Twilight: Immortal Dusk

Bella stood in the kitchen like she'd just walked into a crime scene.

Her damp hair was bundled in a turban of an old high school towel that definitely used to be white, pajama pants hanging dangerously off one hip, and her oversized Zeppelin T-shirt from middle school was somehow both too big and not warm enough.

She cracked open the fridge with the kind of caution you'd use defusing a bomb.

Top shelf: a solitary slice of cheddar in a Ziploc bag that looked like it had seen things. Next to it, a ketchup bottle crusted shut with what might be vintage residue and a six-pack of Rainier leaning like it had given up hope.

Middle shelf: a Tupperware container the color of radioactive regret and a single, lonely stick of butter.

Bottom shelf: three frozen pizzas stacked like they were the foundation of Charlie's food pyramid. One was half in its box, duct-taped shut.

Bella exhaled. "Yup. Culinary apocalypse confirmed."

She shut the fridge with her hip, grabbed the eggs from the counter — miraculously not green — and dropped two into a pan. They sizzled like applause. While the toast cooked, she prepped coffee, which involved spooning Folgers into the world's oldest drip machine and praying it didn't explode.

The machine groaned. Something hissed.

"Same, buddy," she muttered. "Same."

By the time the kitchen smelled like something edible, she had a Garfield mug in hand that read "I Hate Mondays" in bold comic font — ironic, given it was Tuesday. She sipped and stared out the window at the gray Pacific Northwest drizzle that looked like it had just sort of... forgotten how to be proper rain.

Toast. Eggs. Coffee. Not the worst breakfast she'd ever assembled.

Just as she took a bite, the creaky floor upstairs gave up its secrets.

Cue: the Swan.

Charlie shuffled into the kitchen like he'd grown out of the floorboards — uniform crisp, badge polished, hair damp from what she assumed was a military-grade three-minute shower. He still looked vaguely confused by the concept of being awake.

He paused when he saw her.

"You cooked?" he said, blinking like she might be a hallucination.

Bella held up her fork like it was evidence. "Yes. It's called breakfast. It's this thing where you eat actual food in the morning instead of beer and despair."

Charlie grunted, noncommittal. "I make eggs sometimes."

"You made scrambled chalk once," she said dryly. "I haven't recovered emotionally."

Ignoring her slander, he grabbed the coffee pot like it was sacred, poured a mug to the brim, and took a sip with the reverence of a man returned from war.

His eyes closed. "God bless America."

Bella smirked. "You good, Chief?"

He took another sip, then nodded solemnly. "Coffee's hot. Daughter's talking to me. House hasn't burned down. Yeah. I'm good."

She snorted and stood to rinse her plate. "Alright, I'm gonna go make myself look like a socially functional high schooler."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "You don't have to lie this early."

"Appreciate the honesty," she shot back. "I'll aim for 'mostly hygienic' and hope nobody talks to me."

He grunted again — she was learning that was his version of a laugh — and leaned against the counter with his mug. "You'll be fine, Bells."

"I'll be weirdly quiet girl who reads too much fine," she said. "Not popular cheerleader who does keg stands and lip gloss commercials fine."

"Hey, don't knock lip gloss," he said, mock-serious. "It's tactical in some situations."

She rolled her eyes just as—

RUMMMM—ka-chunk. Another rumble. Gravel crunching.

Bella paused, her whole body still like a deer who just heard the click of a camera.

Two engines. One sounded okay-ish. The other sounded like it coughed dust and depression.

Charlie stepped toward the window, squinting like his mustache could see better than he could.

"Oh," he said. "Huh."

Bella turned, clutching her mug like a weapon. "Please. Please don't say 'huh' like that. That's a dad-saw-something-weird 'huh.' That's never good."

He rubbed his jaw. "That's the Billy Black with his engine that should've died in the Clinton administration 'huh.' And... yup. Jacob's with him."

Bella blinked. "Jacob? As in small kid who looked like a bobblehead and bit me once Jacob?"

