Swan Residence – Bella's Bedroom – Saturday Morning – 9:17 AM
Lighting: Gray and gentle, the kind of soft Pacific Northwest light that made it feel like the world was exhaling. A fine mist clung to the outside of the window like breath on glass. Inside: cluttered comfort, the faint scent of rain-soaked pine and cheap tea.
Bella Swan lay on her stomach across the bed like a defeated Victorian ghost who'd just discovered the invention of algebra. Her chunky silver Dell laptop hummed softly, a blinking Word doc open in front of her:
Gatsby, the Green Light, and Why Everyone Was a Mess in the 1920s
"Okay," she muttered, jabbing the backspace key hard enough to register as a mild assault. "We get it, Nick. You're in love with the metaphor."
She shifted, crossing her socked ankles in the air. Her flannel pajama pants were riding up slightly, revealing pale skin and the edge of an old Buffy the Vampire Slayer sock. Charlie's high school hoodie—two sizes too big—was draped over her like a wearable security blanket. The sleeves had been pulled over her hands, which she used to dramatically cover her face.
Then, muffled through hoodie cotton:
"This paper is going to kill me. Like, murder-murder. Not even 'oops I failed a class' murder. Like Gatsby throwing me into the pool and driving away in Daisy's convertible levels of murder."
She groaned, rolling onto her back like a dying starfish, and grabbed the chipped "World's Okayest Daughter" mug off the nightstand. The Earl Grey inside was now the temperature of existential despair.
She sipped. Grimaced.
"Awesome. Tastes like regret and furniture polish."
With a sigh that belonged in an indie film soundtrack, Bella grabbed her planner off the floor and a glitter gel pen from the mug stuffed with broken mechanical pencils.
The cover read "Be the Change." The irony wasn't lost on her.
She clicked the pen like it was a detonator and read her own handwriting aloud, dryly theatrical:
"Saturday Goals—February fifth, two thousand and five. Number one: Clean the kitchen before Dad starts stacking mail in the frying pan again. Number two: Vacuum the living room because Forks' entire soil content is apparently in our welcome mat. Number three: Finish Gatsby essay, aka survive literary gaslighting. Number four: Pretend Trig isn't an attack on my dignity. And number five—"
She paused, underlining it with an exaggerated flourish.
"'Check out the Forks Public Library.' Because clearly, I party hard."
Just then, a soft knock on her door. Then, a pause. And then—
"Bells?" came Charlie's voice, gravelly with sleep and black coffee. "You up? There's, uh… leftover pizza from last night if you're not doing your… vegan vampire tea thing."
Bella snorted.
"I'm not a vampire, Dad."
"Well," Charlie replied from the hallway. "You don't eat, you stay in the dark, and you hiss at people when they talk about school, so… forgive me if I'm suspicious."
She cracked the door open, poking her head out just enough to see her dad in his flannel pajama pants and a faded Mariners t-shirt, hair sticking up like a confused owl. He held a paper plate with a cold slice of pepperoni and a very serious expression.
"Peace offering," he said, lifting the plate slightly.
Bella raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to bribe me into vacuuming again?"
Charlie gave her a look. "That depends. Did you already vacuum?"
"No."
"Then yeah, I'm bribing you."
She took the slice with a small, reluctant smile. "You're getting sneakier in your old age."
Charlie smirked. "That's called parental evolution. You'll understand when you're forty and yelling at your own kid to stop leaving pop tarts in the toaster."
"Can't wait," Bella said dryly. "Parenthood. And toaster fires."
Charlie nodded solemnly and headed for the living room. "I'll be watching the game if you need me. Try not to overthink Fitzgerald into a coma."
"Too late," Bella called after him.
Door closed, she returned to her bed, chewing on cold pizza and staring at her planner like it had personally betrayed her.
She sighed, eyes drifting toward the fog-soaked window again. Still no golden-eyed mystery boy. Not that she was looking. Except she definitely had checked the parking lot like five times yesterday and may or may not have looked up "what diseases make people disappear from school" on Ask Jeeves.
"Gone for less than a week," she murmured, "and he's already a cryptid."
