me,” he says, though the corner of his mouth is already twitching upward.
“Would you have said yes?”
He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Probably not. But seeing it on you now… yeah, I take it back.”
He reaches out, his hand resting at your waist as he tugs you closer. “You look… good.” It’s simple, but the softness in his tone carries everything he can’t say out loud.
You catch Quil’s teasing glance from the corner of your eye, and Jacob huffs, wrapping his arms around you protectively. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.”
Later, when you’re sitting by the fire together, he tugs the hoodie’s sleeve over your hand, intertwining your fingers inside it. “You should keep it,” he murmurs. “Looks better on you anyway.”
Jacob’s calm, warm kind of pride makes moments like that feel heavier, not possessive, not showy, just real. You wearing his hoodie isn’t just cute to him; it’s a quiet declaration of belonging.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
Quil Ateara
The second Quil spots you in his flannel, he nearly drops whatever’s in his hands. His grin spreads slow and wide, that easy sunshine smile that somehow still makes your heart skip a beat. It’s not teasing, not really, it’s pure awe, like he’s seeing something he didn’t know he needed.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa— is that mine?” His tone is playful, but there’s a genuine wonder beneath it.
You glance down at yourself, pretending to think. “Maybe. Found it lying around.”
“That’s my favorite one!” he protests, stepping closer. “You can’t just steal it and expect me to— okay, fine, yeah, you can.”
He gives in too easily, fingers brushing the sleeve like he can’t quite believe how right it looks on you.
“You look really good,” he admits, voice soft now, his teasing melting into something tender.
He tugs gently at the fabric until you stumble closer, and his grin turns boyish again. “It’s official, you’re never giving this back.”
Around the others, he’s shameless, proudly slinging his arm around you, letting everyone see the way you’re practically swimming in his clothes.
Later, when it’s quiet, he buries his face against your shoulder and murmurs, “Smells like me now. Guess that means you’re stuck with it… and me.”
For Quil, it’s not about ownership, it’s affection, plain and bright. You wearing his flannel feels like warmth shared, a sign that you belong in every piece of his world.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
Embry Call
Embry freezes mid-step the moment he sees you, his hoodie hanging loose, sleeves too long, hood halfway up. It’s the one he practically lives in, and on you, it looks… softer. The way his gaze lingers gives away how much it hits him.
“That’s mine,” he says, but there’s no edge in it, just quiet amazement.
You hum, tugging the hood up. “It was cold. I borrowed it.”
“You could’ve asked,” he murmurs, though the faint smile tugging at his mouth says he doesn’t mind at all.
His eyes follow every little movement, the way the hem brushes your thighs, the way his scent clings to you.
“Didn’t realize it’d look better on you,” he finally says, voice low, rougher than usual.
When you pass him later, he catches your wrist, pulling you into a brief hug that lingers too long to be casual. “Keep it,” he whispers. “I’ll just… steal it back when I miss you.”
Around the pack, he pretends to shrug it off, but they all notice the way he glances at you every time you adjust the hoodie.
Later that night, when you’re sitting on the porch, he leans against the railing beside you. “I like seeing you in my stuff,” he says quietly. “Makes it feel like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.”
With Embry, it’s not loud or dramatic, just full of quiet warmth. You wearing his hoodie says all the things he doesn’t always know how to put into words.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
Leah Clearwater
Leah’s reaction is immediate, a mix of raised brows and the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her flannel looks oversized on you, sleeves rolled up, collar a little crooked. It’s casual, but she notices everything, especially the fact that it’s hers.
“Really?” she says, tone half amused, half fond. “Couldn’t find your own clothes?”
You grin, tugging the sleeve. “Yours are warmer.”
“Yeah, because they’re mine,” she quips, though her eyes soften as they linger on you.
Leah pretends to play it off, but the smile that slips through isn’t one she can hide.
“You look… cute,” she finally admits, voice quieter than before. “Don’t get used to me saying that.”
You arch a brow. “So I can keep it?”
“Mmm… we’ll see,” she says, stepping closer, tugging the collar straight. “Just don’t go getting anyone else’s attention in it.”
When the boys tease her, she shoots them a sharp look that ends it instantly. “What? It looks good on them.”
Later, when you’re curled up together, she traces her fingers over the sleeve and murmurs, “Keep it. You already made it yours anyway.”
Leah isn’t one for big gestures, but the softness that slips through when you wear her clothes, that’s her love language. Quiet, careful, and real.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
Seth Clearwater
Seth lights up the second he sees you. His grin is instant, wide, unrestrained, pure sunshine energy. You could be wearing a sack and he’d still find you adorable, but seeing you in his hoodie? That’s a whole different level of heart-melting.
“No way,” he laughs, pointing at you. “That’s my hoodie! You actually took it!”
You shrug, playing innocent. “You said I could borrow it.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think you actually would!” he says, shaking his head but smiling like he can’t believe his luck.
He circles around you, pretending to inspect it. “Okay, yeah, that’s officially unfair. How do you make my clothes look that good?”
When you roll your eyes, he tugs gently on the hood string. “Don’t give me that look. You’re adorable.”
Later, when the two of you are sitting by the fire, he drapes his arm around you, tugging you closer until you’re tucked against his side.
“You should keep it,” he murmurs after a while. “It looks better on you, anyway.”
His voice softens even more, almost shy. “Besides… I like knowing you’re warm. That you’ve got a piece of me with you.”
He rests his chin on top of your head, still smiling, his hand drawing slow circles against your back. “You’re kind of my favorite thief, you know that?”
Seth’s joy is pure, uncomplicated. When you wear his hoodie, it doesn’t make him possessive, just proud, happy, like the universe gave him proof that you belong in his arms and his world.
the first time you say it, sam literally stops mid-movement.
like he pauses mid-breath.
his brows knit together, not in anger, in absolute confusion.
“...pretty boy?” he repeats, voice low, rough around the edges.
you can see the moment it hits him.
his jaw flexes. his chest rises sharply. suddenly he’s standing a little too close.
• gives you that look, the one that’s half warning, half desire
• tries to keep his voice steady but it gets deeper
• “you think i’m pretty?” becomes his go-to teasing line
• secretly melts every time even though he pretends it doesn’t affect him
• pulls you in by the hips when you whisper it in private
he’ll never admit it, but “pretty boy” cracks his whole stoic alpha façade.
one soft “c’mere, pretty boy,” and he’s yours, completely undone.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
jared cameron
jared’s reaction is immediate and dramatic.
he chokes on air.
smiles like an idiot.
tries not to blush and fails miserably.
“pretty boy? me? really?”
he’s grinning so hard it hurts.
• teases you nonstop about it
• flexes a little more when you’re around
• uses it as blackmail, “say it again and i’ll do anything you want”
• literally lights up whenever you call him that
• gets possessive in the softest way, arm around your waist, smug smirk
if you say it in public?
he beams. GLOWS. looks like you just handed him the world.
if you whisper it in his ear?
he goes still.
his breath catches.
and he murmurs, “don’t play with me like that,” in a voice that is absolutely not stable.
“pretty boy” is his kryptonite, he lives for it.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
paul lahote
oh, he hates it.
and also absolutely LOVES it.
the first time you call him “pretty boy,” he scoffs, rolls his eyes, crosses his arms like he’s above it.
but his ears? red. completely red.
“i’m not pretty,” he grumbles.
“i’m— i’m hot.”
sure, paul.
• gets flustered in a feral, irritated way
• steps closer like he’s trying to intimidate you but he’s actually flustered
• voice drops dangerously low
• “say it again. i dare you.”
