Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chicago, 5:47am

The world hasn’t started buzzing yet. It’s hardly even taken a breath. The streetlights are aglow with a steady warmth, traffic is minimal, and if I concentrate my gaze just beyond the distant horizon I can see the cold, blue morning begin to cut its way towards the city. 

I’m up in an instant, my body’s circadian rhythm finely attuned to waking just before my alarm. I have no commitments that ever require such an early rise– work starts at 9:30, my commute a short subway ride– but the quiet space where I exist in between now and the hustle of getting ready for my day is invaluable. I use this sacred time to think. Sometimes journal, sometimes meditate, but mostly I pull back my curtains, stare across the Chicago skyline to the east where it meets the waterfront, and think. It’s the only assured moment of peace throughout a busy day. 

It’s been ten long years since Edward left me alone in the forest. Six years since I left Washington. 

I don’t think about him much anymore. Not consciously, at least. The more time stretches in between now and the last time we spoke, the more difficult it is to peer back into the memories we made. His silhouette is forever seared into my brain, but when I try to remember him in motion– his gait, the way he sat with his shoulders rolled back, his hands around my waist, cupping my chin, running through my hair– it’s like sorting through hazy vignettes, each border smaller and more disruptive than the last. 

That chapter of my life feels increasingly unreal with each passing moment, as though it happened to someone else. As though the connection we held is now only recognized as folklore, a cautionary tale passed down through generations. With each narration, the story changes a little. The details are a little different, simplified for the sake of the listener. But the lesson stays the same: don’t follow any beast into the woods. No matter how enticing. 

I blink, and the thought is gone— evaporated like breath on glass. Still, it hangs in the air, heavy and residual, as if something else left it behind. Like a scent. Like static.

I shake it off.

The kettle begins to whistle, sharp and shrill in the quiet of the apartment. I pour the water into the carafe, wait, press, and carry my mug to the window. Outside, the city is stretching awake. The waterfront glints faintly gold beneath the rising sun. I sip. Let it burn the edge of my tongue.

In typical fashion, I brush through my hair and leave it down, letting it splay across my shoulders. Only recently have I discovered dry shampoo. I use it to tease my roots where they would otherwise become a little oily. Makeup is minimal. A swipe of blush. Something to cover my dark circles. Nothing on my lips but chapstick, I hate the feeling of sticky gloss. 

In the short decade since entering adulthood, I’ve let myself indulge in things I may have considered too deeply feminine in my teenage years. I wear a sweet jasmine perfume on days that I feel I need a little boost. Don dresses on special occasions, like office parties, the weddings of dear friends. Still, my essence remains unchanged. Under the cloak of feminine splendor, I find myself stumbling often. Thumbing through the classics in the same voracious way I did as a teen. I still sleep with purple bed sheets. It reminds me of a simpler time. 

When I move toward the mirror to fasten my earrings, something’s wrong.

At first, I can’t name it.

I lean in close. My reflection leans, too. Everything is in place. Same slight puff beneath my right eye, same shadow where I didn’t quite blend my concealer. But there’s a split second— when I glance down to reach for the jewelry box— I swear my reflection doesn’t move.

It’s subtle. Barely there.

But I feel it. In my spine. In my teeth.

I snap my gaze back up. The mirror’s fine. My reflection is perfectly still— just as I am. I raise my right hand up, wiggle it a bit. My reflection does exactly the same. Nothing seems amiss now. 

Did that really happen?

I stare harder, eyes scanning every inch of the glass.

I laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s stupid. This is the kind of paranoia that comes from late night deadlines and too much caffeine. I’ve been working on a deep dive piece for two weeks straight. I’m sleep deprived. Wired. Seeing things.

Still.

As I walk out of the room, I pause one more time, stare deeply into the mirror. She stares back, not a hair out of place. 

…

The subway is colder than usual this morning. A breeze slithers up the sleeve of my jacket and holds me tight. I should have worn another layer. In my hands I hold a stuffed manila envelope and a coffee cup from a bodega outside my building. The drink inside is lukewarm now, just one or two mouthfuls left. 

Across the platform, I feel eyes on me. I look up, and see a man watching. He’s not staring at me in the way that men sometimes do. Not hungrily, or curiously. Instead, he’s looking at me with a completely neutral gaze– too neutral– as though someone pressed pause on him while in between passing thoughts. He’s wrapped tightly in a grey woolen coat, his posture is entirely too rigid. I check all over for signs of life, looking for the steady rise and fall of his shoulders, his scarf fluttering in the wind, a blink. But he is still. I don’t think he’s even registered my presence. 

Irked, I look down to my boots. Worn leather moto boots I’ve had re-soled each winter for the past several years. Then, because I can’t resist, I look back up. And he’s gone. It’s been mere seconds since I’ve had eyes on him, and now he’s disappeared into the ether. Perhaps he had ducked behind a column, or had been swept up by a fast moving crowd of commuters. Perhaps I had just imagined him. 

My phone buzzes as the train approaches.

‘Draft due by noon. Don’t make me hunt you down, Swan,’ my boss, Cass writes to me. Shortly after graduating college with a joint honours degree in Journalism and English Literature, I began interning at The Chicago Sentinel, a small but fierce digital publication that covers crime, politics, and the occasional deep dive on local oddities. The latter are my favourite to write about, however, I rarely have a say in what lands on my desk. Today I need to push out a report on a local zookeeper who was convicted for giving LSD to the orangutans. 

…

Our office building is nestled between a crumbling old bank and an extremely modern co-working space that reeks of oat milk. The Chicago Sentinel is located on the fourth floor, and I take the stairs. Not because I’m especially fit or motivated, but because the elevator makes a faint whining sound between the third and fourth floor, like something trying to claw its way up. The hallway is dimly lit, a flickering fluorescent bulb near the far end gives off the occasional zap. 

I walk through the glass doors, holding them until they click behind me. The newsroom is a familiar blend of buzzing monitors, half empty coffee cups, and the soft patter of keys on a lanyard. My colleague, Elena, waves from her desk, her headphones on sideways as she’s already locked into some true crime article. 

“Morning, Swan,” she calls, looking up at me only momentarily, “you look haunted.”

“Great, thank you,” I mutter back. She smiles anyway and settles back into her seat. 

I shove my messenger bag under my desk, drape my jacket over my chair, and press the button on my computer’s tower, bringing it to life. A tinny ding sounds through the speakers, indicating a new email. 36 unread messages. I exhale through my nose, clicking the first one. PR junk. Then the second, which happens to be a reader submission. I file it away to be read later. The third is a request for a work order to be submitted in regards to the mammoth sized Xerox printer in Cass’ office that’s been jamming every few pages. I diligently click my way through the emails, trashing some, filing others into their respective folders. Some I reply to. 

