Chapter 8: The Ring, The Room, and the Reason He Watches
"There's comfort in routine… until the routine starts looking back at you."
The ring was still there.
The world around my was ordinary the weight of blankets and a world waking slowly.
But on my finger—the same one that had touched his in the dream—rested a silver ring, its cool band inlaid with lapis, catching morning light like it belonged.
I turned it slowly with my thumb, inspecting every curve, every etched marking.
Not mine. And yet… now it was.
I didn't take it off.
If I took it off, I'd have to admit something wasn't normal. And today was for normal.
Painting. Stew. Family.
The weirdness could wait.
I wandered downstairs in Charlie's oversized flannel pajama pants and a shirt I'd stolen from a box labeled "Fishing Gear: Touch and Die." The smell of paint still lingered faintly under the comforting scent of coffee and bacon grease.
Charlie stood at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other.
"Morning," he greeted. "Hope you're ready for a productive day of manual labor."
I squinted at him. "Who are you and what did you do with the man who groaned through moving a coffee table yesterday?"
He smirked and handed me a plate. Scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.
"Billy and Jacob are coming by in about thirty," he said. "Billy said you suckered him into painting."
"I offered stew. Bribery is a legitimate negotiation tactic."
Charlie took a sip of coffee. "Remind me never to play poker with you."
"You say that like I haven't already hustled you for two pints of Ben & Jerry's."
He grunted. "Those were mercy losses."
"Oh, sure. That's why you spent the next week blaming your 'old eyes'."
Charlie gave a quiet laugh. "You really are your grandmother's girl."
That hit me in the chest unexpectedly.
I set my plate down for a second. "She taught me the stew too."
"I know. I remember her yelling at me for salting it before tasting."
"She was a culinary warlord."
"She was something."
By the time Billy and Jacob arrived, I had the stew simmering in the Crock-Pot, the brushes and rollers organized, and the paint cans cracked open. Jacob stepped into the kitchen like a golden retriever with a grin.
"What's cooking, Swan?"
"Stew. If you help paint like a responsible human being, you might get some."
Billy wheeled into the living room, glancing around the half-painted walls. "Looks like you're trying to un-bachelor the place."
"Trying," I said. "It's an uphill battle. I found four fishing lures in the couch yesterday."
Charlie didn't even flinch. "Only four?"
Painting, Round Two.
Jacob started on the accent wall while I handled the baseboards. Charlie took the ceiling edges, and Billy positioned himself with full authority as supervisor-slash-color consultant.
"You missed a spot, kid," he told Jacob every ten minutes.
"Why don't you pick up a brush and show me?" Jacob shot back.
"Don't tempt me. I'll out-paint you and take your lunch."
"You already took my childhood," Jacob muttered.
I snorted paint up my nose.
Halfway through the morning, we put on some music—classic rock for Charlie, 80s hair bands for Jacob, and a few throwback soul tracks for me. Jacob lip-synced dramatically to "Livin' on a Prayer" while using the roller like a microphone.
"Stop," I begged between laughter. "You're going to knock over the paint."
"It's called performance art," he said. "You uncultured swine."
"Okay, Miss Piggy."
Billy wheezed with laughter so hard I thought we'd have to call someone.
We took a break around noon. I served everyone cold soda and checked the stew—perfectly thick, rich with tomato, bay, garlic, and beef. I could almost hear Grandma Swan in my ear: "The secret to good stew is patience and not letting the boys near it before it's done."
I added a few dumplings for fun and set the lid back on.
Outside, the clouds were thick and low. Typical Forks. Safe from sparkles and suspicious glares alike.
Inside, it was warmth, paint fumes, and people I trusted.
Jacob and Charlie moved the flannel couch of doom into the garage with many sarcastic comments and only one dent in the doorframe. Billy supervised again, of course.
The new couch would be delivered Monday. In the meantime, we'd earned our stew and a clean slate for the living room.
Dinner was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt earned. Four bowls of stew, crusty bread, and the kind of comfortable silence that only comes from long friendships and the joy of getting something done.
After Billy and Jacob left, I curled up in the armchair with a book. Charlie fell asleep watching baseball highlights. The clock ticked toward bedtime, and I finally let myself breathe.
I went upstairs, washed my face, brushed my teeth.
And stared at the ring again.
It hadn't dulled. If anything, the lapis looked deeper in the bathroom light—like it held sky and sea and memory all at once.
I turned it slowly.
I could still feel the dream under my skin.
His pain.
His betrayal.
The moment his brother forced him to choose between death and something far worse.
Emily Bennett's voice echoed faintly: "Threaded through your fate, and you through hers."
I didn't understand it.
But I didn't want to forget it either.
So I slipped into bed with the ring still on my finger and left the window cracked open for the breeze.
Edward's POV
I shouldn't be here.
I told myself that even as I crouched on the tree limb outside her second-story window, the moss-draped branch barely flexing under my weight.
Her scent curled toward me—clean linen, old paint, rosemary, and something wild I still hadn't placed. Something warm. Something wrong in a way I couldn't resist.
She moved differently. Smelled different. Thought in angles I didn't understand.
Bella Swan was dangerous.
Not because she was fragile.
But because she made me forget I was.
The window was cracked.
She trusted the night to keep out what it shouldn't.
She was wrong.
I slipped inside.
Her room was dim, lit only by the moon and the faint amber glow of her bedside lamp, still turned on and buzzing softly.
She slept curled on her side, ringed fingers tucked near her cheek, the blanket draped low around her hips. Her breathing was slow and deep.
And the ring on her finger…
I moved closer.
It was old. Enchanted, perhaps. I couldn't tell.
But it sang.
Not audibly. Not for human ears.
But to me—it thrummed with power. Something not of this world.
It hadn't been there yesterday.
Where had she gotten it?
And why did it look like something I'd seen once… long ago.
I reached for her—not to touch, never to touch—but to trace the air around her.
She sighed in her sleep and shifted slightly.
Her lips parted.
My dead heart clenched.
I was losing myself.
I had to leave.
I stepped back into the shadow of the curtains, and disappeared before dawn could catch me.