Forks General Hospital – East Corridor
10:02 AM
The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead was sharp enough to give Bella a migraine. The scuffed linoleum tiles beneath her Converse felt colder than necessary, like they knew what kind of truth was about to drop.
Edward Cullen stood like a statue carved out of contradictions — dressed in too many layers for someone that pale, hands shoved in his charcoal jacket pockets like he was holding the universe together by sheer restraint. His bronze hair was artfully disheveled, falling across his forehead like a tortured indie musician trying not to get noticed by Rolling Stone.
He didn't look at her. Not really.
"I need to talk to you," Bella said, voice low. "Privately."
He blinked. Not a full reaction — more like an acknowledgment that she was real, standing three feet away, and probably more persistent than he'd hoped.
"Fine," he muttered, stepping away from the lobby chaos without another word.
They walked in silence to the east corridor — near the vending machines humming like indifferent sentinels. Edward leaned against the wall like he'd been posed there by a director who cared too much about lighting. Bella stayed standing, arms crossed over her hoodie like armor.
"You lied," she said, skipping the warm-up.
Edward exhaled softly. "I didn't."
She glared at him. "You said I hit my head."
"You did."
"I did not." Her voice cracked around the words. "Carlisle tried the same excuse. But I know what I saw."
Edward looked away. His jaw twitched.
"You were in shock."
"I wasn't," she insisted, stepping closer. "I was scared, yeah. But I wasn't hallucinating. I saw you and Hadrian standing across the parking lot. Then the van was coming at me, and the next second — you were there."
She pointed at the floor like it was still covered in asphalt and adrenaline. "You appeared, Edward. Not ran. Not jumped. Appeared. And your hand—" her voice trembled— "your hand left a dent in the side of the van. Like it was made of paper."
He didn't answer.
"You want me to believe that's normal?" she demanded, cheeks flushed.
"No one would believe you," he said finally, eyes fixed on a point just past her shoulder.
"I'm not trying to convince them, I'm trying to talk to you," Bella snapped. "I'm not going to tell anyone. I just want the truth. What are you?"
Edward's gaze slowly met hers.
Something in his eyes was too still. Too focused. Like a warning wrapped in silk.
"I don't owe you anything, Bella."
She recoiled like he'd struck her. "You saved my life. And then you just… acted like it was a mistake. Like I should be sorry you did it."
"Maybe you should."
Bella blinked. "Excuse me?"
Edward pushed off the wall, tension radiating off him like static. "I didn't mean to get involved. It was instinct. I wasn't thinking."
"Oh wow," Bella said with a bitter laugh. "That's comforting. Glad my life is just your spontaneous oops moment."
He flinched at her words but didn't apologize.
She stepped closer. "You could've let me die. But you didn't. So now we're both stuck. And I think I deserve an explanation for why I'm suddenly the lead in some low-budget X-Men reboot."
Edward's lips curved — not a smile, something sadder. "You're relentless."
"Get used to it," she said. "I'm not letting this go. Not until I get the truth."
He hesitated. Just long enough for her hope to flicker.
Then: "You're not ready for the truth."
"Oh, come on." Her arms dropped to her sides. "What are you? A vampire? An alien? Some government science experiment from Area 51? Should I start checking you for barcodes?"
He chuckled under his breath — a sound that was more exhausted than amused. "You have no idea how close you are."
Bella stared. "Wait—was that a joke or a confession?"
Edward looked away. "I don't know why I saved you, Bella. I just did. Maybe I'm an idiot. Maybe I'm… selfish."
"You're not," she said instantly, then flushed. "I mean, you can be, but not about this. That moment? It wasn't selfish."
She paused, then asked the question she wasn't supposed to care about:
"Do you regret it?"
Silence.
Then, quietly:
"Every day since."
And that—somehow—hurt more than anything else.
Before she could speak, he started backing away, like the corridor had turned into quicksand under his shoes.
"Edward—"
"I can't do this," he said, eyes suddenly too full. "Stay away from me, Bella."
She didn't move.
"Is that what you want?"
He hesitated again.
Then turned. "It's what's safest."
And with that, he was gone — all long legs and hollow regret disappearing around the corner like he hadn't just dropped a metaphorical nuke on her trust.
Bella leaned back against the wall, blinking furiously as the silence closed around her.
She hadn't imagined it.
She knew what she saw.
And whatever Edward Cullen was…
He was lying about who.
And running from why.