The tenth email is from an address containing an illegible tangle of letters, numbers and special characters. No subject, no message. Just an attachment. 

Footage_0419. mov

My stomach curls. The spam filter should have caught that. I hover my mouse over it, debating. Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ve seen worse. Then, I think, what if this is a phishing test from IT? My blind curiosity has already landed me in four internet safety seminars. A fifth one wouldn’t sting. 

I click on the attachment. It’s grainy security footage from a subway platform. The same one I was on earlier this morning. The figure on the screen looks familiar, I lean in closer. Black jacket, messenger bag over the shoulder, leather moto boots– it’s me. I watch myself on the tape, registering the moment when I look up to observe the man across the platform. 

For a few seconds, two, maybe three at the most, all is well. But then the pixels before me begin to mutilate and twist, leaving in their wake a picture of perfect analog horror . My face begins to distort, my eyes and mouth warping into a disfigured blur. Is the footage corrupt? I can’t be sure, seeing all the commuters behind me continue to hurry to their trains as usual. The face on the screen has become utterly unrecognizable, all its features melted like watercolour, a jagged black hole beginning to form where its mouth once was. 

And then it stops. The entire clip was only about fifteen seconds long. 

I close my email inbox fast. My hands twitch, my heart thumps ferociously. I look around to the other desks, nervously. 

The office buzz continues around me, unchanged. 

No one saw anything. 

No one ever does. 

…

The day passes in a shaky whirlwind. I file my article before the noon deadline. Take lunch at my desk. Nod through a staff meeting. Respond to the innocuous emails in my inbox. The glitch doesn’t leave me, though, it simmers just below the surface with each thought. When I close my eyes, I see my own mouth split open too wide. 

By the late afternoon, I've deleted it. Emptied the trash, too. But it’s still there, somewhere in me . 

While walking home, I watch the sun begin to dip low into the sky. Spring in Chicago means the cold still clings to the concrete, and the wind bites without warning. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to keep my core warm while I traverse. A figure passes me on the sidewalk, tall and dark, in a long coat. I don’t look up until he’s gone. 

Just a man. 

Just a man, but my heart races. What does my body know that I don’t? I pause under the awning of a corner bookstore, watch my reflection in the glass. The lights inside flicker behind it. I’m afraid to look at myself for too long, and so a chill runs down my spine while I turn and quickly begin walking once again. Another gust of wind lifts the collar of my coat, and on the breeze, I catch something. A scent. 

So unobtrusive. So specific. 

Cold cedar, pine, something tangibly warm just underneath. I know it anywhere. My head snaps up, I am immediately on a swivel, looking in all directions. Where did it come from? I gaze upwind, and see a barely perceptible shadow disappear into an alley. 

Chapter Text

I hesitate over a knit green cardigan with mother of pearl buttons and a mended hole on the cuff. It’s mohair. In front of me on the plush carpet is my laptop, with two tabs open. Ebay, for one. A mailing label, for two. In the last year, I’ve been steadily decluttering my closet and selling my unworn clothing on eBay. The items that may have been just a season out of date during my teenage years are vintage now. If the threads on these pieces could convey the stories of each tumultuous event they lived through, would anyone believe them? 

I fold the cardigan with practiced precision, and place it into the mailer. “Off you go,” I murmur, before reaching for a felt tip and an empty greeting card. I pen thank you notes and slip them into each order. I don’t know if anyone reads them, I’ve never had a repeat customer. But I like to believe that the recipient cracks a wistful smile when they read my words. In the last few months, I’ve dispatched little pieces of me to the very furthest ends of the globe. A sweater to Romania, a dress to Japan, fringe booties to Ghana. 

The apartment is quiet, save for the gentle hum of the radiator and the rustle of packing tape. A breeze tickles the back of my neck. Reflexively, I glance to the window and figure that I must have left it slightly ajar, as I often do. But it’s shut. Locked. This isn’t the first time I’ve been subject to a chill of unknown origin in the last several weeks. In the night time I often stir awake and find that the air around me is tinged with a coolness that mimics a frosty morning in early fall. One where the grass outside has succumbed to a svelte layer of frost, which inevitably vanishes when the afternoon sun beats down– as though it were never there. 

With four pristinely wrapped packages, I call for the elevator and ride it thirty floors down to the lobby. There’s a bodega across the street with a Fedex drop off depot in the back. I figure that while I’m out, I can pick up a few essentials for dinner. 

Outside, the street is unusually quiet. It’s not silent, exactly— cars move, a bike glides past, the orange flicker of a crosswalk sign blinks steadily— but it feels like the volume’s been turned down on the whole world. The usual chaos of Chicago is there, just... dulled.

I pause at the curb, packages tucked under my arm, and try to place the feeling. The wind brushes past with a sharp edge, colder than it should be for this time of year. Somewhere above, a flock of birds moves in a jerky, chaotic pattern— like footage is lagging, skipping frames. A cab speeds by, then brakes too late, tires screeching as it swerves and barely misses an open delivery van.

The driver doesn’t yell. No one honks.

A woman on the sidewalk stands staring into the middle distance, as if she’s forgotten where she’s going. When I glance back a moment later, she’s gone.

The bodega door jingles as I enter— shrill, metallic, too loud for such a small sound. The place is familiar, a tucked away corner shop that smells of cumin and citrus and gently of old floor cleaner. I come here often. It should feel normal.

But today, the air inside feels heavy, like it’s pressing against my skin. The cashier doesn’t look up from his phone. The overhead light in the far corner flickers once, then steadies.

I walk the narrow aisle, collecting dinner essentials— pasta, a jar of arrabbiata, one of those overpriced and tiny bags of pre washed greens. When I reach for a carton of milk, the glass door is fogged from the inside. My reflection stares back in pieces— forehead, lips, the curve of my jaw— all fragmented by condensation and steel framing.

And then, behind me, past the freezer door, past the rows of snacks and wire racks, all the way outside: a figure.

Just a shape.

Standing across the street, visible through the front window.

Still. Watching.

I whip around, breath catching. But when I look again, there’s no one there. Just the glint of a passing car, the flutter of an awning in the wind.

At the counter, I pull out my wallet. The cashier finally glances up, and his brow knits.

“Back again?” he says.

My hand freezes halfway to the card reader. “Sorry?”

He shrugs, a little awkward now. “Didn’t expect to see you twice today, that’s all.”

I stare at him. “I haven’t been in today.”

A beat of silence.

Then he chuckles under his breath, like maybe he misremembered, like maybe I’m messing with him. But I see it in his eyes— the flicker of confusion, the small frown.

I swipe my card. The machine chirps in approval.

Outside again, the city noise returns in waves. Louder, almost distorted, as if the quiet from earlier was a held breath that’s just been released.

