Twilight: Immortal Dusk

Forks High School – The Next Morning

The clouds had peeled back just enough to suggest that the universe maybe wasn't trying to actively murder her mood. The sky hovered in that murky in-between—slate gray with streaks of almost-silver, like someone had smudged pencil lead across a canvas. And, miracle of miracles, it wasn't raining.

Bella Swan coasted her ancient red Chevy truck into the parking lot, its engine sputtering a tired cough before finally surrendering with a dramatic wheeeeze-hiss. She sat there for a beat longer than necessary, fingers curled around the steering wheel like it might anchor her to this weird, soggy dimension where she was suddenly interesting to people who weren't related to her.

The air smelled vaguely like wet pine and cafeteria pizza instead of its usual combo of mildew and despair. Small victories.

She sighed, popped open the door with a rusty creak, and climbed out.

A blur of motion waved at her from across the lot—Jessica Stanley, cheerleader smile already locked and loaded. Bella gave a quick wave back, more twitch than flourish. Angela Weber followed with a warm, quieter smile that felt more like a cup of tea than a Red Bull. Then there was Connor, who she was pretty sure communicated exclusively through energy drink references and obscure Halo quotes. He gave her a head-nod that suggested she was now Forks-Official.

And then—oh God—there were Mike and Eric.

Mike Newton materialized beside her like he'd respawned from a save point just off-screen, golden-blond and bounding like an excitable golden retriever who'd had one too many Mountain Dews already.

"Bella!" he said, grinning like someone had just given him front-row Linkin Park tickets. "Hey! Morning. Did you sleep okay? You look... uh, awake."

Bella quirked an eyebrow. "That's what sleep usually does to people."

Mike laughed a little too loudly, cheeks flushing pink. "Right. Totally. Cool."

Eric Yorkie swooped in from the side like he'd been waiting to ambush them behind a minivan, clutching a stack of neon-colored flyers like they were treasure maps. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, and his spiked hair looked freshly gelled within an inch of its life.

"Bella," he said dramatically, holding out a flyer like it was a scroll from an ancient prophecy. "You're cordially invited to witness cinematic genius this Friday—War of the Worlds. Spielberg. Cruise. Aliens that literally vaporize people. I mean, come on."

Mike's jaw tensed like he'd just been challenged to a duel. "She probably has plans already. Like, real plans. Human plans. Not… you know. Death-by-aliens plans."

Eric scoffed. "Oh yeah, I forgot you were the authority on cool Friday night ideas, Newton. What is it this week, The Lodge again? How many milkshakes before your pancreas calls it quits?"

"I was being polite," Mike snapped. "She just moved here. It's called being welcoming."

Bella blinked between them. "Wow, I didn't realize my social calendar required a custody agreement."

That shut them both up for a beat.

Eric rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, "Sorry. I just thought… y'know, movie night. It's kind of a tradition. Popcorn, bad effects, post-apocalyptic vibes…"

Mike jumped in again. "And I thought—like—you might want to get something sweet after school. And I don't mean him," he added, shooting Eric a look.

"Wow," Bella said flatly, hiking her backpack up one shoulder. "Did you guys rehearse this or is the cringe spontaneous?"

Eric grinned. "Organic cringe. We're all-natural awkward here in Forks."

"I noticed." She sighed. "Look, I'll let you know. I have to see how much homework I've got. Biology's already threatening my GPA and my will to live."

That earned twin groans.

"Ugh, Cullen's class?" Eric made a face. "Yeah, he's like a vampire, feeding off our suffering."

Mike snorted. "Dude, don't say 'vampire.' She'll think we're weird."

Bella just stared at him. "You literally just called me 'awake' like it was a compliment."

"…Point taken."

She gave them a nod that was halfway between thanks and I need to escape now before I suffocate on testosterone, then turned and beelined toward the main building.

As she walked away, she could feel the boys silently arguing behind her, possibly in dramatic hand gestures.

Forks High might've still been a moist fever dream of social minefields and questionable cafeteria smells—but at least she wasn't invisible anymore.

She wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

—

Forks High – Cafeteria – 12:08 PM

By the time the lunch bell rang, Bella Swan's brain felt like someone had replaced her gray matter with a half-melted cassette tape—static, confusion, and a looping chorus of Where the hell is Edward Cullen?