She grabbed her raincoat from the hook, the mustard yellow one she only wore when she wanted to look like a Wes Anderson character but was too tired to commit.
She shoved her planner into her bag, pulled her hood up, and gave her room one last glance.
"This day is going to be aggressively, mind-numbingly boring," she declared to no one. "And I am ready for it."
And with that, Bella Swan, armed with cold pizza, literary cynicism, and the emotional range of a damp cat, set off for the Forks Public Library.
Spoiler:
There would be rain.
There would be books.
And there would be… something else.
She just didn't know it yet.
—
Forks Public Library – Main Reading Room – Saturday – 11:08 AM
Lighting: Soft fluorescents hum like shy bees. Dust motes dance lazily in filtered light from tall, narrow windows. The faint scent of old books, floor wax, and rain-soaked coats lingers in the air.
The Forks Public Library wasn't exactly bustling. It rarely was. Even on weekends, it moved at the sleepy pace of a long exhale. But Bella Swan liked that. Libraries didn't ask questions or make eye contact. They were warm, quiet, and mostly ignored her unless she missed a due date.
She stepped in through the double glass doors, Converse squelching faintly, and paused just inside. Her breath caught the air in a little puff. She adjusted her yellow raincoat hood and glanced around. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and from the way her socks didn't quite match—one had Buffy on it, the other, a faded Spike.
She nodded at the front desk librarian—Mrs. Callahan, who hadn't looked up from her tattered Danielle Steel novel since 1998—and made a beeline for Fiction. Specifically, the Comfort Authors shelf. Today: Steinbeck, maybe Austen, possibly Brontë if she was feeling reckless.
She turned the corner by the Classics shelf and skidded to a stunned stop.
There, standing like they'd been photoshopped into the room by a bored angel, were Hadrian Peverell and Daenerys Hale.
Bella froze. She'd seen them from a distance all week. Okay, more than seen. She'd… tracked them. She wasn't proud. But people like them didn't just exist in Forks. They were mythology in really good coats.
And up close?
Hadrian looked like someone had tried to design a poster boy for Gothic Romance and accidentally made him hotter. He was all dark curls and angled cheekbones, wrapped in a storm-gray peacoat and black jeans. Combat boots. A battered copy of Paradise Lost in one hand.
His emerald eyes lifted and met hers.
Bella forgot how to blink.
Daenerys, standing beside him, was even more unreal. Like a moonbeam had been dared to take human form. Her silver hair fell in waves over her shoulders, framing a face so perfectly sculpted it made Bella's stomach do stupid things. She wore layered pale grays and whites that made her look like a haunted forest had decided to walk into a punk concert. Dragon-buckled boots, violet eyes lined with something shimmery and dangerous. Her expression? Regal. Untouchable. Possibly a little bored.
Bella, queen of timing and grace, blurted: "You're real."
Daenerys blinked slowly. Then, in a voice like champagne over ice, said, "Only after coffee."
Hadrian gave her a long, sideways look. "You had two espressos and a matcha this morning."
"And yet I'm still not awake. Make of that what you will."
Bella's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Hadrian tilted his head, expression amused. "We didn't realize we'd reached urban legend status. Should we be flattered or concerned?"
Bella laughed, then cringed. "Sorry. That came out weird. I just meant—you weren't at school. Thursday or Friday."
"Correct," Daenerys murmured, already skimming spines on the shelf like she was sight-reading a symphony. "We were elsewhere."
"Places to haunt," Hadrian added dryly. "Windows to fog up."
Bella laughed again—softer this time. "You guys always like this? Or is it just when you're standing next to Jane Austen?"
Daenerys' lips curved. "We're a bit more... moderated at school."
"Forks doesn't deserve your full weirdness," Hadrian added, tone teasing.
"I'm Bella, by the way. Bella Swan. You—we have Bio together. Well, I did have Bio with Edward. But he's... not here."
Something flickered in Hadrian's expression. It was subtle. A muscle in his jaw, maybe. A pause before he answered.
"He's taking time off," he said neutrally.
Daenerys, still browsing, tossed over her shoulder, "His dramatics are seasonal."
Bella blinked. "Dr—what?"