…

Back upstairs, the city seems to drop away behind my door. The lock clicks closed, and the quiet rushes in, total and sudden. I set the groceries down and unwrap the veggies first— an odd instinct, like grounding myself in something ordinary. The apartment smells like cardamom from the candle I left burning. I should’ve blown it out.

The mail is stacked by the entryway. I flip through it absently: a coupon flyer, a gas bill, a padded envelope for a return I’ve been meaning to send. And then— something else.

A plain envelope. Handwritten.

My name, centered. Postage Forks, WA. 

The paper is thick, worn, like it’s been handled too many times. I stare at it, something cold dripping down my spine in slow increments. I don’t recognize the writing. It’s not quite tidy, but not sloppy either— just… off. Tilted, like the writer couldn’t decide what kind of person they were.

I open it carefully. Inside is a letter, printed on school paper, the kind with a header in Comic Sans and a footnote from a history teacher. I scan it once and my stomach sinks.

‘Dear Ms. Swan,

My name is Nathan Carrington. I’m a sophomore student at Forks High School, currently completing a genealogy report for Mr. Anders’ American History class.

While researching gravestones in the Forks Cemetery, I came across one marked “Isabella Marie Swan,” with a date of death listed as September 16, 2005. Given your shared name, I wondered if you might be a relative.

If you are related to the deceased, I’d love to ask a few questions for my report. Please feel free to reach out by email or mail using the contacts below.

Thank you for your time,

Nate C.’

I try shoving the letter back in the envelope, my hands shaky, a little sweaty. They miss the opening several times before finally settling on taking the papers and placing them into a kitchen drawer. Is this the cruelest of pranks? Had I not already been on edge for the past several days, I may have found humour in the message. Surely, no one’s really purchased a headstone in my name and inscribed my likeness on it. I open my laptop again, figuring a cursory google search can connect me with the actual woman that Nathan has confused me with. 

I type ‘Isabella Marie Swan deceased Forks Washington’ into the search bar. Press enter. I do not have to glean through the results for very long. The second link brings me to Washington Obits.

And there it is. 

A photograph of me from senior picture day, 2005. I’m smiling in the same bashful way I did as a girl, my lips closed and curled just a little at the edges. My face is round, filled out– not the way it is now, as I near thirty and have developed a line in between my brows from furrowing all too often. Underneath it, my presumed date of death: September 16th, 2005. A day I know all too well. The very same day Edward left me. 

My laptop screen glows too bright in the dim light of the apartment. I slam it shut. For a moment, there’s only the hush of the radiator and the thud of my heart. I press my palms to my eyes, but behind the lids, I still see the picture. My picture. My name. That date. I grab my phone with numb fingers and scroll to Dad . The call rings once. Twice. Four times.

“Hi, you’ve reached Charlie. Can’t come to the phone right now...”

“Hey, Dad,” I say, trying for evenness and failing. “I received something strange in the mail today. Can you give me a call when you get this?”

I hesitate. “Just— just call me.”

I hang up. The silence that follows feels deliberate. I set the phone down and lean back in my chair. 

Then— thwack .

Startled, I whip around to the window, heart lurching into my throat. I search for what’s just shattered the quiet. A bird has flown into the glass with a sickening crack. I flinch, its beak crushed on impact, cartilage splaying like a ruptured syringe. For a second, it seems as though the creature tried punching through the pane to reach me. Blood spiders from its little head across the window, tracing fine, spindled lines like a scrawl in red ink. The bird, a starling, I think, doesn’t fall right away, instead it convulses midair, wings spasming in frantic, disjointed beats. As if time has seized, trapping it in some godless pause. The motion is wrong, not frantic so much as looping — a shudder on repeat. Something a body shouldn’t be able to do. 

Then, with an almost reluctant release, it drops, vanishing thirty floors below, leaving only the twitching echo of movement behind.

…

Figuring I can’t open my window enough to reach through and wipe the blood, I leave a message for my building’s concierge, inquiring about when the building is next due for a hose down. For now, I decide that my efforts are better spent anchoring myself into a semblance of the reality I have known for the last twenty eight years. I wipe my damp palms on my thighs, then drift over to the bookshelf, dragging my finger across the spines. I settle on a sturdy velvet tome, and draw it out. A photo album from 2004 to 2006. Setting it on the glass coffee table like it's fragile, I crack the cover and begin to flip through the pages. They are slick, each photo placed neatly in a glossy pocket. I’m stiff when looking at photos from early 2005, taken on a digital camera. 

Edwards fine auburn hair glinting in the light, a picture of us on a hike. My cheeks are red and flushed, sweat smatters my hair across my forehead. I remember that I didn’t let Edward carry me while we made our way up the mountain. How stubborn I once was. I wanted to experience the hiking trail for myself, but I fell often, nearly tumbling through the forest loam, had I not been caught by strong, cool hands. 

Even now, so many years later, looking over the photographs precipitates a deep ache just below the surface. I am hot with anxiety all through my chest, down my finger tips, in the very pit of my stomach. How I yearn to be held again on an evening like this. I recall the way he’d murmured into the hollow of my throat, promising to keep me close in this lifetime and wherever we ended up in the next, and the next, and the next. 

Finally, I come across what I’ve been looking for. A photograph from Thanksgiving, 2005. Proof that I had lived past that September– not that I needed it. Further in the album I find photos from my high school graduation. A montage of when Angela and I celebrated the end of summer in Vancouver. Moving into my dorm at college. 

That Thanksgiving had been particularly difficult. Grief was evident all throughout the picture; my hair greasy, hardly brushed. My posture rolled forward, my eyes casted dark shadows across the hollow of my cheeks. I had been sitting at the dinner table, a small, forced smile on my face. A hand on my shoulder. I think it must have been Charlie’s. I flip forward a few pages, observing all the ways in which I tried to reinvent myself. A photo of me and Jacob in front of our bikes. One of me after painting my nails for the first time (I remember peeling the polish off the very next day), another of Charlie and Sue Clearwater sitting on the porch with a pie I had baked. 

On the last page, a photo of the empty Cullen house. Pristine as though they still lived there. I hadn’t noticed before, but the casement window that led to the tall pines in the upper lefthand corner was ajar, as though beckoning someone to come home. 

I flip back through the pages towards the front of the book, pausing when I come across the Thanksgiving photo again. Something is… different. I scan through the picture with narrowed eyes, and draw a sharp breath when I see it. 

Charlie’s hand is no longer on my shoulder. Instead, I sit at the dinner table alone, a perfect tableau of isolated misery. 

I slump back into the couch, tossing the album across the room. It hits the ground with a thud. I grab a cushion, and press it against my face. I scream. Sorrowful, wailing. There’s an agony within that pulls its way to the surface with astonishing strength, trying desperately to crawl its way out of my throat and take refuge in the wide, open room. 