She hadn't seen him all morning. Not in the hallways. Not near his too-perfect siblings. Not even doing his usual silent brooding thing, lurking like a marble-sculpted vampire in an AP Bio hoodie.

That should've made her feel better. Instead, she felt like she'd been left on "read" by someone who'd never even asked for her number.

She followed Jessica into the cafeteria, trying to look normal. Chill. Cool. As if she wasn't low-key scanning the room like she was about to launch a search-and-rescue op. Casual stalking: it's a hobby.

The Cullen table was a spotlight in a sea of linoleum—glossy, untouched, and radiating please do not approach. Jasper sat stiffly, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Rosalie exuded 'don't even look at me' energy in a glossy magazine cover kind of way. Emmett was in the middle of miming some kind of dramatic explosion, laughing at his own joke while shoving half a protein bar into his mouth.

Elizabeth looked up briefly, eyes sharp beneath her red-tinted sunglasses, and went right back to sipping something from a silver thermos that definitely wasn't coffee.

Katherine sat cross-legged on her chair like it was a throne, flipping through a tattered Rolling Stone with all the smug disinterest of someone who'd once made out with a drummer.

Daenerys—still the human embodiment of an art film nobody could afford—was idly turning pages in a worn leather-bound book. Her silver-blonde hair shimmered in the fluorescent light like it was designed for this kind of ambient drama.

And next to her: an empty chair.

Bella's stomach did a little backflip. Or maybe that was the cafeteria chili.

Jessica noticed too. "Okay, weird, right?" she said, dropping her tray on the table like a cymbal crash. "Edward is never absent. Like—he's the guy who probably shows up to school during summer break just to judge people."

Bella sat down, eyes still flickering toward that stupid, vacant chair. "Maybe he's... sick?" she offered weakly, even though internally she was calling BS so hard it echoed.

Angela slid into her seat across from them, graceful and serene as always. "Or maybe he's just skipping," she said, unwrapping a sandwich with the care of someone who probably alphabetized her playlists.

"Do they even skip?" Bella asked, nodding toward the Cullen table.

"Rosalie once skipped class to fix her lipstick," Jessica said. "Does that count?"

"Bold of you to assume she doesn't consider that a higher priority than algebra," Angela replied without looking up.

Mike plopped down beside Bella like he'd been waiting for the moment to make a grand entrance. "Yo," he said, sliding his Gatorade across the table like it was a peace offering. "What's up, Bella? You look... kinda intense. Did something explode?"

Eric appeared one second later, tray in hand, eyes wide. "Dude, did something explode? Because I will be so mad if I missed it."

"No," Bella said slowly, "but thanks for the vote of confidence in my destructive potential."

Eric shrugged. "I'm just saying. You give off that vibe. Like, secretly powerful."

Jessica snorted. "She's not an anime character, Eric."

"You don't know that."

Mike leaned in, clearly trying to make eye contact in the way that says notice me, I exist, I'm a whole vibe. "So, anyway... I was thinking maybe after school, we could—"

Bella held up her apple. "Mike. I'm trying to emotionally connect with this apple right now. Give me a sec."

Angela smiled gently. Jessica snorted. Eric gave the apple a solemn nod like it had just been knighted.

Meanwhile, over at the Cullen table, Daenerys turned another page. Hadrian leaned in to say something to her, his expression unreadable. It felt—intentional. Like they knew she was looking. Or maybe she was just losing it.

Bella looked down at her lunch, suddenly aware of how loud her thoughts were.

"Okay, seriously," Jessica said, eyeing her. "What's up with you today? You've got that 'damsel in gothic turmoil' look going. Very... Jane Eyre meets Laguna Beach."

Bella picked up her fork and stabbed the apple again. "Nothing's up. I'm fine. Just tired."

"From what?" Eric asked. "Existence?"

"Yes," Bella said flatly. "Exactly that."

Angela, ever the quiet observer, finally said, "You're wondering where he is."

Bella looked up sharply. "Who?"

Everyone blinked at her like she'd just claimed not to know who Batman was.

"Edward," Angela said gently, like it wasn't a big deal.

"Oh," Bella said, brushing imaginary lint off her hoodie. "Him. No, not at all. Didn't even notice."

Mike gave her a skeptical look. "Yeah. Sure. That's why you've been glancing at their table every five seconds like it's gonna sprout legs and follow you around."

