Imprint!Reader / Pure fluff / Late night drive / Date night
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You’d almost forgotten how the truck sounds when it’s happy.
There’s a particular hum it finds when the road unfurls clean and empty and the trees lean back to watch you pass, when the night has shaken off the busy hours and settled into that velvet hush that belongs to the coastline. Jacob swears the rebuilt engine has a soul. You believe him tonight. The old dashboard glows a mild amber, and the heater breathes warmth into the cab, hinting at pine sap and the sea in the same exhale.
Jacob drives with one hand, the other open between you, palm up, waiting. It’s a familiar invitation, like his laugh or the way he tips his head when he’s listening, and you fit your fingers into his without thinking. His skin is warm in the way that always surprises you even after all this time, heat at the center of his palm and along the pads of his fingers. It pools where your hands meet, a quiet ember.
“Comfy?” he asks, glancing at you. The corner of his mouth kicks up.
“Very.” You squeeze his hand, thumb drawing a small circle where his palm meets his wrist. “You drive like you rebuilt this thing with your bare hands.”
He scoffs. “Because I did rebuild this thing with my bare hands.”
“Right. I keep forgetting to be impressed.”
“Don’t worry.” He winks. “I’ll remind you.”
He puts his attention back on the road, but not before he studies you for a heartbeat longer : the way your hair falls over your shoulder, the soft reflection of the dash in your eyes, the half-smile you can feel even without seeing. You catch his look and look away, warmed all over again by the steadiness of it. Imprinting, you’ve learned, is not a lightning strike so much as a perpetual sunrise. It keeps growing brighter, changing the way you see everything, especially each other.
Outside, the clouds are ragged and fast, backlit by a swollen, low-hung moon. Forks and La Push have their usual handful of lights, little gold pins stuck into the belly of the dark. You left them behind twenty minutes ago, pointed toward the narrow county road Jacob had said was “nothing special,” which means it’s going to be perfect.
“Still mad at Paul?” he asks after a stretch of easy silence. “For stealing your chips at the bonfire?”
“I’m not mad. I’m… keeping score.”
“Oh no.” He says it like it’s a solemn thing. “How steep is my tab?”
“You’re safe tonight.” You lean your head against the cool window, grin at him. “But if you steal my fries again, I will whisper to Embry that your favorite song is that boy band ballad and he will never let you live it down.”
He’s mock-offended. “Wow. You’re really going straight for the nuclear option.”
“I am ruthless in defense of fries.”
“Noted.” He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles, a quick warm brush that sends something bright rippling through your chest. “I’ll buy you a whole extra order just for insurance.”
“You already did.”
“Then I’ll buy two.”
You ride the curve of a hill, and the trees thin. Jacob flips on the high beams, and the road spills forward, silvered with dew. He takes a turn you would have missed, up a gravel path that crunches under the tires and twists through undergrowth. Ferns sweep the doors. The truck climbs slow and sure.
“You sure this road is real?” you ask, playful.
“Scout’s honor.” His thumb strokes your hand. “Found it on patrol last week. Figured we could use some actual quiet.”
You know what he means by quiet. Not just the absence of laughter and bickering, not the lack of woodsmoke or surf or wolf paws drumming the forest paths. Real quiet, the kind where you don’t have to be anyone else’s anchor, not the pack’s, not friends’ who need you, not the one who keeps a calendar in your head for work, appointments, favors you’ve promised. A pocket of time that belongs to exactly two people.
The truck noses through one more switchback and then the trees fall away altogether. The hilltop is a bald scallop of earth and wild grass. Above you, the sky opens deep and wide and pricked with stars; in front of you, the land relaxes into a dark green quilted valley, the river a pale seam threading through it. Farther beyond, the ocean is a flat inhale of black, the moon painting a path over it like a secret that only you and Jacob share.
He parks at the edge, kills the engine. The sudden quiet is a soft, profound thing. It makes your heart sound too loud in your chest for a moment until you match its rhythm with Jacob’s steady breathing. He doesn’t let go of your hand.
“Well?” he asks, voice low as if the night might echo.
“Nothing special,” you say, and he bumps your shoulder with his, the truck tipping just enough to rock you closer.
