Forks — Edge of the Forest Overlooking Swan Residence
12:07 AM March 2005
Mist hugged the treetops like breath on glass, a silver halo over sleepy Forks. Everything was still—all sound muffled under the hush of midnight fog and the occasional bark of a restless neighborhood dog. Streetlamps flickered softly, casting dull yellow halos over driveways and porches like tired sentinels.
Perched on a mossy ledge above it all, four silhouettes stood watching a quiet house with a second-story window cracked just wide enough to let in the scent of cedar and rain.
Bella's room.
Edward didn't move.
He stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of a faded gray hoodie, jaw clenched, bronze hair haloed by moonlight. Every nerve in his body was tuned to the rhythmic metronome of her heartbeat, even through the walls. She was asleep. Breathing slowly. Safely.
For now.
"You know," Hadrian said, his deep voice breaking the stillness, "if you stare any harder, her dreams might file a restraining order."
Edward didn't flinch. "She's vulnerable."
"She's asleep," Hadrian countered, emerald eyes narrowing slightly. "Which, in case you forgot, is when most humans are vulnerable. Unless you plan to duct-tape yourself to the underside of her bed, you gotta let her rest."
Jasper let out a low chuckle. "Could duct-tape himself to the roof instead. That way he could guard and moonlight as a weathervane."
Emmett, crouched on a branch the size of a Prius, smirked. "Bro, not gonna lie, it's getting real Edward Scissorhands up here. You even look like a Tim Burton character tonight."
"I don't cry," Edward muttered without looking at them.
"You hummed 'Fix You' while draining that deer," Emmett said flatly. "That's basically a Coldplay confession."
Hadrian stepped up beside Edward, clapped a heavy, gloved hand on his shoulder, and said with mock solemnity, "If you start quoting Keats, I'm staging an intervention."
Edward just shook his head. "I'll be back before sunrise."
"Alice says her dreams are mellow. No spikes. No visions," Jasper said, his drawl smooth as bourbon. "Dany's keepin' close too. Girl's got more backup than the President on prom night."
Hadrian arched an eyebrow. "And you? You gonna actually hunt next time or just vibe in tree branches like a sad vampire bat?"
"I'll hunt tomorrow."
"Sure," Emmett snorted. "You said that yesterday. Then you just kinda... brooded near squirrels."
Edward turned, finally, and gave them a look that was half exasperation, half exhaustion. "You done?"
"Yup," Hadrian grinned. "Our emo prince has been properly roasted. Now let's bounce before the mist makes my curls do something tragic."
The trio peeled back from the ledge and started slipping into the tree line. They weren't running yet, just pacing fast and smooth, until Emmett suddenly perked up.
"Race?"
Jasper's grin was immediate. "Aw, hell yeah."
Hadrian turned slowly, hands in his coat pockets, unimpressed. "You two really want to race me? The guy who dodged a lightning strike while doing cartwheels through a snowstorm in Iceland?"
"No teleporting," Emmett said, already stretching his hamstrings like a linebacker about to launch.
"No smoke spells," Jasper added, loosening his jacket.
"No shifting time, slowing gravity, or other wizard-y hacks," Emmett finished.
Hadrian gave them both a look of theatrical patience. "You want a race? Fine. You'll both lose. But I admire the optimism."
He unbuttoned his coat, draped it over a low branch like he was hanging up a tuxedo at a dinner party, and rolled his neck until it cracked.
"Back porch of the Cullen house?" he confirmed.
"On the deck. No shortcuts. No detours," Jasper said.
Hadrian narrowed his eyes. "You've definitely got something planned."
"Us?" Emmett said, feigning offense. "I would never cheat in a race."
Hadrian grinned, wide and wolfish. "Good. Neither would I."
They lined up in a small clearing, crouched low like sprinters on the edge of Olympic history. The forest held its breath.
"On three," Emmett said. "One..."
Hadrian's eyes sparked.
"Two..."
Jasper tensed like a loaded crossbow.
"Three."
They vanished.