• secretly preens when you say it but denies it forever
after that, he makes you pay for the fluster, in kisses, in teasing, in being held a little too tightly.
“pretty boy” turns him into a mess he can’t control.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
jacob black
jacob laughs, loud, warm, surprised.
he runs a hand through his hair, cheeks dusted pink, smiling like he can’t help it.
“pretty boy? that’s what we’re calling me now?”
he’s teasing, but he’s glowing.
• tries to act unfazed but absolutely is not
• nudges your shoulder and asks, “you really think so?”
• gets shy in the cutest way, dimples and all
• starts showing off subconsciously
• leans in closer whenever you call him that
say it when he’s working on his bike?
he freezes, then gives you the slowest smile you’ve ever seen.
say it when he’s jealous?
his entire attitude shifts, smug, confident, arm around your waist.
“guess you like your pretty boy, huh?”
say it when you’re cuddling?
he blushes so hard he hides his face in your neck.
jacob loves it more than he’ll ever admit, it makes him feel seen, adored, wanted.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
quil ateara
you say it so casually that quil almost doesn’t process it at first.
then it hits him.
his whole face lights up. eyes wide. smile stretching way too big.
“wait— wait, hold on. did you just call me pretty boy?”
he’s GIDDY.
like full-body excitement, practically wagging-his-tail vibes.
• expects you to repeat it immediately
• keeps poking your cheek and going, “c’mon, say it again”
• tries to act cool but his dimples betray him every time
• gets extra cuddly, hand on your waist, forehead on your shoulder
• brags to the pack like, “yeah, my girl calls me pretty boy, no big deal” (it is a very big deal)
say it when he’s sleepy?
he melts. just melts into you.
say it when he’s jealous?
all his playful energy turns intense and soft.
“i’m your pretty boy, right?”
and he looks so earnest you can’t even tease him.
quil LOVES it, maybe too much.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
embry call
embry goes silent when you say it.
completely quiet. completely still.
his eyes widen just a tiny bit, then drop to the ground, then back up at you like he’s checking if you meant it.
“...me?”
his voice cracks.
you broke him.
• blushes instantly, ears and neck turning red
• rubs the back of his neck like he doesn’t know what to do with himself
• stammers when he tries to respond
• “i’m— i’m not that— but you think— okay.”
• becomes SO gentle with you afterward, like the nickname rewired his brain
if you whisper it to him?
that’s it. he short-circuits.
he’ll literally hide his face in your shoulder and mumble,
“don’t call me that unless you want me to fall harder.”
for embry, “pretty boy” isn’t just a compliment, it’s intimacy.
it touches a part of him he didn’t think anyone noticed.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
leah clearwater
ohhhhh she HATES it.
she LOVES it.
she’ll raise a brow immediately, arms crossed, all attitude.
“pretty boy? you know i’m not a boy, right?”
her tone? sharp.
her eyes? sparkling.
you got her good.
• pretends she’s offended but she is SO entertained
• nudges your shoulder harder than necessary
• smirks at you like she’s daring you to say it again
• if the pack is around, she kicks your ankle under the table so she doesn’t blush
• later, when it’s just you, she whispers, “...say it again.”
and the thing is?
she listens to how you say it.
your tone. your smile. the warmth behind it.
she pretends she doesn’t care, but if you call someone ELSE “pretty boy”?
she is feral.
“interesting choice of words,” she mutters, jaw tight.
leah secretly LOVES that you gave her a nickname that wasn’t soft or patronizing but teasing and affectionate in your own way.
she’ll never admit it, but she craves it.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
seth clearwater
OH he dies.
you kill him instantly.
the moment “pretty boy” leaves your mouth, seth literally gasps, like out loud, then breaks into the biggest, brightest smile you’ve ever seen.
“pretty boy? ME? seriously??”
he’s SO happy he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
• giggles. like full-body giggles.
• can’t stop smiling for the next three hours
• cheeks turning pink, eyes sparkling, he’s floating
• will call YOU pretty nonstop now
• follows you around like a golden retriever waiting for more compliments
say it when he’s flustered?
he turns into a tomato and hides behind his hands.
say it when he’s being protective?
his chest puffs up instantly.
“your pretty boy’s got you!”
seth LOVES the nickname so much that he’ll start finding excuses to hear it.
“hey… uh… what’d you call me earlier? you know… for research. pack business. scientific reasons.”
ghost’s reaction when you tease him for being intimidating
┆♡︎ ⌗ note ◞ tumbrl isn't letting me upload any pictures so no pictures on this post 😞 (it finally let me !!!)
divider credits @enchanthings
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simon riley
it starts harmless.
a comment tossed out with a smile. a quiet laugh under your breath when someone gives him a wide berth. maybe you bump his arm and murmur, “you know you scare people, right?” like it’s an inside joke.
simon freezes.
not stiff — just still. the kind of stillness that makes you wonder if you crossed a line. his head tilts slightly, mask angled toward you, unreadable. for half a second, he says nothing. you can almost hear the gears turning behind his eyes, assessing whether you’re mocking him… or just being you.
“Intimidatin’, yeah?” he repeats finally, voice low, rough around the edges. not offended. not amused. just processing the word like it doesn’t belong to him.
you tease him again. lighter this time. softer. tell him how people straighten when he walks in, how rooms quiet, how even you sometimes forget how big he is until he looms without trying.
that’s when he exhales.
a slow breath through his nose. his shoulders drop a fraction — barely noticeable unless you know him well. his body turns toward you more fully, blocking out the rest of the world by habit.
“not on purpose,” he mutters.
that’s the thing about simon — he never wears intimidation like a badge. it’s not something he enjoys or cultivates. it’s just… what’s left of him after years of surviving. posture learned in warzones. silence learned in loss. eyes that have seen too much to soften easily.
you grin and poke his chest anyway. “you do it without trying.”
his hand comes up immediately — not rough, not sharp — catching your wrist mid-motion. instinctive. controlled. he looks down at where he’s holding you like he’s suddenly aware of his own strength.
he lets go at once.
“sorry,” he says, quicker than you expect.
you laugh, tell him it’s fine, tease him again — say something about how terrifying he must look to strangers.
that’s when his gaze sharpens.
not angry. not cold. focused.
“to strangers,” he says quietly, leaning in just enough that only you hear, “that’s the point.”
his voice drops lower, softer after that.
“wasn’t meant for you.”
there’s something vulnerable in the way he says it — like he’s drawing a line between the man the world sees and the one he allows you to know. like he’s afraid you might only see the mask if you keep joking about it.
if you tell him you’re not scared — that you never have been — he doesn’t respond right away. his eyes search your face, looking for any sign of doubt. any crack. any lie.
then he nods once.
“good,” he murmurs.
later, when it’s just the two of you, you tease him again — gentler now. say you kind of like it. the way he makes you feel safe just by standing near you.
that’s when he finally reacts.
he huffs out a quiet sound that might almost be a laugh. almost. his hand comes to your hip, heavy and warm, grounding both of you.
“reckon that’s the first decent thing anyone’s said about it,” he admits.
you joke that he’s a big scary guard dog.
he scoffs softly.
“more like a fence,” he corrects. “keeps people out.”
then, after a pause:
“keeps you in.”
it’s not possessive. not threatening. it’s instinct. protection wired too deep to untangle.
if you push it — grin and say “oh? am i trapped?” — he leans down until his forehead brushes yours. the mask nearly touching your nose. his voice drops to that quiet, dangerous calm that makes your stomach flip.