The windows fog a little from your combined heat. Jacob leans forward, wipes a clear circle in the glass with the side of his hand, then looks back at you. “Blanket in the back,” he says. “And hot chocolate in the thermos that I absolutely did not make just to show off.”
“Did you add marshmallows?”
He puts a hand to his heart. “Do you even have to ask?”
You laugh quietly. “Show me.”
He slides out first, rounding the truck with that easy grace you know in your bones now, the way he moves like the earth is his, like gravity is a favor he knows how to call in. When he opens your door, the night air curls around your legs, cool and sweet with the scent of wet grass. He offers his hand, palm up again, and you take it because you always will.
The truck bed tarp is already rolled back. Jacob pulls out a bulky, soft blanket, shakes it once so it blooms, and tucks two corners under the toolbox to keep it from slipping. He makes a point of fluffing it like it’s a five-star hotel turn-down, which earns him an exaggeratedly grateful curtsy from you that makes him grin, all teeth and warm eyes.
He helps you climb up and then joins you, shoulders touching as you sit cross-legged. He pulls a thermos from a paper bag, and the moment he twists the top, a rush of chocolatey steam breathes up into the cold air. He closes his eyes for a second, inhaling, then opens them and catches you already looking. You don’t pretend you weren’t.
“Two mugs,” he announces, unnecessarily proud, producing chipped enamel cups in mismatched colors, your favorite blue and his green one that’s dented near the rim.
“You brought the blue.” A small, sappy warmth uncurls in your chest.
“I brought the blue,” he confirms, pouring. “Can’t have you drinking from anything less.”
You take the cup, and he watches as you hold it with both hands, breath fogging the surface, the heat gathering the cold from your fingers. The first sip sears your tongue just a little and tastes like cocoa and cinnamon and the kitchen you share on slow mornings, like hands brushing in the sugar jar, like the soft sizzle of butter in a pan, like Jacob’s laugh when you shake the pan too enthusiastically and send a pancake into an improbable arc.
“Good?” he asks, knees bumped against yours.
“Ridiculously.”
His chest lifts, satisfied. “I accept your praise.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love me.”
You tilt your head. “I do.”
Just like that, simple. You say it often, and it still plants a flag every time. Jacob’s throat works. He sets his mug down on the folded lip of the tailgate and turns so he can look at you head-on. Night wind ruffles his hair. The moon puts a faint halo on his cheekbone. He reaches, slow enough you could stop him if you want, sure enough that he knows you won’t, and tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear.
“I could watch you say that,” he murmurs, “and not get tired of it.”
You tip forward and press your forehead to his. “That’s good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not going to stop.”
He closes his eyes, just breathing with you for a moment, and that is the quiet you came for. The kind that happens when the world stops being something you have to hold up and becomes something that holds you. You feel the imprint like a tide underneath your skin, like the pulse of a drum you both know the rhythm to without talking about it. It isn’t magic you can bottle or explain in neat sentences. It’s Jacob’s warm hand coming to rest on your knee. It’s the easy glide your breath makes when he’s near. It’s the way the whole night feels a half-step closer because he’s here to point it out.
He opens his eyes. “I got you something else,” he says, sudden and a little shy.
You lean back. “You already got me a view and marshmallows.”
“Those were for me.” He reaches behind him and pulls out a small paper bag folded precisely at the top. He hands it to you with the same care he’d use to pass you a newborn kitten.
Inside, cushioned in tissue, is a key ring, hand-worked leather, warm and smooth, the strap stamped with a tiny pattern of waves and, on the reverse, your initials and his, separated by the simplest heart. The metal ring is heavy, solid. The work is meticulous and exactly Jacob. He never gives gifts that are about price. He gives gifts that look like his hands put in time.
“I know you already have keys,” he says, filling the quiet faster than you can stop him. “I just thought… when you go to work early and I’m out late, or when we’re both all over the place, it’d be nice to—”
You lean in and kiss him so he stops explaining.
It’s a soft kiss, almost chaste at first, because the night asks for that kind of reverence. Then his free hand finds your waist, and your fingers curl into the front of his jacket, and the kiss finds a deeper seam. The heat of him is a gentle pressure through the layers of clothes. His mouth is patient, careful, but not uncertain. He kisses like he’s building something, like every brush is a beam holding up something bigger.