The clearing imploded with movement—a thunderous ripple of leaves and shattered branches. The trees themselves seemed to flinch as three blurs shot through the forest like gods playing tag with time.
And high above it all, in the shadowed canopy, Edward remained—silent as a statue, eyes trained on a warm yellow glow just beyond the curtain of mist.
Bella Swan stirred in her sleep, brow furrowing, then smoothing.
And in the forest below, the race was on.
—
Cullen Territory — Near the Riverbend
12:31 AM March 2005
The forest wasn't a blur. It was a watercolor painting mid-splash—branches streaking by, mud flinging sideways, the whole world tilted forward like it wanted to keep up with them but couldn't.
Hadrian didn't run like the others.
Where Emmett thundered and Jasper ghosted, Hadrian glided. Feet barely kissed the mossy earth before another impossible stride launched him forward. He moved with the physics-breaking elegance of something half-angel, half-algorithm. Emerald eyes lit the path like twin headlights in the fog.
But he wasn't sprinting. Not yet.
He'd let Emmett and Jasper bolt ahead at the starting line, faking a lazy shrug and exaggerated stretch like he had all the time in the world. He did. That was the problem.
He heard Emmett before he saw him.
Crunch. Snap. Deliberate footfalls like a linebacker trying to sneak through a cornfield.
Hadrian cocked his head. "Already? That's the best you got?"
Emmett surged out from the side trail like a linebacker in Timberlands, blocking a game path with his massive frame. "Oops," he said, grinning. "Guess this trail's closed for renovations."
Hadrian didn't slow. He leapt.
One step onto a gnarled root, one push, and he was airborne—spinning, coat flaring behind him like a midnight banner. He flipped right over Emmett's head and landed light as a shadow on the slope beyond.
"That was showboating!" Emmett called after him.
"That was me being polite!" Hadrian shouted back, already gone.
The trees ahead pressed tighter together. Darker. Denser. Moss coated everything like velvet skin. It was the kind of forest most people dreamed about getting lost in, then woke up sweating.
Jasper appeared to the left. Of course he did. Hair tousled, eyes narrowed, that Southern smirk playing on his face like he knew a secret and half the Bible. "Well now," he drawled, "look who figured out how to fly."
"I'll autograph your boots when I lap you," Hadrian said.
Jasper chuckled. Then angled left, trying to herd him into the ravine.
Classic pincer.
Hadrian smiled. He could practically hear their internal monologue: funnel the speedster, trap him in the root-dense gulley, force him to slow.
Cute.
He dropped low, then exploded up with a blast of speed that shook two pine branches loose from twenty feet above. His boots found a slanted trunk. His momentum found the rest.
CRACK.
He rebounded off bark like a pinball, now twenty feet above their trap, and landed mid-slope like a cat made of thunder.
Every step after that was a cannon blast. The moss beneath his soles scorched in his wake. Not magic, not entirely—just raw physics made traitor by what lived in his blood now.
Magic + Venom = Supercharged Kinetics.
He wasn't running anymore. He was detonating forward.
Five minutes later, the river came into view.
It cut through the forest like a scar, broad and fast and spitting mist into the air. The moonlight caught on the rapids, turning the surface into broken glass.
Emmett reached it first.
"YOLO!" he whooped, launching across the ten-foot gap with enough force to shake the opposite bank. He landed with a grunt and a fist-pound.
Jasper followed like a shadow in his wake—clean, precise, a crouch so smooth it looked choreographed.
Hadrian?
He didn't slow.
He didn't even aim for the edge.
Three strides back. One deep breath. And then:
BOOM.
The ground cracked. Trees shivered. A squirrel fell from a branch fifty feet up.
Hadrian flew. Not leapt. Flew.
Coat snapping behind him like a cape caught in a storm, boots blazing through the air, eyes narrowed like he was chasing a god.
He cleared the river. Cleared them both. Cleared twenty more feet.
And landed in a crouch fifty feet past the opposite bank, fist in the dirt, steam rising from his boots like he'd just punched a hole in time itself.
Emmett stumbled to a stop. "Dude. What the actual hell."