“only if you wanna be.”
but when you laugh, when you touch his arm without fear, when you look at him like he’s more than the shadow he casts?
that’s when simon relaxes fully.
because you teasing him for being intimidating doesn’t make him feel mocked.
it makes him feel seen.
and the fact that you’re not afraid — that you joke, poke, smile, stay close — means more to him than he’ll ever say out loud.
┆♡︎ ⌗ note ◞ note: my first cod post!! 🖤 i’ve been so excited to finally write for task force 141 — i hope you guys enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it.
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price
price notices immediately.
he always does.
he doesn’t react right away, just watches, assessing, jaw tightening slightly around the cigar he’s not actually smoking. his posture changes first. subtle. deliberate. like he’s already positioning himself for a threat.
• steps closer without breaking conversation
• hand settles at your back, warm and grounding
• cuts in smoothly, like he was always part of the conversation
• voice calm, polite, unmistakably firm
• eye contact sharp enough to end things without words
if the flirting continues? price doesn’t raise his voice. he smiles, slow, dangerous, knowing.
“think you’re mistaken, mate,” he says evenly. “they’re with me.”
no explanation. no room for argument.
afterward, he checks in quietly. thumb brushing your side. “you alright?”
not possessive, protective. the difference matters to him.
later, when it’s just the two of you, he’s closer than usual. arm draped around your shoulders. grounding touch.
“don’t like people thinking they can take liberties,” he murmurs.
translation: not with you. not ever.
ㅤ────୨ৎ────
simon
simon goes still.
that’s the first sign something’s wrong.
his presence shifts, heavier, darker, like the air around him tightens. he doesn’t interrupt at first. he lets it happen just long enough to decide whether it’s a threat or just stupidity.
• silent observation from a few steps back
• mask angled toward you, unreadable
• fists flex once, then still
• steps in close, looming without touching
• stands between you and them without a word
if the person keeps flirting? simon leans down slightly, voice low enough that only they hear.
“walk away.”
not a request.
if they touch you? that’s it.
simon removes the hand immediately. controlled. efficient. terrifyingly calm.
afterward, he doesn’t make a scene. he just stays close. too close. shoulder brushing yours, body angled protectively.
“you okay?” he asks quietly, eyes searching you for anything off.
later, when you’re alone, he rests his forehead against yours for half a second, grounding himself as much as you.
“don’t like people looking at what’s mine,” he admits, almost reluctantly.
it’s not jealousy.
it’s instinct.
and once simon decides you’re his to protect?
no one gets close without his permission.
ㅤ────୨ৎ────
johnny
johnny clocks it immediately, and his reaction is half amused, half absolutely not.
at first, he lets it play out. leans back. watches. there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes like he’s daring the other person to keep going.
• grins like he’s entertained
• mutters something sarcastic under his breath
• casually drifts closer, pretending it’s nothing
• slips an arm around your waist like it belongs there
• interrupts with a cheerful, “sorry, mate, taken”
if the flirting doesn’t stop, johnny’s tone changes. still playful, but sharper now. the smile stays, the humor doesn’t reach his eyes.
“you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree,” he says lightly. “last warning.”
touching you is a huge mistake.
johnny’s hand is there instantly, not rough, but firm, pulling you back against his chest. his voice drops, accent thicker, edged with something dangerous.
“don’t touch.”
afterward, he checks in with you first. always.
“you good?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your hip. “say the word and we’re gone.”
later, he jokes it off, but he doesn’t let go of you for the rest of the night.
his laughter is easy. his grip isn’t.
ㅤ────୨ৎ────
kyle
kyle’s reaction is quieter, but no less serious.
he notices the moment your body language shifts. the second you look uncomfortable, he’s moving. no hesitation. no drama.
• steps in smoothly, like it’s natural
• positions himself between you and them
• calm, grounded presence
• hand on your back, steady and reassuring
• eyes sharp, assessing
he addresses the situation politely at first. respectful. controlled.
“think they’re not interested,” he says evenly. “time to move on.”
if the person pushes? kyle doesn’t raise his voice, he lowers it.
“i said move.”
that’s when people realize this isn’t a negotiation.
if someone touches you without permission, kyle’s already there. hand blocking. body shielding. zero tolerance.
afterward, he asks quietly, voice gentle but serious. “you alright?”
waits for your answer. really listens.
later, when it’s just the two of you, he stays close, not clingy, just present. grounded.
“won’t let anyone make you uncomfortable,” he says simply. “that’s not happening.”
kyle doesn’t make a show of it.
he just makes sure it never happens again.
sam notices everything — but this? this hits him in the chest like a physical blow.
the argument isn’t even loud at first. voices raised, tension sharp, words landing heavier than they should. sam’s trying to stay calm, trying to keep his tone measured, jaw tight like he’s holding himself back from saying something he’ll regret.
and then it happens.
you flinch.
it’s small. barely there. a reflex you probably don’t even realize you make — shoulders tensing, chin ducking just slightly, eyes flicking away for half a second like you’re bracing for impact that never comes.
but sam sees it.
and everything in him stops.
his anger doesn’t spike.
his voice doesn’t rise.
it vanishes — replaced instantly by something colder, heavier, more dangerous.
guilt.
his breath catches hard in his chest. not loud, not dramatic — just enough to throw him off balance. his hands unclench like they’ve burned him. his posture changes immediately, shoulders lowering, stance softening, like he’s afraid even existing too loudly might hurt you.
“hey,” he says, quieter now. careful. like he’s approaching something fragile. “hey… look at me.”
he doesn’t move toward you right away. sam never crowds when he realizes he’s scared you. he gives you space first — deliberate, respectful — because the last thing he wants is to make it worse.
but his eyes?
they’re locked on you.
there’s something devastated in them.
sam hates fights. hates raised voices. hates the idea that he could ever be a source of fear instead of safety. seeing you flinch doesn’t just upset him — it unravels him.
his voice drops another octave, rough with emotion he’s trying to keep under control.
“did i do that?” he asks softly.
not accusing.
not defensive.
just… broken.
if you try to brush it off — “it’s nothing, sam, i’m fine” — he doesn’t let it go. he shakes his head slowly, like he doesn’t believe the words even if he wants to.
“no,” he says gently. “that wasn’t nothing.”
sam steps closer now, slow and visible, making sure you can see every movement. his hands stay open at his sides, palms out, non-threatening. he lowers himself slightly if you’re sitting, or tilts his head down so he’s not looming.
he meets you where you are.
“i would never hurt you,” he says, voice steady but thick. “not ever. not like that. not even close.”
there’s shame there — deep, aching shame — that he scared you at all. even accidentally. especially accidentally.
if you let him touch you, his hands are feather-light at first. fingertips brushing your wrist, your shoulder, like he’s checking in before committing. when you don’t pull away, he exhales — slow, shaky — and rests his forehead against yours.
grounding himself.
grounding you.
“i’m sorry,” he murmurs. not just for the fight. for the flinch. for whatever made that reaction live in your body in the first place. “i should’ve watched my tone. i should’ve noticed sooner.”
sam becomes painfully gentle after that.
his voice stays soft for the rest of the conversation, even when the topic is hard. he listens more than he speaks. asks questions instead of making points. every instinct in him shifts from alpha to anchor.
• he keeps his body relaxed and open
• checks your breathing without making it obvious
• stays at your eye level
• pauses the conversation the second he senses you tensing again
• reassures you with touch only when you clearly want it
and later — long after the argument is over — sam doesn’t forget.
that flinch lives in his memory like a warning sign burned into his mind.
he holds you closer that night. arms firm but gentle, chin resting on your head, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. his hand rubs slow, repetitive circles into your back — not absentminded, but intentional. grounding. protective.
