The moment they were on the road, Amara realized something deeply, spiritually horrifying.
Lucien Cullen was sitting beside her.
And staring.
Not in the normal I'm looking at the person next to me way.
No.
Lucien stared like he had all the time in the world.
Like he could memorize the shape of people.
Like nothing in the centuries he had existed was quite as fascinating as the girl currently trying to shrink into the door.
Amara shifted.
Lucien did not.
She shifted again.
Lucien still didn't.
He didn't blink. He didn't fidget. He didn't look away.
It was like being pinned by the moon.
She attempted a polite, shaky, please-stop-before-my-nervous-system-gives-up smile.
He smiled back — slow, controlled, devastating — a smile that carried old-world charm, the kind worn by men who once wrote love letters with quills and sealed them with wax and heartbreak.
God help her.
Up front, Edward was gripping the wheel like it was responsible for global warming. Bella sat stiffly, biting her lip every thirty seconds like she thought this ride was an audition for the "Most Awkward Silence in Cinema" award.
The car hummed steadily through the sleepy lights of Port Angeles.
Amara let her forehead rest on the cold window, staring up at the night sky.
Let this day end. Please. I'm tired. Emotionally, metaphysically, spiritually… fried.
Her bones felt hollow. Her brain felt like a half-deflated balloon. Her soul wanted a nap.
She closed her eyes for one second—
And Bella's timid voice broke the fragile quiet.
"It's… um… cold."
Edward blinked like she had asked him for the meaning of life.
"Turn on the heater."
Bella awkwardly twisted the knob. Nothing.
Twisted it again. Still nothing.
Edward sighed dramatically and leaned over to fix it — and their fingers brushed.
Instant freeze-frame.
Bella stopped breathing.
Edward looked like someone unplugged his operating system.
The heater chose that moment to roar to life.
Bella whispered, "Your hand… it's cold."
Edward panicked like a man trying to pretend he wasn't a walking refrigerator.
"Cold? Oh—well—uh— circulation issues. Happens. Very normal. Humans get cold hands. Science."
Silence.
Amara stared at him like she was watching a disaster in slow motion.
Edward wilted.
Bella blinked.
The heater hummed as innocently as possible.
And then Amara couldn't take it anymore.
"Oh dear Lord," she muttered, scrunching her nose like she smelled burnt embarrassment. "Please spare me."
She cleared her throat — purposefully, obnoxiously — breaking the romantic tension with all the grace of a brick through glass.
Bella yanked her hand away.
Edward coughed.
The heater's hum faltered like it wanted to escape this car too.
Oh wonderful. Fantastic. Perfect.
The scene still happened.
The exact same awkward, blushy, palm-touching, heater-accident moment from the movies…
still happened.
Except—
This wasn't even the right car.
In the movie, Edward had his shiny silver Volvo.
Sleek. Iconic. Cinematic.
This?
This was some deep obsidian-black, unnecessarily luxurious, quiet-as-a-panther vehicle that definitely cost more than her entire existence.
Leather seats, flawless interiors, the faint scent of pine and something expensive she couldn't name.
Nothing like the Volvo.
Not even close.
So how, she wondered, forehead gently thudding against the window,
HOW is this scene still happening?
She stared at Edward's reflection in the glass — stiff, panicked, overthinking every syllable coming out of Bella's mouth — and felt her brain do a tired little somersault.
Did fate just… copy-paste the moment into any available car?
Is the universe glitching?
Is this Twilight or some alternate-dimension remake?
Why is the script still loading even after I threw a whole new character into the world?
She groaned internally.
Seriously? Same moment, different car? Does the universe have a "mandatory cringe meets cute" rule for these two?
Her eyes flicked around the luxury interior again, as if looking for a hint, a clue, a cosmic label that read:
DESTINY HARD-CODED. DO NOT EDIT.
Nothing.
Just Bella blushing herself into the window, Edward trying to remember how humans breathe, and Lucien staring at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve piece by delicate piece.
Amara tried very, very hard not to bang her head against the window repeatedly.
Why am I here?
Why am I witnessing this?
Why isn't my meddling changing anything?
Why does this universe not come with a guidebook or patch notes?
Her shoulders dropped.
Yep.
The scene was happening.
Exactly the same.
Different car.
Different dynamics.
Different people.
Same destiny-level nonsense.
And she?
She was the unwilling front-row audience to a romantic rerun the universe refused to cancel.
But Lucien?
Lucien didn't care about their awkward moment.
Because he was still looking at her.
Amara turned her head… very slowly.
And froze.