"I have not," Bella said.

Jessica grinned. "It's okay, Bella. We've all been there. Crushed by the silence of a hot, mysterious guy who might actually be allergic to joy."

Eric raised his juice box. "To unrequited weird vibes and hormonal confusion."

They clinked juice boxes like it was a toast at prom.

Bella took a deep breath, glancing one last time at that infuriatingly empty chair.

Somehow, it felt like the quiet before a storm.

—

Biology – 1:17 PM

"Want me to walk you there?" Mike asked, sliding into step beside Bella with the earnestness of a golden retriever who thought carrying your books counted as a marriage proposal.

Bella glanced sideways. He was practically glowing with anticipation, like this brief hallway escort was going to end with a slow dance and a prom crown. She didn't have the energy to crush him.

"Sure," she said. "As long as you don't try to make it a rom-com moment."

Mike laughed, brushing his hair back in that boy band audition kind of way. "No promises. But I can't help it if the lighting's romantic."

Bella looked up. "Mike, it's fluorescent. I look like I was raised in a crypt."

"Goth is in this year," he said with a grin. "It's very Avril-meets-Winona."

She snorted. "You mean... pale and emotionally unavailable?"

"Exactly my type."

"God help you," she muttered, gripping her backpack strap tighter. The truth was, she didn't mind Mike. He was harmless. Nice, even. Just wildly misreading the assignment.

The walk to biology felt longer than usual—probably because Bella spent every second spiraling internally like she was auditioning for a Fall Out Boy lyric.

What if Edward was there? What if he wasn't?

And more importantly: why did she care?

(Spoiler: she cared.)

They reached the door, and Mike hesitated like he was gearing up for something. "You sure you're good? You've been kinda... twitchy all day."

Bella raised an eyebrow. "Define twitchy."

"Like... you're expecting an alien invasion. Or a pop quiz."

"Same difference."

Mike gave her a look that hovered somewhere between concern and flirtation. "If he's being weird again, I can sit with you."

She blinked. "Who?"

Mike smiled like she'd said 'guess who I'm thinking about' and he already had the answer in all caps. "Cullen."

Bella offered him a painfully neutral expression. "Right. Thanks, but I think I can survive."

He held up his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Cool. Just putting it out there."

They slipped into the room—and just like that, bam—no Edward.

His seat, the one that usually carried enough tension to disrupt the earth's rotation, was vacant.

Bella stood frozen for half a second, heart doing a weird fluttery thing she refused to name. She was relieved... wasn't she?

"Guess he really is out," Mike said, already taking the seat across from her and flashing what he probably thought was a charming grin. "Maybe he finally got abducted by those aliens from War of the Worlds."

"Lucky him," Bella muttered, sliding into her chair with a sigh.

Mike leaned in slightly. "So... this means we get uninterrupted bonding time. Destiny?"

She stared at him. "Or biology class."

"Same thing."

Bella shot him a look. "Do you flirt with everyone during mitosis or am I just special?"

Mike beamed. "Well, you are special."

She turned back toward the front of the classroom to hide the small, involuntary smirk tugging at her lips. Mike's attention was flattering—annoyingly so—but it also made her feel like she was playing a part she hadn't auditioned for.

She kept glancing sideways—at that empty chair, at the nothing that filled it.

Edward's absence left behind more than just a gap. It was like someone had unplugged a speaker and left the buzz of silence behind. Like a missing page in a book she didn't know she'd started reading.

Maybe he was avoiding her. Maybe it was about that look—that stare in the biology lab yesterday, like he couldn't decide whether to murder her or run away. Or both.

And yet… she didn't want him to disappear.

Ugh. Stupid brain. Stupid feelings. She was not this girl. This wasn't her brand.

Mike was saying something about lacrosse and energy drinks. Bella tried to nod in the right places, but her focus was drifting—drawn, again and again, back to that chair.

That ridiculous, empty chair.

She wasn't sure what was worse: Edward Cullen being present and unreadable…

…or Edward Cullen being gone and still the loudest thought in her head.

—

Forks High School – Parking Lot – 3:02 PM

The final bell of the day rang like the gates of heaven cracking open.