I stop only when the unnaturally quick cadence of frantic footfall seems to make its way down the hallway and right up to my apartment door. I’ve disrupted a neighbour, I’m sure. 

But when I edge closer to the peephole, preparing my sheepish apology, I see that the hallway is empty. 

I back away from the door, my breath hitching, heart stammering in my chest. I don’t know how long I stand there, waiting for footsteps, for a knock, for anything . But nothing comes.

Eventually, I turn away, crossing the room with unsteady steps. The apartment feels cavernous now, as though my scream has hollowed it out. The photo album lies open where it fell, its pages splayed like broken wings. I can’t bring myself to close it.

Instead, I sit. On the floor. Knees drawn up, forehead resting on the edge of the couch. I won't cry again. I think I’m past crying. My mind races, tripping over itself— trying to find logic where none exists.

A soft click breaks the silence.

I lift my head.

The lamp by the window flickers, once. Then steadies.

I didn’t turn it on.

Then— on the windowsill, just beside the smeared, rust coloured imprint where the bird struck the glass— something that wasn’t there before:

A single pine needle. Lying perfectly still.

Chapter Text

Edward’s POV, some weeks earlier

There are places in this world where time forgets to pass.

The old ones, those half buried in snow and rot, where human feet no longer tread and animals have reclaimed the threshold, are the ones I prefer. They do not ask questions. They do not demand my name. They let me sit in silence, crumbling stone pressed against my back, and pretend I do not exist.

In the Carpathian Mountains, I have found such a place.

An abandoned monastery, long since left to the frost. The monks are dust. The bells have rusted mid swing. Ivy chokes the archways, and the wind sings dirges through the broken glass of stained windows. I sleep where they once prayed. I do not deserve prayers.

I came here after I felt her die.

The bond between us had frayed by then, stretched too thin across distance and grief. But there was a moment, a single devastating instant, when the world quieted— and I knew.

Her heart was no longer beating.

I had promised to stay away. It was the only thing I had left to give her: a life without me. A life of freedom. Of safety. I never meant for that life to end in the forest, cold and alone. My hands were not the ones that took her from the world. But the guilt is mine nonetheless.

I have not spoken her name in ten years.

But it lives in me still. A constant echo. An open wound.

Bella.

The syllables bloom like poison in my chest. Even in memory, it hurts to hold her. I have tried to let go. I have tried to lose myself in the gluttony of feeding, the gratification of a perfect kill. But grief, I’ve learned, is not something a vampire can starve out. It feeds as I feed. It is immortal.

I do not hunt often. When I do, I choose carefully. Human men who have abandoned all humanity. I tell myself it is justice. It is not. It is vanity. Some thin illusion of control. The truth is, I am not punishing them. I am punishing myself.

The villagers call me strigoi . They whisper of me in low voices, light candles when their children fall ill. They leave offerings at the gate: garlic, coins, crude wooden crosses. I let them believe I am a myth.

I am nothing now but a ghost made of memory. And yet— there are moments. Fleeting. Cruel.

A dream in daylight. A face in the smoke. The scent of her hair when the wind shifts just right. I close my eyes and press my forehead to the cold stone, waiting for it to pass.

Ten years, and still, I would give anything to forget her. Or to see her once more. Either would be mercy. But mercy has never been meant for me.

…

The monastery is silent now, but I imagine once it thrummed with life— pale robed men who believed their pain was holy. They flagellated their backs and bled into bowls, convinced suffering brought them closer to God.

I do not believe in God. But I understand the instinct.

There is something sacred about discipline, about rituals that promise absolution. Even if they are empty. Even if they are lies.

Each morning, I walk the same path. Barefoot through frostbitten corridors, the stone biting into my skin like penance. I do not need warmth. I do not need comfort. These things belong to the living. I gave them up the day I left her.

At the bell tower, I pause. There is no bell, of course. Only the rusted remnants of what once called men to prayer. I kneel. I close my eyes. I do not pray.

I remember.

Her face. Her scent. The curve of her lips when she whispered my name.

Bella.

It is not remembrance, so much as it is resurrection.

I do not allow myself the indulgence of imagined dialogue. That would be too cruel. I keep to what I know. Her voice in fragments. Her heartbeat in my memory. The sound of her laughter, thin and soft, like a thread pulled taut across eternity.

I punish myself with these things. I count them like rosary beads.

She died because I left. Because I believed distance would protect her. As though my absence could ever be enough to undo what I had already done. I should have known. I did know. The world is not kind to fragile things. And Bella– she was never fragile. She was only human.

A brief, bright flame I held too close. She burned, and I am what remains.

I keep her picture beneath the floorboards. One photograph, taken the summer before I left. She’s sitting on the hood of her truck, barefoot, eyes narrowed against the sun. There is grease on her fingers. She’s smiling.

I allow myself to look at it once a year. Always in fall. Always on the anniversary of her death. This year, I nearly didn’t. Not because the pain has lessened. It hasn’t. But because I feared what it might mean if it had. I will not survive her twice.

In the evenings, I read the same worn books the monks left behind. Latin texts, handwritten prayers, records of suffering carved in ink. I trace the words with my fingers. My mind wanders. I wonder if they, too, ever buried the memory of someone so deeply it became a cathedral of grief.

Sometimes, I think I hear her in the wind. But it is only the mountains. Only the storm. Only the trick of memory. I know she is gone. And still… there is a part of me that waits.

…

The shop’s bell jingled against the weight of the door, startling the shopkeeper. He looked up from behind the counter, where he was cataloguing ancient postcards and brittle paperbacks.

I must have looked like something dragged in from the woods. I hadn’t washed in weeks. My shirt hung loose on my frame, the collar damp with melted snow. The cuffs were frayed. There was dirt beneath my fingernails. I hadn’t spoken to another soul in eons.

The man’s expression pinched in suspicion. But he said nothing.

Good. I wasn’t here to talk.

I came to these places sometimes. Trinket shops. Antique stores. Odd little corners of forgotten towns. It was a ritual of a different kind— a nod to the shell of my former humanity. Touching objects. Browsing shelves. Pretending, for a moment, that I might purchase something, that I could carry it home to someone I loved.

I moved without purpose. My fingers grazed chipped porcelain, yellowed lace, rusted keys. Everything here smelled of decay, of dust and mildew and time.

I paused at a rack of folded sweaters. Most were decades old. Garish colours, handmade wool, all shedding fuzz. And then— the scent hit me like a collision. 

No. Impossible.

It wrapped around me, invisible and tight. Sharp and sweet. Familiar in a way that detonated something inside my chest. Not a memory. Present. Alive. Her.

Bella.

My knees nearly buckled.

