Forest Shadows, Forks – Meanwhile
7:52 PM
Edward ran.
Faster than memory. Faster than the questions he didn't want answers to.
The forest tore past him in streaks of pine and fog — the trees leaning in like gossiping ghosts, the wind dragging at his coat, pulling at his thoughts. Rain clung to his hair in silver droplets, threaded into the bronze strands like reluctant constellations.
He didn't care where he was going.
He only knew what he was trying to outrun.
Her eyes.
That look.
That future.
He had barely made it through the meeting. Esme's worry, Carlisle's calm, Emmett's poorly contained curiosity. Jasper, tense. Rosalie silent with distaste. Alice, wide-eyed and whispering about possibilities that felt like prophecy.
"She's one of us. Eventually. She's happy, Edward. She's not afraid. She's not broken."
"You saw what happened today."
"And I saw what could happen after."
"It won't."
"It will."
"Not if I leave her alone."
"You won't."
He hadn't answered. Just left.
Vampire speed. Ghostlike silence. Something like desperation.
Now, the forest spat him out into the misty hush of the residential street. Fog curled against his ankles like something alive. And there it was — a modest two-story home with an aging porch light and a red truck that wheezed like an asthmatic moose every morning.
Bella's house.
Of course.
His breath — unnecessary, but still somehow instinctive — hitched.
What are you doing here?
She's fine. Safe. You checked. You know this.
Go.
But his legs wouldn't move.
His fingers curled into the fabric of his coat. The wool was damp. Cold. It couldn't distract him.
The light was still on in her room.
One window, partly fogged, golden with lamplight.
He stepped closer, noiseless on the wet earth. Hidden just beyond the tree line, he tilted his head — listening.
He could hear the faint shuffle of sheets.
The soft click-click of an iPod wheel being turned.
Music. A girl's music. Honest and lonely and too sincere for its own good.
"So this is the new year…"
Death Cab for Cutie.
He closed his eyes. Let the words crawl through him like ivy.
It was almost unbearable, how perfectly it suited her.
Inside, Bella rolled to one side — face half-buried in her pillow, expression unreadable. Her hair was messy and still damp from her shower. A faint patch of pink lingered on her cheek where she'd been lying too long.
She looked… soft.
Breakable.
Still breathing.
Still his fault.
Edward's jaw locked.
He shouldn't be here.
He shouldn't want to be.
But there was no denying it now — not after today, not after the impossible speed of his body slamming into fate, rearranging metal and inertia and time itself just to keep her heart beating.
And the way she'd looked at him.
Like he wasn't real.
Like she was trying to memorize him before he vanished.
She should hate him. She should be terrified.
But she wasn't.
And that — that was the worst part.
His voice was barely a whisper, not meant for anyone.
"Why you?"
Why this girl? This town? This moment?
Why did her blood sing to him like music?
Why did her voice echo in his thoughts like a promise and a warning all at once?
Why did Alice see her in their future — her hand in his, her lips against his, her laughter tangled with Daenerys's war-cry and Alice's mischief, a future where she belonged?
Because you already chose.
He pressed a hand against the bark of the tree beside him. It was damp and rough under his fingers, grounding.
He couldn't stay.
He couldn't leave.
If she became what Alice saw…
She would never see her mother again.
Never grow old. Never graduate. Never fall in love with a boy who didn't thirst for her blood.
And yet…
If she didn't —
She would die.
Possibly by his hand.
Edward's voice was a cracked murmur. "No."
He looked up once more.
Bella's lashes fluttered against her cheek.
Her lips moved, barely.
A whisper.
He strained to hear — not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
"Edward."
The name ghosted from her lips like a wish.
Or a curse.
And just like that, he was undone.
He stepped back, retreating into the shadows. The leaves muffled his departure. The world didn't notice the boy slipping between trees like a myth, like a mistake that hadn't happened yet.
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
She was already everywhere.
In his breath.
In his bloodstream.
In his fate.
Edward Cullen had never believed in soulmates.
But if she wasn't his…
Then why did the stars seem to rearrange themselves around her name?
And why did her heart sound, even from a distance, like home?
—
The Swan Residence — Bella's Room
8:17 PM
Forks, Washington
Still raining. Obviously.