Bella sighed, slinging her messenger bag over one shoulder like it weighed ten years of emotional baggage (not inaccurate), and bee-lined it toward the parking lot with all the urgency of someone pretending to have a purpose.

Behind her, she heard the distinct shuffle-patter of Nikes of Eager Intent.

"Hey, Bella! Wait up!"

Mike Newton jogged to her side, blonde hair a little windswept, like he'd sprinted from his last class just for this moment. He was practically beaming.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Wow, Mike. That was fast. You training for track now, or just chasing emotionally unavailable girls for sport?"

He laughed. "Hey, I'm versatile. I can do both."

"Dangerous," she said dryly.

"I like to live on the edge."

"Of rejection?"

Mike grinned like she'd paid him a compliment. "Nah. I was thinking more like... the edge of maybe asking you to hang out sometime."

"Oh," she said, pulling her jacket closer. "That's… bold of you."

"Just a milkshake," he added quickly. "You like strawberry, right?"

Bella paused, squinting at him. "Are you stalking me, Newton?"

"Only a little. A gentlemanly amount. Google didn't exist for nothing."

She snorted despite herself. "Wow. Very retro of you."

They reached the parking lot just as a collective wave of slack-jawed awe rippled across the student body. Mike actually slowed mid-step.

Bella followed his gaze—and promptly forgot how to breathe.

There they were.

Three vehicles, if you could even call them that. More like red-glossed fever dreams parked at perfect angles near the edge of the lot like an ad campaign for sin.

The Corvette was there again—low-slung and gleaming like a predator at rest. Bella recognized it instantly from yesterday, the way it had whispered don't even look at me unless your blood type is cash.

Beside it, the motorcycle. She didn't know anything about bikes, other than "two wheels" and "death trap," but this one looked expensive enough to come with its own liability waiver. The paint job alone probably cost more than her whole truck. It was all sharp lines and attitude, the color of fresh blood and rebellious choices.

And then—new arrival alert.

A convertible. BMW, if the swooning sounds from every boy within thirty feet were any indication. It was candy-apple red, top down, seats pristine and inviting in a don't touch me unless you're sculpted from marble kind of way.

Mike whistled low. "That's an M3. 2005. Convertible. Damn."

Bella arched a brow. "It's very... red."

He stared at her like she'd just said the Beatles were overrated. "Bella. That car costs more than our town's entire annual budget."

"Great," she deadpanned. "I'll put it on my Christmas list."

Mike shook his head, eyes still fixed on the Cullen motorcade. "I don't know how they do it. That much money, that many hot siblings, and somehow not a single social skill between them."

Bella didn't respond. Her gaze had drifted to the vampires—sorry, the Cullen Clan—gathered like the final cast lineup of an unnecessarily dramatic teen drama reboot.

Rosalie leaned against the BMW like it had insulted her eyeliner. She was wearing a fitted leather jacket and jeans that made Bella suddenly aware of how aggressively not cool her flannel was. Emmett hovered beside her, grinning wide enough to make Bella wonder what had exploded recently.

Alice perched on the car door like a sparrow about to flit away, and Jasper stood beside her with the stillness of someone calculating every exit route.

Near the Corvette, Elizabeth and Katherine looked like they were posing for the cover of Goth Vogue: Immortal Edition. Katherine's scarf was trailing in the breeze, very on-brand.

And then—them.

Hadrian and Daenerys.

Daenerys was crouched beside the bike, idly checking something that looked technical. Maybe the gear alignment. Maybe a hidden blade compartment. Her braid swayed over one shoulder like it had its own agent. She wore black jeans, combat boots, and a smirk that could cause minor heart palpitations.

Hadrian stood just behind her, casually cool like the male lead of a Netflix show no one asked for but everyone binged anyway. His leather jacket was half-zipped, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable but vaguely entertained.

Bella froze mid-step.

They looked... choreographed. Not rehearsed, exactly, but intentional. Like their entire existence was a very specific aesthetic only the rich and undead could pull off.

She felt underdressed just being within five parking spaces of them.

And yet—Edward wasn't there.

She scanned again. Corvette? Nope. Bike? Nope. Lurking mysteriously behind a tree like he'd done that one time? Still no.

And even though she'd spent the entire day dreading the idea of seeing him again, her chest caved in a little.

Mike waved a hand in front of her face. "Earth to Bella? You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, too fast. "Just—distracted. By all the red."