—
Forks General Hospital – Lobby Exit Hallway
10:10 AM
Edward reentered the lobby like a ghost of his former self — all elegance and broken edges. His bronze hair, tousled just enough to look tragic rather than messy, clung to his forehead in soft waves. His lips were pressed into a pale line, and his golden eyes — usually calm pools of unreadable thought — now carried the stormy remnants of a conversation gone very wrong.
Hadrian, leaning against the wall like it personally offended him, looked up from where he'd been pretending not to eavesdrop.
"Well," he said dryly, emerald eyes glinting beneath his dark fringe, "judging by your thousand-yard stare and the emotional constipation radiating off you, I'm going to guess that didn't end in a group hug."
Edward didn't answer. He simply folded himself into the nearest vinyl chair like his bones had given up.
"Fantastic," Rosalie said, her voice sharp enough to puncture Kevlar. "So we're just ignoring the Masquerade now. Playing the part of sparkly heroes in full view of a parking lot full of gossip-starved teenagers. What's next? Glitter body paint and a float in the Forks Founder's Day parade?"
Her arms were crossed so tightly across her chest she looked like she was restraining herself from physical violence — barely.
"It wasn't a choice, Rosie," Hadrian said without looking at her. His tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "It was instinct."
"Oh please," Rosalie snapped. "Don't you start with that I tripped and fell into immortality nonsense. She's human. Human. And now she knows something's wrong. And if we're lucky, she'll think it's a trauma-induced hallucination. If we're not, then congratulations, we're all heading to sunny Volterra for a complimentary beheading."
Edward ran a hand down his face, exhaling like it physically hurt.
"I didn't have a choice," he said quietly. "If she had gotten hurt—if she'd started bleeding—"
"You would've snapped," Rosalie finished for him, her voice low and disgusted. "Yes, Edward, we know. You've mentioned her scent approximately forty-seven times in the last week. Frankly, we're all getting a bit concerned you might start writing poetry about it."
"It's not funny," Edward said tightly, standing now. His voice was quiet, but intense. "I'm being honest. You weren't there. You didn't feel what it was like. If she'd been bleeding—" He cut himself off, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles rippled.
Rosalie's lip curled. "So your great moral defense is 'better to crush a van like a soda can than possibly bite the girl in front of an audience.' Fantastic. Let me call the Volturi now — I'm sure they'll be very understanding."
"I saved her," Edward said. "And I would do it again."
"Oh, superb," Rosalie snapped. "Let's embroider that on a pillow for your cell in vampire jail!"
Hadrian lifted a hand like he was at a particularly exhausting PTA meeting. "Please, don't drag me into this. I already played my part in today's chaos theater. I mind-whammied Tyler Crowley and gently folded a death van like origami. My conscience is clean."
Rosalie turned her glare on him so fast it could've started a fire. "You don't get to sit there and play Switzerland, Hadrian. You're as reckless as Edward — just better dressed while doing it."
"I'm wearing a Good Charlotte hoodie and borrowed jeans," Hadrian pointed out mildly. "Let's not oversell."
Daenerys, who had been standing slightly apart like a queen observing a court of squabbling nobles, finally moved. Her lavender sweater hugged her like a whispered prophecy, and her violet eyes glinted under the harsh fluorescent lighting like stormlight in a bottle.
"That's enough," she said.
Rosalie stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"You're angry. We understand," Daenerys said calmly. "But shouting in a hospital lobby solves nothing. The truth is already cracking through the surface — if not the facts, then the suspicion. What matters now is how we move forward."
"And what?" Rosalie demanded, eyes flashing. "We just include Bella Swan in the family group chat? Teach her how to handle the sparkle settings?"
"She already knows more than she should," Daenerys said, her voice quiet but unyielding. "Pretending otherwise won't make it untrue."
Rosalie was about to retort, but the atmosphere shifted — like the pressure in the room dropped an octave.
"Rosalie."
The voice came from behind them — low, smooth, and absolute.
Carlisle Cullen stepped into view, his white lab coat still crisp, golden hair gleaming like a Nordic prince, and the look in his blue eyes capable of making earthquakes apologize.
Alexander Skarsgård couldn't have timed it better.
"My shift just ended," he said gently. "We're going home."
Rosalie opened her mouth—
"No arguments," he added, in that velvet tone that made it feel like the air itself held its breath. "This isn't your crisis, Rosalie. It's ours. We'll handle it — as a family."
The silence that followed was so sudden it could've shattered glass.