Edward stood beneath the low awning of the porch, motionless in the hush of the evening. His coat hung heavy around his frame, rain sliding down its wool like a thousand tiny regrets. The street behind him had dissolved into mist and headlights long ago. Here, only the wet hush of trees and the steady pulse of her heartbeat remained.
The porch light flickered once. Twice. Then held steady.
A moth collided with the bulb.
Edward didn't blink.
He stared up at the second-floor window.
Her window.
The room beyond was dark now — no more lamplight glowing against the fogged glass, no more silhouette pacing. Just stillness, touched faintly with silver.
He told himself he shouldn't be here.
He told himself again.
It didn't matter.
His body was already in motion — a soundless blur across the gravel and siding, fingertips slipping into the familiar crevices of the weather-worn wood like a pianist revisiting a beloved song.
He reached the ledge and paused.
His pale fingers hovered over the edge of the frame.
Rain tapped gently against the roof above. The wind combed through the trees with long, slow fingers. Somewhere far off, a dog barked once and fell quiet.
He pressed against the window.
Stuck.
Of course.
He added a sliver of pressure — slow, precise, measured down to the muscle fiber. The frame groaned.
Not tonight, he begged it silently. Not now.
The noise scraped into the air like a secret being told too loud.
He froze.
Across the hall, Charlie Swan's heartbeat didn't change. Deep. Rhythmic. Tired.
He exhaled.
And tried again.
The window creaked open.
Inside, it was warm. Dim.
The room smelled of lavender shampoo and printer ink. Maybe fabric softener. Something clean, something intimate.
Edward slipped inside with a dancer's grace, boots barely whispering across the floorboards. He turned and eased the window shut behind him, careful not to let it slam or sigh.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
In the middle of Bella's room.
In the middle of her.
The walls were cluttered in a way that wasn't messy — a collage of small moments: books stacked precariously on the nightstand, a framed picture of her and her mother at some kind of beach, a discarded hoodie slung over the back of a chair.
Bella lay curled in the center of the bed like something unfinished.
Her hair was a tangle against the pillow, damp from a shower she'd taken hours ago. A worn t-shirt slipped down one shoulder. Her arm was tucked beneath her cheek; her breathing soft and rhythmic.
She looked young.
Too young for any of this.
Too human.
Edward didn't move. Couldn't.
Then—
That damned creak.
He flinched.
The window.
He made a mental note — automatic, absurd — bring oil next time.
Next time?
His stomach twisted.
God.
He ran a hand down his face. The rain on his skin had gone cold, but he barely noticed it anymore.
Next time.
He was planning a next time.
What was he doing?
What was this?
He turned toward the window, jaw set.
He'd go. Now. He still could.
But just as he shifted his weight to step back—
"Edward," Bella murmured.
His name.
Soft.
Faint.
But unmistakable.
He turned so fast it made the air whisper.
She hadn't moved. Not really.
Her lips were parted, her face relaxed. Still deep in sleep.
Still dreaming.
Of him.
She speaks in her sleep, he realized.
He swallowed. Hard.
And unlike anyone else on this planet, she kept her mind closed to him. Her thoughts locked behind some quiet fortress even Alice couldn't fully see through.
But here, now —
This was a crack in the wall.
A sliver of light.
A secret, whispered into the dark.
He moved across the room on silent feet, drawn like a prayer.
The armchair sat near the foot of the bed, blanketed in soft shadows and the faint smell of wool. A frayed afghan lay folded over one side. A paperback — Wuthering Heights, predictably — was open, face-down on the cushion.
He paused.
Catalogued everything.
The exact slope of the blanket. The placement of the book. The way one sock had fallen halfway to the floor.
If he sat, he'd have to put it all back.
She could never know.
Edward lowered himself into the chair like he was folding into the night itself.
He sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
Not breathing.
Not moving.
Bella turned in her sleep, murmuring something incoherent.
Then again:
"Edward…"
Quieter now.
Like the tail end of a wish.
Like the sound of a heart cracking open.
He closed his eyes.
It was too much.
This intimacy. This quiet tragedy unfolding at the foot of her bed.
He wasn't a guardian.
He wasn't a lover.
He was a ghost.