“you’re safe with me,” he whispers into your hair. not once, but several times. like he needs you to hear it. like he needs himself to say it out loud.
sam makes changes after that.
real ones.
he watches his volume.
his posture.
his expressions.
not because he’s afraid of you — but because he refuses to ever be the reason you brace for pain again.
and if you ever flinch like that a second time?
sam doesn’t just soften.
he breaks.
because to him, love means being the place you never have to flinch.
and once he realizes he might’ve failed at that — even for a second —
he spends the rest of his life proving you never will again.
ㅤ────୨ৎ────
jared cameron
jared is loud in arguments by default — expressive hands, animated voice, emotions written plainly across his face. not angry in a cruel way, but intense. passionate. the kind of guy who feels everything at full volume.
until you flinch.
it happens mid-sentence. he’s talking, pacing a little, running a hand through his hair — and then you tense. shoulders pulling inward. eyes darting away. your body reacting before your brain can catch up.
and jared freezes.
it’s immediate. like someone slammed a pause button on him.
his mouth closes mid-word. his hands drop to his sides. the air drains out of the room in a way even he can feel. confusion flashes across his face first — quick, sharp — followed by something far worse.
hurt.
guilt.
fear.
“—hey,” he says, voice cracking just a little as it drops. “hey, no—”
he takes a step back without thinking. distance instead of pressure. space instead of closeness. jared may tease and flirt like it’s second nature, but the second he realizes he scared you? all of that disappears.
“did i—?” he stops himself, swallowing hard. “i didn’t mean to do that.”
his usual grin is gone. completely. his eyes are wide, earnest, almost panicked as they search your face for reassurance he doesn’t feel entitled to ask for.
jared hates the idea of being scary. hates it in a way that cuts deeper than any insult could. he wants to be the guy who makes you laugh, who makes things lighter, not someone your body reacts to like a threat.
he rubs the back of his neck, voice quieter now. “i wasn’t yelling at you. i swear. i just— i talk with my hands. i get loud. i didn’t mean—”
he’s rambling. you can tell. nervous energy spiraling now that the fight has shifted into something else entirely.
if you try to brush it off, he doesn’t accept it right away.
“no,” he says gently. “that… that wasn’t nothing.”
jared crouches a little if he needs to. lowers himself so he’s not towering over you. his movements are careful in a way that’s almost foreign for him, like he’s suddenly afraid his usual presence might be too much.
“look at me,” he asks softly. not demanding. pleading. “i would never hurt you. ever. i need you to know that.”
his hands hover when he reaches out, stopping just short of touching you until you give some kind of signal. a nod. a step closer. anything. when you do, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for minutes and gently takes your hands in his.
they’re warm.
steady.
grounding.
“i’m sorry,” he says, and it’s raw. unguarded. “i should’ve noticed sooner. i should’ve slowed down.”
jared becomes gentler than you’ve ever seen him for the rest of the conversation.
• his voice stays low and even
• he sits instead of stands
• he listens without interrupting
• checks your expression constantly
• stops talking the second you tense again
• cracks small, soft jokes only when he’s sure it’s welcome
he doesn’t try to “win” the argument anymore. that doesn’t matter now. the only thing that matters is making sure you feel safe again.
later, when things are quiet, when the adrenaline has faded, jared sticks close. not hovering, but present. shoulder brushing yours. fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your arm.
“hey,” he murmurs, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “if i ever start getting too much… you tell me, yeah? i’ll listen. promise.”
there’s something vulnerable in the way he says it. like he’s afraid you won’t trust him again. like he’s afraid he cracked something delicate between you.
that flinch sticks with him.
jared tones himself down after that. consciously. intentionally. he still laughs loud, still jokes, still teases but when emotions run high, he watches you first before anything else.
because jared loves loudly —
but he learns to love carefully.
and if you ever flinch again?
he’s at your side instantly, voice calm, hands gentle, eyes locked on yours — reminding you with every part of him that whatever the argument is…
you’re never the enemy.
and you’re never something he’d raise his voice at again.
ㅤ────୨ৎ────
paul lahote
paul is fire when he argues.
not careless — just intense. emotions rise fast, words sharper than he means them to be, frustration spilling out before he can rein it in. he paces. gestures. runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake the feeling loose instead of letting it burn him alive.
and then you flinch.
it’s subtle. barely there. a reflex you don’t even realize your body makes — shoulders pulling in, chin ducking slightly, eyes flicking away like you’re bracing for something.
paul stops.
not slows.
not hesitates.
stops.
his voice cuts off mid-word. his body goes rigid, like his muscles forgot what they were supposed to do next. the heat drains out of him so fast it’s almost frightening.
“—hey,” he says, immediately quieter. too quiet. “no. no, no, no.”
he takes a step back without thinking, hands lifting slightly like he’s backing away from something fragile. his jaw tightens — not with anger, but with horror.
“did you just—” he swallows hard, throat working. “did i scare you?”
that question wrecks him.
paul lahote can handle a lot of things — anger, guilt, jealousy, the pack teasing him mercilessly — but the idea that he could be the reason you flinched? that lands somewhere deep and ugly in his chest.
his breathing turns uneven. nostrils flare. fists clench once at his sides, not at you. never at you. at himself.
“shit,” he mutters, running both hands over his face. “fuck, i didn’t— i wasn’t—”
he can’t finish the sentence.
the fight is gone now. completely erased. there’s no argument anymore, no point he’s trying to make. all that’s left is you, standing there smaller than you were a moment ago, and the realization that his temper crossed a line he never meant to approach.
paul lowers himself. literally drops down so he’s not towering over you, elbows braced on his knees, eyes level with yours but refusing to force your gaze.
“hey,” he says again, softer. rough, but gentle. “look at me when you’re ready. okay?”
he doesn’t reach for you right away. paul is many things — impulsive, fiery, reckless — but in this moment he’s painfully careful. like one wrong move might break something beyond repair.
“i would never hurt you,” he says, voice tight with something that sounds dangerously close to breaking. “never. not like that. not ever.”
there’s a tremor under the words. not weakness — restraint. control clenched so tightly it aches.
if you apologize, if you say it was nothing, that you’re fine, paul shakes his head immediately.
“don’t,” he says firmly, but not harshly. “don’t do that. you don’t have to minimize it for me.”
he finally reaches out then. slowly. palm open, waiting for permission before his fingers brush your wrist. when you don’t pull away, his thumb presses there, grounding, steady.
“that was on me,” he admits. “i let it get too heated. i should’ve checked myself sooner.”
that kind of accountability doesn’t come easily to paul — but in this moment, it’s instinctive. automatic. because protecting you matters more than protecting his pride.
for the rest of the conversation, paul is different.
• his voice stays low, controlled
• he sits instead of standing
• he keeps physical space unless you close it
• checks your body language constantly
• pauses the second emotions spike again
• breathes through frustration instead of unleashing it
he listens. really listens. not interrupting, not snapping back, not posturing. every word from you is treated like it weighs something.
later — when the fight has dissolved into something quieter and heavier — paul stays close without crowding. shoulder brushing yours. arm warm and solid when he finally wraps it around you.
“you flinched,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “that’s gonna stick with me.”
and it does.
paul becomes more self-aware after that. still passionate. still intense. but he learns the difference between loud emotion and uncontrolled force. learns to step away before his voice rises. learns to ground himself before the fire spreads.
because paul loves hard —
and when he realizes that love might have scared you?
he turns that fire inward.
locks it down.
channels it into something protective instead of destructive.
if you ever flinch again — even days later, even over something unrelated — paul is there instantly. hands gentle. voice steady. eyes searching yours with quiet urgency.