Hadrian stepped slightly in front of Dany, instinctive, protective. Not possessive. Just... present. "He has a flair for exits."
Bella nodded like she understood. She absolutely did not.
"You read Paradise Lost for fun?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
Hadrian raised a brow. "Is that judgment I detect?"
"Mild horror, maybe."
"I read Milton when I'm in a mood."
Daenerys chimed in: "He's always in a mood."
"Only when I'm surrounded by undercaffeinated sylphs."
"You're insufferable."
"You like it."
"I tolerate it."
They exchanged a look—sharp, intimate, filled with invisible threads that Bella couldn't begin to untangle.
Bella tried not to stare. Failed. "You guys are like... if Interview with the Vampire and Daria had a spinoff."
Daenerys grinned, slow and wicked. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should," Bella said, eyes wide. "That show was ahead of its time."
Daenerys finally pulled down a book and handed it to Hadrian. It was The Once and Future King.
Hadrian took it without looking. "I promised her we'd stop quoting Arthurian tragedy in public if I read this."
Bella snorted. "You say that like it's normal."
Hadrian gave her a sideways smile. "We try to keep things lively."
"We try to keep Forks from imploding," Daenerys corrected.
Bella, despite herself, smiled. "Too late. It's already imploded. You just haven't noticed."
Hadrian looked at her, longer this time. There was something in his eyes—curiosity, maybe. Or recognition. Or something Bella couldn't name but wanted to understand.
"You're funny," he said finally.
"I get that a lot," she deadpanned. "Usually when I'm not trying to be."
Daenerys brushed past her on the way to the checkout, leaving a faint scent of vanilla and steel. "See you around, Swan."
Hadrian followed, pausing just long enough to look over his shoulder. "You might want to try Austen today. She's good company when reality gets complicated."
And then they were gone.
Bella stood in the aisle, heart thudding in her chest, clutching absolutely nothing.
"Cool," she muttered. "Definitely normal. Totally boring."
But she couldn't stop smiling.
—
Denali Wilderness – The Mountains Outside Anchorage – Saturday – 12:47 PM
Mood: Arctic stillness steeped in yearning. Cold sunlight like guilt. Air sharp with untouched silence.
Aesthetic: Early 2000s emo meets 19th-century Romantic despair.
Edward Cullen sat hunched in the snow, half-swallowed by a drift that had gathered overnight. His body didn't move. Hadn't moved in hours. A raven had landed on a branch above him, cried out once, then flown away, spooked by the stillness. Not even animals mistook him for human anymore.
His long fingers were laced behind his neck, his elbows resting on drawn knees. Snow clung to the folds of his dark grey wool coat — Italian, custom-stitched in Milan, not that he'd noticed lately — and the shoulders of his cream cable-knit sweater. A cassette Walkman lay dead in the pocket of his coat, batteries frozen. Not that it mattered. No song could quiet the noise in his skull.
Well. Except for her.
Bella Swan.
The name itself felt dangerous. Like an invocation. Like if he said it three times aloud, she'd appear beside him, smelling like freesia and warm skin and heartbreak.
He hadn't spoken the name in days. Weeks. Time was messy for him like that.
He should've let the snow bury him.
Should've gone to Iceland. Or the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Somewhere that didn't smell like her.
Because even here, hundreds of miles away from Forks, she clung to him — in the quiet between snowflakes, in the ghost of her heartbeat that his mind played on loop. Like an echo bouncing through an empty cathedral.
He should've never looked at her eyes.
Brown. No — not brown. They were sepia-tinted sonnets. Deep, wide-set things with flecks of green like moss sunken into riverbeds. Eyes that didn't look through you — they looked into you, but softly. As if they didn't want to break anything. As if you were worth seeing.
And then, of course, there was her mind.
Or the lack of it.
Everyone's mind — every human, every vampire, even werewolves on a bad day — spilled into his. A constant static of hunger, boredom, self-doubt, and mid-2000s earworms. (Hollaback Girl had nearly made him walk into traffic.)
But Bella?
Nothing. Silence.
No doors to knock on. No windows to peek through. Just… absence.
It terrified him.
And it fascinated him.