And ghosts had no business haunting the living.
But when she said his name like that—
Like it didn't mean danger.
Like it meant hope.
He stayed.
Just for a little longer.
Just until she stopped dreaming of him.
Just until he could pretend — for one night — that he wasn't a monster.
That he was just a boy.
A boy who wanted to hear her say his name again.
—
The Swan Residence — Bella's Room
8:36 PM
Forks, Washington
Still raining. Of course.
Edward sat in the old armchair with the posture of someone who didn't belong in anything soft. His elbows rested on his knees, long, pale fingers laced so tightly together they looked like knotted porcelain. His eyes never left Bella — not even for a breath, not that he breathed.
She shifted under the blanket. Just slightly. Her brow creased.
Then, in a voice soft and sleepy, a whisper barely above the sigh of rain on the roof:
"Too green…" she murmured.
His brow furrowed.
"Too wet…"
A beat. Then, absurdly, his mouth twitched — not quite a smile. The ghost of one. The kind that didn't reach his eyes.
"She's dreaming about Forks," he muttered under his breath. "No escape, not even in dreams."
He leaned back slightly, gaze drifting from the bed to the scattered edges of her world. There — a stack of CDs, plastic sleeves and paper inserts bent from use. The top disc was Dashboard Confessional, of course. Beneath it: Death Cab, Muse, Evanescence. Then a hand-burned mix, labeled in clean, precise handwriting:
Sad Songs Vol. 2 — For Rainy Days
Track 3: "My Forever" — Edward H. Gray
His jaw clenched. He stared at the CD case like it had personally insulted him.
Another Edward. Perfect. Clearly, she wasn't dreaming of him. Just a song lyric stuck in her subconscious. Just a name repeated too many times over tinny iPod earbuds. He almost laughed — a bitter, broken sound that never made it past his throat.
His eyes caught the open book beside her bed. Wuthering Heights. Splayed face-down like a casualty. The edges curled, spine cracked, pages softened by repetition. He reached for it before he could stop himself.
The bookmark was a receipt from Thriftway. Forks' only grocery store. Dated February 7. Grapes. Shampoo. Cheez-Its.
The receipt was wedged into the middle of a paragraph he already knew by heart:
"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
He had always hated Heathcliff. Always. Even when he was alive and foolish and thought Wuthering Heights was a tragedy because of how they loved, not why. But now…
Now he was beginning to understand him.
He saw himself as Heathcliff whenever Mike Newton's shoulder brushed Bella's locker. In the stupid grin Tyler Crowley wore when he thought about Bella. In the lingering glances Erik Yorkie gave her in the cafeteria, all nervous and hopeful and unbearably human.
They didn't know how fragile she was.
How breakable.
How precious.
Edward shut the book too quickly. The soft whump of paper meeting paper sounded louder than it should have. Bella stirred.
He froze.
After a moment, she settled again — her breath even, lashes still against her cheek. He set the book down slowly. Carefully. Smoothing the page. Restoring everything to the way it had been. Even the sock that had slipped halfway to the floor — he nudged it back with the toe of his boot.
She deserved someone who lived in the same moment as her. Someone who didn't stalk shadows. Someone who didn't sit in chairs like they were built for penance.
He tried to imagine her future. Really imagine it.
College. A small apartment with chipped mugs and light that spilled across the floor in the mornings. Books stacked three deep. Music that wasn't meant to hide pain. Sunlight on her shoulders. Laughter that reached past her ribs.
A wedding.
Charlie, older now, walking beside her, proud and awkward in a rented tux.
Her smile glowing, the simple white of her dress soft against her skin.
Edward didn't even try to picture the groom. He didn't deserve that cruelty. It could be Mike. Erik. Someone she hadn't met yet. It didn't matter. Anyone would be better than this — than cold hands and immortality and an endless need that felt like hunger and grief rolled into one.
He looked down at his fingers. Pale. Still. As useless as the heart that hadn't beat in over a century.
And then—
"Edward…"
His head snapped up.
Her voice. Barely more than a breath.
"Don't go…"
His chest clenched. That familiar ache again — the one that wasn't blood but felt like bleeding.
Then she said it.
"Stay…"
It didn't sound like a plea.
It sounded like a truth.