I lifted the sweater from the pile with trembling fingers. Ivory, worn. The tag had been cut. There was a tiny tear near the hem.

The scent was strongest there, on the collar. Where her neck would have been. Where her skin would have touched it.

I was not hallucinating.

The fabric trembled in my grip. The shopkeeper was watching me now, his face tightened with unease. I tried to speak and found my throat closed. I swallowed once. Twice.

“Where did this come from?” My voice was hoarse, as though it had been months since I last used it. It had.

“My daughter order it online. It no fit.” The shopkeeper shrugged, as if that explained everything.

I stared at him. The words made sense individually, but strung together they floated in the air like a riddle I couldn't untangle.

“Online?” I echoed, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded. “Internet. She buy old things, resell, you know?” He waved vaguely at the racks of dated coats, mismatched shoes, and VHS tapes. “From America, I think. Chicago maybe?”

Chicago. The word burned a hole straight through me. My hand clenched tighter around the sweater, so hard the fibres groaned. I forced myself to loosen my grip, to smooth the sleeve out like I was just inspecting it.

Don’t frighten him. Don’t seem insane.

But I was insane. I must have been. Because my mind was already racing ahead. Bella in Chicago? Selling clothes online? My Bella? She would never have left Forks. She never wanted—

But she had. Or… she hadn’t. I didn’t understand. All I knew was this scent. This undeniable thread pulling me back from the edge of ruin.

The shopkeeper was still watching me, eyes narrowed now. I realized my silence had stretched too long. I bought the sweater with a handful of crumpled lei, barely able to keep from shaking as I handed it over. The man bagged it without a word. I walked out into the cold with the plastic crinkling in my hand like something sacred.

Bella is alive.

The world had been grey for so long. But now it had split wide open. And I would find her.

…

The sky had darkened while I was inside. A storm hovered above the Carpathians, hanging low and ominous over the jagged spine of earth like a verdict waiting to be spoken. I moved through the cobbled streets without direction, barely aware of my steps. The plastic bag rustled with every motion. A sacred thing desecrated by something so mundane.

When I reached the monastery, I slipped in through the side entrance. No one saw me. Or if they did, they averted their gaze. They had long since learned to treat me like a shadow. An intrusion that had taken up quiet residence in the folds of their quiet village.

I climbed the stone stairs two at a time, then through the empty corridor and into the tiny room that I stayed in. A cell in every sense of the word. Just a cot, a wooden desk, a crucifix on the wall.

The bag dropped from my hand. I crouched beside it, trembling, and pulled the sweater out like it would dissolve under my fingers. The scent hit me again, stronger in the silence.

Bella.

No— it wasn’t possible. And yet it was. This wasn’t some illusion conjured by memory or madness. This was chemical. Real. Alive.

I laid the sweater flat on the desk and smoothed my fingers over it like I might find answers stitched into the seams. The ivory cable knit had degraded slightly with age, a tiny snag near the front, a button missing. It was nothing. And it was everything.

I folded the sleeves over the chest gently, with great diligence, then dropped to the floor beside the desk. I stared at it in silence. For seconds. For hours. My knees locked. My body didn’t matter. Only the ache. Only the question.

How?

I hadn’t spoken her name aloud in years. It felt sacrilegious to try.

“You died,” I thought. “ You were dead. I saw it. I dreamed it. I lived it, every second of every wasted year.”

My hands balled into fists against my thighs. I welcomed the pain. Let my fingernails cut through skin. Anything to keep me anchored. What was this? Some sick trick of fate? A punishment?

Or a second chance?

The rituals began to crumble. The shell of discipline I’d wrapped around myself— waking at dawn, kneeling for hours in silence, fasting for penance, lighting candles to gods I couldn’t believe in. It cracked at the edges. Because this changed everything. This wasn’t a memory. It was a map.

I pulled out the laptop I kept buried under the cot. It was ancient, barely functional, a monastery donation meant for scripture archiving. It whirred like an old man coughing to life. I connected to the wireless signal they’d reluctantly installed a year ago and typed with shaking hands.

"Ivory cable knit sweater resale Chicago secondhand vintage."

Pages loaded. Too slow. Not enough.

I narrowed it: “online resale platform shipping from Chicago to Romania.”

Too broad.

Bella’s scent was still in my lungs, winding its way around the dead spaces, shaking loose the dust. I knew her. I knew her. If she had been alive— if she had survived— she would have found something small, unintrusive, a quiet way to exist.

My fingers flew over the keys.

I searched everything. Vinted, Etsy, Depop, Poshmark. Any platform I could remember. Listings blurred together in front of me. Sweaters that looked similar but wrong in all the ways that mattered.

No scent. No warmth. Just images, pixels, static. Not her.

I dug into the shipping histories, trawling through forums where sellers posted tips on international customs, scrolling until my vision blurred. I opened dozens of tabs, saved screenshots, zoomed in on tags and thread counts and collar shapes like a detective dissecting a crime scene.

My hands didn’t stop moving. Chicago. The word circled like a vulture.

I searched seller locations within the U.S., then narrowed it further— Illinois, Cook County, Chicago proper. I found a seller who’d posted recently. Minimalist branding. No selfies. No frills. Just clean photos of vintage pieces laid out on soft purple bedding. Sometimes marble tile.

No name. Just a username. secondmorning.

I stared at it. Morning.

Bella had always hated the cold, but she loved the early hours. The blue of the sky just before the sun rose. She once told me that dawn made everything feel possible again.

I clicked into the profile. Listings of soft flannels, high waisted trousers, oversized blazers. Everything curated but unpretentious. Practical, beautiful.

One particular item was marked sold . An ivory cable knit sweater. I gripped the sides of the laptop.

There. There.

I clicked it open. The photo wasn’t sharp, just a flat lay on a carpeted floor. But it was the same sweater. Same snag in the hem.

Below the listing: “Ships from: Chicago, IL.” She was there. Somehow, unbelievably, she was there.

I dropped my face into my hands and laughed, though it came out more like a choked sound. A sob or a gasp. Maybe both. My throat burned. My lungs hadn’t known how to breathe this deeply in years.

Bella is alive.

Bella is alive.

And I’d let her believe she was alone.

…

I didn’t pack.

There was nothing worth bringing.

The monastery was still cloaked in pre dawn silence when I left. No one stopped me. No one would. I hadn’t given anyone reason to keep me— no attachments, no explanations. I was a ghost here, and I would leave like one.

The train station was an hour’s walk through frozen hills. My boots sank into the crusted snow, cracking through the silence like gunshots. The wind scraped at my face, but I welcomed it. Pain, at least, reminded me I still had a body. That I was still tethered to this cursed world.

She is alive.

The thought burned behind my eyes like an eclipse. Blinding. Consuming.