"He's not small anymore," Charlie said, already heading to the front door. "Kid shot up like six inches over the summer. Probably taller than me."

Bella stared. "That's not allowed. I'm the tall one."

Charlie grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. "It's the genetics. Blacks grow like weeds once they hit high school. Billy says he's helping out at the garage now."

"Please tell me you didn't schedule a playdate."

He shot her a smirk as he cracked the door. "Just wanted you to have a familiar face on your first day. Someone besides me and my collection of beer coasters."

Bella let out a slow, dramatic sigh and muttered, "You're very bad at being sneaky."

"I'm a cop, not a ninja."

"Yeah, no one's mistaking you for either."

He pointed back at her, mug still in hand. "You've got five minutes. Go get dressed before Billy tries to give you life advice and Jacob reminds you about the time you tried to ride their dog like a horse."

Bella turned and trudged up the stairs, muttering, "I was five. It was one time. And Shadow was huge."

Behind her, the front door creaked open. Outside, voices rose in the morning air — friendly, warm, a little too cheerful for her taste. Inside, the coffee pot hissed its last gasp like a dying dragon.

Bella didn't know what she'd find at Forks High. But if this was the morning standard, she had a feeling it was going to be something.

—

The sky looked like someone had painted over it with dishwater. The drizzle wasn't falling exactly — it just sort of hovered, suspended in the air like Forks' version of atmosphere. Bella tugged her hoodie sleeves over her palms and stepped out onto the porch, her breath fogging the air in little wisps like cartoon sarcasm.

Her jeans were already damp around the ankles because of course they were, and her sneakers made a squelch that screamed new girl energy. Perfect.

Down by the gravel driveway, two trucks and three men were locked in some kind of manly exchange of laughter, caffeine, and weathered flannel. Charlie stood with his usual travel mug (probably full of lukewarm Folgers and dad wisdom), talking with a man she hadn't seen since she was eight: Billy Black, now in a wheelchair but still looking like he could out-stubborn a mountain.

Leaning against a beat-up, rust-colored truck that looked like it had been rejected from a Mad Max sequel was a tall kid with long, dark hair, warm skin, and a sheepish kind of swagger like he was trying not to trip over his own feet. His sweatshirt said Quileute High and his hands were shoved into his pockets like he hadn't quite figured out what to do with them yet.

Bella blinked.

Jacob Black?

He'd been what — ten? — last time she saw him? He used to wear Superman PJs and cried when she beat him at Go Fish.

Charlie spotted her. "There she is!" he called, with way too much cheer for someone who definitely knew it was a school morning.

Bella offered a weak wave. "Do I get a marching band too or just the pre-show?"

"Don't tempt me," Charlie said with a smirk. "Come on over, Bells. You remember Billy."

Billy grinned like he was about to spill secrets. "Of course she does. You and my girls used to turn the whole yard into a fairy kingdom with sticks and stolen fishing gear."

Bella laughed despite herself. "Didn't Rachel try to marry a frog once?"

"She did. And she's still mad the frog dumped her."

"She tried to get me to kiss it first!"

"See? Instigator," Billy said, pointing at her. "Even back then."

Charlie chuckled into his coffee like he was watching his two worlds finally merge. "Told you she hasn't changed much."

Then Billy tipped his head toward the kid standing a few feet away. "And this gangly moose here is my son Jacob — not that you'd recognize him unless he was still in footie pajamas."

Jacob groaned like he'd been personally wronged. "Dad, c'mon."

Bella tilted her head, squinting. "Wait... Jacob? As in, you used to cry when I ate the last Fruit Roll-Up Jacob?"

He winced. "Wow. Okay. Coming in strong."

She grinned. "Just trying to place the memory. You were, like, a solid three-foot menace with a mullet."

Jacob looked mildly betrayed. "It was not a mullet."

Billy nodded solemnly. "Kid, it was a mullet and you loved it."

Charlie slapped Jacob on the back. "You were very confident."

Jacob muttered, "Remind me to delete everyone's memories later."