Jasper blinked. "I think we just got lapped in our own dream."
Hadrian stood, dusted off his sleeves, turned with that perfectly smug smirk. "Gentlemen," he said, "I told you not to race the wizard."
Then he vanished.
A sonic boom of air, a whisper of wind, and he was gone.
Somewhere far ahead, the Cullen house porch light blinked on—a finish line glowing gold in the mist.
And the leaves behind him swirled like applause.
—
Bella Swan's Bedroom — 12:39 AM March 2005
Location: Forks, Washington.
Status: Shadowed. Sacred. Framed in moonlight and the weight of unsaid things.
The window surrendered with the softest creak.
Just a whisper. Just enough.
A figure slipped through—fluid and still and utterly soundless. As if the air itself welcomed him in.
Edward moved with unnatural grace, his boots brushing the floor like silk dragged over glass. Not a floorboard groaned beneath him. Not a breeze stirred. Even the night seemed to pause to make room for him.
And there she was.
Bella Swan.
Curled into herself on the narrow mattress, framed by flannel sheets and the deep hush of 1 AM. The curtains stirred faintly in the draft, letting in just enough silver light to paint her skin in something close to divinity. Her hair, dark mahogany and softly tangled, spilled over her pillow like ink across parchment.
She was breathtaking.
She was human.
She was everything.
Edward froze. Just for a moment.
His hands stayed clenched in the pockets of his hoodie. Bronze hair tousled from wind and obsession. His eyes, impossibly golden in the dark, swept over her face like they were memorizing every fragile line.
A single heartbeat pulsed in the room.
Hers.
He heard every flutter. Every stutter. Every rise and fall of her chest like music played through cathedral halls. Her breathing caught suddenly, uneven.
She shivered.
The blanket had slipped low around her waist. One bare shoulder rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep. Goosebumps dotted her skin. And still, she didn't wake.
She trusts this space, Edward thought. She trusts this room. This night. She doesn't know what's watching her.
He hated himself for being here. And he couldn't leave.
He wanted to turn away. To flee into the dark before he could make another mistake. Before the thirst returned. Before her scent—warm sugar, rain, and heartbeat—unraveled the last thread of restraint in him.
But then she whispered—
"…Edward…"
Barely audible.
A syllable shaped in sleep. Not spoken with fear. Not laced with panic. It was soft. Threadbare with yearning. Like a prayer she didn't know she was making.
His world stopped.
His breath, which he hadn't taken in hours, locked in his throat like a scream he refused to let out.
The ache in his chest bloomed all at once. Sharp. Eternal.
She was dreaming of him.
Of him.
Not the monster. Not the predator. Not the mistake in eternal skin.
Him.
He looked around. Instinctively.
There—a handmade quilt, folded over the back of the reading chair. Cotton and flannel, faded with age. A patchwork of childhood. Something clearly stitched by a mother who meant well and a daughter who kept it anyway.
Edward crossed the room in less than a breath.
No rustle. No shift. Just the sound of silence adjusting to include him again.
He lifted the quilt gently and unfolded it, shaking it once like a flag of surrender. He approached the bed slowly—like she might wake, like she might vanish—and draped it across her with surgical precision.
As it touched her skin, she exhaled. A sigh like summer wind slipping through pine trees.
Her body relaxed.
Her pulse slowed.
And then—
"…you came back…"
It was barely a whisper. Less a sentence than a secret, left on her lips by whatever dream had tangled its fingers in her heart.
Edward staggered backward like he'd been punched.
He sank into the armchair by her desk, his posture sharp and too still. His fingers gripped the armrests. Not out of tension. Not entirely. But to keep from reaching for her.
He watched.
And waited.
And unraveled, slowly.
This wasn't love. What he felt defied that word.
Love was simple. Love was ordinary. This—this was devotion carved from guilt and longing, obsession softened by awe. He didn't deserve to be here. He didn't deserve to want to be here. And yet…
He didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't move.
Time slowed. Not because of magic. But because she was the only thing in it worth measuring.
Her lips parted once more. She shifted again, fingers clutching the edge of the quilt like it was an anchor.