“hey,” he murmurs. “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”
and you know he means it.
not just because he says it —
but because from that moment on,
he proves it.
ㅤ────୨ৎ────
jacob black
jacob isn’t built for yelling at you.
he can argue, sure — stubborn, defensive, emotions tangled up and spilling over — but his anger has always been more outward than sharp. frustration, not fury. passion without precision.
until you flinch.
it’s small. barely there. a reflex your body makes before your brain can stop it, shoulders drawing in, eyes dropping, breath hitching like you’re bracing.
jacob freezes.
not like paul — not explosive, not panicked — but stunned. like something inside him just cracked open and let cold air rush in.
“—hey,” he blurts out immediately, hands lifting without thinking. “whoa. no. no, no.”
his voice drops fast. too fast. the heat drains right out of him, leaving behind something raw and shaken.
“did i—” he swallows hard. “did i scare you?”
that question wrecks him.
because jacob hates the idea of being anything but safe to you. hates the thought that his size, his voice, his emotions could ever make you feel small.
he takes a step back, then another, giving you space like it’s instinct. his shoulders curl inward slightly, posture softening, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
“hey,” he says again, gentler now. “i’m not mad at you. i swear. i just— i got worked up.”
if you try to brush it off by saying that you’re fine, that it was nothing, jacob shakes his head immediately.
“no,” he says quietly. not angry. just firm. “it wasn’t nothing if you flinched.”
that’s the thing about jacob: he believes your body before he believes your words.
he crouches down so he’s eye-level with you, resting his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped together like he’s grounding himself.
“i would never hurt you,” he says, voice thick with sincerity. “never. not on purpose. not by accident. not ever.”
there’s fear in his eyes, not of you, but of himself. of his strength. of his emotions getting too big for the space he’s in.
he waits before touching you. waits until you make the first move, or until you nod. when he does reach out, it’s careful. fingers brushing your hand, warm and solid, thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s anchoring you back into the moment.
“i’m sorry,” he says softly. no excuses. no defensiveness. just honesty. “i should’ve noticed sooner.”
from that point on, the fight is over.
completely.
jacob doesn’t need to “win” an argument with you. the second he realizes you felt unsafe — even for half a second — the entire thing loses meaning.
for the rest of the conversation:
• his voice stays low and steady
• he avoids sudden movements
• keeps his hands visible, open
• checks your face constantly for tension
• pauses anytime emotions rise
• reassures without smothering
he listens more than he talks. nods. asks gentle questions. lets silence exist without filling it with noise.
later, when things are calmer, jacob sticks close in that quiet, protective way of his — sitting beside you, shoulder to shoulder, warmth bleeding into you like a promise.
“i hate that i did that,” he admits quietly. “i hate that you felt like you had to brace.”
his hand finds yours again, fingers lacing this time, grip secure but not tight.
“you don’t ever have to flinch with me,” he says. “that’s… that’s not how this is supposed to feel.”
and that moment changes him.
jacob becomes more aware of his presence after that. his tone. his volume. how much space he takes up. he starts checking in more, especially during tense moments.
“am i okay?”
“am i talking too loud?”
“tell me if i need to back off, yeah?”
not because you asked him to — but because he never wants to be the reason your body goes into defense mode again.
and if, weeks later, something unrelated makes you flinch?
jacob is there instantly.
hands gentle. voice soft. eyes full of concern.
“hey, hey,” he murmurs, pulling you into his chest if you let him. “you’re safe. i’ve got you. always.”
jacob doesn’t protect with fear.
he protects with warmth.
with presence.
with the kind of love that notices the smallest reactions — and takes responsibility for them.
because once he loves you?
your safety isn’t just important to him.
it’s instinct.
ㅤ────୨ৎ────
quil ateara
quil doesn’t do anger well.
he can get frustrated, sure — voice rising a little, words tumbling over each other as he tries to explain himself — but real confrontation makes him uneasy. he hates tension. hates the way it knots his chest and makes his thoughts race.
so when you flinch?
it devastates him.
it’s subtle. almost imperceptible. your shoulders tense, your head ducks just a fraction, breath catching like you’re bracing for impact.
quil stops mid-sentence.
literally freezes.
“—hey,” he says quickly, hands lifting in surrender, palms out. “hey, hey, i’m not— i wouldn’t—”
his voice cracks a little, panic slipping through before he can stop it.
“did i do that?” he asks, eyes wide, hurt and fear mixing together in a way that makes his chest ache. “did i scare you?”
he steps back immediately. not just one step — two, three — creating space like it’s the most important thing in the world. his posture folds inward, shoulders rounding, like he’s trying to make himself less overwhelming.
“i’m sorry,” he blurts out, words rushing. “i wasn’t thinking. i didn’t mean to raise my voice, i swear, i—”
if you try to tell him it’s okay, that you’re fine, quil shakes his head hard.
“no,” he says softly. not upset. just earnest. “it’s not okay if you felt like that.”
that’s the thing about quil, he takes responsibility instantly. no defensiveness. no excuses. just concern.
he lowers himself to sit, putting himself physically below your eye level, like he needs you to see he’s not a threat.
“i would never hurt you,” he says quietly, voice trembling just a little. “not ever. i promise. if i thought i could—” he swallows. “i’d never forgive myself.”
he waits before touching you. waits for permission. waits until you nod or reach for him first. when he does move closer, it’s slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling you again.
his hand brushes yours, warm and careful, fingers curling just enough to feel solid.
“you okay?” he asks, softer now. “really okay?”
the fight is over the second you flinch.
completely done.
quil doesn’t care what the argument was about anymore. it dissolves the moment he realizes you felt unsafe, even for a heartbeat.
for the rest of the conversation:
• his voice stays low and gentle
• he chooses words carefully, slower than usual
• avoids sudden movements entirely
• keeps checking your expression
• apologizes more than once
• reassures without crowding
he listens intently, nodding along, eyes never leaving your face like he’s afraid of missing another sign.
later, when things settle, quil stays close — not hovering, just present. sitting beside you, knee brushing yours, warmth steady and familiar.
“i hate that i made you flinch,” he admits quietly. “that’s… that’s the opposite of what i want to be for you.”
he laces his fingers through yours this time, grip gentle but grounding.
“you’re supposed to feel safe with me,” he says. “like you can relax. like you don’t have to brace.”
after that, something shifts.
quil becomes hyper-aware of himself around you — his volume, his tone, his body language. he starts checking in more during serious conversations.
“am i okay?”
“tell me if i’m getting too loud.”
“i can slow down, yeah?”
not because you asked him to — but because the idea of ever making you flinch again scares him more than any fight ever could.
and if, later on, you flinch for some unrelated reason?
quil is there instantly.
hands gentle. voice hushed. eyes full of worry.
“hey,” he murmurs, pulling you into his chest if you let him. “it’s okay. i’ve got you. i promise.”
quil doesn’t protect with dominance.
he protects with softness.
with awareness.
with a love that says: i will change myself before i ever let you feel afraid of me again.
because once quil loves you?
your comfort becomes instinct.
and your safety becomes sacred.
ㅤ────୨ৎ────
embry call
embry already hates conflict.
his heart races the second voices rise — even his own. arguments make his thoughts tangle, words slipping out faster than he can organize them. he tries so hard to say the right thing, to explain himself clearly, to not mess it up.
so when the fight gets heated…
and you flinch?
it breaks something in him.
it’s not dramatic. not loud. just a tiny, involuntary movement — your shoulders pulling in, your gaze dropping, breath hitching like you’re preparing for something worse.
embry sees it immediately.
and his face drains of color.