Bella, still smirking, took in the truck behind him — a very red, very tired-looking Chevy with more rust than paint. It looked like it should be featured in an exhibit titled 'Vehicles That May Or May Not Explode When Started'.

Charlie followed her gaze and gave her a little dad-smirk. "Surprise."

Bella blinked. Then blinked again. "Charlie... you didn't have to buy me a car."

"I didn't," he said. "I bought you a truck."

She gave him a flat stare. "That's not better. That's more wheels to fall off."

He grinned like he'd just pulled off the ultimate dad move. "Technically, I didn't buy it. Billy did. Sort of. He donated it to the Cause of Bella Not Walking to School in the Rain Every Day."

Billy raised a hand. "And technically, I didn't buy it either. This thing's been in my family longer than cassette players have."

Jacob grinned. "I rebuilt half the engine last year. She's old, but she's got heart."

"She's got tetanus," Bella said, eyeing a particularly sharp-looking bit of rust.

Jacob chuckled. "Nah. I sanded most of that down. She's safe. Mostly."

Charlie nodded toward the white-ish Volkswagen parked next to Billy's truck. "Billy doesn't drive the Chevy anymore since the chair makes it tricky. He and Jacob gutted that Rabbit over there — made it fully accessible. Raised the seat, added ramp entry, hand controls. Pretty slick setup."

Bella turned to Billy, a little impressed. "That's... actually kind of amazing."

Billy gave her a half-smile. "We keep things running around here. Whether it's family or vehicles."

Jacob stepped forward, a little less awkward now, his hands finally out of his pockets. "I filled up the tank and changed the oil last week. She runs clean. You'll probably want to keep her under 60 though — the passenger door starts humming if you push her too hard."

Bella raised an eyebrow. "Humming?"

"Like, musically. It's kind of soothing. If you're into... metal vibration therapy."

"Can't wait."

Jacob grinned, and Bella noticed he had the kind of smile that tried to make you laugh along with it. It was effective. Annoying.

Charlie patted the roof of the truck like it was a faithful old dog. "She'll get you to school and back. Might not win any races, but she's solid. Real steel. Not like these plastic things they make now."

Bella tilted her head. "What happens if I need to stop suddenly?"

Billy snorted. "You pray. Or yank the emergency brake and hope she doesn't roll over."

Jacob added, "Brake pads are good. Suspension's fine. The heater's... kind of moody. Like a cat. Might warm your left leg. Might just blow cold air and judge you."

Bella looked back at the truck. The paint was sun-bleached in some places, chipped in others. The bumper looked like it had survived a zombie apocalypse. The inside had an air freshener that was probably older than her CD collection. But somehow, it didn't seem awful.

"Well," she said, "at least I won't have to worry about anyone stealing it."

Jacob grinned. "They'd have to hotwire a carbureted ignition and manually adjust the choke. You're good."

"I don't even know what half those words mean."

"Then you'll fit right in."

Bella turned to Charlie. "Okay. Thanks, I guess. For the... vintage experience."

He gave her a proud little nod. "You're welcome, kiddo."

Billy raised his coffee like a toast. "Don't run anyone over. Unless it's a tourist."

Jacob leaned closer. "I put a burned CD in the player — just some Nirvana, Foo Fighters, and No Doubt. You know. Period accurate."

"Perfect," Bella said dryly. "If I crash it, at least I'll go down with Gwen Stefani."

Charlie handed her the keys. "Go get 'em, Swan."

She paused before opening the driver's side door, glancing back at the three of them. Billy, Jacob, and her dad — like some Pacific Northwest version of the Three Wise Men, if the gifts were sarcasm, horsepower, and coffee.

Maybe, just maybe, she was gonna survive this.

Maybe.

—

The truck sounded like a dying animal with commitment issues. Every turn of the wheel let out a mechanical groan that could've doubled as the death rattle of a 1980s horror movie monster.

Bella Swan kept her hands locked at ten and two, like she was guiding a tank through the streets of Baghdad, not pulling into a public high school parking lot in rural Washington.