Rosalie's jaw worked for a moment, lips twitching like she was still considering an emotional explosion. But then she gave a stiff nod, heels clicking as she turned toward the exit with all the dignity of a general in retreat.
Edward looked up at Carlisle like a broken compass finding north. "She's going to ask again."
"I know," Carlisle said softly. "And when she does… we'll decide together what to say."
Daenerys gave a slight bow of her head. "Of course, Father."
Hadrian stepped in beside him, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, his posture casual — but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the weight he carried.
"So," he said, voice light. "Family meeting or post-crisis snack-fest with existential dread?"
Carlisle's lips twitched into something that almost resembled a smile. "Let's get home first. Then we talk."
The Cullen patriarch turned, leading them out into the lobby. Students stared as they passed — the untouchable royalty of Forks High, haloed in secrets and slow-motion strangeness.
Outside, the rain had returned.
It was always raining when everything changed.
—
Forks General Hospital – Waiting Room
10:15 AM
The waiting room buzzed with the low-level chaos of too many bored people trying not to look nosy. A daytime soap opera droned from the mounted CRT television in the corner — the kind where everyone's eyebrows did more acting than the cast.
Bella stepped in slowly, her arms wrapped around her middle like she was holding in more than just a bruised rib. Her hoodie sleeves were half-pulled over her hands. Her gaze was flat. Focused. Somewhere far away.
Edward Cullen's words still rang in her ears like the tail end of a migraine.
Stay away from me, Bella.
Yeah, well. Too late, sparkle boy.
Charlie spotted her instantly and stood up like his boots were spring-loaded. His flannel was wrinkled — navy and forest green, like the official uniform of "I'm a dad and I care, but I don't want to talk about it." His mustache twitched with concern. He looked like he'd spent the last thirty minutes pacing in that deeply masculine, silently panicking way only a cop-dad could.
"Bells," he said, voice low and gruff in a way that meant he was trying not to sound panicked. "Hey. You okay?"
She gave him a tight, polite smile. "Hi, Dad."
"You're—okay? For real? Like, talking, walking, remembering your name okay?"
"I'm fine," she said. "No head trauma, just mild emotional scarring."
He didn't laugh.
Charlie stepped closer, still sizing her up like she might suddenly crumple or turn to ash or reveal she was actually a clone. "Doc says you're clear. No concussion. No broken bones."
"Yup. Just my pride and my worldview."
He squinted at her, like he could read sarcasm as vital signs. "Still got your sense of humor. That's promising."
Bella looked around at the too-bright waiting room, the outdated vending machines humming like overworked robots, the high school students loitering outside like this was some kind of reality show premiere.
"Can we go home?" she asked quietly.
Charlie nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, let's get outta here."
They started toward the exit. He kept close, hand hovering at her elbow like he wasn't sure if she needed support or just proximity. They passed Mrs. Cope, who was absolutely pretending to be busy with a stack of insurance forms while obviously listening in like she was auditioning for CSI: Forks.
"I didn't want a scene," Bella muttered. "This whole 'Bella Swan vs. The Van' thing is already Forks' most dramatic event of the year."
Charlie snorted. "Tell that to Tyler Crowley's mom. She's outside handing out homemade flyers. Swear to God."
Bella stopped walking. "Please tell me you're joking."
"I wish I was. I think she brought cupcakes."
"Oh my God."
He gave her a sideways glance. "It's not your fault."
"Yeah, well, it's my life currently being turned into a Hallmark Original." She groaned. "Just great."
They passed the receptionist desk. Someone sneezed. Somewhere, a vending machine dropped a Coke with the subtle grace of a freight train.
"You hungry?" Charlie asked casually. "We could swing by the diner. Get pancakes. Maybe some of those hash browns you used to love."
"I think I just want to go home."
He nodded. "Alright. Good call."
They were almost at the door when Charlie added, just a little too casually, "Oh. Also, I called your mom."
Bella stopped dead in her tracks. "You what?"
He blinked, mustache twitching in defensive confusion. "I called Renee. Figured she'd wanna know her kid almost got flattened like a squirrel on the 101."
"Dad." Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it was the kind of whisper that carried wrath.
"I didn't give her details," he said, holding up both hands like he expected her to throw a shoe. "Just said you were okay. She was halfway to a nervous breakdown when I told her it was just a hospital check."
Bella dragged a hand down her face. "She's going to call me nonstop. She's going to ask if I'm making friends and wearing a seatbelt and avoiding teenage pregnancy and joining a cult."