Edward swallowed nothing.
Don't touch her. Don't wake her. Don't ruin this.
But a part of him—the selfish, desperate, monstrous part—wanted to be ruined.
Outside the room, the night carried on. Wind moved through trees. The river snarled. Somewhere in the distant forest, Emmett probably tackled Jasper into a mud pit while Hadrian leapt over them both like a Greek god with a caffeine problem.
But none of that mattered.
Because Bella Swan was sleeping.
And she was dreaming of him.
And for one blessed, borrowed night—
That was enough.
—
Bella Swan's Bedroom — 7:42 AM Saturday, March 12th, 2005
Weather: Unnaturally clear. Mood: Suspiciously soft. Dreams: Still clinging to her skin like perfume.
Sunlight woke her.
Not her alarm. Not the floorboard that creaked by her door when Charlie went downstairs for coffee. Not the usual grey haze of Forks' morning gloom. But real, golden sunlight.
It touched her face like a whisper. Slow. Patient. Like the warmth knew it wasn't supposed to be here and was trying not to wake her too fast. Bella stirred, burrowing deeper into her pillow before cracking one eye open.
And blinked.
Sun?
The word echoed in her still-sleepy brain, fuzzy and disbelieving. It streamed through the cracked window in a perfect line—glinting off the spines of her paperbacks, catching the dust motes in the air like floating sparks.
She rolled onto her back, letting the quilt slide a little from her shoulder, only to stop.
Quilt?
Bella sat up slowly, brows knitting as she glanced down at the weight across her chest. It was warm, familiar—not her usual blanket, but the old patchwork quilt her mom had mailed from Phoenix last fall. The one she always kept folded on the armchair across the room. The one she hadn't touched in weeks.
Her stomach fluttered.
She turned, eyes landing on the armchair.
Empty.
Of course.
Still…
There was something about the air. The way it held onto warmth. Not just the kind left by the sun, but something quieter. Slower. Like memory or maybe—
She closed her eyes.
He was here.
The thought came uninvited, but didn't feel wrong. It settled into her ribs like a second heartbeat, fragile and impossible but… true.
She remembered the dream. Vaguely. Pieces of it clung to her like static after a thunderstorm. Bronze hair and a voice like music underwater. A hand brushing her shoulder. Her own voice, soft as a secret, whispering his name—
"Edward."
She'd said it aloud.
Hadn't she?
Bella tugged the quilt tighter, curling her knees up and burying her face in the flannel for a second. The fabric smelled like her room, like the cedar dresser and clean detergent—but something else too. Something almost cold. Almost gone.
Her heart thudded louder.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, toes curling against the floorboards. She padded across the room to the window, the quilt dragging behind her like a velvet cape. The glass was cool beneath her fingertips as she pressed her palm to it.
Cracked open, just a little.
Like someone had left.
Or come in.
Stop it, she told herself. Don't make up stories just because you miss him. Don't start believing in magic just because you want to.
But the truth was, she already had. Somewhere between the first time he saved her and the first time he looked at her like she wasn't breakable at all.
She whispered, quieter than breath, "You came back."
Her reflection stared back at her—pale, sleep-rumpled, haunted. But not afraid. Not even a little. If anything, she looked like someone who'd been found in the middle of the night and tucked in without a sound.
Her stomach fluttered again.
Downstairs, the coffee pot sputtered to life. She could hear Charlie flipping channels—something about the Mariners, static, the dull slam of the refrigerator.
Saturday.
Sunlight in Forks.
And the feeling, heavy and warm and wholly unexplainable, that she had not slept alone.
Bella turned back toward the bed and sat slowly, running her hands over the soft patchwork on her lap. Her fingers caught on a loose thread—one she knew hadn't been there yesterday. It was the kind of detail she wouldn't normally notice. But this morning?
She noticed everything.
—
Newton's Olympic Outfitters Parking Lot – 9:28 AM Saturday, March 12th, 2005 Weather: Sunny and morally inconvenient. Vibe: Social landmine. Motivation: Low, but functioning.