"Okay, easy girl," she muttered, gently coaxing the beast into a parking spot near the back of the lot. "You've got one job. Don't explode. Or draw attention. Or literally anything else you're about to do."

The engine responded with a grrrawr and a loud clunk, which felt like a hard no on all three fronts.

Sleek sedans and practical hatchbacks lined the rest of the lot, their owners already inside sipping vending machine coffee or awkwardly avoiding eye contact in homeroom. Bella's truck looked like it had just rolled out of a '90s disaster movie — and not in a vintage-chic kind of way. More in a "Wow, did someone drive that out of a scrapyard?" kind of way.

A few heads turned. One guy in a varsity jacket straight-up paused mid-step to take in the sight. A girl with glossy strawberry lip gloss and butterfly clips whispered something to her friend. The friend giggled.

Bella yanked the key from the ignition like she was disarming a bomb. Silence fell over the parking lot like a wet blanket made of judgment and drizzle.

"Step one," she said under her breath, "don't trip on your way to the office. Step two, pretend you didn't see them laughing. Step three, survive until lunch."

She popped the door open, grabbed her overstuffed canvas bag, and stepped into the misty, pine-scented air that Forks called weather. The rain wasn't falling so much as hovering — this passive-aggressive drizzle that stuck to your clothes and hair like it was trying to ruin your week in slow motion.

The sign above the glass door read MAIN OFFICE, complete with peeling vinyl letters and a hanging fern that looked like it gave up on life somewhere around Clinton's second term.

Bella pushed the door open. A small brass bell gave a half-hearted ding, and then came the wave of heat, like walking face-first into a sauna powered by resentment and weak coffee.

The scent in the air was institutional nostalgia: floor wax, paper reams, and something suspiciously cinnamon-scented trying to disguise the undercurrent of mildew.

Behind the counter sat a woman with rich auburn curls pinned back into a perfect twist, a forest green cardigan, chunky gold earrings, and a coffee mug that said "Don't Even Look At Me Until My Second Cup."

She looked up, blinked once, and offered a smile that could disarm nuclear nations.

"Good morning, sweetheart. You must be Isabella."

Bella tried not to flinch at the name. "Bella. Please."

"Well, Bella-Please," the woman said, standing with the kind of poise that made Bella feel like she was about to be offered a lemon bar and a life lesson, "I'm Mrs. Cope. And you are exactly what this office needed today — a little new energy. Forks can get… repetitive."

"I noticed."

Mrs. Cope chuckled like Bella had just told a particularly spicy joke at a church bake sale. She turned, heels clicking, and began rifling through a filing cabinet with alarming efficiency.

"You've got quite the buzz going, you know," she said over her shoulder. "Chief Swan's daughter, fresh in from Arizona, arrives mid-year driving a vehicle that sounds like it eats smaller cars for fuel. Half the teachers thought you were a transfer from Juvie. The other half are just hoping you join the chess club."

Bella blinked. "...That's a wide range."

"We're a versatile staff."

Mrs. Cope turned back around, handing over a neatly clipped packet of papers. "Schedule, campus map, locker assignment, and a list of staff emails in case you have any… existential emergencies. Which you will. This is high school."

Bella accepted the papers like she was being handed instructions to defuse a bomb.

"Thanks. Uh—where's my first class?"

"Biology, Building Four. Second door on the left. Mr. Banner. Very enthusiastic. Uses a lot of foam balls. Pretends we're not all still traumatized from his frog dissection phase."

"Cool. I'll sit near the window in case I need to jump out."

Mrs. Cope laughed again and plucked a lanyard from a drawer, dangling it between two fingers like it was jewelry. "Temporary ID badge. Don't lose it or Security Larry will have a minor meltdown. He takes his job very seriously. He confiscated a Tamagotchi last week."

Bella slipped the badge over her neck. It hit her chest with a plasticky thwack.

"I'll try not to commit any digital pet crimes."