When you pull back, you’re smiling, breath shallow in the best way. “I love it,” you say, thumb sweeping the tiny heart on the leather. “I love you.”
He swallows, nods, looking at you like you’re the view he brought you here to see. “Good,” he says, a little hoarse. “I… good.”
You loop the key ring onto your keys, the metal clink bright in the dark. Then you both lie back, shoulders still touching, cups between you, the blanket a small island under the spill of stars. Jacob points with his chin at a cluster above the treeline.
“That one looks like a wrench,” he says.
“It looks like a teapot.”
“A wrench.”
“Teapot.”
“Compromise,” he says. “A wrench pouring tea.”
You snort, which earns you a pleased hum. Your hands find each other again atop the blanket and twine. The breeze combs the grass. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird calls twice. The silence, the kind you wanted, stretches and settles, and you feel yourself exhale into it.
“Tell me a story,” you say, soft.
“About what?”
“About us.”
He’s quiet a moment, tracing circles on your palm. “Okay,” he says. “Once upon a time, there was this girl who never let anyone steal her fries.”
“Good start.”
“And there was this guy who rebuilds engines so he can drive her to the top of the world.”
“Romantic.”
“He’s learning.” Jacob rolls onto his side to face you. “He figures out that quiet isn’t just the absence of noise. It’s something that happens when she lays her head on his shoulder.” He taps your shoulder, a cue, and you scoot closer, fitting your cheek to the warm curve of him. His body is a refuge; it’s always been. “And when the world is loud, he can still hear the quiet as long as he can hear her laugh.”
“Does he get a name?” you ask into his jacket.
“He does,” Jacob says. “But she says it better than anyone, so he makes her promise to say it often.”
“Jacob.” You say it exactly the way he likes, low and sure, the vowels a caress.
He inhales. “Yeah. Like that.”
You fit there for a long while, passing the thermos back and forth, watching the moon climb. The cold brushes your cheeks but never bites, not with Jacob’s heat a steady line touching your side from shoulder to knee. When a stronger gust skims the hilltop, he tucks the edge of the blanket around you and murmurs a small apology to the night for taking some of its air, like he owes it that courtesy.
“Remember the first time we came up somewhere like this?” he asks. “When we were… eighteen? Nineteen?”
You laugh. “We tried to watch a meteor shower and fell asleep after thirty minutes.”
“And woke up at dawn covered in pine needles.”
“And you had one in your hair the whole next day,” you say. “Embry tried to rescue you and almost poked your eye out.”
“True friendship,” Jacob says solemnly. “I keep that pine needle on a shrine.”
“Oh do you?”
“In my heart.”
You look up at him, and he looks back, and a look passes between you that you’ve both learned not to talk through. It’s a look that says: we’ve been building this for years, and every small choice is a brick, and this hill on this night is a roof over our heads we built together.
As if hearing that unspoken thing, Jacob’s voice gentles. “Can I…?” He strokes along your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Can we make this one of those nights we remember later when work is dumb and the pack is loud and everything is messy?”
You sit up with him, drag the blanket with you so it pools around your hips. “We already did,” you say. “But we can keep going.”
You kiss him again, a little deeper, and this time neither of you rushes or jokes. He holds your face like it’s something to be framed. You slip your hands up into the back of his hair, and he makes a sound in his throat that you feel more than hear. He tastes like chocolate and cold air. His pulse jumps under your fingers where they brush his jaw. When your lips part, his breath fills the space between you.
He pulls back only far enough to search your face, and you see the exact second he finds whatever answer he was looking for. His smile is small and certain. He ducks his head to kiss your jaw, the soft skin beneath your ear, the hollow at the base of your throat where your necklace rests. His mouth is reverent there, and you tip your head to make more room for him, your fingers flexing at his shoulders.
The night moves around you, a slow tide. Somewhere below, the river talks to itself, and the grass whispers. Jacob’s hands are sure where they settle, always patient, always checking in with the tiniest pause that lets you nod or breathe a yes. You let the blanket become a tent against the cool air, a pocket of warmth that’s just you and him and breath and soft sounds. His heat soaks through your layers. Your laugh catches once when he murmurs something half-teasing against your collarbone, and he answers it with a kiss like a vow.