Bella's truck sputtered into the parking lot like it had smoked a pack on the way over. The engine coughed one last time before rattling to silence, a gravelly punctuation to her anxiety.
She took a breath. Then another. Then opened the door like it might explode.
Eight—no, ten—kids were already gathered outside Newton's, loitering around cars and curb edges like they were shooting the deleted scene of a low-budget teen drama. Someone had a boom box quietly playing Sum 41.
Hoodies. Beanies. Flip phones. Gas station coffee in Styrofoam cups. And way too many mirrored sunglasses for a town that hadn't seen sunlight since Clinton left office.
Bella slid out of the cab and immediately regretted her outfit. Flannel over a tank top and jeans felt more Forks than sunshine and social combat, but the damage was done. She tucked her hands in her pockets and walked toward the group.
"Bella!" Mike Newton called, practically jogging up to her like a Labrador retriever who'd learned to walk upright. His blond hair was aggressively gelled, and his blue Polartech fleece looked like it had come straight from the REI clearance rack. "Hey! You made it!"
Bella offered a small smile. "Morning."
She caught Lauren Mallory's eyes immediately. The tall, leggy blonde was draped across the hood of a black Jeep Wrangler like she was doing an ad for Hollister. Her sunglasses slid down her nose just enough to show the full weight of her disdain.
"Nice of you to show up," Lauren said, lips curled into a smile that wasn't one. "We were almost ready to leave."
"You say that every Saturday," Jessica Stanley said, brushing past her with a sigh and a flip of her ponytail. Her oversized sunglasses made her look like a bug from a 2005 Chanel runway.
"It's kind of her thing," Bella murmured to Angela, who stifled a laugh as she organized snack bags into the trunk of the Suburban.
Mike clapped his hands. "Alright, people, car assignments! Taking the Suburban. Room for eight, nine if someone sacrifices elbow room."
Bella could already see the expectation in Mike's eyes. The subtle tilt of his body toward the front passenger side. The hopeful glance. She also caught the faint glance Jessica threw Bella's way. It wasn't sharp. But it was calculated.
Jessica didn't hate Bella. Not exactly. But Bella knew the fragile glass of teenage alliances. One wrong move and you were officially That Girl.
So she made the move.
"You should sit up front, Jess," Bella said, shrugging as she adjusted the strap on her backpack. "I'll grab a spot in the back."
Jessica blinked. Then lit up like a Christmas tree.
"Seriously? Thanks! That's so sweet."
"No problem."
Mike stammered something unintelligible. Tyler, who had been leaning against a silver Civic like he was posing for Fast & Furious: Pacific Northwest, let out a loud whoop and made a beeline for the middle row. "Window seat! Called it! For science."
Eric Yorkie rolled his eyes. "You're not aerodynamic, bro. You're just annoying."
"Same difference," Tyler shot back, already climbing in.
Angela offered Bella a grateful smile from the opposite door.
Lauren just watched the whole thing like she was witnessing a soap opera written beneath her station. "Hope the back seat's comfy, Bella."
"I've survived worse," Bella said softly, mostly to herself.
She crawled into the far corner of the SUV, tucking herself between a bag of Red Vines and someone's hoodie. As the others settled in with groans and giggles, Bella leaned her forehead against the cool window.
Sunlight filtered through the tinted glass in golden beams. Forks didn't usually shine. It brooded. It sulked. Today felt borrowed.
Her mind, predictably, wandered.
To the window. To the quilt. To that voice she'd almost sworn she'd heard in her sleep.
To Edward Cullen.
Her fingers curled into her lap. Her lips moved without sound.
"Edward."
The wind picked up.
And somewhere far off—too far to see, but close enough to feel if she dared to believe it—something stirred.
And turned toward her.
—
Forest Edge — Pacific Highway 110, Border of Quileute Land
10:04 AM Saturday, March 12th, 2005
Weather: Sun-drenched paradox. Mood: Exquisite agony. Distance: Thirty yards and a universe.
The sunlight was a lie.