“oh—” he stops short, words cutting off like he hit a wall. his hands lift halfway, then drop uselessly to his sides. “hey. hey, i—”
his voice cracks.
“i didn’t mean— i wasn’t—” he swallows hard, panic flooding his expression. “did i scare you?”
he takes a step back so fast he nearly trips over his own feet.
“no. no, that’s not— i wouldn’t ever—” his words tumble over each other now, guilt setting in hard and fast. “i swear, i wasn’t mad at you. i just— i get worked up and— god, i’m so sorry.”
he looks devastated. genuinely.
embry doesn’t get defensive. doesn’t justify himself. he immediately assumes fault — not because he’s weak, but because the idea that he caused that reaction makes his chest ache.
he rubs the back of his neck, eyes glossy, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
“i hate that,” he says quietly. “i hate that i did that.”
he puts space between you on purpose. not cold — careful. like he’s terrified of making it worse.
“i’m not angry,” he says softly. “i promise. i don’t want you to feel like you have to brace around me. ever.”
if you try to brush it off, tell him you’re fine, embry shakes his head slowly.
“you flinched,” he says. not accusing. just honest. “that matters.”
he crouches slightly, lowering himself without thinking, trying to soften his presence. his hands stay visible, open, non-threatening.
“can i come closer?” he asks. “or… do you want space?”
when you nod — when you let him — he moves slowly, like approaching something fragile. his touch, when it comes, is hesitant at first. fingers barely grazing your sleeve, like he’s checking in through contact.
“i’m right here,” he murmurs. “okay? i’ve got you.”
the argument is over.
completely.
embry can’t keep fighting when he thinks he’s hurt you — emotionally or otherwise. the adrenaline drains out of him, replaced by pure concern.
for the rest of the conversation:
• his voice stays quiet and steady
• he pauses before speaking, choosing words carefully
• checks your face constantly for discomfort
• apologizes again, softly, like a reflex
• avoids sudden movements
• stays where you can see him clearly
he listens more than he talks now. nods along. lets you speak fully without interrupting. he wants to understand — not win.
later, when things calm down, embry sits beside you, close but not crowding. shoulder brushing yours, warmth grounding.
“i never want to be someone you’re afraid of,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on his hands. “that would… that would destroy me.”
he risks a glance at you, vulnerable and open.
“you deserve to feel safe,” he adds. “especially with me.”
after that night, embry changes.
he becomes more mindful during disagreements. lowers his voice instinctively, takes breaks when emotions spike, checks in constantly.
“am i okay right now?”
“tell me if i’m getting too intense.”
“we can pause. we don’t have to finish this right now.”
not because you demanded it but because your flinch etched itself into his memory.
and if you ever flinch again — even for a completely unrelated reason?
embry reacts instantly.
hands gentle. voice soft. worry etched across his face.
“hey,” he whispers, pulling you into his chest if you let him. “you’re safe. i promise. i’d never hurt you. not ever.”
he presses his cheek against your hair, holding you like something precious, like something he’s sworn to protect.
embry doesn’t protect with strength alone.
he protects with empathy.
with self-awareness.
with a love so careful it reshapes him.
because once embry loves you?
the thought of being the cause of your fear is unbearable.
and he will do anything to make sure you never feel the need to flinch around him again.
ㅤ────୨ৎ────
leah clearwater
leah is already on edge before the argument even starts.
she’s sharp-tongued when she’s hurt, words cutting fast and precise because it’s the only armor she’s ever learned to wear. anger sits close to the surface with her — not wild, not out of control, but contained, like a storm held behind her ribs.
so when the fight escalates, when voices rise—
and you flinch?
everything stops.
it’s instant.
leah freezes mid-sentence, jaw snapping shut so hard you can hear her teeth click. her eyes lock onto you, pupils blown wide, breath catching like she’s been punched straight in the chest.
“…hey,” she says, far quieter than before. stunned. “what was that?”
she saw it.
every inch of it.
the way your shoulders pulled inward. the way your hands tightened. the reflexive movement of someone bracing for impact — not listening anymore, just enduring.
leah’s anger doesn’t spike.
it evaporates.
replaced by something raw and dangerous — not toward you, but toward herself.
“no,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head once. “no, i didn’t—”
she steps back immediately, like she’s afraid her presence alone might make it worse.
“don’t do that,” she says, voice strained. not commanding — pleading. “don’t flinch like that around me.”
then she realizes how that sounded.
“—not like that,” she corrects quickly, running a hand through her hair, pacing once before stopping herself. “i mean— shit.”
she looks furious. not at you.
at the idea that she might’ve become someone you’d react to like that.
“did i scare you?” she asks, blunt and honest, because leah doesn’t know how to dance around pain. “because if i did, you need to tell me.”
her voice cracks on the last word.
she doesn’t approach you right away. leah gives space when she realizes she’s crossed a line, not out of distance, but respect. she plants her feet, grounding herself, forcing her breathing to slow.
“i wasn’t going to touch you,” she says firmly. “i would never—”
she stops. swallows hard.
“i know you know that. but still.”
her fists clench, unclench. the wolf in her bristles — protective, furious, ashamed.
“i hate that i did that,” leah admits, quieter now. “i hate that you felt like you had to brace.”
if you try to minimize it, shrug it off, tell her you’re fine?
leah’s eyes soften — but her voice stays serious.
“no,” she says. “don’t do that for me. i can handle the truth.”
she steps closer only when she’s sure you won’t pull away. slow. deliberate. her presence is still intense — leah doesn’t know how to be anything else — but it’s controlled now.
“can i touch you?” she asks. not because she doubts consent — but because she needs to prove she can be safe.
when you nod, her hand settles on your arm. warm. solid. grounding.
“i’m not angry at you,” she says firmly. “i’m angry that i let my temper spill over. those are not the same thing.”
leah presses her thumb into your sleeve, steady pressure.
“you don’t ever have to be afraid of me,” she says, jaw tight. “and if i ever make you feel that way again? you call me on it. immediately.”
the fight is over.
completely.
leah can’t continue arguing once she realizes she’s hurt you emotionally. pride takes a backseat to protection — every time.
for the rest of the conversation:
• her tone stays low and even
• she keeps her body language open
• avoids pacing or looming
• watches your reactions closely
• pauses if your voice wavers
• checks in without making it obvious
she listens, really listens, because now she’s not trying to win. she’s trying to repair.
later, when things are quiet, leah sits beside you. close enough that your shoulders touch, not so close that it feels overwhelming.
“i’m rough around the edges,” she says quietly. “i know that.”
she exhales slowly.
“but i would never hurt you. not physically. not emotionally. not on purpose. and if i ever come close to crossing that line again?”
she looks at you, fierce and sincere.
“i want you to stop me.”
after that, leah changes — not drastically, not overnight, but deliberately.
she walks away sooner when arguments spike. lowers her voice when she feels herself getting sharp. checks your body language before she checks her own emotions.
and if you ever flinch again — even during a totally unrelated situation?
leah is there instantly.
hand on your back. voice steady. eyes scanning you, not the threat.
“hey,” she murmurs. “look at me. you’re okay.”
if you let her, she pulls you in — protective, solid, a wall between you and anything that might hurt you.
