The question of whether Bella could enter the reservation didn't even register as a problem for Jacob.
His dad was the tribal chief.
If he wanted to bring his goddess into the reservation to look around—why not?
Who would dare stop him? Anyone who tried would get ripped apart.
Still, before leaving, he glanced toward his father.
Billy Black had far more sense than his son.
Years as the Quileute chief, and his friendship with small-town police chief Charlie, came from one goal: protecting his people.
Because of his disability, he hadn't inherited the tribe's supernatural abilities, but he was still the last chief's son—a man who saw more than most.
And he saw something off about Bella.
Letting this girl walk into the reservation felt… unwise.
But he had no legitimate reason to refuse.
No grounds—public or private—to stop her.
Under Jacob's hopeful stare, Billy could only smile and nod.
"Go on. Take her."
"Come on! Get in!"
Jacob pulled up in a faded red Chevy pickup—though calling the color "red" was generous.
Originally, the Blacks had planned to give the truck to Bella as a half-gift, half-discount present.
But if he gave it to her now, she'd be driving while he sat in the passenger seat.
If he held back, he'd be driving her around.
Easy choice.
He was definitely driving.
Bella climbed into the passenger seat as he—practically vibrating with excitement—backed the truck out. After waving goodbye to the two middle-aged men, the Chevy headed for the northern forest and the reservation.
Bella tried to hold a conversation.
She didn't exactly hate the truck, but she didn't love it either.
It was still a truck. The open bed behind them practically screamed "farm use," and she swore the thing still smelled faintly of potatoes.
She wasn't into vampire pretty-boys or loyal puppy-boys.
She didn't care how tragic a vampire's past was.
She didn't care whether the puppy would one day turn into a wolf.
Forks might be her starting point—but it would never be her destination.
There was no comparison to make.
And even if there were, it wouldn't matter.
But she had to admit:
A hundred-year-old vampire knew how to spoil a woman.
Jacob?
Jacob was offering her… a truck older than her father. Probably older than her grandfather.
Edward Cullen gave engagement gifts like brand-new Mercedes cars. Wedding gifts like Ferraris.
In comparison, the loyal puppy was hopelessly outmatched.
But Bella understood their circumstances.
The reservation had limited resources. The tribe was "protected"—in the American sense, which meant restricted and underfunded.
It wasn't that Jacob didn't want to buy something nicer.
He just couldn't afford it.
So she steered the conversation somewhere safer—wild water sources, mushroom identification, basic survival tactics. She turned bits of Internet knowledge from her past life into practical questions.
Jacob answered everything enthusiastically, even if discussing wilderness survival on a forest road with a beautiful girl felt deeply unromantic.
He didn't break the mood.
Marvel Survival Rule #2: Never piss off a handsome man who knows how to fix motorcycles.
If men in wheelchairs were usually spiritual leaders, then motorcycle guys were often the real-world leaders—Cyclops, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark.
All brilliant in their fields.
Jacob, as the chief's son, was definitely someone worth befriending.
Bella spent the whole afternoon in the reservation.
The Quileute were simple, warm people—initially wary of her, but once they got used to her, they opened up.
Jacob pulled out every trick he had.
He showed off his workshop, dug out his treasured tools, explained every mod he'd ever done. If time allowed, he probably would've performed a live demonstration.
Bella had barely touched scooters in her previous life and knew next to nothing about engines, but she tossed in naive questions.
Jacob—adorably—answered every one with the patience of a saint.
When she finally said, "Jacob, you're a good guy,"
he thought he'd leveled up in life.
But Bella didn't take the motorcycle.
And she didn't take the truck.
Instead, she paid Jacob for a simple bicycle.
She lived in town.
School was in town.
She didn't need a car.
If the truck had been nice, maybe.
But this was… this.
"Let them use it for groceries," she thought.
A bike was better. Healthier. Cheaper.
Since the school gave her a month off after the Flight 180 disaster, this was her rare downtime.
When Jacob heard she wanted to exercise, he immediately ditched his motorcycle and started biking to see her every day.
They grew familiar.
Jacob dragged her back to the reservation constantly.
Once or twice was fine.
After several trips, Billy Black's anxiety skyrocketed—for both his clueless son and for the tribe.
But he couldn't bar Bella from coming.
Not when she was Charlie's daughter.
Not when she was Jacob's… everything.
So the middle-aged chief finally pulled Bella aside.
He wore the gentle smile common among men in wheelchairs—kind, calm, diplomatic.
"It seems you've moved past the trauma. That's wonderful. Hardships don't break us—they give us strength."
A universal opener, appropriate for almost anyone.
The reservation looked like a forest village—men walked around shirtless even in the chill air, warm as furnaces thanks to the wolf blood in their veins.
Bella, unlike them, was freezing.
She wore a pale yellow parka over her jeans and sneakers—simple but bright.
"Jacob is a good friend. He's warm. Reliable."
Another universal answer. Complimenting someone's kid was always safe.
The chief didn't care much about the Flight 180 disaster.
From his perspective, dead Americans had nothing to do with the tribe.
He hadn't lit a bonfire to celebrate—wasn't that restraint enough?
But he couldn't say that.
So he asked—gently, curiously—about the accident.
Bella had told the story countless times.
She told it again, neither exaggerating nor downplaying her role.
"Walk with me," Billy said finally.
And Bella fell into step beside the chief of the wolves.