I reached the station at sunrise, and it felt like a sign. That golden hour she always loved, bleeding across the cracked concrete. I stood at the platform, shaking, a venom based bile rising in my throat, not from hunger. From the truth clawing its way up from my chest: I’d spent a decade mourning a lie.

A decade in self imposed exile, punishing myself for a death that never happened. A decade convincing myself that she was better off, that I was poison, that loving her was a sentence I could never carry without shattering her. But it didn’t matter anymore.

Reality was broken. Bella was out there, and she didn’t even know she’d been erased.

I boarded the first train west. Then another. Then another. Days bled into each other. I barely moved. I didn’t feed. Hardly  breathed. The only thing that mattered was forward.

In dark windows I saw her reflection instead of mine. In the rustle of a passenger’s coat I heard her laugh echo faintly. In every face on every platform I searched for her eyes.

My phone remained off, battery long dead. I didn’t want the noise. Didn’t want the Cullens. Didn’t want Alice to interfere. This path was mine alone. The world had cheated me of her once. I would not let it do so again.

I reached Chicago under a sky that threatened hail. The city pulsed around me. Cars, lights, steam rising from manhole covers, sirens weaving distant cries through the night. I hadn’t been on American soil in nearly a decade.

The scent here was different. Smokier. Denser. Human, in all its variations. I stood at the edge of the station for a long time, breathing it in like penance.

And then, a thread. Thin, frayed, but hers. It cut through the smog and steel like starlight.

I followed.

Chapter Text

Bella’s POV

I’ve stopped trusting the silence.

Not because it’s loud— but because it isn’t. Because it wraps itself all around the bones of the day too neatly. Because it lingers in the corners of rooms where it never used to. And lately, it’s started pressing itself against my back like a hand I can’t quite turn to see.

This morning it followed me out the door and trailed me into the subway. It curled around the metal rail of the train car, settled between my shoulders like static. Even now, at my desk beneath the flicker of office fluorescents, I feel it, watching me from somewhere just outside the edges of reason.

Today I’m working on a story surrounding legacy . A startup in San Francisco is pioneering the way in digital remembrance, it seems. The company is selling headstones with wi-fi capabilities, allowing loved ones to send updated videos and photographs to a digital placard in real time. I wonder what my grandmother would think if she were privy to technology’s eerie advancements.

More than that, however, I wonder if traditional methods of honouring the deceased will ever imbue as much sincerity as a series of moving pictures on a screen purposefully fitted into a marble slab. Maybe. I think back to each time my mother drove past a cemetery in my childhood, and I held my breath as we passed. For a brief moment, I wanted to feel at odds with many people interred before me. 

Only briefly. 

As I skim through a national database of obituaries, searching for any that sound especially profound, I find my fingers twitching– no, aching to seek out my own. Just once more. 

I shouldn’t type it. I don't mean to type it. But there it is, in the search bar like it had been waiting all morning:

Swan, Isabella Marie.

And the result, still sitting there in cached shadow, with its date. September 16th, 2005. 

I click the ‘back’ button, as I already had perhaps a dozen times in the last few hours. My cursor turns into a steady rolling ring, my computer warms as it tries to refresh the last page. 

Someone taps my shoulder, and I startle, ripping my hands from the keyboard like it burns and placing them on my thighs. I draw a deep breath. 

“Yes?”

It’s Conrad, a copy editor. He’s in khaki chinos today, like he is every day. He wears one of the only four checkered button downs I’ve ever seen in his rotation. Lanyard ID clipped to his hip with a retractable line. The rest of us wear it around our necks. 

I don’t look right at him, I’m all too focused on my screen, watching the details of my obituary flicker in and out. My computer whirs as it tries to navigate again to the last page. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. 

I snap my head up to meet his gaze, “what?”

“You shouldn’t be here! Cass ordered a sushi tray. It’s in the kitchen. If you don’t go now, Elena’s going to take all the shrimp tempura rolls.”

I stand, legs stiff from tension, and follow Conrad down the corridor toward the kitchen. The lights in the hallway flicker slightly as we pass beneath them, the hum of fluorescents buzzing like an insect too close to the ear. I shake it off. Static. Just static.

The kitchen is bright and overly sterile, its white cabinets and brushed steel surfaces giving off an almost hospital like chill. The sushi tray dominates the center table. Neat rows of rolls already dismantled by greedy fingers. Cass stands in the corner by the fridge, gesturing animatedly with chopsticks in hand while Elena hovers near the shrimp tempura section like a hawk.

Conrad peels off toward the drinks cooler, leaving me to stand awkwardly by the table.

“Bella,” Cass chirps, not looking up. “You missed the first wave, but I stashed you a California roll.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, though I don’t remember telling her that California is my favourite.

I reach for the plate she indicated, lifting the plastic lid. Inside, the rolls are perfectly aligned. But there’s something off about the rice. Too gray. The avocado is too green, almost artificial in its brightness, like it had been coloured in after the fact.

I pick one up anyway, biting into it as casually as I can.

It tastes…wrong. Not expired. Not spoiled. Just off , like someone had followed a recipe in a dream and made one imperceptible change.

Cass is still talking, I realize belatedly. “Oh! We thought about you this morning, actually. When we passed St. Jude’s cemetery on the way in.”

I freeze. “Why?”

She shrugs. “No reason. Just felt like we hadn’t seen you in a while.” Her tone doesn’t match her words. There’s no concern in it. No warmth. Just the hollow echo of something rehearsed.

I place the rest of the roll back on the plate. On the fridge behind her, a sushi menu had been pinned beneath a novelty magnet shaped like a brain in a jar. I glance at it idly; and then again, closer. Saturday, September 16, 2005. I stare at the date. Rub my eyes. Look again.

Still 2005.

I blink, hard. Cass followed my gaze, then frowned. “Oh. Weird. That’s not right.”

She peels it off the fridge, looks at the date, and laughs, too loud. “Must’ve grabbed an old flyer from one of the prop boxes. That’s so funny.”

It isn’t funny. But I laugh, too. Because what else is there to do?

…

I need to take an extended lunch, I decide. A moment of fresh, green air and the chance to occupy a third space should set me right. 

The café I choose is crowded, but not loud. That midday lull where no one talks, just scrolls their phones or sips quietly, headphones in. A low hum of espresso machines and indie acoustic music softens the atmosphere, makes it feel safe. Normal.

I need normal.

I order a black coffee and stand at the pickup bar, watching the barista slide drinks across the counter with practiced indifference. My name is scribbled too neatly on the side of my cup when it comes. Block letters, all capitalized. I hadn’t given my name.

I turn, scanning for a seat. Every table was taken. Bodies hunched over laptops, jackets draped on chairs to save space. I sigh, heading toward the window bar that overlooks the street.

As I walk, I see her.