Lucien sat like he belonged in a Renaissance portrait — one arm casually draped along the backrest, posture relaxed yet regal, dark eyes focused on her with unwavering intensity.
A look that saw too much.
A look that heard every flicker of fear or exhaustion in her breath.
A look that carried centuries of silence, knowledge, and something dangerous.
And underneath that intensity…
Pressure.
Light. Prying. Curious.
Amara's heartbeat stuttered.
She felt it — barely — like invisible fingertips brushing the edges of her mind. A feather-touch tug on her emotions. A whisper of something trying to slip through her thoughts.
It slid off.
Completely.
Like oil repelling water.
Lucien's eyes flickered — a tiny fracture of surprise — quickly smoothed into calm.
Amara felt none of that.
She only felt her pulse spike.
Lucien's voice wrapped around her gently. "What happened?"
Amara swallowed, trying to look offended instead of flustered.
"Stop."
He tilted his head, genuinely curious. "Stop what?"
"Stop looking at me like that," she grumbled, arms crossing tightly.
His lips curled slowly, beautifully — smug, wicked, ancient amusement.
"Like what, sweetheart?"
Her soul tripped over itself.
"L–like you can see everything," she managed. "Or like you're about to recite a dramatic prophecy about my destiny."
Lucien chuckled.
He had the kind of laugh that didn't break the quiet — it warmed it. Soft, deep, enthralling.
Then he finally glanced away, looking out the window at the passing streetlights, expression gentler than someone carved from cold perfection should be capable of.
"My apologies," he murmured, voice a low velvet ribbon. "It's difficult not to look when something… captivating sits beside me."
Her entire brain fried.
Steam might have actually left her ears.
Edward made a strangled noise.
Bella stared at the windshield as if begging the universe to strike her from existence.
Amara wanted to crawl into the glove compartment and live there forever.
She glared weakly at Lucien's profile.
He didn't look at her again.
But she could feel him smiling — not taunting, not arrogant — but warm.
Old.
Dangerous.
And unmistakably charmed.
The car slipped into a comfortable hush, headlights gliding through the sleepy streets, shadows moving lazily along the windows.
And then Lucien spoke again — quieter, deeper — the warmth in his tone cooling into something sharper.
"Amara," he murmured, "may I ask you something?"
Her heart tripped.
Whenever he used that voice, nothing good followed.
"…What?" Amara said warily.
Lucien's gaze drifted from the window and finally settled on her again — not the teasing stare from earlier, but something deeper. Something that felt like a dark sunrise.
"What," he asked, "were you doing in that alley?"
The question wasn't loud.
It wasn't angry.
But it held a gravity that made her pulse stutter.
Amara blinked. "What—?"
"That alley," he repeated softly. "The one you and Bella were in. Alone. In the dark."
The car suddenly felt smaller.
"Oh." She cleared her throat. "Bella had a book to buy, so we… we went to get it."
Lucien's expression didn't change.
His aura did.
"This late?" he asked, voice lower, silk stretched over steel.
Amara's stomach flipped.
"Well— I— we— uh—" she flailed, eyes darting to the window like it held an escape route.
"Books… don't have a bedtime?" she offered weakly, staring very intently at a passing tree.
Lucien didn't respond.
He just looked at her.
Slowly.
Silently.
Like he was peeling back the night to see what really happened.
And then — just for a heartbeat — his eyes flickered toward Edward in the driver's seat.
Edward stiffened.
Lucien's gaze wasn't loud, but it was lethal.
A quiet, ancient threat wrapped in elegance.
Edward's hands tightened on the wheel.
Bella didn't notice, too busy pretending to be part of the dashboard.
Amara sat frozen, feeling the tension coil through the air like a storm waiting to strike.
Lucien finally looked forward again, jaw smoothing, voice soft but edged.
"Next time," he murmured, "don't wander into places that weren't meant for you."
Amara blinked, confused.
"Weren't meant for me?"
But Lucien didn't elaborate.
He simply rested his elbow on the armrest, fingers brushing his lips thoughtfully — the picture of calm.
Only Edward saw the darkness behind that calm.
Only Edward swallowed hard because of it.
And Amara?
She just sat there, staring at the window, wondering why the night suddenly felt heavier than before.
By the time the sleek car pulled into the restaurant parking lot, Amara slumped back dramatically, whispering with every ounce of defeated dignity:
"I am so… done."
Lucien finally turned to her, voice soft as a brush of silk.
"We've only arrived, sweetheart."
And that smile —
that ancient, devastating, magnetic smile —
told her very clearly that he knew exactly what he was doing to her.
Exactly.
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