Shared Territory

My sleeping bag was a tight cocoon of synthetic down, compressed into a stuff sack no bigger than a melon. I shoved it into the bottom of my pack, the motion mechanical. One by one, I added the essentials for a week in the Olympic National Forest. Dehydrated chili mac. A water filter. A headlamp. Each item was a small, solid fact, a piece of a reality that was supposed to be simple.

This trip was Jacob’s idea. Just the two of us. He’d painted a picture of misty mornings, the scent of damp earth and pine, and long days of walking until our muscles ached in the best way. He’d talked about it with that easy grin of his, the one that made me feel like the sun was shining just for me. The thought of it—of his solid, warm presence next to me, miles from everything else—had sent a current of pure, uncomplicated excitement through me. For weeks, that was the feeling I held onto. A clean, bright flame of anticipation.

Then Edward had found out.

It wasn't a fight, not exactly. It was worse. It was a calm, chillingly rational conversation where Edward had laid out all the potential dangers. Unpredictable weather, wildlife encounters, the remoteness of the trail. He’d insisted on coming along. Not as a guest, but as a “necessary precaution.” The words still echoed in my head, laced with a possessiveness that had nothing to do with my safety and everything to do with me. Jacob had argued, his voice tight with a rare anger, but Edward had been immovable, a force of nature in his own right. And I, caught between them, had finally just… agreed. Because saying no to either of them felt like tearing myself in half.

A knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach, a familiar feeling whenever they were in the same vicinity. I ran a hand over the smooth nylon of my rain jacket, my fingers trembling slightly. It was a potent, almost dizzying mix: the thrill of being wanted so fiercely by two incredible men, and the terrifying weight of that same attention.

I thought of Jacob, of the way his hand would feel on the small of my back, guiding me over a tangle of roots on the trail. He was heat and earth and steadiness. His presence was a physical comfort, a grounding force that made the world feel safer. My body craved that simple, solid connection.

Then my mind would drift to Edward. I pictured his intense gaze, the way he looked at me like I was a complex puzzle he was determined to solve. He was cool marble and sharp focus, an intellectual intensity that challenged me and saw through me all at once. His touch, when he allowed it, was electric, a spark that lit up every nerve ending.

Both. I wanted both. The admission was a silent, shameful whisper in my own mind.

I cinched the straps on my pack, pulling them tight. The weight settled on my shoulders, a physical manifestation of the week to come. It was too late to back out now. I was walking into the wilderness, willingly placing myself between two opposing forces. The excitement was still there, a hot coil low in my belly, but it was tangled inextricably with a deep, pulsing anxiety. I had no idea how this week would end, only that it would change everything.

Jacob’s old rabbit was parked next to Edward’s sleek Volvo, the contrast almost comical. The trailhead was little more than a gravel clearing at the edge of a dense wall of green, the air already thick with the smell of damp soil and cedar. The moment I pulled in, they were both out of their cars, the space between them charged with a silent, crackling energy.

Jacob moved first, his body a study in easy power. He wore a faded t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and chest, the muscles in his arms flexing as he hauled his pack out of the truck bed. He hefted it onto his back with a single, fluid motion, the heavy load seeming like nothing to him. He shot me a grin, warm and genuine, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes directed past me, toward Edward. “Ready for this, Bells?”

His voice was a low rumble that vibrated right through me, a familiar comfort. “As I’ll ever be,” I said, trying for a lightness I didn’t feel.

He came over to my car and pulled my pack from the trunk before I could. “I’ll get it.” His fingers brushed against mine as he took the pack, a casual touch that sent a jolt of heat straight up my arm. He moved with a practiced grace, securing my pack and then Edward’s onto a metal frame in his truck bed for the final short drive to the designated overnight parking, his competence in this world an undeniable part of his appeal. He was solid. Real. He belonged here, and when I was with him, I felt like I could belong here, too.

Then there was Edward.

He hadn't moved to help with the packs. He leaned against the hood of his car, a map spread out before him. He was lean and still, a stark contrast to Jacob’s constant, powerful motion. He wore a technical shirt that fit his slender, wiry frame perfectly, and his focus was entirely on the topographical lines of the map, his brow furrowed in concentration. But I felt his awareness of me like a physical touch.

When he finally looked up, his golden eyes pinned me in place. The rest of the world—the trees, the gravel, Jacob’s easy movements—seemed to fade into the background. His gaze was so intense it felt like he could see every anxious thought, every secret desire fluttering inside me. He didn’t smile. He didn’t have to. That look was a brand, a silent statement of his presence, his purpose.