Charlie made a face. "You're not in a cult, are you?"
She rolled her eyes. "Wouldn't tell you if I was."
"Point," he admitted.
They stepped outside. The Forks drizzle had arrived right on schedule, soft and persistent like the Pacific Northwest was gently trying to drown the town one misty layer at a time.
As Bella zipped up her hoodie, Charlie gave her a long, sidelong glance — the kind only dads and detectives pull off.
"So," he said slowly. "This Cullen kid…"
Bella's heart jumped. "What about him?"
"You… didn't mention him," Charlie said, tone deceptively casual. "But I saw him earlier. Looked like he'd rather be in a police lineup."
Bella looked straight ahead. "We're in the same biology class."
"Huh." He scratched his jaw. "That all?"
She said nothing.
Charlie nodded like he was filing it away in a mental folder labeled TROUBLE – FRAGILE – HANDLE WITH DAD GLOVES.
They reached the cruiser. He opened the door for her like he still wasn't sure she wouldn't bolt.
As she climbed in and buckled up, Bella stared at the hospital in the rearview mirror.
Edward Cullen had stopped a van with one hand.
And then told her to stay away.
And somehow, that hurt more than almost dying.
She didn't know what he was. Not yet.
But she knew what she saw.
And she knew he was lying.
And the part that terrified her most?
He wasn't just lying about what he was.
He was lying about why.
—
Forest Road to the Cullen Residence
10:42 AM
The Mercedes purred like a panther on velvet, sleek and almost predatory against the damp Washington forest backdrop. Carlisle sat behind the wheel, posture regal yet relaxed — the kind of effortless control you only get from centuries of practice, and maybe a splash of Nordic royal blood. His golden hair caught fleeting shafts of pale morning light as he drove, a quiet smile playing on lips that could probably convince thunderstorms to wait their turn.
Rosalie, in the passenger seat, folded her arms tighter than the leather jacket she wore — a sullen queen locked in a battle with her own thoughts. Her sharp features were framed by the rich auburn waves Sophie Turner could wield like a weapon, and her eyes flashed fierce enough to melt steel.
Edward sat rigid in the back, gaze locked on the blur of towering evergreens sliding past the tinted window. His bronze hair was still damp from the hospital, rebellious strands falling over that porcelain forehead, eyes glimmering with the kind of intensity only Timothée Chalamet could carry — a storm barely held in check.
Silence hung like a thick fog between them, broken only by the Mercedes' low hum — a subtle reminder that, despite the tension, the world outside kept turning.
Rosalie's voice finally cut through the quiet, sharp and a little raw:
"Seriously, Carlisle — are we just going to wait around for the whole town to piece it together? Because if Bella Swan's survival becomes the latest Forks conspiracy theory, I swear I'll throttle someone."
Carlisle kept his eyes on the road but let a slow breath escape, his voice smooth and calm, with a faint hint of that Alexander Skarsgård charm — equal parts warmth and authority:
"We discuss when the whole family is present. No point in fragmenting our response."
Edward's jaw twitched, tension spilling into his words. "Rosalie has a point. The whispers will start before we even blink."
"Let them whisper," Carlisle replied, the quiet confidence in his tone as unshakable as the mountains outside. "We control the narrative. We always have."
Rosalie snorted, a mix of sarcasm and frustration curling her lips. "Easy for you to say when you're the one who can smile your way out of a sentencing hearing."
Edward shifted, his voice dropping to a vulnerable murmur. "If Bella had… if she'd started bleeding—"
"Edward," Carlisle interrupted gently, "we will get through this. Together."
Outside the Mercedes, the dull roar of a motorcycle grew louder. Hadrian and Daenerys emerged like rebels in their own right, slicing through the mist on the red 2005 Triumph Speed Triple. Hadrian's emerald eyes scanned the black car ahead, lips twitching in a smirk worthy of Tom Welling's quiet intensity.
Daenerys leaned forward, silver hair catching stray light, violet eyes hidden momentarily behind her tinted visor, her voice cool but teasing:
"You think they're planning an ambush?"
Hadrian glanced back with a sardonic grin. "Rosalie's idea of a surprise party would probably require a written itinerary and RSVP."
Daenerys laughed softly, voice light, "And a detailed risk assessment."
The estate came into view — glass walls gleaming like a fortress of secrets nestled among the evergreens, modern and serene, yet undeniably alive.