He grinned. "Can't blame you. It's like Christmas if Santa was into leather."

Bella snorted, then caught herself staring again.

Hadrian had turned.

He was looking right at her.

Not staring, exactly. Not glaring. Just... watching. Like he knew she was cataloging all of them in her head and was maybe even amused by it.

Bella swallowed and tugged her bag higher on her shoulder. "Okay, well, this has been... fun."

"You want a ride home?" Mike offered, perking up like a puppy. "I mean, not on a Cullen deathmobile. Just me. Normal, human, reliable—Ford Focus."

She smiled despite herself. "Tempting, but I think my truck would get jealous. And then we'd all die."

"Suit yourself," he said, dramatically tragic. "See you tomorrow, Swan."

"Later, Newton."

Bella climbed into her truck and slammed the door shut just as the heater coughed to life like a dragon with bronchitis.

She didn't drive away immediately.

She just sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, watching the Cullen siblings through the windshield.

Daenerys said something to Hadrian and tossed her braid over her shoulder like it was punctuation. Alice twirled once beside the BMW and laughed at something Rosalie muttered. Emmett popped the trunk of the car like he was about to unload something heavy.

Hadrian looked away.

Bella exhaled. Slowly.

Then started the truck.

It rumbled to life, faithful and embarrassingly loud.

As she pulled out of the lot, she had one final thought—Edward Cullen might've been absent today.

But somehow, she'd felt him the whole time anyway.

—

Forks, Washington – Newton's Market – 3:47 PM

The automatic doors at Newton's Market creaked open like they were two seconds from filing a workers' comp claim.

Bella Swan stepped through them with the air of someone who'd already lost a fight she hadn't agreed to. Her cart protested with a metallic screech as she yanked it free from the line, one wheel immediately swiveling left like it was actively trying to defect to another aisle.

"Awesome. Possessed shopping cart. That's what I needed today," she muttered under her breath, flipping open the folded sheet of college-ruled paper she'd scribbled her shopping list on in homeroom. It was full of practical entries like steak, vegetables that aren't scary, and butter, lots of butter, and one passive-aggressive addition: charcoal for Charlie's cooking attempts — hastily scribbled and then scratched out with a tiny, guilty flourish.

She wheeled past a cheerful cardboard Toucan Sam hawking Froot Loops and glared at it like it had personally insulted her intelligence.

"Yeah, yeah, bird-boy. Like I trust anything with that many colors and no nutritional value."

Last night had been a culinary wake-up call. Charlie had—God bless him—tried to cook. Emphasis on tried.

He'd served up spaghetti with the enthusiasm of a man who thought 'boil water' was an optional suggestion. The noodles had the consistency of papier-mâché, the sauce had expired during the Clinton administration (first term), and the garlic bread was… more like garlic bricks.

Bella had stared at her plate and thought, This is how people die. Quietly. From carbs and disappointment.

So she'd offered, in a tone that was two parts casual and one part please don't make me eat this again, to take over dinner duties. Charlie, true to form, had grunted something vaguely approving and gone back to watching a fishing documentary that sounded suspiciously like the narrator was asleep.

Now here she was, performing early-2000s domestic goddess cosplay with a twenty-dollar bill, a grocery list, and a deep sense of existential dread.

She tossed a couple of russet potatoes into the cart, snagged a head of lettuce that didn't look like it had seen combat, and peered skeptically at the meat section.

"Okay," she whispered to the shrink-wrapped cuts. "Which one of you isn't going to give us salmonella?"

The steak she chose looked… reasonably cow-like. Which was about the best one could hope for in Forks.

Then she made the mistake of heading toward the condiments aisle.

It hit her halfway between the ketchup and the terrifying wall of pickles: a sensation, light but insistent, like static running across her skin.

That weird, weightless someone's-watching-me feeling. Like a dream you couldn't remember but couldn't shake.

She stopped mid-step.

Turned.

Nothing.

Just two elderly women having a cage match over the last can of low-sodium minestrone and a pyramid of paper towels stacked like someone was overcompensating for emotional baggage.

Bella narrowed her eyes. "Right. Totally normal. Definitely not being watched by a vampire. That would be ridiculous."

The words came out louder than intended. One of the elderly women gave her a scandalized side-eye.