"One last thing," Mrs. Cope leaned in conspiratorially. "If your fourth period is in Room 6, don't sit next to the left wall. The heater leaks and makes a noise like a dying moose. We've all just accepted it."

Bella raised a brow. "And they say Forks isn't exciting."

Mrs. Cope winked. "We contain multitudes, Bella."

Bella couldn't help but smirk — the first actual one since she crossed the state line.

"Thanks. For the map. And the warning about wildlife noises."

"Good luck, sweetheart. And if you get lost, just look for someone wearing flannel. That'll be half the student body."

Bella nodded, then turned to leave. The bell over the door dinged again as she stepped back into the rain.

The drizzle had evolved into that steady, slow-motion soak that didn't seem like a big deal until you realized your hair was doing tragic things and your hoodie had absorbed enough water to qualify as an emotional support sponge.

Bella paused under the awning, pulled the schedule from her packet, and frowned at the map.

Building Four. Biology. Second door on the left.

"Cool, cool, cool," she muttered. "Definitely not going to walk into a broom closet and fake a medical emergency just to avoid human interaction."

She squared her shoulders, shoved the map into her hoodie pocket, and started across the courtyard — sneakers squeaking, badge bouncing, hoodie clinging — toward the start of what was shaping up to be one hell of a day.

—

The hallway outside the main office was quiet, lit with flickering fluorescents that buzzed like they were judging her. Bella Swan stood alone with her welcome packet and sad little map like she'd just been dropped into an alternate dimension where damp was a personality trait.

Forks High smelled faintly of mildew, floor wax, and pencil shavings. The posterboard on the nearby bulletin board proclaimed "SPIRIT WEEK IS COMING!!" in Comic Sans and glitter glue. Nothing in the universe had ever sounded more threatening.

She glanced at her schedule. First class didn't start for fifteen minutes. Which left her just enough time to either:

A) Wander the halls and look like someone who might whisper at ghosts for fun, or

B) Hide in the cafeteria and pretend to be a real person.

Her hoodie was already damp, her sneakers had absorbed three gallons of puddle, and the vending machine across the hall just made a noise that sounded like it had eaten someone.

Cafeteria it was.

She folded the map like a cursed scroll, tucked it into her bag, and trudged through the hallway like a slightly pissed-off woodland creature avoiding human contact. She turned a corner—and nearly collided with a human-shaped energy drink.

"Whoa! Sorry!" came the immediate, rapid-fire apology. "Totally my bad. I was looking for my press badge. Which doesn't exist. Yet."

Bella blinked up.

The boy had aggressively gelled spiky black hair that looked like it had personally lost a war with gravity. His hoodie had an anime logo she vaguely recognized from her neighbor's little brother, and a camera bag was slung over one shoulder like it was surgically attached.

He was already talking again.

"You're Isabella Swan, right? Chief Swan's daughter? From Phoenix?" He wiggled his eyebrows like this was espionage and not, y'know, homeroom.

Bella raised an eyebrow. "Is there a town-wide memo I missed, or do you just greet every girl with their full legal name?"

"Ha! You're funny. That's good. That's great. I'm Eric. Eric Yorkie. Journalism club. Yearbook. Occasional radio DJ on KBHS, The Voice of the Storm."

"…You have a school radio?"

"We did. Once. For fifteen minutes. It ended in… fire. Anyway—" He beamed, utterly unbothered. "You heading to the caf? Me and some friends are hanging there before class. It's kinda our thing. Unless you're one of those mysterious loners who broods in stairwells and listens to The Cure."

"I'm wearing a soggy hoodie and contemplating public vending machine theft. Does that count as mysterious?"

Eric clapped his hands once, like a game show host. "Perfect! You'll fit in. Come on. I'll introduce you to the gang. They're totally normal. Except when they're not."

She followed. Not because she wanted to. But because she really didn't want to go viral for being the girl who stood outside the cafeteria like a raccoon in a rainstorm.