Carlisle eased the Mercedes onto the gravel drive, the crunch under the tires sounding like the heartbeat of the house itself. Hadrian expertly rolled the bike to a stop behind, swinging a leg off with practiced ease, helmet tucked beneath one arm like a trophy.
Edward was already moving, slipping out of the car with a restless energy, eyes darting toward the windows where the family waited.
"They're ready," Edward said, voice low, taut with unspoken worries.
Carlisle's gaze followed, catching faint silhouettes behind the glass — Emmett's broad shoulders, Jasper's pacing, Alice poised at the table's edge like she already knew the script.
Esme stood with her hands folded in front of her, the calm center of the storm, eyes fixed on the door.
Hadrian lowered his helmet, voice quiet but edged with curiosity. "They know?"
Edward nodded. "Alice saw everything the moment we arrived at the hospital."
Daenerys's voice was soft, like a shadow on silk. "And Bella?"
Edward hesitated. "Not a word. Yet."
Carlisle stepped forward, the quiet command in his voice softened only by paternal warmth. "Then there is still time to choose our words, our path."
Rosalie's laughter was bitter, edged with dry humor. "What a quaint family dinner: discuss breaking centuries of secrecy over roast and mashed potatoes."
Daenerys leaned close to Hadrian, words just audible above the settling tension. "Is this what people mean by 'dinner with the in-laws'?"
Hadrian's smirk was slow, amused. "Depends. Does someone usually throw food, or is that just the holidays?"
Each footstep up the wooden porch sounded heavier than the last — a metronome counting down the seconds until the door would close and a new chapter would begin.
Behind the glass, the family waited.
And the door stood open, patient and inevitable.
—
Swan Residence – Living Room
11:02 AM
The cruiser rumbled to a stop in the gravel driveway, the rain softening into that drizzly curtain Forks called weather. Bella sat still for a moment, watching the rivulets chase each other down the window like they had somewhere more important to be. Her hands were still curled into the sleeves of her hoodie, and her rib still ached — but not as much as the confusion rattling around behind her eyes.
Charlie shut off the ignition and glanced at her. The silence stretched just long enough to feel like something unsaid.
"You good?" he asked, like maybe if he kept his voice low enough she'd forget she nearly got pancaked that morning.
Bella blinked slowly. "Define good."
He gave a small grunt — the universal dad language for same hat, different disaster — and got out of the car.
Inside the house, Bella kicked off her Converse like they'd personally offended her and collapsed onto the couch in a limp heap of soggy hoodie, tangled hair, and quiet existential dread. The flannel couch cushions did that sad squish they always did when someone sat down too hard. The house still smelled like leftover pizza and Pine-Sol. Home.
Charlie dropped his keys in the ceramic bowl by the door — clink — then shuffled toward the kitchen. "I think there's casserole left. Or maybe enchiladas. Could also be soup. The unlabeled Tupperware roulette begins now."
"I'm not hungry."
"Right. Emotional whiplash diet. Classic."
She pulled her hoodie tighter around her like it could keep the questions out. "I just want to sit for a second and not think about the fact that I almost got murdered by a Ford."
Charlie paused in the kitchen doorway. "Technically, it was a Chevy."
She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the fact-check, Dad."
"You're welcome. It's the least I could do after watching my kid nearly get final-destinationed in a school parking lot."
Before she could respond, the phone rang — one of those shrill, plastic cries from the ancient cordless that sounded like it was personally offended it still had a job in 2005.
Bella groaned. "And the circus begins."
She reached over and picked up the phone.
"Hi, Mom."
Renee's voice burst out of the receiver like she'd been launched from a cannon.
"Bella! Oh my God, are you okay? Charlie said you were in the hospital and he barely told me anything because he's emotionally constipated and thinks 'being fine' is a complete medical update!"
Bella winced and held the phone away from her ear. "I'm okay, Mom."
"You don't sound okay. You sound tired and haunted. Are you eating enough? Are you depressed? Are you joining a punk band?"
"What? No."
"I knew Forks was cursed. I knew it. I told Phil it had 'cryptid energy.' I mean, it's always raining and there's probably werewolves. Did you get hit by a werewolf?"
"Mom. No. Also, that's not a thing."
"You're sure? Because your father sounded weird. Like, extra weird. Like, emotionally-invested weird."
Bella sighed. "It was a van. In the parking lot. I didn't get hit. I got... dodged."
A pause. "By who?"
"I don't know. Nobody."
"Bella." Renee's tone hit that particular octave mothers use when they know you're lying but haven't decided if they're mad or just dramatically concerned. "You were in the hospital."
