Chapter 5: Enchanted Shadows and Enchiladas
"Some people fall for illusions. Others walk through them like smoke."
---
Forks High had its usual charm: a wet parking lot, a warm truck that smelled vaguely of duct tape and ambition, and the same suspiciously friendly students still orbiting me like I was made of novelty.
Day four and counting.
The Cullen's, minus Edward, were their usual graceful and aloof selves — silent shadows slipping through the crowd like they were being filmed in a different frame rate. Emmett nodded at me today. Rosalie didn't glare, which was practically a love letter. Jasper remained an emotional brick wall, and Alice…
Alice lingered again.
Not directly. Not long. Just enough that I caught her glance from across the courtyard while I gnawed on a bruised apple and tried not to look like I was cataloguing vampire behavior for fun.
Spoiler: I was.
"Hey Bella!" Mike bounded up to me like a golden retriever on a sugar rush. "A bunch of us are heading to La Push this weekend. Wanna come?"
La Push.
Wolves.
Hmm.
"Sounds fun," I said with a smile. "But I've got some stuff to take care of. Rain check?"
"Sure!" he said too brightly, disappointment curling the edge of his grin. "Next time."
I watched him leave, then returned to my internal plotting. I was playing the part. I had to be. One slip-up — one ill-timed hint of knowledge I shouldn't have — and the story might unravel.
And if it unraveled, I wasn't sure I could put it back together again.
---
Classes passed in a blur. Mr. Banner assigned us a cell reproduction poster yesterday— I drew mine during lunch, complete with tiny angry mitochondria. Angela declared it "horrifyingly adorable." Jessica said it gave her anxiety.
Success.
By the time the final bell rang, my brain was soup and my stomach was growling. Grocery run first, then dinner. I had a plan. A surprisingly domestic one.
Clementine rattled to life like a dragon clearing its throat, and I headed toward the Thriftway just outside town.
---
There was something comforting about grocery stores. Maybe it was the routine. Maybe it was the lighting that made everything feel slightly unreal. Or maybe it was just because I got to have full control over a cart and nobody questioned it.
I wandered the aisles with a purpose.
Tortillas? Check.
Cheese? Sharp cheddar and Monterey Jack — because we were doing this right.
Enchilada sauce? Two cans. I wasn't risking a mid-cook panic.
Chicken, onions, green chiles, garlic…
I paused in front of the spice rack, fingers hovering over cumin and chili powder. A smile tugged at my lips.
"Your mom burns pasta," Grandma Marie had once said while guiding my teenage hands through the motions of sautéing garlic. "So I'm going to teach you how to feed yourself like a queen."
God, I missed her.
Cooking had become my form of remembering. My way of keeping her close — one spoonful at a time.
I added limes and sour cream for garnish. Then a pint of rocky road because I had earned it.
---
Back at home, I beat Charlie there by ten minutes. Just enough time to chop everything, preheat the oven, and accidentally drop a spoon trying to shred chicken with one hand while texting Angela back with the other.
Charlie walked in, sniffed the air, and blinked. "What smells incredible?"
"Enchiladas. Homemade. Mild, because you're weak."
He set down his keys. "You calling me out in my own kitchen?"
"If the apron fits," I teased.
Charlie cracked a rare grin and washed up, then sat at the table while I assembled the pan — layering sauce, filling tortillas, topping them with gooey cheese. When I slid it into the oven, he whistled.
"You're full of surprises," he muttered.
"You act like I didn't survive years of Renee's cereal-for-dinner diet. I had no choice but to learn."
Dinner was quiet but warm. Charlie complimented the food twice — high praise from a man who considered pizza rolls gourmet. We cleaned up together, then I flopped onto the couch while he picked a John Wayne movie and tossed me a throw pillow.
"You gonna mock this one too?" he asked dryly.
I yawned. "I'd never disrespect The Duke. I'm just saying he walks like he's got a horse permanently wedged up there."
Charlie chuckled. "That's the swagger of justice."
I rolled my eyes and let myself relax into the cushion. The hum of home wrapped around me — slow, steady, safe.
But when the credits rolled and I finally went upstairs, sleep wasn't a gentle thing.
It pulled.
---
The dream came like a soft exhale.
No jarring start. No disorienting shift.
Just the scent of roses, tobacco, and honeyed bourbon hanging in the humid Virginia air.
I stood in the manicured gardens of the Salvatore estate — moonlight bathing the stone paths in pale silver. Crickets chirped faintly. A piano played from somewhere inside — low, deliberate notes like secrets wrapped in velvet.
Damon was sitting on a bench beneath the gazebo, half-shadowed, dressed in a tailored black waistcoat and white linen shirt.
He looked younger this time. Softer.
But his eyes were tired.
And then she entered the garden.
Katherine.
All dark curls and red lips, swaying hips and laughter like bells.
She was dressed in a violet gown that clung like a second skin, her parasol twirling casually as she strolled toward him.
He looked up when she neared, lips twitching into a practiced smile.
But his eyes…
His eyes flicked past her.
To me.
He saw me.
She didn't.
Katherine prattled on — something about the Founders Ball, Stefan's hesitance, the new dress she'd be wearing. Damon responded on autopilot, words like honey-laced venom meant to charm but never commit.
All the while, his gaze kept drifting to where I stood beneath the arbor.
Still. Silent.
Watching.
Our eyes locked.
And in that moment, I felt it — the quiet click of recognition.
He remembered.
This wasn't just a one-off dream anymore.
This was us.
Whatever "us" meant.
Katherine leaned down to press a kiss to his cheek, murmuring something in his ear. He nodded, but his posture didn't change.
She left as quickly as she came, vanishing down the path like smoke.
When she was gone, he stood slowly, walked toward me.
Stopped a few feet away.
"You keep showing up," he said softly.
"I told you I would."
He nodded, fingers brushing the edge of the stone archway. "She never sees you."
"I don't think she can."
He studied me, something like awe flickering behind his guarded expression. "You're not like the others."
"Neither are you."
That earned me a crooked grin. "Careful. You'll make me think I'm interesting."
"You already think that," I teased.
He laughed, low and real. Then, after a beat, "I should be terrified."
"Are you?"
"No." His voice dropped. "That's the scariest part."
We stood in silence, moonlight threading the space between us.
"I'm not here to stop anything," I said quietly. "Just to understand."
He tilted his head. "Then you're already ahead of me."
He didn't ask who I was.
He didn't need to.
The bond had started to form. A slow-burning tether forged not in grand gestures, but in witnessing. In presence.
"I won't tell her about you," he added, voice low and sure. "She'd ruin it."
I nodded. "I know."
The dream began to fade — colors draining like watercolors under rain.
I took one last look at him — at the softness still clinging to the corners of his mouth, the war starting to build behind his eyes.
"Goodnight, Damon."
His reply came like an echo.
"Come back."
---
I woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Charlie cursing at a sports recap.
The world felt real again.
But my chest ached like it had been hollowed out and stitched back together with thread made of memory.
Damon remembered me.
And whether I liked it or not…
I was remembering him too.