He'd spent over a century learning to navigate the human psyche. It was his safety net. His anchor. His edge. Even the most erratic minds had rhythms. Cracks. But Bella's was a blank page. A radio tuned to the wrong station.
He'd met people who could resist him before. Hadrian's mind was like an ancient vault—cold stone, blood seals, iron will. Even Daenerys had a mind like layered glass and wildfire: slippery, searing, impossible to grasp. But they were like that on purpose.
Bella Swan wasn't trained. She wasn't trying.
She just was.
It wasn't right.
It wasn't natural.
And yet it was beautiful.
He tilted his head back and stared at the Alaskan sky. It was painfully blue. Like someone had upped the saturation until it bled into your teeth.
"Would it be enough?" he muttered, voice gravel-soft, barely audible beneath the wind.
The curiosity. The mystery. The sound of her voice when she asked if he was okay. The way she chewed on the end of her pen, absentmindedly, like she didn't realize the world could watch her. The way she saw him, not just the face, not just the mask. The him he barely understood.
Would all that be enough to stop the venom in his throat from commanding his body?
Would it keep the monster at bay?
He didn't know.
He'd nearly lost control that first day in Biology. Her scent had struck him like a gunshot—no warning, no mercy. It had nearly ripped the seams of his control. He remembered gripping the table so hard his knuckles shattered the wood beneath. His jaw ached for days from clenching it. And yet…
He'd stayed.
Barely.
And now?
Now he couldn't stop seeing her.
Even in dreams he wasn't supposed to have.
What is she thinking?
Does she know how close she came to death?
Would she hate me for what I am?
Would she let me tell her? Would she believe it?
What would she say if I asked her to run?
Would she?
His fingers curled into the snow. It hissed, then melted, leaving a blackened scorch beneath his palms. He didn't notice.
He could hear Hadrian's voice again, dry and disappointed:
"You always fall for the ones you can't have, brother. Just like Carlisle. At least pick one who won't bleed to death when you kiss her."
He could see Daenerys roll her eyes from across the Cullens' kitchen table, flipping a page in her tattered volume of Pride and Prejudice:
"You're going to mess it up, Edward. You always do. Can we not be chased out of another town because you got hormonal over a classmate?"
They were right.
He should stay away.
He knew that.
He owed Bella her life. And that meant distance.
But he also knew what he was.
And what he wanted.
And wanting her—mind, soul, blood—was the most honest thing he'd felt in decades.
He rose to his feet slowly, snow cascading from his coat in sheets. The wind whispered across his skin, sharp with pine and frozen air.
He was going back to Forks.
Not because he was strong.
Not because he was sure.
But because her silence was the loudest thing he'd ever heard.
And he needed to know if the girl with the haunted eyes and the blank mind could be the one puzzle he never solved—
Or the last mistake he ever made.
—
Edward heard the snow crunch before he saw her—those light, careful steps, like a cat stalking a particularly stubborn mouse. Tanya.
Of course she'd follow. She always did.
She'd been replaying their last conversation like a mixtape on repeat, cutting out the bad tracks, remixing the words until they gleamed sharp enough to cut skin.
A flicker of movement caught the corner of his vision — sixty yards away, Tanya perched on a jagged black rock, her strawberry-gold curls tangled in the cold wind. The moonlight picked out every freckle, every hint of defiance on her skin like quartz catching fire. Her lips curled into that smile — the one that pretended to be subtle but wasn't fooling anyone.
Edward's mouth twitched—almost a smile—but he kept his face still, the way he'd learned to master centuries ago.
Tanya crouched, toes curling into the rock's rough edges, body coiled tight, eyes gleaming with mischief and challenge.
Cannonball, she thought — and launched herself off the stone with a reckless grin.
A twisting shadow flung itself through the air, curling mid-flight like a gymnast, before landing beside him in a soft explosion of snow and laughter. White powder stung Edward's cheek, the cold sharp and sudden.
He didn't move. Didn't have to.
"Edward?" Her voice was a mix of hope and apology, like she'd already rehearsed the words she wanted him to hear. She knelt, brushing snow from his impassive face with more care than was strictly necessary.
"Sorry," she muttered. "That was meant as a joke."
He let out a breath, something close to a smile breaking through. "It was funny."
