the youngest wolf

The scent of damp earth and pine needles clung to the air, a familiar comfort that usually eased the knot in Jacob Black’s stomach. Not today. Today, the knot was a tightening vise, fueled by the insistent babble from the small figure currently attempting to dismantle a toy truck on the living room floor.

Sarah, all two years of her, hummed a tuneless song, her small fingers surprisingly adept at prying apart the plastic wheels. She had his eyes, dark and intense, but her skin was a shade lighter, a ghost of Bella's paleness mixed with his own.

He watched her, a bittersweet ache in his chest. Parenthood, thrust upon him at fourteen, was a relentless teacher. Every scraped knee, every triumphant giggle, every quiet moment of her sleeping form, etched deeper lines of responsibility onto his young soul.

“Jake?” Billy’s voice rumbled from the kitchen, pulling him back from his thoughts. “Harry’s dropping off the parts for Sue’s car soon.”

“Coming, Dad!” Jacob called back, his gaze lingering on Sarah. His life had irrevocably shifted, anchored now by this small, vibrant being. The old Jacob, carefree and chasing impossible dreams, was gone. In his place stood a father, determined to protect his daughter, no matter the cost.