Chapter 12 – Tension and Threads
Forks was quiet, but my house was quieter.
Not in a bad way. Just… cautious.
The scent of bacon lured me awake like some breakfast-themed siren call. I shuffled into the kitchen still wrapped in my blanket burrito, blinking against the pale light bleeding through the windows. Charlie was at the stove, flipping pancakes like he did this every morning instead of grabbing a donut from the station.
"You're not going to school," he said without even turning around. "Don't argue. I called you out already."
"I wasn't going to argue," I mumbled as I dropped into a chair. "I was going to ask for coffee."
Charlie nodded toward the steaming mug on the table already waiting for me. "Cream and sugar's in it."
I blinked. "Are you… nesting? Did someone switch my dad out with a more attentive plaid clone?"
"Shut up and eat your breakfast."
I smirked around a mouthful of pancake. He set his plate across from mine and sat down with a sigh, the kind of sound only dads who've had a very stressful 24 hours make.
"I stopped by the diner last night after you went to bed. Nora made up some of her stew and packed extra cornbread. It's in the fridge."
"You're feeding me like I'm dying," I muttered.
"You got hit by a damn van, Bella."
Fair point.
He gave me a hard look. "No more toughing it out. No sneaking off to school. You rest. Doctor's orders."
I lifted my hands. "Alright, alright. No need to sic your badge on me."
He grunted but looked relieved, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "Already called the office and took the day. You're grounded. To the couch."
"With snacks?"
"With supervision."
I lounged on the couch under a blanket, a heating pad cranked to full power against my back—not that I needed it, but Charlie needed to do something. So here we were.
The day passed in a haze of snacks, bad daytime TV, and short naps.
That Afternoon – Renee's Call
Renee's voice buzzed through the speakerphone as I sat cross-legged in bed, sketchbook balanced on one knee.
"You promise you're okay?" she asked for the fifth time.
"Yes, Mom. Bruised, but functional. No lingering trauma."
"You were nearly crushed by a van."
"And I wasn't. Near misses don't count."
She exhaled. "You always were so calm about the weirdest things. You didn't get that from me."
"Definitely not."
"Phil says hi, by the way."
I smiled. "Tell him I'm fine. Really."
After a few more worried mom-isms and some lighter talk about a recipe she forgot how to make, I promised to text her later and hung up. I tossed my phone onto the comforter and turned back to the page I'd been working on.
Edward's POV – Thursday
The empty seat beside mine shouldn't have bothered me so much.
It was irrational.
And yet, the longer the day dragged, the more I caught myself glancing sideways, waiting for her soft voice, her heartbeat — anything. Alice didn't ask where Bella was, but I knew she knew. She always knew.
When the final bell rang, I didn't head straight home.
Instead, I slipped through her window after dark like a thief in a storybook — the kind with fangs and moral crises.
Bella lay curled on her side, one arm under her pillow, the bruise on her temple fading. Her breath was steady, lashes fluttering lightly.
She whispered something I couldn't make out.
A name? A warning?
It made no difference. I stayed, anchored by guilt and the increasingly foolish need to know her, even if I couldn't read her mind.
Even if this was all I'd ever get.
Bella's Notebook – Friday Night
I sat cross-legged on my bed, a mug of cocoa growing cold on the nightstand. My sketchbook was open in my lap, the pages filled with messy thread maps, dream fragments, and the occasional sarcastic note to myself in the margins.
Lines twisted around names and dates.
Black ink bled across the page in gentle curls. Lines connecting names, symbols, and broken thoughts. Damon. Katherine. Whitmore. Cullen. Threads of fate that didn't make sense but refused to leave me alone.
I'd drawn Edward's eyes without meaning to, the way they looked when he caught the van. Not scared — furious. And not at the van.
I added Damon's name again, this time beneath a sun and moon divided by a jagged line.
Maybe I was slipping through cracks — catching glimpses not just of him, but of the way he remembers himself.
My pencil drifted across the page, adding a soft curve of a jaw, the outline of a smirk I knew too well. Damon's expression was always a combination of confidence and something just shy of broken.
And yet, I trusted him more than almost anyone.
I scribbled a note at the bottom of the page:
Ask about Jasper — sparkling, Texas, probable blood feud?
Dream-walk – Friday Night
That night, I drifted into sleep slowly, the way you might ease into a too-hot bath.
The world settled into color around me — warm, golden tones overlaid with the scent of crushed herbs and stone. Damon was seated against an ancient tree, legs stretched out before him, boots crossed at the ankle. A book lay forgotten in his lap.
"You're late," he said without looking up.
"You say that like I had control over it."
He smirked, eyes flicking up. "You've had worse excuses."
I sat beside him, brushing my shoulder against his. "I already told you about the van thing, so don't expect another near-death highlight reel."
"Shame. Those are becoming my favorite parts."
I rolled my eyes. "You're twisted."
He gave me a crooked grin. "You're just figuring that out?"
Silence fell between us — the comfortable kind. Dream logic softened the edges of the world around us. Cicadas chirped lazily in the distance.
Finally, I spoke. "I think we're separated by time."
Damon arched an eyebrow.
"I mean it. Every time I land here, it feels like the next chapter of your story. Like I'm walking through your life in order — start to finish. Maybe we're just waiting to meet in the same time, when we're both ready."
He considered that, jaw ticking. "So you're time-hopping?"
"Something like that."
"Figures. My mystery girl couldn't just be normal."
"I'm not sure I've ever been normal."
He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, staring up through the leaves. "Is it always the same… when you're awake?"
I shook my head. "I'm playing by someone else's rules there. But here, this is ours. Feels like we're weaving a story backward."
"Maybe forward, too." He tilted his head toward me. "You gonna tell me what else is going on?"
I hesitated, then nodded. "There's someone… watching me at night. He thinks he's being subtle, but he's not. He's not hurting me, but—"
"But you're not okay with it."
"No."
Damon's eyes darkened. "Say the word."
I touched his arm. "I can't change the script yet. Not without messing up the threads. I have to let it play out… until I know I can redirect it without blowing everything up."
"That's a hell of a weight to carry."
I shrugged. "I've got good boots."
That earned me a soft laugh.
"Can I ask you something?" I said, turning toward him. "The vampire wars in the South… are they a thing in your world?"
His expression shifted—slight, but telling. "Yeah. They are. Brutal. Why?"
"I think I'll be hearing more about them soon."
I hesitated, chewing on my lip. "Actually… can you check for someone? Jasper Whitlock. If he's there—if he's real in your world—then it's not worlds that separate us. Just time."
Damon gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "Whitlock… I'll look into it."
He didn't press further. Just nodded like he understood the unspoken pieces I couldn't say.
When the dream began to fade, I didn't panic. I just leaned my head on his shoulder and let the warmth of the moment anchor me.
He squeezed my hand once.
"I'll find you," he whispered.
"I know."
Saturday Morning
I woke with the ghost of Damon's touch still on my cheek.
It was warm. Real. Anchoring.
I sat up slowly, blinking against the weak light filtering through the curtains. A note was taped to the bathroom mirror:
"Working late. Try not to microwave anything that can explode. –C"
I smiled and grabbed my sketchbook from the nightstand.
Maybe today, I'd draw something new.
Something that hadn't happened yet.