Chapter 3: Ghosts of Glory
"Some wounds aren't made by teeth. Some are made by silence, pressure, and fathers who never learned how to love without a ledger."
By Tuesday, Edward Cullen had vanished like a guilty conscience on spring cleaning day.
He wasn't at school. No cryptic smirks in the hallway. No coat-swishing dramatic exits. The Volvo was gone from its honorary "brooding vampire" parking spot.
The rest of the Cullens were still here.
Emmett laughed too loudly during gym class. Rosalie looked like she was mentally filing restraining orders just by existing. Alice, dressed like fashion week had thrown up on her (in a chic way), gave me sharp little glances from across the cafeteria. Jasper looked haunted in the usual Civil War PTSD kind of way.
But Edward?
Gone.
Jessica theorized he was sick. Mike leaned toward mono and offered to help me "study" after school. Angela just gave me a soft, curious look that I couldn't interpret. No one else seemed particularly concerned that Forks' favorite porcelain statue had peaced out.
Only I knew the truth.
He wasn't sick. He wasn't contagious.
He was dangerous. And terrified of what I might do to him just by existing.
To be fair, I did smell like cosmic irony and poorly repressed sexual tension.
At lunch, I picked at a salad while Jessica recapped a blow-by-blow of Mike's performance in gym. Spoiler: he didn't know I was listening and accidentally took a ball to the face.
It was the highlight of my week so far.
Angela sat beside me, calm and observant. I appreciated her presence — soft-spoken, easy company. If anyone at this school might actually notice that something was… off with me, it would be her.
She hadn't said anything yet. But I got the sense she saw things she didn't say out loud.
"Hey," she said quietly as Jessica and Mike got into a debate about volleyball scores.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're sitting with us."
I blinked. "Me too."
A beat passed.
"Forks is weird sometimes," she added, tone low.
"I can handle weird," I said. "Weird is my natural habitat."
She smiled at that, and we returned to our lunch.
I kept my head down in class, doodled DNA strands in Biology, and avoided the subject of Edward entirely. Nobody asked why I was now flying solo at my lab table. Nobody questioned the quiet.
It helped that I made myself invisible.
Smile enough to pass for normal. Don't correct anyone's vampire lore. Don't tell Rosalie you know she could crush a man's skull with her bare hands.
Definitely don't tell Alice that her whole future-view thing is about to get very complicated.
After school, I drove Clementine home through rain and fog, headlights cutting through the mist like a B-movie monster's POV shot.
Charlie's cruiser was already in the driveway. I parked, grabbed my bag, and headed toward the porch — where I found him waiting, two mugs in hand.
"Peace offering," he said, holding out one.
I took it and inhaled. Cocoa. With cinnamon. Be still my overly sentimental heart.
"Did I miss a major holiday?"
"You looked rough this morning. Figured sugar and warm things might help."
"You're either turning into a dad therapist or a snack witch."
Charlie snorted. "I'll take that as a thank you."
We sat side by side on the porch steps, watching the neighborhood dissolve into fog and trees.
"Anything new at school?" he asked casually.
I shrugged. "Same old teenage emotional roulette. Half the boys think I'm mysterious. The other half think I'm dating a vampire."
Charlie coughed on his cocoa.
"Kidding," I said, smirking. "Mostly."
He gave me a look. "You always joke like that?"
"Only when I'm repressing anxiety."
He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh.
"You doing okay here?"
I sipped my cocoa, letting the quiet sit for a moment.
"I think so. It's… different. But not in a bad way. You make it easier."
He blinked, genuinely surprised.
"Thanks, Bells."
"You're a good dad."
His ears turned a little pink.
"I mean it," I added, nudging his elbow with mine. "You show up. That counts."
We sat in silence again, watching the fog roll in like a sleepy tide. It felt… safe. And rare. Like maybe this world wasn't just about danger and fate. Maybe it could also be about this.
Warm mugs. Quiet porch steps. A dad who tried.
I went to bed early that night. Not because I was tired — though I was — but because something tugged at the edge of me.
Not anxiety.
Not dread.
Pull.
The same pull I'd felt in the first dream. The one that said, he's waiting.
The dream came sharp and sure, like falling into water that knew my name.
The heat hit me first. Not Phoenix heat. Southern heat. Dense. Wet. Crawling across the skin like cotton ghosts.
I stood just off a dirt path near a familiar plantation house. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows that flickered like ghosts through the trees.
And there he was.
Damon.
Seated on a broken crate near a fence post, shirtless, sweat clinging to his skin, bandages half-wrapped around his side. A red bloom soaked through the cloth. His posture screamed pain and pride in equal measure.
He didn't see me at first.
He was too focused on wrapping the bandage tighter with one hand, teeth gritted.
"Need a hand?" I asked softly.
He jerked, startled — then blinked.
His mouth twisted into something that might've been a smile if he weren't bleeding.
"You again."
"Me again."
"You're a hallucination. A pretty one."
"Wrong on both counts."
He narrowed his eyes, studying me. "You don't belong here."
I walked forward anyway. "Neither do you."
He huffed a laugh and winced as he pulled the cloth tighter.
"Let me," I said, kneeling beside him.
He didn't protest. Just watched me with tired, curious eyes.
The dream bent for me, let my hands move. I peeled the cloth back gently. The gash was long, shallow, and angry-looking — probably from a training accident or a too-eager officer trying to prove something.
"You joined?" I asked.
He nodded. "Father's orders. Had to uphold the family name."
"You didn't want to?"
"Wanted to matter," he said. "Didn't know that meant bleeding for someone else's idea of honor."
I met his gaze.
He looked young here. Too young to already be this bitter.
"Most people vanish when I say things like that," he murmured.
"I'm not most people."
He looked at me again — truly looked. And there it was.
Recognition.
Not full. Not conscious.
But something.
A voice called out from the house — sharp, male. Probably his father.
Damon flinched.
"That your old man?"
"Unfortunately."
I glared toward the voice. "I hate him."
"You're fast."
"I'm thorough."
He smiled then, for real. "You're trouble."
"You don't even know the half of it."
"I want to," he said — soft, like a confession.
The dream shifted again — edges fraying, time twisting.
"You ever feel like you were supposed to be more than this?" he asked, voice raw.
"All the time."
He looked at me like I was the only steady thing in a world built to drown him.
"You make the pain quieter."
I took his hand. "I'm not a ghost, Damon. I'm a storm in disguise."
"Then let me drown in you."
I opened my mouth — but the dream pulled away before I could answer.
I woke up with my fingers clenched in the bedsheet and my heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest.
The feeling of his skin — warm, real, bruised — still lingered on my fingertips.
He wasn't just a dream.
Not anymore.
At breakfast, Charlie had already set out toast and scrambled eggs like some sort of undercover domestic god.
"Sleep okay?" he asked without looking up from the sports section.
"Yeah." I took a seat. "Weird dreams again."
He nodded like that was expected. "Same raccoon?"
"No. Different guy. Less furry. More charming. Still injured."
Charlie blinked at me.
"In the dream, I mean."
"Right."
He set down the paper. "Do I need to worry?"
"Only if he shows up with a bayonet."
Charlie scratched his jaw. "...Can't tell if you're kidding."
"Good. I like to keep you on your toes."