When he finally breaks away, he rests his forehead against yours again. “You okay?” he asks, voice roughened.
“More than okay,” you say, and you mean it in all the ways: I’m safe, I’m warm, I’m full, I’m yours.
He nods, hands flexing gently on your back. “Tell me if you get cold,” he says, which is funny because you don’t, not with him radiating heat like a secret furnace. You say so, and he huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth.
“Come here,” he says, and you do, and the night holds its breath.
Time goes soft around the edges. The moon slides. Your mugs cool and then go forgotten. You kiss until kissing feels like breathing, and when you draw back it’s to look at him, really look, and to laugh quietly when his hair is a little wild from your hands. He looks back at you like you’ve broken a spell and made a better one in its place.
You don’t need words for the rest. The blanket becomes a cocoon, the sky your ceiling. You keep it tender, slow, a chain of yeses. There’s nothing hurried, nothing hidden. The night is your witness. The ocean is your metronome. And when you press your forehead to his shoulder later and the quiet returns, it’s not empty. It’s full of everything you just said without saying.
Eventually, the air cools enough that even Jacob’s warmth is challenged at the edges. He tucks you close and reaches blindly for the thermos. The hot chocolate is lukewarm now and sweet, and he grimaces and then drinks anyway because you laugh at him when he does.
“Heroic,” you say.
He sighs tragically. “The sacrifices I make.”
You sit together, back to the cab, feet dangling over the tailgate. The land below is a dark promise, the river a ribbon of pewter. Stars crowd closer now that your eyes have adjusted again. The moon’s path across the water has moved to a new angle, a silver thoroughfare leading away to somewhere unknown.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” you ask, not sure why the question chooses this moment. Maybe because you’re at a place in the world that shows you how big it is. “Not forever, just… road trip big. That van you keep threatening to build?”
Jacob hums. “All the time.” He nudges your shoulder with his. “Bring you, obviously. Hit the big tree in California, the desert, the city lights that don’t go out.”
“Eat too many roadside peaches.”
“Learn their names,” he says. “Like, all the peaches. They deserve it.”
You laugh, and then softer: “We could actually do it. A week. Two.” The thought unfurls like a map, marked with places you’ve only ever pointed at on your phone. “We can make the pack cover us. We’ll tell Sam it’s for morale.”
“For research,” Jacob adds solemnly. “I need to know how engines sound in every state.”
“And I need to document your boy band karaoke in every state.”
He pretends to consider. “Worth it.” Then he takes your hand again, his thumb finding that same spot at your wrist. “We’ll go,” he says, simple as that. “We’ll come back. We’ll go again. We’ll make this” he nods at the night, the hill, the truck, you and him “bigger by letting it see more.”
Your throat goes tight in the good way. You turn your hand and lace your fingers with his. “Deal.”
He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Deal.”
You sit until the cold finally tips you back inside. He helps you down, both hands steadying your waist, and you hop to the ground with an exaggerated oof that makes him grin. He stows the blanket, the thermos, checks the corners, then opens your door and waits for you to climb in, like you’re on a date for the first time and he’s determined to do it right. The heater whirs back to life when he turns the key. The cab fills with the soft familiar smells again, now layered with cocoa and him and you.
He rests his hand on the back of your seat as he backs up, eyes flicking between the mirror and you. When the truck dips onto the gravel path, he reaches for your hand without looking, not because he needs to but because he wants to, and you give it.
The drive down feels like rewinding a tape, trees crowding in to hide the sky, the road choosing the path of least resistance, the valley’s dark breath washing up to meet you. You don’t talk much. You don’t need to. The quiet is a companion now, full of everything you just shared.
At the bottom of the hill, the road gathers itself into asphalt again. Jacob glances at you and then at the horizon where the ocean breathes, an idea occurring to him that is plainly written on his face.
“What?” you ask.
He shakes his head, smiling. “Nothing. Just… happy.”
You grin, and your chest feels too full in the best way. “Me too.”