Like her soul knew something she hadn't caught up to yet.
He closed his eyes.
"No," he whispered to himself. "No, you don't know what you're asking."
But she murmured again — some small sound, some little reach in the dark — and he unraveled just a little more.
"I'm not supposed to be here," he whispered aloud. "You deserve more than this. More than me."
Still, she slept. Still, she dreamed. Still, she said his name like it didn't mean danger.
He exhaled a breath he didn't need. Let it vanish into the dim warmth of the room.
He should go.
He would go.
Just not yet.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, hands locked together. He watched the rise and fall of her breathing. The way the rain painted shadows across the wall.
And finally, he whispered:
"I'll stay. Just for tonight."
Then quieter still:
"Just until morning."
Just until the sound of her voice stopped echoing in his skull.
Just until she stopped dreaming of him.
Just until he could believe — for a few borrowed hours — that she had meant it.
That the word stay belonged to him.
—
The Swan Residence — Bella's Room
9:58 PM
Forks, Washington
Rain drumming on the roof like the pulse he couldn't remember.
Edward hadn't moved in over an hour.
He sat perfectly still in the old armchair, his posture elegant and unnatural, like he'd been carved from regret and left to set in silence. The bronze waves of his hair caught the weak light filtering from the desk lamp, turning the ends into something golden and tragic.
His eyes didn't blink. They never did, unless he remembered to pretend.
Bella lay curled under her worn quilt, one hand tangled near her cheek, her breath rising and falling in a rhythm that could have lulled gods to sleep. Her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink — beautiful, messy, utterly human.
He studied her face the way a starving man studies fire.
Not with hope.
With hunger.
And awe.
It's not fair, Edward thought, his jaw clenching. She didn't ask for this.
She hadn't gone hunting for nightmares in the woods.
She'd just moved to Forks.
Signed up for school.
Walked into Biology like fate hadn't just thrown her into the jaws of something ancient and desperate.
And somehow — impossibly — that had been enough.
Enough to unravel him.
Enough to undo decades of restraint and silence and empty perfection.
Enough to make the dead boy feel like dying again.
And worse — worse than the thirst, worse than the agony of standing so close to her — was the word that finally, finally surfaced.
The one he'd been avoiding since that first day in the lab.
I'm in love with her.
The thought struck like lightning across a frozen lake — silent, but catastrophic.
He closed his eyes slowly, as if the gesture might delete it from existence. But it was already there, pulsing through him like a second heartbeat that wasn't his.
He had called it curiosity. Fascination. Instinct.
Lied to himself in increasingly poetic terms.
But that word — love — it fit.
Too well.
It explained why her laugh could pierce the static of his eternity.
Why her scent felt less like temptation and more like tether.
He put his head in his hands, fingers threading through his hair, knuckles pale.
What kind of cruel, godless world lets a vampire fall in love with a girl like her?
No answer came.
Just the rain.
Or maybe that was the answer.
He let out a dry laugh — a soundless thing that barely shaped the air.
No, he thought. Not cruel. Just…personal.
A world like this didn't work in abstractions. It worked in irony.
In bitterly specific stories.
A very particular world, he mused, eyes flicking toward her sleeping form. One that likes its monsters poetic and its girls breakable.
And if he had a guardian angel — which was, frankly, a joke — then the creature in charge of his fate was either deeply unwell or had a flair for the dramatic.
They didn't just let her happen, he thought. They built her.
Like art.
Like punishment.
He could see it.
A mad, reckless angel, drunk on metaphor, blueprinting Bella piece by impossible piece:
Let's give her a mind no one can read — not even the mind reader.
Let's make her blood unbearable. A drug. A hymn. Something old hunger can't ignore.
Let's make her look like an old dream — soft lines, warm eyes, like the girl you tried to remember from before the war.
Make her clumsy. Yes. Just enough to fall, but not to break. So he has to catch her. Again. And again. Until he thinks he's saving her, when really, she's the one undoing him.
And then —
The final flourish. The divine punchline.
And toss her, full tilt, into his path. Just when he thinks he's safe. Just when he thinks he's dead inside.
Give her to him.
Edward H. Cullen.
The monster in the Biology lab.
The boy made of marble and melancholy.