Bella smiled sweetly. "Sorry. Just... rehearsing for a play. Community theatre. Very dramatic."

They shuffled away faster.

She rolled her eyes, turned back to the shelf, and grabbed a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. The label was vintage. Like Golden Girls-era vintage.

"Best by... July 2003. Perfect," she muttered. "Bold of you to assume I wouldn't take the risk."

—

Checkout Lane – 4:12 PM

The checkout teenager looked like he'd rather be in a coma. His name tag said Kyle, and his expression said My soul left this building sometime around mid-shift.

He scanned her items with the dead-eyed precision of someone calculating how many minimum wage hours it would take to buy a new iPod Shuffle.

"Steak," he announced dully.

Bella raised an eyebrow. "Correct. Ten points to you, Kyle."

Kyle blinked.

She sighed. "Never mind. Just bag the lettuce before the steak bleeds on it. Please and thank you."

He blinked again, clearly short-circuiting from sarcasm in the wild.

She handed him a twenty. He handed back change and a receipt with the enthusiasm of a brick wall.

Bella gathered her bags, muttered, "Support local business, they said. It'll build character, they said," and pushed her rogue-wheeled cart toward the exit. The automatic doors groaned again, like they were saying Don't come back.

"Trust me, I won't," she told them.

—

Parking Lot – 4:17 PM

As she loaded the groceries into the back of her truck, the wind kicked up, tangling her hair into her mouth like a very clingy octopus.

She spat it out. "Thanks, Forks. Really embracing the horror movie aesthetic today."

A dark Volvo cruised past at the far edge of the parking lot. She caught it in the corner of her eye — sleek, too clean, too deliberate. Like a rich kid's attempt at subtle.

But when she turned fully, it was gone.

She stood there for a beat, keys in one hand, steak in the other, heart tapping a little faster against her ribs.

Then she shook her head.

"Nope. Not today, stalker ghost car. I have mashed potatoes to make and a father to rescue from culinary self-harm."

She slammed the truck door shut and climbed in.

The engine coughed, sputtered, then finally turned over like it had just lost a bet.

As she pulled out of the lot, the clouds above Forks darkened. Rain began to spit against the windshield — not a downpour, just a slow, steady warning.

And somewhere, not too far away, a pair of golden eyes tracked her every move with the kind of intensity usually reserved for crime dramas or nature documentaries.

But Bella?

She had a stovetop to conquer and Wuthering Heights to reread, and zero time for supernatural melodrama.

At least, not yet.

—

Forks – Swan Residence – 8:01 PM

The house smelled like… effort. Which, in Bella terms, translated to steak sizzling in a pan, potatoes roasting in the oven, and the vague possibility she'd accidentally called forth a kitchen ghost with some overenthusiastic charring.

Bella stood by the stove, carefully sliding a steak onto a plate with the reverence of someone defusing a bomb. She glanced sideways at the potatoes, which had gone a little golden—borderline suspiciously burnt but not quite there.

Just then, the front door creaked open and Charlie Swan shuffled in, carrying the kind of weathered, "I've been out in the rain and sniffed too many pine trees" look only a small-town cop could perfect.

He sniffed the air like a bloodhound detecting dinner and grunted approvingly.

"Smells good, Bells."

Bella smirked. "Thanks. I'm accepting compliments, cash, and maybe a smoke-free zone in the living room."

Charlie scratched the back of his neck, a slow grin breaking through his usual stoic exterior.

"Mariners are on. I'll just catch the game in the living room. You keep an eye on the food."

Bella nodded, secretly relieved to see him retreat to his chair with the remote like it was a life raft.

She plated the steak, potatoes, and a hastily chopped salad, setting it on the table with a quiet sense of victory.

Dinner was silent except for the occasional crunch of fork against plate and the muted Mariners commentary echoing from the living room.

Charlie finally cleared his throat, mouth full.

"Real good, Bells."

Bella let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"High praise coming from the man who thinks marinara is a food group."

Charlie chuckled, rubbing his chin. "Well, I'm an expert on what not to eat. You're doing all right."

After the last forkful, Bella gathered her dishes and climbed the stairs, each step creaking underfoot like a reminder that the house was older than her social life.

Her room was a cozy chaos of textbooks, clothes draped over chairs, and a desktop computer that looked like it had been around since Windows 98.