“The first section of the trail has a significant elevation gain,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying clearly in the still air. “We’ll need to pace ourselves.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a declaration. A subtle undermining of Jacob’s physical lead. Jacob could carry all the weight he wanted, but Edward was the one who knew the path.

My body was a warzone of conflicting responses. I felt a deep, instinctual pull toward Jacob’s warmth, his uncomplicated strength. I wanted to lean into his solid presence and let him lead the way, to feel his hand on my back and know that he could physically protect me from anything. My muscles softened just thinking about it, a yearning for that simple safety.

But Edward’s piercing focus held a different kind of allure. It was a thrill, a sharp, addictive current that sparked my nerves to life. He didn’t want to just protect my body; he wanted to occupy my mind. He challenged me, saw me, and his possessiveness was a heady, intoxicating thing that made me feel like the most important person in the universe.

I stood between them, the center of a silent, powerful storm. Jacob finished with the gear and walked back toward me, his proximity a wave of heat. Edward folded the map with precise, deliberate movements, his eyes never leaving my face. The air was thick with their rivalry, so palpable I could almost taste it—a metallic tang of competition and raw, masculine want. And it was all for me. I was the prize, the territory, the reason for this unspoken war. And God help me, a part of me was starting to burn for it.

The trail began immediately, a narrow dirt path that cut straight into the towering forest of fir and hemlock. The air grew cooler, heavy with the scent of damp earth. Jacob, true to form, took the lead, his long legs eating up the path with an easy, powerful stride that I had to jog to keep up with. The weight of my pack, which had felt manageable in the parking lot, now felt like a lead blanket pressing down on my shoulders and hips.

Edward fell into step right behind me, his presence a silent pressure at my back. The only sounds were the crunch of our boots on the trail, the whisper of ferns against our legs, and the thudding of my own heart. It was a competition from the very first step. Jacob was setting a punishing pace, a clear physical challenge. Every few minutes, he’d glance back, a silent question in his eyes: Can you keep up? And aimed at Edward, a silent taunt: Can she keep up with me?

I could feel Edward’s disapproval. It wasn't spoken, but it was there in the steady, controlled rhythm of his breathing behind me, a stark contrast to my own ragged gasps. After about a mile of this silent war, as I stumbled over an exposed root, Edward moved. He didn't say a word, just glided past me on the narrow trail, his arm brushing mine, and fell into step between me and Jacob.

The dynamic shifted instantly. Now I was flanked.

Jacob slowed, his jaw tight. He was forced to either drop back or share the lead, and he chose to share. We walked three abreast where the trail widened slightly, my shoulders nearly brushing both of them with every step. The tension was a living thing, a fourth member of our party. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, my world shrinking to the few feet of trail ahead of me and the two men who bracketed my entire existence.

On my left, Jacob was a furnace of body heat. I could feel it radiating off him, a constant, grounding warmth that my body instinctively wanted to lean into. When we came to a section of trail slick with mud and tangled with roots, his hand landed firmly on the small of my back. His fingers were strong, his palm broad and warm, the pressure both steadying and proprietary. It wasn't a fleeting touch; he left it there for several long strides, guiding me over the treacherous ground. The heat soaked through my thin shirt, pooling low in my stomach. It was a simple, practical gesture, but it felt like a brand. A statement that I was his to guide, his to protect. I had to consciously stop myself from arching into his touch.

No sooner had he removed his hand than Edward’s voice, a low and cultured murmur, sounded on my right. “Look.”

He’d stopped, and I stopped with him, forcing Jacob to halt a few feet ahead. Edward pointed toward the high branches of an ancient Douglas fir. “Varied thrush,” he said, his voice meant only for me. “You rarely see them this low.” I followed his gaze to a flash of orange and black, a bird I never would have noticed on my own. He stood so close I could smell the clean, sharp scent of his skin beneath the faint smell of the forest. He wasn't touching me, but his proximity was just as potent as Jacob’s hand had been. He was drawing me into his world, a world of quiet observation and shared secrets, a space where physical strength didn’t matter. When I looked back at him, his golden eyes were fixed on my face, not the bird, and the intensity in them made my breath catch.

Jacob cleared his throat, a sharp, impatient sound. He started walking again, his message clear. The moment was over.