She frowned, biting her lip like she hated being uncertain. "Irina and Kate are giving me that look. You know — like I'm annoying you."
"You're not," Edward said, too fast, a little too sharp. "If anything... I've been—abominably rude. I'm sorry."
You're going home, aren't you? she thought.
Edward hesitated, fingers tightening into the snow's crust. "I haven't decided."
But you're not staying. The thought hit him like a stone cracking thin ice.
"No," he said, voice low. "It's... not helping."
Tanya's expression twisted, quick and painful. "My fault?"
"Of course not." He lied without missing a beat.
Don't be a gentleman, her mind hissed, frustrated.
Edward's smile was thin, weary. "A little late for that."
She pouted, mock offended. "You're uncomfortable."
"A little," he admitted with a soft laugh. It was almost the sound of a human, the ghost of a boy buried beneath immortal stillness.
Tanya slumped back on her heels, chin resting on her fist, eyes distant and thoughtful.
"You're a thousand times lovelier than the stars," Edward said gently, the quiet echo of a confession.
Her gaze flickered, the mischief sliding back in like a shadow. "I'm not used to being turned down."
"Not by warm men," he said dryly. "Eager men. Soft ones."
"Succubus," he teased, voice lighter now.
She grinned, eyes bright. "The original."
They sat in a fragile silence, snowflakes drifting between them like ghostly whispers.
"When you showed up," Tanya finally said, voice softer now, "I thought..."
"You thought I'd changed my mind."
"Yes."
Edward curled inward, wrapping his arms around himself. "I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."
"Want to tell me why?"
"No."
Tanya's sisters were pros at this dance—far better than Carlisle, even. But Edward? He was still running—from the truth, from himself, from the darkness he'd barely escaped.
"Woman troubles?" she guessed, tone sharp but teasing.
Edward laughed—bleak, bitter, razor-edged. "Not like you think."
"Want one hint?"
"Let it go, Tanya."
She exhaled slow, eyes flickering with something like reluctant respect. Her thoughts drifted.
Where will you go, if not home?
"I don't know," he admitted.
There was nowhere left. No city or forest or monastery untouched by her scent, by the ghost of what might have been. Something real was gone—something terrifying, something warm.
Tanya slid her arm around his shoulders. He barely flinched.
"You'll go back," she said softly. "You're the type. Whatever it is — whoever it is — you'll face it."
Edward wanted to believe her. Wanted desperately to be that version of himself again.
He kissed her cheek — quick, polite, distant. She tilted her face toward his, lips curved like she might argue, but he was already pulling away.
"Goodbye, Tanya."
"Goodbye, Edward."
She vanished into the snowy night, leaving no footprints. Just the memory of warmth — and that sharp pang of guilt.
He looked up at the stars, but it was her eyes that blocked the view.
That maddening, sepia-stained gaze. That silence that asked questions he couldn't answer.
With a slow sigh, he rose and ran.
Toward his family. Toward Forks.
Toward her.
—
Cullen House – Front Driveway & Interior – Saturday – 12:14 PM
Music faintly playing upstairs: "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" by Green Day.
The red 2005 Triumph Speed Triple 1050 pulled into the gravel drive with the restrained snarl of something alive. Rain whispered across the windshield of Esme's silver Volvo nearby, mist haloing the tall evergreens like a cathedral in mourning. The Triumph's engine ticked softly as it cooled, steam curling up from its sleek body like breath from a dragon's nostrils.
Hadrian Peverell slid off the bike, rain-slick curls flattened just enough to make him look rumpled in a cover model kind of way. His gray peacoat clung to broad shoulders, black scarf unraveling lazily in the breeze. He pulled off his helmet, shook his head, and raked one hand through his curls with the kind of practiced carelessness that would've made the WB network weep.
Daenerys Hale dismounted behind him with all the feline grace of a disgruntled Valkyrie. Her silver hair spilled from her helmet like moonlight liquefied, damp at the ends, and curled around the collar of her stormcloud duster. She scowled at the Cullen mansion as if it had committed a personal offense.
"Something's off," she said, her voice velvet and steel, with a hint of cigarette smoke and secrets.
