Steve heard the car before he saw it.
He was still on the porch, leaning against the rail, sipping lukewarm coffee like it could ground him. His hands were still shaking. Aiden—his kid, whether the boy liked it or not—had just come home covered in dried blood, cuts stitched by time and rage. Hadn't said more than three words.
And now this.
A sleek silver Volvo eased into the gravel driveway.
He narrowed his eyes as the door opened and a blonde girl stepped out, tall and graceful like she didn't belong in a town like Forks. Rosalie Hale.
She approached slowly.
Steve didn't budge.
She stopped a good ten feet from the porch and folded her hands in front of her, not meek—but not aggressive either. Respectful.
"Deputy White," she said with a small nod.
Steve's eyebrow lifted. She knew better than to call him Steve.
"I heard Aiden's back," she continued, eyes flicking toward the door behind him. "I wanted to check on him. Make sure he's okay."
Steve took a slow breath and stepped off the porch. Not hostile. Just cautious.
"You two close?"
Rosalie hesitated. Not because she didn't know the answer—but because the truth was messy.
"We've been...," she said. "Not for long. But it was enough."
Steve looked her up and down. Studied her body language. The way she stood, the tension in her voice. There was no drama here. No self-interest. No teenage manipulation.
Just... concern.
Real concern.
"I'm not here to cause problems," she added gently. "I know what he's been through. Maybe not all of it, but enough to know this isn't the kind of thing you walk off alone."
That did it.
Steve's shoulders relaxed a hair. He glanced over his shoulder toward the house.
"He's downstairs. First door on the left."
"Thank you," she said sincerely.
"But if he tells you to leave," Steve added, tone low and firm, "you listen. He's got enough ghosts to carry."
"I will," she said softly.
As she passed him, Steve caught the faintest scent of something... Pain. Not wrong, but different.
He didn't ask.
Didn't want to know.
Instead, he muttered, "Girl like that is walking through hellfire for a boy like him. Either she's crazy... or she sees something the rest of us missed."
Rosalie reached the bottom of the stairs, the old floorboards creaking beneath her steps. The hallway smelled faintly of sawdust and iron — blood, dried and lingering in the walls like smoke.
She stopped in front of Aiden's door.
Tried the knob.
Locked.
Of course it was.
She leaned her head against the wood and sighed, voice soft but steady.
"Aiden."
Silence.
"I'm not going to force you to open it. I just…" she paused, her breath hitching for the first time in what felt like forever. "I just need to know you're still in there. Not just breathing. Not just... surviving."
On the other side of the door, nothing moved.
No footsteps. No shifting. Just stillness, like the room had been abandoned.
Rosalie swallowed.
"I know what it's like to come back different," she said. "To feel like the world you left behind doesn't fit anymore. Like you don't fit."
She touched the wood with her fingers, lightly.
"I didn't come here to ask questions. Or fix you. Or beg you to be okay." Her voice cracked, barely audible. "I came here because... I care. And I couldn't stand the thought of you bleeding out alone in a house full of people who don't know half of who you are."
A click.
The lock turned slowly. Hesitant.