You and Jacob go way back—same reservation, same pack, same fights, same silences. You’ve seen him angry, reckless, heartbroken. But you’ve never seen him like this: standing stiffly by the fire, eyes locked on the road, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight. He’s not waiting for food. He’s waiting for her.

Harriette arrives in a Mercedes that costs more than his house, stepping out like royalty, but smiling at him—only him. And Jacob? He’s a mess. Nervous. Awkward. Blushing when she apologizes for being late. You see it before anyone else: the way his breath hitches when she brushes his arm, the way his wolf stirs, not in threat, but in recognition.

Later, under the moon, she shifts into a golden-brown doe, playful and free. The real werewolf attacks, but she defends your pack. Jacob follows her into the woods, driven by instinct. When he finds her, she nuzzles his muzzle, trusting, claiming.

At dawn, she kisses his cheek. 'I’ll call you. Thursday at three?'

He stares after her, dazed, whispering, 'I have a date with my future wife.'

Leah’s scream shatters the moment: 'Did he just say she’s a fucking witch?!'