"Minor hospital. I'm fine. The doctor said I'm good. No concussion. Some bruising. That's all."
There was a long, dramatic inhale on the other end. "Sweetheart. You don't have to stay there. If something feels off — if you're unhappy — you can come home. I can book you a ticket tonight. You could be back under the Arizona sun by morning. We'll get pancakes. I'll make fresh orange juice. You don't even have to go to school right away."
"I'm okay here," Bella said. Her voice was quieter than she meant it to be. "Really."
Another pause.
"Is this about a boy?"
"Oh my God. No."
"So there is a boy."
Bella pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm hanging up now."
"Wait, wait! I'm just asking! Your voice changed! It went all, like, tortured and longing. It was very The OC. I'm just saying—"
"I've gotta go. Tell Phil I'm still alive and not a werewolf."
"Don't join a cult!"
Bella hung up and tossed the phone onto the armrest. It bounced once and landed at a precarious angle, like it was judging her.
Charlie re-entered holding a mug of tea with the kind of stiff uncertainty only men over 40 have when trying to offer comfort that doesn't involve sports metaphors.
"Tea," he said. "Because I don't have bourbon and that's probably frowned upon."
She took it with a ghost of a smile. "Thanks."
"You're heading upstairs?"
"Yeah."
"If you... want to talk about today, or about... anything." He cleared his throat. "Or anyone. Like, hypothetically."
She gave him a suspicious look. "Are you fishing for Cullen intel?"
"Nooo," he said too quickly, then scratched the back of his neck. "Just, you know. Noticed he looked a little… intense. Back at the hospital."
Bella shrugged. "He's in my biology class."
Charlie gave a subtle dad-nod. "Ah. The classic 'he's just in my biology class' defense."
She stood and headed for the stairs. "All right, Dad."
"Take rest, Bells." He paused. "You're sure you're okay?"
She turned on the landing. Her expression was unreadable — halfway between exhaustion and something sharper, colder, more curious. "I will be."
And then she was gone — upstairs, door closing behind her like punctuation.
Charlie stood there for a moment, mug in hand, staring at the quiet house. Then he muttered to himself, "Well, hell. She is talking like a girl in a vampire movie."
—
Bella's Bedroom – Later
7:48 PM
Bella was in bed before most people had even finished dinner. Not that it mattered — Charlie had tossed her a distracted "Night, Bells" around seven-thirty, already halfway through a Mariners game and a second bowl of canned chili.
Now she was curled beneath her quilt like she was trying to disappear entirely. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her hands, and her iPod — a secondhand silver Mini with a scratch down the side — was tucked into the pocket, click wheel worn soft under her thumb.
One white earbud was in. Just one. The other dangled against her pillow, silent.
Sad girl indie rock whispered directly into her veins.
Bright Eyes.
Azure Ray.
Something with too much acoustic guitar and lyrics like journal entries written in the margins of a late-night spiral.
Bella stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused.
She couldn't stop seeing it.
The van.
The way the tires had screamed across the icy lot like the universe had hit fast-forward.
The crunch — no, the collapse — of metal, folding like foil against bone and snow.
And him.
Edward.
There, in the impossible space between seconds.
One moment, he'd been ten feet away. The next, he was in front of her — hand outstretched, eyes wild, breathless in that terrifyingly still way.
He had looked at her like she was the danger.
Like she was the one who'd almost changed everything.
And then he'd told her not to talk about it. That no one would believe her.
That she should forget.
Bella blinked against the tears stinging her eyes.
She wasn't the dramatic type. She wasn't prone to delusions or spirals or making things into more than they were.
But this?
This wasn't nothing.
She turned onto her side, burrowing deeper into the blankets. The streetlight outside cast long shadows across her walls — tall, slanted silhouettes that shifted with the wind in the trees.
She reached out and clicked the iPod wheel again.
Next track.
The Decemberists.
Something old and aching.
She shut her eyes and tried to make the world go quiet.
Tried not to see bronze hair catching the light like it glowed. Tried not to remember how strong he'd felt, like steel wrapped in velvet.
Tried not to replay the moment he looked at her like a boy already mourning something he hadn't even lost.
Bella Swan did not believe in fairy tales.
But something was wrong.
And she couldn't shake the feeling that the story she'd wandered into wasn't a romance.
It was a warning.
Sleep came eventually, but it was the kind that clung like fog.
And even in her dreams, he was there —
Edward Cullen, watching her from just out of reach.
---
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