Seventeen and frozen.
"My guardian angel," he whispered to himself, "is an absolute lunatic."
He said it with a kind of fond venom — like quoting a line from a play he hated and couldn't stop watching.
His eyes drifted to Bella again, as if he could stop time with just a glance.
But then the thought shifted. Sharpened.
What about hers?
Where was her angel?
Where was her divine protection?
Who let her sit next to me? Who let her stay in this town? Who decided she didn't need to be warned?
He stared at the ceiling. Rain mapped the windows in slow motion.
Where are you? he asked the sky, the floor, the silence. Why aren't you watching her?
But the answer was already here.
Already in the room.
His eyes fell back on her sleeping form. Her lips parted slightly. Her breath was warm in the stillness.
He exhaled.
I am.
He was watching her.
Protecting her.
Or trying to.
From car crashes.
From shadows.
From boys with ice in their veins and poetry in their lies.
From himself.
Edward leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like a prayer with nowhere to go.
I'm the one standing guard. I'm the monster and the moonlight. I'm the nightmare and the shield.
The irony settled in his chest like a stone.
He was her angel.
Tonight, at least.
A predator disguised as penance.
A statue trying to be sanctuary.
But still — he stayed.
Just until morning.
Just until the sun touched the horizon.
Just until he could believe — for one more hour — that maybe she had meant it when she said his name in her sleep.
Just until her dreams forget me.
He didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Just watched the shadows shift across her skin.
"I'll stay," he whispered to the dark. "Just for tonight."
And then, softer,
As if he were trying to convince something ancient inside him:
"Just until morning."
—
Outside the Swan Residence – Tree Line Behind the House
5:12 AM
Forks, Washington
The rain had softened into something more like a sigh — a fine mist that threaded itself between the trees and settled on Edward's coat like a second skin.
He stood still, too still, the way only he could. A statue abandoned in the forest.
The house glowed faintly behind him, warm yellow light bleeding through Bella's bedroom window — the only warmth he allowed himself to look at tonight. The glass blurred with condensation, the outline of her room hazy and distant. A dream he hadn't earned.
Edward's bronze hair — perpetually disheveled, as if he'd just stepped off a late-'90s runway or out of a particularly mournful indie film — caught droplets of moisture, glistening like something mythic. He didn't notice. Or care.
His coat was black wool, long enough to belong to another century, collar turned up like it was shielding him from the world — though there was nothing out here colder than himself.
He folded his arms, jaw tight, eyes locked on that flickering window like it held salvation and damnation in equal measure.
Just this once, he told himself. Just to be sure she's safe.
But that lie had lost its teeth.
His gaze lowered to the wet grass underfoot, then lifted to the skeletal outlines of the trees — tall, dark things that bore witness and passed no judgment.
"I said I'd leave," he murmured aloud, voice low and splintered. "I meant it."
Silence answered him. Or maybe the trees just didn't believe him anymore.
He closed his eyes. Saw her face anyway.
Bella, curled beneath that fraying quilt. Her lashes brushing her cheek. Lips parted ever so slightly, like she was on the edge of saying something even in sleep.
And him — sitting just feet away, drenched in shadows and longing, trying not to breathe her in.
His hands clenched at his sides.
You stayed too long, he told himself. You always stay too long.
He'd left the room before dawn — slipped out like smoke, as quietly as he'd come — but something in him had snagged.
Maybe her heartbeat.
Maybe her breath.
Maybe just the way she'd said his name in sleep like it belonged to her.
He had reached the edge of the woods.
Paused.
Turned around.
Coward, he thought. You're not her protector. You're her addiction. And yours.
He laughed, a sound so bitter it barely counted.
"Do you know," he said aloud, to no one but the trees and himself, "that I haven't written a single thing since I met her?"
He smiled — the kind that never reached his eyes. "I used to write. Letters I never sent. Music I never played for anyone. Thoughts I couldn't say out loud."
His voice dropped. "But she made the words feel... useless. Like anything I could write would be less than the way she looks at me."
He looked back toward the house, toward that soft golden light.
"Like I deserve her."
The thought hit him like a blade pressed slow against bone.
She deserves better. Someone warm. Someone real. Someone whose first instinct isn't to run.