—

The cafeteria was big, echoey, and beige — like someone had designed it in Microsoft Paint. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The windows showed a perfect panorama of drizzle, fog, and the occasional damp freshman sprinting toward shelter. The vending machines were lit like haunted totems.

Eric led her to a table near the back, where four students were already mid-conversation-slash-snack-ritual. The group looked like they'd been pulled from a 2005 teen drama casting call: sporty boy, fashion-forward girl, artsy brunette, and one girl who looked like she'd read Pride and Prejudice for fun and probably annotated it.

All heads turned as they approached.

Eric cleared his throat and gestured with jazz hands. "Everyone, presenting: the Bella Swan."

Bella gave him a look like she was reconsidering her stance on homicide.

"It's just Bella," she said, tone dry enough to start a forest fire.

The blonde girl in the pink hoodie perked up first. "Oh my God, duh, sorry. I'm Jessica. Jessica Stanley. I'm in, like, five clubs, but they're mostly for the yearbook photo spots."

"I was going to say drama," Bella replied, sliding into the seat Angela nudged out for her. "But yearbook photo ops sound even more competitive."

Jessica gasped. "Wait. You do sarcasm? Oh my God, I love you already."

The girl beside her — glasses, cardigan, calm in the eye of the teenage storm — offered a genuine smile.

"Angela Weber. Don't mind Jess, she gets excited. You really are from Phoenix?"

"Born and baked," Bella said. "They give you a sunlamp and a cactus when you hit puberty."

"I knew it," Jessica whispered, nudging Mike. "I told you she'd be sun-kissed and tragic."

Mike — letterman jacket, slightly floppy hair, smile like he'd practiced it in a mirror — leaned across the table. "I'm Mike. Mike Newton. You probably already know that though."

Bella blinked. "Should I?"

"Chief Swan and my dad go fishing sometimes," he said like that explained everything. "I work weekends at Newton's Outfitters. You ever need hiking boots or, like, a thermos, I got you."

"…Cool?"

Eric plopped down next to her, opening a notebook. "Okay, so first-day interview. Just a few questions. You can lie. We respect creative liberties here."

Jessica leaned in. "You have to say something dramatic. Like how you had to leave Phoenix because you fell in love with your Chemistry teacher and things got complicated."

"I'm literally seventeen," Bella said, deadpan. "And allergic to scandal."

Angela gave her an approving nod. "You're doing amazing, sweetie."

"Okay, okay," Eric said, flipping a page. "Real question: Why Forks?"

Bella looked at them. All five sets of eyes staring like she was the latest plot twist in a soap opera.

"My mom's new husband plays minor league baseball. They move a lot. So I moved here to live with my dad."

"Oh," Mike said. "That's... actually kind of noble."

"Yeah," Jessica agreed, twisting her water bottle cap. "Like a Hallmark movie, but make it Gen Z."

"We're not Gen Z," Eric muttered.

"Whatever, Yorkie. You still wear anime hoodies. That's a lifestyle."

Bella exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of their attention slide off as they went back to squabbling and snack-hunting. She sipped her vending machine cocoa — watery, sweet, vaguely like despair — and leaned back in her chair.

She didn't belong. Not really. But for now? She didn't feel like a complete alien.

That would probably change in approximately forty-five minutes, once Biology hit.

But for now, she let herself be just Bella — dry wit, damp hoodie, and all.

—

Mike Newton was trying really hard.

Like, really hard.

He leaned across the table with the energy of a golden retriever discovering tennis balls were buy-one-get-one-free. His gelled hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights like he'd lost a bet with a bottle of LA Looks. His hoodie read "Abercrombie" in peeling letters.

"So," he was saying, with what he probably thought was sultry charm, "if you ever want the Forks Grand Tour—you know, waterfalls, abandoned railway bridges, the tree that looks like a screaming goat—I know a guy."

"Do you?" Bella asked, lifting her cocoa with both hands like it might shield her from the cringe. "And is that guy... you?"

"I mean, yeah. I'm that guy." He flashed a grin. It didn't stick.