At first, it doesn’t register. Just a figure standing across the street, beyond the café’s wide window. Pale coat. Too stiff posture. Head slightly tilted. But then I really look.

Her movements are wrong. Too slow. Her limbs moved like they were on strings— no, wires — jerky, not quite human. Her neck turns just a second too late, like someone has to prompt it. 

Her eyes lock onto mine through the glass. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t look away.

I stop mid step. A customer brushes past me, muttering something under their breath, but I don’t hear it. I am rooted. Paralyzed.

The puppet woman lifts one hand. A wave? No… an attempt at one. The motion stutters halfway, elbow jutting at an impossible angle before dropping limp again to her side.

She smiles. Her lips don’t part. The skin around her mouth just stretches , like it had been instructed to mimic the idea of a smile. No teeth. No warmth. Just a grotesque suggestion of friendliness. 

The woman’s lips move, but there’s no sound. I’m too far away. Or maybe... there’s nothing to hear. The mouth opens too wide, like her jaw unhinges for a moment too long, then clicks shut again. 

Inside the cafe, no one seems to notice her at all.

Suddenly, she twitches again— her body slamming forward like a frame skip. Her face pressed against the glass. Not violently. Just... there. Smoothly. One moment distant. The next, inches away, staring through me.

She jerks forward again. And she’s inside. Standing just past the doorway. No sound. No entry chime. No one else notices her arrival.

She stands too close now. Just feet away. My heart seizes. I step back, nearly spilling my coffee.

Her head tilts farther, almost horizontal now, like her neck was built to bend wrong.

“You left,” she whispers.

The voice comes from her mouth, but it doesn’t sound like it should. It’s doubled, like two tapes layered just slightly out of sync.

“I’m sorry?” I say, backing into a stool.

“You left,” she repeats. “And now it’s wrong.”

Wrong. The word hangs in the air like a foul smell.

She blinks. The sound of it is wet .

I turn— ready to bolt, to scream, to do something — and knock into a man with a laptop. His drink sloshes onto his keyboard and he swears. I turn back to her.

She’s gone. No one seems to have seen her. 

“Did you…?” I ask the barista, but she’s already calling the next name. No reaction. No recognition.

I stagger out into the street, coffee forgotten on the floor, the cup beginning to leak where it had fallen. Outside, across the street where the woman had been standing, the sidewalk is empty.

But the streetlamp above flickers once. Twice. Then buzzes out completely.

…

In the evening I draw myself a bubble bath. Light candles for it, pour a glass of wine, prepare a tray of vegetables and dip to lay on the edge of the tub. These days, committing to acts of self care feels almost sacrilegious, the gesture of tending to my aching body feels underwhelming… wrong, almost. 

While lathering soap across my chest in the hot water, I idly wonder if I should have myself committed to a psychiatric ward. An inpatient centre where all my meals are scheduled, my bedtime certain, wardrobe unfussed because I look like everyone else. I lean my head back on the porcelain tile and sigh contentedly at the thought of having all my decisions made for me. 

I’ve started to believe that I am perhaps hallucinating. 

My job is not particularly stressful, my connections to my family or friends are not particularly tumultuous. And still… Still, there’s something going on within me that’s causing my brain to short circuit and fill the gaps of reason with wild delusions. 

I close my eyes and count to ten.

When I open them, the candle nearest the faucet has gone out. The others flicker madly, as if caught in a sudden wind. Except the windows are sealed shut, the apartment still as a tomb.

I reach forward and relight it, but the match breaks in my hand. I try another. It sparks, then dies before reaching the wick.

The flame in the center of the room dims to a faint sputter. One by one, the candles give up the ghost.

The bathroom grows darker. Not pitch black, just that strange kind of dim where you can still see everything, but the shadows are heavier, warped. My wineglass has shifted closer to the tub than I remember placing it. The vegetables on the tray have begun to wilt.

I blink hard, shake my head. Maybe I do need to be committed.

The faucet begins to drip. I turn toward it, just a small thing. Nothing dramatic. But the sound grows louder, deeper. The water doesn’t hit the surface like water. It thuds, like something dense.

I reach to twist the handle tighter, but when I look down– the water is still. Perfectly, unnaturally still. No ripples. No steam.

Just a flat mirror, reflecting the overhead light.

I slap my hand down onto the surface of the bubbles, intending to make a splash, but peel back quickly when met with a red, stinging sensation. I can’t break the surface tension, the water around me feels hard. Cold and unmoving like granite. 

For a moment, I can’t breath. I have to get out. 

I stand up so fast the tray flips, carrots and hummus scattering into the tub. I slip, grab the edge of the counter. My breath comes in sharp gasps, the room suddenly sweltering.

When I look again, the mirror surface is gone. Disturbed now by my movements. Just bathwater.

Just water.

I leave the bathroom dripping, forget the towel, forget the wine, forget everything except the frantic certainty blooming in my chest: I’m not imagining this.

…

In the wrought iron chair on my balcony, I sit with my shoulders curled inward, wearing nothing but my bathrobe. It’s frosty outside, but my body is hot and pulsating with adrenaline. 

I’m chewing around the cuticles of one hand, an old appeasement behaviour I picked up in childhood and never dropped. With the other, I have WebMD open on my phone. 

‘Sudden Hallucinations’ yields many results, but it feels all too broad for my specific situation. 

‘Hallucinations at 28’ shows results that suggest I may have Schizophrenia– but even that doesn’t feel entirely right. 

“I found my own obituary” brings me down a niche rabbit hole of conspiracy theorists and alien apologists that I have little interest in investigating. 

I sigh, placing my phone face down on the iron table, and lean over the balcony, observing all the lights that flicker and flutter in the night. Across from my apartment is another high rise, and through the window of a unit with its lights on and curtains drawn back, I see a woman bouncing her newborn while rubbing its back in small circles. 

I wonder for a moment what life would have been like had I chosen motherhood. 

My eyes trace all the lights through open windows down, down, down– and then as I reach the street, I see it. 

No, I feel it.  That buzzing hum beneath my skin, like the world is vibrating out of tune. Like the air just beyond me is full, too dense. Too watched .

Someone’s there. I look down, quick. Just wind and concrete and exhaust. A man across the street lights a cigarette. A woman in a navy coat is dragged by her large breed dog by a corner bakery. My eyes dart up to the rooftop across from mine.

Still nothing. But the feeling doesn’t go away. It presses in harder. I go inside quickly. Lock both the balcony and my apartment doors. Bolt the second one, too.

Then, I watch. Lights off, blinds parted just an inch. I stand there for nearly an hour, waiting for nothing to become something.

It does. A shadow moves across the alley. Slow and careful. It stops behind a dumpster. Just long enough for the shape of it to register. A man. 

Watching up. Watching me. I drop the blinds.