I fell back into step between them, my body humming with a strange, vibrant energy. My left side tingled from the memory of Jacob’s hand, a raw, physical pull that made my muscles ache with a confusing need. My right side felt charged, electrified by Edward’s focused intimacy. I was a tightrope walker, balancing precariously between two opposing forces, and the slightest misstep would send me tumbling. The trail stretched on, a long, winding path into the wild, and I was trapped right in the middle, acutely aware of every breath, every glance, every silent claim being laid upon me.

By late afternoon, the constant upward climb gave way to a gentle slope that opened onto a small, flat clearing beside a fast-moving creek. The sound of the water rushing over smooth stones was the most welcome sound I’d ever heard. My shoulders screamed from the weight of the pack, and my legs felt like jelly.

“This is it,” Jacob announced, shrugging off his own pack with a heavy thud. The relief was so immense I could have collapsed right there.

The work of making camp was a welcome distraction from the tension that had been our constant companion on the trail. Jacob was a whirlwind of efficient motion. He had his two-person tent unpacked and assembled in minutes, his movements economical and strong as he hammered stakes into the hard-packed earth. He then started gathering fallen branches for a fire pit, his muscles flexing under his t-shirt with each log he carried. He worked with a deep, innate knowledge of the wilderness, completely at home.

Edward chose his campsite with the precision of a surgeon. He walked the perimeter of the clearing, testing the ground, before selecting a spot slightly farther from the creek, sheltered by a cluster of young pines. His tent went up in a quiet, methodical process, each pole and line secured with meticulous care. While Jacob was building a fire, Edward was unpacking their food supplies, arranging everything on a small, portable table in perfect order.

I felt clumsy and useless between them. I managed to get my own small tent up, my fingers fumbling with the clips. I was supposed to be in charge of dinner, a simple meal of pasta and rehydrated sauce. I knelt on the ground, using a flat rock as a cutting board, and began slicing a block of hard cheese with a small, sharp knife. My hands were trembling slightly from exhaustion, and my focus was shot. I was too aware of Jacob moving behind me, the heat of his body passing close, and Edward’s silent, watchful presence across the campsite.

That’s when it happened. My attention drifted for a second, my gaze snagging on the intense line of Edward’s profile as he studied the fire Jacob was building. The knife slipped. A sharp, stinging pain flared across the base of my thumb, and I gasped, dropping the knife. Dark red blood welled up instantly, a shocking contrast against my pale skin.

Before I could even register what to do, they were both there, converging on me as if summoned by my small sound of pain.

“Bella.” Jacob’s voice was a low growl of concern. He was on his knees beside me in an instant, his big, warm hand closing around my wrist, turning my hand over to inspect the damage. His grip was firm, almost rough in his urgency, but it was grounding. “It’s not too deep. We need to clean it.” He started to pull me toward the creek.

“No,” Edward’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air and stopping Jacob in his tracks. He was suddenly on my other side, his body a cool, still presence. “The creek water isn’t sterile.” He produced a first-aid kit from a pouch on his belt, opening it with swift, practiced fingers. “Let me see.”

Jacob’s hand was still wrapped around my wrist, his thumb pressing against the frantic beat of my pulse. He didn’t let go. Edward reached out, and instead of taking my hand, he gently cupped it, his long, cool fingers supporting mine from underneath. His touch was the complete opposite of Jacob’s—light, careful, almost reverent.

I was trapped between them, my hand held captive by both. Jacob’s raw, physical power on one side, Edward’s intense, focused care on the other. The scent of pine from Edward and the smell of woodsmoke clinging to Jacob filled the small space around me.

Edward ignored Jacob completely, his golden eyes fixed on the cut. He took out an antiseptic wipe, his movements precise. “This will sting,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration meant only for me. He dabbed at the blood, and his touch was so impossibly gentle it was almost painful in its own way. A sharp tingle shot up my arm, completely unrelated to the sting of the antiseptic. I looked up from his careful ministrations and met his gaze. The worry in his eyes was so profound, so personal, it felt like he was feeling the cut himself.

Meanwhile, Jacob’s thumb began to move, stroking slowly back and forth over my pulse point. It was a possessive, soothing gesture, a silent reminder of his presence, his claim. The friction sent a wave of heat through my veins, a deep, pulling sensation that settled low in my belly.

My breath hitched. The small cut was forgotten. All I could feel were Jacob’s warm, strong fingers wrapped around my wrist and Edward’s cool, delicate touch on my skin. I was being held by both of them, tended to by both of them. The air grew thick, heavy with their competing forms of protection. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that echoed the rushing water of the creek. I was breathless, caught in the crossfire of their care, and a dangerous, undeniable part of me never wanted them to let go.