"Wow," she deadpanned. "A screaming goat tree. So compelling."

Mike flexed his arm. Just a little. Casual bicep roll. Like he was trying to make her fall in love with his forearm. Bless his heart.

Jessica Stanley, already watching the conversation like it was a soap opera, leaned toward Angela. "She didn't even blink," she whispered, impressed.

Eric Yorkie smirked from behind his science textbook. "That might be a record."

Angela giggled softly. "Mike needs to retire the goat tree."

Bella ignored them all, checked the clock—and that was when it happened.

Everything slowed.

Not like in a movie, but kind of exactly like in a movie. The air shifted. Voices dropped. Even the obnoxious squeak of a freshman dragging a lunch tray seemed to fall into hush.

The doors opened.

Nine people walked in.

And not walked like normal humans. Walked like they owned the soundtrack to your teenage angst. Like someone had put them on a Calvin Klein runway and told them to smolder.

Bella blinked. Then blinked again.

"Who—?" she asked, before the question even formed.

Jessica scooted close, practically vibrating. "Oh. Them. Those are the Cullens. And the Peverells. And the Hales."

She said it like listing rival Mafia families.

"They're all, like... related. Sort of."

They moved in perfect formation. Like royalty. Or demigods. Or the cast of The O.C. shot through an ethereal Instagram filter.

Jasper Hale led the charge—tall, blond, military-jawed, wearing a leather jacket like it was issued by destiny. Beside him, Alice Cullen practically floated. Petite, spiky-haired, and dressed in what Bella could only describe as witchy cyberpunk chic. She wore fingerless gloves. In 2005. Somehow, it worked.

Jessica leaned in. "That's Jasper and Alice. He's, like, weirdly quiet and intense. His dad was ex-military or something. And Alice is... well, Alice."

Next came Hadrian Peverell.

Broad-shouldered. Regal. Jet-black hair that looked effortlessly tousled, and eyes so green they could probably photosynthesize. He wore a forest-green Henley, fitted jeans, and a charcoal overcoat that probably cost more than Bella's truck.

But he wasn't alone.

Beside him walked a silver-haired goddess.

Daenerys Hale. Violet eyes. A smirk that could kill gods. She was all curves and swagger, wearing a deep purple leather jacket and ripped jeans, one hand looped casually through Hadrian's belt loop like she owned him. And maybe she did.

"Hadrian and Daenerys," Jessica said. "Yeah. They think they're subtle. They're not. You should see them at prom."

"I'm surprised they wear clothes at all," Eric muttered.

Angela elbowed him.

Behind them, Emmett Peverell followed, all six feet and five inches of gym-built chaos. He had dimples. He had swagger. He winked at a sophomore and caused a spill.

Rosalie Hale matched his stride, tall and imperious, with hair like spun gold and a face sculpted for perfume ads. She looked bored of humanity.

"That's Emmett and Rosalie. Don't flirt with her. Or him. Or them together. It's like poking a bear with a selfie stick."

Then came two girls, walking hand-in-hand.

Katherine Peverell, with black hair in a braided crown and the kind of stare that could hex you from fifty feet. And Elizabeth Hale, golden-haired, golden-eyed, and laughing like the world amused her personally.

"They're together," Jessica whispered. "As in, together-together. Katherine is scary. Elizabeth is scary-hot. Don't try anything."

Bella arched an eyebrow. "Noted."

And then...

Edward Cullen.

He walked like the world was background noise. Bronze hair. Perfect cheekbones. A charcoal-gray sweater layered under a vintage coat. Moody, beautiful, unreadable.

Bella looked up. And he looked at her.

Their eyes met.

And he flinched.

Like she was a car crash. Or a ghost. Or a math test.

Then, just as quickly, he was gone—spinning away with a jaw locked tight, disappearing through the side door like she smelled like old sushi.

Jessica blinked. "Okay... that was weird."

Mike tried to recover. "Want to go to biology together?"

Bella didn't answer.

All she could think was:

What the actual hell just happened?

---

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