She flicked the monitor awake; it protested with a slow, flickering groan like it hadn't seen sunlight since dial-up was a thing.

Three emails blinked at her inbox.

From: Mom (x3)

Subject: Where ARE you??

Email #1 (10:14 AM)

Bells,

Did you make it to school okay? Is the truck still alive? Did you eat breakfast? Are you warm enough? Don't trust any cafeteria meat that smells like cat food.

Love you!

—Mom

Email #2 (12:47 PM)

You haven't replied yet, which means either:

a) You're dead

b) You made a friend and ditched your phone

c) You've joined a cult (I hear they love the Pacific Northwest)

CALL ME.

Love again,

—Mom

Email #3 (4:06 PM)

I'm sending the National Guard.

Bella rolled her eyes so hard she swore she felt the back of her skull tingle. She smiled anyway, fingers already hovering over the keyboard.

To: Mom

Subject: Chill.

Sent: 8:23 PM

Hi Mom,

Still alive. Truck's intact (mostly). School's weird — everyone's friendly in a "have you been vaccinated?" kinda way.

Cooked dinner because Dad apparently thinks marinara is a food group.

Also, not in a cult. Yet.

Love,

Bells

She hit send, leaned back in her chair, and pulled out her battered copy of Wuthering Heights from the desk.

Flipping to the assigned chapters, her eyes skimmed past the familiar margins filled with snarky notes: "Heathcliff needs therapy," "Cathy, please dial down the drama," and "Seriously, why is everyone so mad all the time?"

She'd read the book so many times it was basically muscle memory, but this reread felt heavier. Like the gray skies outside were somehow pressing down on the pages.

Or maybe it was the Cullens.

Specifically, the one who hadn't been there today.

The absence of Edward Cullen was this invisible weight on her chest, like a sentence left unfinished or a melody missing its chorus.

Bella swallowed and turned the page.

—

Outside – Just Beyond the Tree Line – 8:42 PM

The forest was breathing in that quiet, timeless way only old woods can—the kind of silence where shadows lean closer, and even the wind seems to hold its breath.

Daenerys crouched low on a mossy ledge halfway up the ridge behind the Swan house, her pale fingers curling tightly around a slender branch, like a queen gripping the last thread of her throne. Her silver hair caught the fading sunlight, a subtle halo that made her violet eyes shimmer with something fierce and… wistful.

"She burns steak," she said softly, voice dripping with amused disbelief.

Hadrian lounged against the rough bark of an ancient cedar, emerald eyes half-lidded but alert. His dark hair fell casually across his forehead, the kind of effortless charm that made the woods themselves seem to lean in.

"Most humans do," he replied with a lazy shrug, that signature half-smile tugging at his lips. "It's practically a rite of passage."

Daenerys snorted, a delicate sound laced with sarcasm. "She made Charlie Swan eat it."

Hadrian chuckled, shaking his head. "That's what fathers are for. Culinary sacrifices in the name of survival."

"She reads Brontë like she's in some epic battle against fictional heartbreak," Daenerys mused, her gaze drifting down toward the house below, where a single light flickered behind a window.

Hadrian's lips twitched. "And talks to her computer like it owes her a hundred bucks."

Daenerys arched a slender brow, shooting him a sideways glance that was half challenge, half invitation.

"Seriously though," she said, voice dipping lower, almost conspiratorial, "she's… not like the others."

Hadrian's emerald eyes found hers, sharp and steady, the faintest spark of something tender and protective flickering between them.

"No," he agreed quietly, voice like velvet wrapped in steel. "She isn't."

The wind stirred, threading cool fingers through the evergreens, rustling the branches as if whispering secrets that only predators—and protectors—could understand.

They sat in companionable silence, two ancient souls tangled in the subtle dance of connection, watching the faint glow of Bella's bedroom light pulse gently in the dusk.

The shadow of her silhouette against the desk was small, vulnerable, utterly unaware.

Daenerys exhaled, a soft breath that brushed Hadrian's cheek like a promise.

"She's oblivious—for now."

Hadrian's gaze darkened with resolve, emerald eyes burning brighter.

"Not for long."

Their fingers brushed briefly as the wind whispered again, and for a heartbeat, the world felt suspended—between past and future, between danger and desire.

The trees held their secrets.

But the watchers had arrived.

---

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