“i’ve got you,” she says fiercely. “always.”
leah clearwater protects with intensity.
but once she loves you?
she protects with restraint.
with accountability.
with the promise that her strength will never be the thing you fear.
and anyone — anything — that makes you flinch like that again?
they don’t get a second chance.
because leah refuses to be part of the danger.
she only wants to be the reason you feel safe.
ㅤ────୨ৎ────
seth clearwater
seth doesn’t go into the fight angry.
that’s the first difference.
he goes in alert, tense, trying to keep things light even when they’re not — shoulders loose, voice steady, that familiar optimism acting like a shield. he hates conflict. hates raised voices. hates the way arguments make the air feel heavy.
so when the fight starts getting louder, sharper, when emotions spike—
he’s already watching you.
not the person he’s arguing with. not the situation.
you.
and when you flinch?
it breaks him.
it’s not dramatic. not explosive. it’s instant, silent devastation.
seth stops mid-word, breath hitching like his lungs forgot what they’re supposed to do. his eyes snap to you, wide and horrified, like he just realized something terrible and irreversible.
“…oh,” he whispers.
not angry. not accusing.
just hurt.
he takes a step toward you, then stops himself, hands lifting slightly in a universal it’s okay, i won’t crowd you gesture.
“hey—hey,” he says softly, voice dropping into something gentler, steadier. “i’m not mad. i promise. i’m not mad at you.”
because that’s what he thinks you’re afraid of.
that he’s upset. that he’s going to lash out. that this is somehow your fault.
seth shakes his head quickly, curls bouncing, eyes already shining.
“i didn’t mean to raise my voice,” he says, words tumbling over each other in a rush. “i wasn’t— i’d never—”
he cuts himself off, swallowing hard.
“did i scare you?”
the question devastates him.
he crouches down slightly if you’re standing, or lowers himself so he’s at your level. not looming. never looming. his posture softens completely — shoulders rounded, body open, non-threatening.
“i’m sorry,” he says immediately. too fast. too sincere. “i swear, i didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”
if you try to brush it off, tell him it’s nothing, that you’re okay?
seth nods — but he doesn’t quite believe you.
“okay,” he says gently. “but i still want to check in. just in case.”
he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away.
“can i hold your hand?” he asks. like it’s the most important permission he’s ever requested.
when you let him, his grip is warm and careful. grounding. his thumb rubs slow circles over your knuckles, a familiar comfort he’s used a thousand times before.
“i’ve got you,” he murmurs. “nothing’s gonna happen. not here. not with me.”
the fight is over for him.
completely.
seth cannot continue arguing once he realizes you’re scared. the issue stops mattering. pride disappears. even his own hurt takes a backseat to you.
he positions himself subtly between you and the other person, not aggressive just protective. a human shield, smiling politely but firmly.
“hey,” he says, light but unyielding. “let’s cool it, okay?”
and if the other person pushes?
seth’s tone doesn’t change.
but his stance does.
grounded. solid. wolf-bright eyes flashing for just a second — enough to make the message clear.
later, when it’s quiet, seth sits with you somewhere familiar. a couch. the steps outside. the edge of the forest where the air smells like pine and rain.
he keeps close without smothering. shoulder brushing yours. knees touching. present.
“i don’t want to be someone you’re scared of,” he admits quietly. “ever.”
his voice cracks just a little.
“i want to be the guy you feel safe with. even when things get loud. especially then.”
he listens if you explain. really listens. nodding. asking soft questions. validating instead of defending.
and then he promises — not dramatically, not like an oath, but with quiet conviction.
“i’ll be more careful,” he says. “with my tone. with my volume. with everything.”
after that, you notice the changes.
• he lowers his voice first
• checks your face when emotions rise
• cracks a joke to diffuse tension
• touches your hand to ground you
• steps outside if he feels overwhelmed
• never lets anger spill unchecked
and if you ever flinch again — even during something small?
seth is there immediately.
hands gentle on your arms. forehead resting against yours.
“hey,” he whispers. “you’re okay. i’ve got you. i’m right here.”
he doesn’t see your flinch as weakness.
he sees it as a signal.
one that tells him to slow down. to soften. to protect instead of push.
because seth clearwater loves with his whole heart.
and when he realizes he’s hurt you — even unintentionally?
he doesn’t get defensive.
he gets better.
he chooses to be the calm in the storm.
the safe place you run to — not away from.
and once seth decides you’re someone he wants to protect?
he does it gently.
instinctively.
and without ever making you feel small for needing.
the kiss: it’s soft, barely-there, more like a question than a statement.
you lean in, press your lips to his for just a second, and pull back quickly, like you’re scared you misread him.
his reaction: sam freezes. absolutely stops breathing.
his eyes widen a fraction, not in shock, but in something warm and aching.
his voice drops to something low and reverent:
“…sweetheart.”
and then?
he follows.
slowly, gently, like you’re something delicate he doesn’t want to startle.
he cups the back of your neck and kisses you again, deeper, surer, answering the question you didn’t say out loud.
he chases your mouth? yes. softly.
like he can’t not.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
jared cameron
the kiss: you kiss him mid-sentence.
he’s rambling, teasing you about something, and you just grab his shirt and shut him up with a quick, firm kiss.
his reaction: he blinks, once.
twice.
then breaks into the SLOWEST smirk you’ve ever seen in your life.
“oh? you like me that much, huh?”
you go to pull back, embarrassed, but he doesn’t let you.
his hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he kisses you again, longer, lingering, definitely deeper.
he’s smiling against your mouth. the menace.
he chases your mouth? oh absolutely.
you pull away a centimeter and he’s already leaning in like
“nah, we’re not done.”
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
paul lahote
the kiss: it’s impulsive, you kiss him out of frustration because he’s been teasing you nonstop.
a quick, heated press of your mouth to his, fueled by “shut up, paul.”
his reaction: he stops.
like… as if someone yanked the plug out of him.
eyes wide. pupils blown. breath gone.
then?
he grabs your waist, pulls you in, and kisses you back so hard your knees almost give out.
it’s not rough, but it’s intense.
like he’s wanted this for far too long.
when you pull back, flustered, he just stares at you with that wolfish grin.
“do that again.”
he chases your mouth? yes. instantly.
you can’t escape. he won’t let you.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
jacob black
the kiss: you’re sitting close, knees touching, sharing something small and quiet.
you lean in and give him the gentlest, sweetest kiss, slow enough for him to understand what’s happening before it happens.
his reaction: his breath catches.
his cheeks go pink.
he smiles, really smiles, that huge, bright, boyish one that shows all his teeth.