It lanced through the treetops in golden splinters, painting halos across the moss and broken stone—but it meant nothing to him. Not warmth. Not clarity. Just exposure. Just danger.
Just the reminder of everything he wasn't allowed to be.
Edward moved like a shadow between columns of cedar and pine, his hood drawn up, his face obscured. A shade stitched into the seams of the forest. The thin fabric of his sweatshirt clung to his arms, hiding the betrayal of his skin. Even the pale tips of his fingers were gloved, though he could still feel the pull of the sun with every step.
A million mirrors in the shape of a man. That's what he was. A walking contradiction.
He kept to the woods, parallel to the road, gliding over brambles and roots without sound. Every footfall carefully calibrated. Every breath denied.
And always—always—his gaze flicked to the bright red Suburban rumbling along the highway just a few yards away.
Her.
Through the back window's faint tint, he saw her outline: still, thoughtful, her head leaned against the glass. Her hair caught the sun like polished chestnut, and for a moment she looked… golden.
She wasn't talking. Just listening.
Jessica's shrill laughter punched through the trees now and then, but Bella? She was quieter. Her voice, when it emerged, was low and deliberate, a counterpoint to the chaos around her.
She never quite fit in. That's what pulled at him the most.
She didn't fill space the way the others did—didn't stake it out with noise or posture. She drifted through it, unsure if she was allowed to stay. A shadow of her own, even in the light.
God, she was beautiful.
Not in the way magazines lied to teenagers about, not in the way movies dressed girls up to match expectations. No. She was beautiful like ink on a page—quiet, inevitable. Beautiful like a secret. Like something meant to be discovered in silence, when no one else was looking.
His breath caught.
A pang. Deep in his chest. That old ache that had no name and no cure. The one that started the moment she said his name like it meant something.
"Edward."
He hadn't imagined it.
She'd whispered it in her sleep—barely louder than the hush of her breath against the pillow—and it had hit him like a prayer offered in a forgotten language. Like a match striking the inside of his ribcage.
He'd stayed the whole night. Hadn't meant to. Had told himself just a minute, just a check-in, just until she settled. But when she said his name like that—like he wasn't a monster at all—he couldn't move.
He didn't deserve it. But he wanted it.
The forest thinned as the road curved. An old wooden sign came into view—faded red paint peeling like sunburnt skin:
QUILEUTE TRIBE CULTURAL CENTER — 2 Miles Ahead.
Edward stopped cold.
This was the line.
Not visible. Not marked. But ancient. Sacred. A truce written in silence and superstition. Cross this, and he would undo years of peace. Risk more than just exposure.
Even if there were no wolves to enforce it now.
Even if Jacob Black hadn't answered Bella's last email.
Even if no one was watching.
He took a step back. One more. Into the deep shadow of a pine that had stood longer than he'd been undead.
He couldn't go any further. He wouldn't.
Bella's car rolled forward, oblivious.
She didn't know he was there.
She never did.
But sometimes—God, sometimes—he thought she felt him. Like the space behind her shivered. Like her breath paused in just the right way.
He crouched, his long fingers curling into the damp moss at his feet. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack.
The sun warmed her. The world welcomed her.
He had no place in either.
And still, he watched. Every heartbeat she gave to this day was a mercy he didn't deserve to witness.
He listened.
Jessica was talking again. Something about volleyball. Someone's tan. A boy named Josh. Useless noise.
Then, through the static:
Bella laughed.
Not a full laugh. Just a breathy chuckle. Half-distracted.
It almost broke him.
He rested his head against the tree, eyes shut, breath held—not for necessity, but because even air felt too loud.
He let the sound of her settle inside his mind.
And then, just barely audible above the tires crunching gravel:
"…Edward," she whispered.
A prayer.
A wound.
He stayed crouched there long after the car had gone. Long after the sound of her faded into wind and birdsong. His skin still glinted in the stray threads of sun that made it past the branches, a quiet betrayal of what he was.
The line had held.
He would not cross it.
But the ache inside him did. Again and again.