He brings your joined hands to his mouth and kisses the back of yours without taking his eyes off the road. You watch the movement, the way the tendons shift in his forearm, the clean strength in his wrist. You think about all the things those hands have done today : turned a wrench, built a gift, held you like you’re the good thing in the center of everything—and you’re struck with a simple, overwhelming gratitude.
“You know,” you say, “for a guy who claims he rebuilt his truck to show off, you’re actually disgustingly thoughtful.”
He makes a scandalized sound. “Don’t spread that around.”
“Too late.” You squeeze his fingers. “It’s my favorite thing about you.”
He feigns a pout. “Not my incredible hair?”
“That too.” You reach up and ruffle it gently at the nape, earning another quiet sound that you file away for future use. “But mostly the thoughtful.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “My favorite thing about you,” he says finally, “is the way you look at me like I’m exactly who you were looking for. That… it keeps me right.”
You swallow. The road straightens. The ocean throws its steady hush at the cliffs. You look at him and make sure he sees the truth of what you say. “You are exactly who I was looking for.”
The rest of the drive is a warm blur. He takes the long way just because, skirting the edge of the surf so you can roll the window down for a minute and let the salt move through the cab, then up past the quiet houses where porch lights mark where other people’s stories tuck in for the night. By the time you pull into the drive, the moon has shifted and your mugs clink faintly in the bag where you stuffed them under the seat.
He kills the engine and the world holds still. In the sudden quiet, you can hear the faint tick of heat leaving metal. He turns to you, his face open.
“Home?” he asks softly.
“Home,” you echo, and you both know you mean the truck and the place you sleep and each other.
Inside, you move through the easy grammar of a long day’s end : shoes off by the door, keys dropped in the little dish (your new key ring sits on top like a crest), lights fanned on low, the soft burr of the bathroom fan as you brush your teeth side by side, shouldering each other like kids. Jacob hums under his breath while he washes his hands, some aimless little tune that you recognize from earlier that afternoon when he was working at the table.
“Don’t even say it,” he warns when you start to grin around a mouthful of toothpaste.
“Your boy band anthem,” you garble, and he flicks water at you, laughing.
Later, under a heap of blankets, the world narrows to warmth and breath and the cadence of your names. The windows are cracked just enough for the sea to remind you it’s out there. The moon watches the way the two of you say goodnight like a language it doesn’t speak but understands anyway. Your laughter shows up again when his foot finds yours under the blankets and he yelps because even he can be surprised by cold toes. He retaliates by tucking you fully against him, a smug furnace, and you surrender happily.
You talk in the dark about small things. The road trip. Which snacks qualify as non-negotiable. Whether the desert will forgive you if you don’t immediately love it. You tell him it will. He tells you you will. You drift, and the quiet comes back, full again, no edges.
A while later, somewhere in the place between waking and sleep where you both are honest without effort, Jacob kisses your forehead and says, “Thank you for tonight.”
“For the view?” you ask drowsily.
“For the yes,” he says. “For the quiet. For you.”
You lift your face just enough that he finds your lips in the dark. “Always,” you murmur. “Always, always.”
Outside, the ocean breathes. The stars keep their counsel. Inside, the warmth pools and stays. And if tomorrow is loud and messy and real, as it always is, you already have this night tucked into your pocket, a talisman you can touch with a single thought.
When sleep finally takes you both, it does so gently, like a tide coming in around two rocks that have learned, over years, how to be themselves and still lean.
And on the dresser, your keys and Jacob’s rest side by side, the small leather heart between your initials stamped deep enough to last.
I love reading your work. Could you do Jasper Hale x Tall female reader who is just a few inches taller than him.
He wears that damn badge with honor. Now, in the books, Jasper is written as 6’3 or 190cm (do what you will with that). He has never mind the idea of his girlfriend being taller than him, he just sees her as his girlfriend. He loves to go heel shopping with you, picking out ones he thinks is pretty before telling you to try them on.
He didn’t ever care what someone ever said about you, and if it did ever get to you he changed your mood quickly so you completely forgot what you were sad or insecure about. He was a sweet man who fell in love with a beautiful woman.
He is your hype man through out it, telling you to wear the heels even if it made him look “short”. Yet still, he had never been one to mind.
Jasper is a good sport about most things—and this is something he is always a good sport about.