His hands slid into the pockets of his coat, fingers brushing a small folded scrap of lined paper.
He pulled it out. Unfolded it.
One word, written in his own careful script.
Leave.
He stared at it for a long time. The ink hadn't smudged. Rain couldn't touch it from inside his pocket.
But he was soaked through. In her scent. In her memory. In the fear of what would happen if he did leave.
She'd be fine, he thought, forcing the words. She'd live a normal life. She'd meet someone else. Human. Good.
And yet —
His eyes closed again.
And he could hear her say his name.
Feel the shape of her breath on his skin like it hadn't even happened.
He crushed the paper in his hand.
Tossed it into the wet grass.
Let it dissolve.
A crow called somewhere behind him — a sharp, ragged sound. The kind that usually comes right before a storm breaks.
"I said I'd go," Edward said, almost to himself.
He stepped forward. Out of the trees. Onto the edge of her yard.
Each movement deliberate. Painfully human.
He stopped just beneath her window. Looked up. The curtain swayed faintly — stirred by a dream, or a ghost, or maybe just the breath of someone who'd unknowingly tethered him back to life.
She moved slightly in sleep.
He inhaled once, then regretted it.
She still smelled like salvation and cinnamon shampoo and something that felt like being forgiven.
"I'll leave," he whispered. "After sunrise. After I'm sure she's safe."
His hand rose. Not to touch the window. Just to feel the space between them.
Like that space might remind him of why he had to let go.
It didn't.
He exhaled.
"I'll stay," he said softly. "Just... for now."
A pause. A heartbeat that wasn't his.
And then, quieter — a voice that could barely admit itself:
"Just until morning."
—
Bella's Room — Morning Light
6:35 AM
Forks, Washington
The rain had stopped at last, but the sky still hung low and heavy, a thick gray blanket that made the morning feel like it was holding its breath.
Bella stirred beneath the quilt, slow and careful like a cat stretching after a long nap. Her eyelashes fluttered, catching the soft light filtering through the rain-speckled window.
Her breath came steady and calm — the kind of breathing you only get when you've finally surrendered to sleep, even if the dreams that came before weren't quite peaceful.
She blinked once, then again, as her eyes adjusted to the muted gray world outside. The damp light spilled across her sheets, painting them with silver shadows that danced like ghosts of forgotten memories.
The faint scent of pine from outside mixed with the sweet warmth of cinnamon—her favorite perfume—still lingering from the night before. A small comfort in a world that often felt too cold.
Bella's fingers twitched, reaching out to the pillow beside her as if searching for something she couldn't name. But there was only the soft rumple of fabric and the cool emptiness of an empty bed.
She sat up slowly, the quilt slipping from her shoulders like a sigh. The familiar creak of her bedframe sounded louder in the quiet room.
Her eyes drifted to the window where the curtains moved gently in the soft morning breeze. She found herself staring, heart fluttering in a way she couldn't quite explain—like a secret wrapped in a question.
The only sound was the steady tick of the old clock on her desk, counting out the seconds in a room still caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.
Then something caught her eye.
A scrap of paper, crumpled and damp, pressed against the windowsill as if it had been tossed there by the wind or by fate.
Curious, Bella leaned forward, her fingers trembling slightly as she picked it up.
The word was simple — one word — written neatly in a hand that looked deliberate, almost too careful:
Leave.
She frowned, the paper cold and fragile in her hand.
Why would someone leave this here?
Was it meant for her?
The question spun in her mind like a record skipping.
But she pushed it down, forcing a small, nervous smile.
Maybe it was just a leftover piece of a bad dream — a message from the part of herself that didn't quite know what to believe yet.
Folding the note carefully, she slipped it into her jeans pocket and stood, the floor cold beneath her bare feet.
Bella moved to the window again, eyes tracing the dripping branches outside. The world looked so gray, so quiet — like it was waiting.
Softly, she whispered, almost to herself:
"Stay."
Her voice was a fragile promise, a hope she wasn't sure she had the right to make.
For just a moment, the wind stirred the curtain again, and she felt something—something like a presence she couldn't see, but somehow sensed.
Her chest tightened.
And for a breath, the room didn't feel quite so empty.
---
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