—
Highway 110 Southbound — Olympic Peninsula
10:41 AM Saturday, March 12th, 2005
Weather: Bright but brittle. Playlist: Radio static and Jessica talking.
The Suburban wheezed up the coastal highway, suspension creaking like it knew this wasn't what it signed up for. A muddy finger streak of sunlight trailed along the hood, and the inside smelled like Red Vines, hairspray, and too much Axe body spray.
Bella sat curled in the third row, knees tucked to her chest, flannel wrapped around her shoulders like armor. Jessica's voice spilled over the backseat, all high-pitched theories and over-emphasis.
"I mean, Kayla's cute, but, like, with the braces? And now she thinks she can just roll up to prom like she's, I don't know, Lindsay Lohan or something."
Bella blinked slowly. She wasn't really listening. She let the window pull her in instead.
The trees outside rushed past, pine-green and jagged, giving way to flashes of steel-gray water that shimmered like secrets. The sky was pale, the kind of blue that still doubted itself.
Then the forest peeled away.
And the coast unfolded like a held breath.
Bella leaned forward, resting her palm against the glass.
Far below, the ocean stretched out like a bruise, bruised and gleaming. Sea stacks jutted from the tide like the backs of sleeping giants. First Beach curved against the coast, all polished stones and driftwood skeletons.
It wasn't beautiful in the traditional sense. It was haunting. Vast. Like a song you forgot you remembered.
"Holy crap," Tyler said from the middle row, momentarily lifting his sunglasses. "This place looks like the end of the world. I dig it."
"You would," muttered Eric, elbow-deep in a bag of sour cream and onion chips.
"It's gorgeous," Angela said softly. She looked over at Bella. "Right?"
Bella nodded. "It feels... old."
Jessica twisted halfway around in her seat. "It's just a beach. It's not, like, magical."
"Give it a minute," Bella said under her breath.
The Suburban crunched into the gravel lot above the trailhead, bumping into a rough stop beside a sagging pickup. Everyone started peeling out, stretching limbs and snapping flip phones open for pictures. Bella pulled on her jacket as the wind cut through her flannel, salty and sharp.
Mike was already halfway down the trail, calling out, "C'mon! Best logs go fast!"
Tyler, slinging his backpack like it was a duffel full of explosives, took off after him. "Dibs on fire master!"
"You burned the hot dogs last time," Eric grumbled, following.
Bella stayed near Angela as they descended the bluff. The trail twisted past scraggly ferns and scattered roots, opening onto the beach like a stage.
Driftwood logs lined the high tide line, huge and bleached, like bones from a world that didn't exist anymore. Pebbles clacked underfoot. The sea hissed and growled beyond them, like it had opinions.
Mike had already claimed a circle of logs around a half-formed fire pit. He knelt like a wannabe Survivor contestant, fumbling with a lighter.
"I got this. Totally under control."
Jessica plopped beside him. "Need help?"
"Nah," Mike said, failing to make the flame catch. "Just giving it oxygen."
"You're giving it performance anxiety," Tyler said, flopping dramatically across a log. "Let me try before you blow out your wrist."
Angela handed Bella a water bottle and sat beside her, smiling gently. Bella tucked her hair behind her ear as she took it.
Lauren arrived last, of course. She made it look like the wind bent around her. Designer sunglasses. Tight denim. The way she sauntered down the bluff should've had its own soundtrack.
She eyed Bella like she was lint.
"Glad you made it down in one piece," she said sweetly. "Your truck sounded like it was dying in the parking lot."
"It always sounds like that," Bella replied. "It just wants attention."
Lauren smirked, turned away. Jessica blinked between them like she'd missed a punchline.
Then—finally—a flicker of flame. The fire cracked to life with a whoosh, spitting sparks.
Mike sat back, triumphant. "Told you."
Bella pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, letting the fire warm her boots. The wind tugged at her collar, the sky above too blue to feel like Forks.
Still—somewhere in her chest, behind the bone and the quiet and the longing—was the soft weight of a dream. The shape of a name.
Edward.
She didn't say it aloud.
But she didn't need to.
Not when the wind felt like it remembered it for her.
---
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