Hadrian arched a brow, unclipping his gloves. "Define 'off.' This place lives in a permanent state of Wes Anderson meets gothic horror."
She sniffed. "Jasper and Alice are the only ones home. The rest are off gallivanting in the woods, probably chasing squirrels like it's 1862."
"Lucky us," he murmured. "At least Emmett won't be around to quote The Fast and the Furious at me again."
They climbed the porch steps in unison, boots thudding in sync. The door opened before they could touch it—Alice, of course. All cropped pixie hair, striped arm warmers, and low-rise jeans like it was literally 2005, which it was.
"Hey lovebirds," she chirped. "Try not to make out on the threshold. I just cleaned."
"We don't make out," Daenerys said, breezing past her like royalty at a press junket. "We engage in epic conversations with occasional smolder."
Hadrian shot Alice a look. "Tell Jasper he owes me five bucks. She said 'smolder' again."
"I heard that," came Jasper's voice from the kitchen, soaked in Southern drawl and dry amusement. He leaned against the counter, white tee snug on his frame, hands wrapped around a mason jar of... probably not sweet tea. "And I'm not payin'. You cheated. You fed her that word last night while watching Buffy."
Daenerys didn't deny it. She was too busy toeing off her dragon-buckled boots and examining them with disdain. "My boots smell like pine martyrdom. I demand a new forest."
Hadrian stepped inside last, pausing just enough to look around—like he felt something shift beneath the floorboards. His eyes, a deep emerald green that glowed faintly under the soft lighting, locked on Alice.
She was perched backward on the cream leather sofa now, hugging her knees like a fashionable gargoyle. "He's coming back."
The air seemed to still. Even the rain on the windows paused.
Hadrian's face went still, too—his usual dry wit flickering off like a lamp switched in a blackout. "Edward?"
Alice nodded, her voice suddenly quieter. "He's driving. I saw Seattle an hour ago. He'll be here before sundown."
Daenerys, now barefoot and lounging against the banister like a doomed heiress, sighed. "And here I was hoping for a weekend of uninterrupted brooding and Gilmore Girls reruns."
"Trade you for The O.C.," Alice said brightly.
Jasper chuckled. "You two talk like Netflix exists already."
"We're trendsetters," Daenerys replied.
Hadrian ignored them both, his voice low. "Is he... stable?"
Alice grimaced. "Define 'stable.' He's listening to Debussy and Radiohead on repeat. I give him until dinner before he starts quoting Wuthering Heights."
"Closer to Brontë than Shakespeare," Jasper confirmed. "Lot of brooding. Not a lot of snacks."
"He's not going to hurt her," Alice added. "I've been watching. The future's... cloudy, but not red."
"Well, that's reassuring," Hadrian muttered. "I'd hate for our tragic love triangle to turn Dexter."
Daenerys arched a brow. "I said six words to Bella. And five of them were after coffee."
"And you wrecked him," Jasper said. "He was already cracked glass. You two came in like a sledgehammer wrapped in silk."
Hadrian slumped onto the armrest beside Alice. "Bella's not exactly helping. She's—"
"Aware," Alice supplied.
"Awkward," Jasper offered.
"Funny," Hadrian admitted.
"Dangerous," Daenerys finished, the word tasting like prophecy.
The room went quiet again.
Then Alice, ever the clairvoyant trickster, tilted her head. "She called you guys a vampire Daria spinoff."
Hadrian blinked. "I like her."
"She sees things," Daenerys said softly, violet eyes distant. "She's not ordinary."
"No," Alice said. "She's pivotal."
Daenerys began climbing the stairs, her bare feet silent. "I'm changing. If Edward starts quoting Emily Dickinson, I want to be in something more stab-friendly."
"Try the silver corset," Hadrian called after her. "You know, the one that says 'don't touch me unless you're immortal and licensed in three states.'"
She flipped him off without turning around. It was disturbingly graceful.
Hadrian watched her go, something unreadable in his eyes. Something like awe, something like worry. Something real.
Jasper moved to the windows. "You ready for this?"
Hadrian didn't answer right away. His fingers curled slightly on the armrest. "No."
"Good," Jasper said, voice low, slow, warm like bourbon. "That means you're smart."