“you… you kissed me.”
he sounds amazed.
and then he leans in and kisses you back, sweet and warm and careful, like he’s scared of overwhelming you.
his hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he’s memorizing you.
he chases your mouth? yes, but shyly.
just a small lean forward, like
“can i have another?”
but he’ll wait for you to meet him halfway.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
quil ateara
the kiss: it’s quick, playful, you’re laughing at something stupid he said, and in that warm, easy moment, you lean forward and peck him right on the mouth.
his reaction: quil freezes mid-laugh.
like… literally freezes.
eyes wide, smile half-formed, breath caught in his throat.
you try to lean back but he blurts:
“wait— wait! hold on—”
then he beams.
like the sun just erupted.
he gently cups your cheeks with both hands and kisses you again, soft, giddy, a little shaky from excitement.
does he chase your mouth? yes. desperately.
the second you pull back, he follows like a puppy who thinks he might lose you if he doesn’t stay close.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
embry call
the kiss: it’s quiet, a sweet, lingering brush of your lips against his.
you hold the kiss for a full second longer than a “friendly” kiss would allow… then pull back slowly.
his reaction: embry goes still, but not in a panicked way, more like he’s overwhelmed.
his breath leaves him in a tiny, shaky exhale.
his eyes soften so intensely it almost hurts to look at.
he whispers,
“…you sure?”
not because he doubts you, because he’s terrified of misreading this perfect moment.
when you nod, he leans in and kisses you again, deeper but still gentle, one hand cupping the back of your head with such tenderness it melts you.
does he chase your mouth? yes, but shyly.
he leans in a little, stops, waits for your permission…
and when you meet him halfway, he melts.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
leah clearwater
the kiss: you kiss her softly, a slow, careful press of your lips to hers, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wants to.
her reaction: leah jerks back half an inch, eyes wide, breath sharp, not angry, not upset, just shocked.
nobody kisses leah first.
nobody takes that chance with her.
her throat works like she’s trying to swallow words she’ll never say.
when you whisper, “was that okay?”
she exhales, shaky, almost relieved.
she reaches out, grabs your shirt, and pulls you back in, just a little, to kiss you again, slow and intentional.
there’s a tenderness she tries so hard to hide, but it bleeds through anyway.
does she chase your mouth?
only once.
a small lean forward after you pull back, like she can’t help it.
when she realizes she did it, her cheeks go pink and she looks away but her hand stays on you.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
seth clearwater
the kiss: you kiss him mid-conversation, a soft, warm kiss, gentle but full of affection.
like you couldn’t help it.
his reaction: seth GASPS.
like full chest, wide-eyed, hand-over-his-heart gasp.
his face goes red instantly.
he looks at you like you just handed him the moon.
“did you— did you just—??”
he’s smiling so big it almost looks painful.
then he leans forward with this bright, eager warmth and kisses you back, soft, sweet, and overflowing with affection he can’t hide.
he’s practically glowing.
does he chase your mouth? yes. absolutely.
he leans in so fast he bumps noses with you, apologizes, then kisses you again anyway.
when you get hurt, even a tiny scratch, sam goes dead still.
his eyes flick to the wound, then to you, and something in his face tightens.
not anger.
fear.
fear he’ll never admit out loud.
he cups your face gently, voice barely above a whisper:
“what happened?”
• examines the scratch like it’s a fatal wound
• thumbs over your skin with impossibly soft hands
• absolutely does NOT let you brush it off
• “it could’ve been worse” becomes his mantra
• sits you down even if you insist you’re fine
• kisses your forehead once he realizes you’re really okay
if you laugh at him for overreacting?
his jaw clenches and he mutters,
“i’m not overreacting. you’re important.”
later, when you’re not looking, he checks the scratch again.
just to be sure.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
jared cameron
jared is dramatic.
like, Oscar-winning dramatic.
you get a small scratch and he gasps, literally GASPS, grabs your wrist and goes,
“who did this to you? tell me right now.”
you tell him you bumped into a bush.
he looks betrayed.
• immediately pulls you closer to “inspect the damage”
• kisses the injury three times
“doctor’s orders,” he says
• threatens the bush (“i’ll fight it myself”)
• tells the others you were “injured in battle”
• keeps checking on you every ten minutes
if you tease him for being ridiculous?
he smirks, leaning in:
“what, i can’t care about my favorite person?”
and yes, he asks you six more times if it hurts.
even though you said no every time.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
paul lahote
paul goes from 0 to feral in 0.3 seconds.
you show him a scratch, and instantly his chest rises, shoulders tense, jaw locked.
“who touched you?”
his voice is low, dangerous.
you tell him it was an accident.
he doesn’t relax.
• pulls your hand in and examines the scratch like he’s ready to throw hands
• mutters under his breath about “stupid sharp branches”
• carries you, literally picks you up, even though you insist it doesn’t hurt
• kisses the scratch with surprising gentleness
• refuses to let you out of his sight for at least an hour
and if you say, “paul, seriously, i’m fine”?
he just gives you that look
the one that says he’s not risking anything happening to you.
then he kisses your forehead, still annoyed, still protective, still hopelessly soft for you.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
jacob black
jacob’s heart DROPS.
his whole face twists with worry the moment he sees the scratch.
he gently cups your hand, brows furrowed, voice soft with concern:
“did that hurt? are you okay?”
you tell him it’s nothing.
he does not accept that answer.
• leads you to sit down
• gets a band-aid even though you absolutely don’t need one
• kisses the spot once it’s covered
• keeps brushing your hair back, checking your expression
• apologizes even if it wasn’t his fault (“i should’ve been watching you”)
he hovers
but in the sweetest, warmest way.
he just wants to make sure you’re comfortable, safe, not hiding pain.
and when he finally realizes you’re okay?
he pulls you into his chest with a relieved sigh.
“don’t scare me like that,” he whispers into your hair.
“i love you too much.”
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
quil ateara
quil freezes when he sees the scratch, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like he’s witnessing a tragedy.
then he blurts,
“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE BLEEDING.”
it’s a paper cut.
he still panics.
• drops everything he’s holding to rush to your side
• cups your face dramatically like you’re on your deathbed
• kisses the scratch instantly (“my healing powers will activate any second”)
• gets you a band-aid with cartoon characters on it
• checks on you every five minutes: “how’s the wound? do you need ice?”
if you laugh, he presses a hand to his chest like he’s offended.
“i’m taking this VERY seriously. you were almost taken out.”
later, he cuddles you extra close, “just in case you get injured again.”
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
embry call
embry’s reaction is quiet, but intense in a soft, worried way.
he gently reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the scratch with so much care it almost breaks you.
“you okay?” he asks, voice small.
you say yes.
he still frowns.
• guides your hand into his like he’s afraid you’ll disappear
• checks the scratch at least three times, just to be certain
• kisses it softly, barely a brush of lips
• asks, “did it sting?” with those big, earnest eyes
• keeps you tucked into his side for the rest of the day
if you tease him for fussing, his ears go pink.
“i know it’s small,” he murmurs, “i just… don’t like seeing you hurt.”
then he kisses your forehead so gently it makes your chest ache.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
leah clearwater
leah notices immediately.
she doesn’t panic, she sharpens.
her eyes narrow, jaw clenches, shoulders tense.
“who did that?” she demands, voice low, controlled.
you tell her it was an accident.
she still checks the area like she’s ready to beat up the entire forest.
• cups your wrist with careful, precise fingers
• blows gently on the scratch even though she pretends she doesn’t care
• mutters about “stupid branches” or “careless idiots”
• stays close, not hovering, but present, protective
• makes you sit while she finds something to clean it
and when she finally relaxes, she sighs and presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“don’t scare me like that,” she murmurs, pretending it’s nothing.
but the arm she wraps around your waist is anything but casual.
︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶
seth clearwater
seth is PURE sunshine panic.
the moment he sees the scratch he gasps so hard it sounds like he just witnessed a murder.
“OH— OH NO— BABE— YOU’RE HURT—”
his eyes are huge. his hands hover like he’s afraid to touch you wrong.
you’re like, “seth, it’s literally nothing.”
he refuses to believe that.
• gently cradles your hand like it’s made of glass
• kisses the scratch IMMEDIATELY
• kisses it again
• (and again)
• asks, “are you hurting? do you need a hug? water? snacks?”
• gets you a band-aid even though it’s barely bleeding
and when you reassure him you’re okay, his shoulders drop and he gives you the softest smile.
then he hugs you full force, all warmth and comfort and relief.
“i just… hate knowing you got hurt,” he whispers.
“i want you safe. always.”
and he doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the day.