Alice stood beside Hadrian, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder. She didn't speak aloud.
But he heard her.
She'll change everything. Whether you're ready or not.
And he knew she didn't just mean Bella.
—
Swan Residence – Living Room / Kitchen – Saturday – 12:28 PM
Lighting: Cloud-filtered daylight seeps through the blinds. The house smells faintly of lemon cleaner, cold toast, and old upholstery. That uniquely Swan-brand scent of lived-in silence.
Bella shoved the front door closed with her hip, her arms full of damp textbooks and the lingering scent of rain-soaked asphalt. A single rogue drop trailed down her temple like a slow tear. Her jeans clung to her calves like regret.
Inside, the house was so quiet it might as well have been holding its breath.
Charlie's cruiser was gone, which meant one of three things:
A) Fishing.
B) Grabbing a burger at the diner with the most depressing jukebox in Clallam County.
C) Both.
She guessed both, with a side of "he doesn't want to talk about it."
Bella toed off her waterlogged Converse — the left one making a noise like a drowned frog — and kicked them toward the mat. Her socks (Buffy on the left, Spike on the right) were officially compromised. Damp. Cold. And now mildly squishy. Traitors.
Her backpack dropped onto the couch with a thud that made the cushions sigh. The books followed like casualties of war: Pride and Prejudice, Northanger Abbey, and The Once and Future King.
She paused mid-unzip.
Hadrian.
Ugh.
She wasn't sure if she'd grabbed those titles because of his casually devastating comment about Austen being "alchemy by restraint" — whatever that meant — or because she'd wanted to prove she'd already read them, thank you very much.
…Okay, fine. She hadn't finished them. But that wasn't the point.
She hung her yellow raincoat by the door, watching water bead and drip down to form a constellation on the linoleum. A little galaxy of mud and weather. The kind of thing no one would ever write poetry about — except maybe him.
The house still smelled like lemon cleaner. Charlie had vacuumed yesterday, which meant one thing: it was Bella's turn to go another round with The Beast.
She sighed and trudged toward the hallway closet, where the vacuum lived like a disgruntled relic. She opened the door like she expected something to bite her. Honestly? It might.
The vacuum was beige, battered, and roughly the size of a toddler. It had the existential exhaustion of a Vietnam vet and the creaky indignation of something that had definitely survived the Reagan administration. Probably haunted.
"Come on, Frankenstein," she muttered, dragging it out by the handle, which protested like it had arthritis.
She plugged it in. It shrieked to life — a screechy, wheezing roar that sounded like a plane engine trying to forget its dreams.
But the noise was good. It filled the house. It drowned out everything else.
Like thoughts.
Like emerald eyes that held chapters. Like a platinum-haired girl who smelled like winter storms and wildfires and whatever magic probably felt like.
Bella began vacuuming the living room in slow, militant lines. Not neat enough to be compulsive. Not lazy enough to be careless. She could still hear them, though. See them.
Hadrian had looked at her like she was something carved in forgotten stone — like he was trying to read her in a language only he remembered. It was unsettling. Not bad. Just… disarming. Like someone skipping ahead in your diary before you'd even written it.
And Daenerys?
That girl wasn't high school. She wasn't even Earth.
Daenerys Hale was what would happen if a fire goddess decided to take AP English and crush men's souls between periods.
Bella accidentally bumped the vacuum into the side table.
"Crap."
The photo of her and her mom—Phoenix-era, sun in their teeth and freckles blooming—had tipped sideways.
She set it upright again. Stared for half a breath.
Then kept moving. Carpet, kitchen, hallway. Rinse. Repeat.
She paused at the hallway mirror.
Rain-frizzed hair, half in a bun, half thinking about quitting. Her favorite navy sweater slouched off one shoulder like it was too cool to try. She looked… well, not dramatic. Not like the kind of girl who made mysterious new students freeze like the cover of an indie album.
But still. Something felt different. Like she'd passed through a door she hadn't seen.
Or maybe—maybe it was simpler than that.
Maybe someone had started turning pages in a story she didn't know she was in.
And she wasn't sure if she wanted to be the heroine…
Or just the next plot twist.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!