This isn’t new. The sensation of being watched had followed me for weeks now, maybe longer. But this is the first time it has shape. Weight. Evidence.

I am being stalked. I should called the police. I should call anyone. But my body is already moving. I draw my robe tighter. Grab a flashlight and pepper spray. I tell myself I’m not walking out there because I’m brave.

I’m walking out there because I need it to end. The alley is dark and wet. My breath fogs in the air as I step into it, one hand tight around the spray, thumb poised. The other grips the flashlight like a weapon.

“Hey!” I call out. My voice sounds stronger than I feel. “I know someone’s been watching me. Come out. Now.”

No answer.

I take another step, slippers echoing on the pavement. My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear anything else.

Then, in a whisper of movement, he steps out. And the world stops. He looks like something pulled out of a nightmare. Or a grave.

Hair tangled. Eyes hollowed out. Clothes hanging off him like he hasn’t worn anything new in years. He’s somehow thinner, paler. 

“Edward,” I say.

Not a question. A statement. Because my body knows before my brain does.

Because somewhere deep inside, it has always been him.

Chapter Text

He steps into the flickering yellow spill of the alley light, and the shape of him burns into my vision like a brand.

There’s a long moment where my brain refuses to cooperate. It skids sideways, slips, stalls. Like trying to grip ice with bare fingers.

It’s him.

He’s somehow thinner now. Gaunt, almost. His face is hollowed, not with age— he doesn’t age— but with something far worse. His hair is tangled, matted in places like it hasn’t seen a comb in weeks. His coat hangs off his frame like a skeleton trying on old clothes. There’s dirt under his fingernails. Something dried and cracked at the edge of his lip. His eyes, those impossible, aching eyes, are darker than I’ve ever seen them. Both bottomless and haunted.

“Edward,” I say.

It slips out like a prayer. Not a question. Not a challenge. Just… truth.

The silence that follows is absolute.

His lips part, but no sound comes. His chest stutters with a breath he doesn’t need. And I realize, with a jolt of disoriented sympathy, that he looks afraid. More than that. He looks ruined.

The wind shifts. His scent hits me. Earth and rain and memory. I reel back half a step, like I’ve been punched in the gut.

“Is it really you?” I ask, but the words feel thin, ridiculous, flimsy against the weight of him standing there.

He nods. The smallest, slowest motion.

And that’s when my body stops obeying me. My knees buckle. I catch myself on the wall.

The sound that breaks out of me is ugly. It’s half gasp, half sob, entirely involuntary. I want to throw something at him. I want to grab his face and shake him. I want to collapse into his arms and feel how cold he still is.

He’s still not speaking. Just watching me with eyes that look like they haven’t blinked in ten years.

“I thought you were dead, Edward,” I say, even though that makes no sense.

His jaw tightens. His mouth opens like he’s about to speak, but no words come. Just the low, ragged sound of a breath drawn through splinters.

“You left,” I whisper. “You left and everything fell apart.”

He flinches. Not dramatically. Just a flicker, like a fault line shifting beneath his skin.

And then his face, or rather his whole body— crumples. Just a little. Just enough to show me the ruin underneath. My breath hiccups. I press the heel of my hand to my chest like I can steady my heart manually.

“Bella,” he rasps. “Oh God. Bella.”

It’s the sound that undoes me.

…

We don’t speak on the walk back. He only comes when I beckon him with a subtle nod of my head in the direction of my apartment. Meekly, he steps out from behind the dumpster like a stray dog hesitantly approaching a stranger who may offer some kindness. 

The silence is unbearable, and yet I cling to it like a thread keeping me upright. My heart hasn’t slowed since I first laid eyes on him. Hasn’t stopped banging against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. I don’t know why I didn’t run. I don’t know why my feet turned toward home instead of away.

Edward follows me like a shadow that’s finally stepped back into the light.

I can feel his presence behind me. Not just see it, but feel it, like static gathering across my skin. Every few steps, I glance back, half expecting him to disappear again. But he’s still there.

Pale. Silent. Real.

The city doesn’t seem to notice him. Maybe it’s because he moves like smoke, soft footed and out of sync with the rhythm of everything else. Or maybe it's me. Maybe I’m the one who’s slipped sideways, out of phase with the rest of the world.

We reach my building. I buzz us in, my hands too numb with cold, too clumsy. He doesn’t say anything when the lock clicks. Doesn’t ask questions. Just follows.

The elevator is a coffin. I feel his eyes on me. Not touching, but close enough to make my breath snag.

Inside the apartment, I drop my bag, kick off my shoes. He stays near the doorway, hesitant, like he's afraid of stepping too far in. Like my space might shatter if he crosses a certain line.

I rub my hands together, then rake them through my hair, trying to force some sense back into myself.

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” I say, voice soft.

Edward doesn’t flinch. He only stares.

“You look like you may have, too,” he murmurs.

I wrap my arms around myself. I don’t sit down. If I sit, I’ll collapse.
Instead, I pace.

“You don’t get to just show up,” I say. “You don’t get to disappear off the face of the planet for ten years and then materialize in an alley like some kind of… hallucination.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, quietly. But I don’t want quiet. I want answers, so I stop pacing and turn to him.

“What are you doing here, Edward?”

He doesn’t respond, just looks down at his shoes and takes a shaky breath that I know he doesn’t really need. Maybe it’s something instinctual leftover from his humanity. I see now more than ever all the thick tangles in his hair. 

“I asked you a question,” I say. My voice breaks in the middle, betraying me. I clear my throat and try again, arms folded across my chest. “Why are you here?”

Edward doesn’t move. He looks like he’s afraid the wrong breath might shatter the moment.

“I came because I had to.”

“You had to,” I repeat flatly. “What is that, some vampire compulsion? Destiny? Guilt?”

His face tightens, and for a second— just a second— and I see it. The pain. Not dramatic, or cinematic. Just raw, like it lives in the hollows beneath his eyes and the spaces between his bones.

He looks so thin. So worn down. Like someone who’s been walking through storms for years and just now realized he has nowhere to go.

My anger falters for half a heartbeat. But I catch it, I hold it close. I need it. Because if I don’t, I’ll fall apart.

“You’ve been following me.” I keep my tone steady. “Watching me. Why? After all this time, why now?”

“I didn’t mean for you to see me,” he says quietly, “I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Well, that worked out beautifully,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “Because I’m definitely not scared. Just emotionally concussed.”

He doesn’t respond to that. His expression shifts into something unreadable, and the silence that follows is so thick it could choke.

I exhale through my nose and turn toward the kitchen, suddenly too warm and too aware of the ache behind my eyes. “My goodness,” I mutter. “You look like hell.”

“I’ve been… unwell,” he admits, as if that’s a sufficient summary of whatever led him here, like a ghost from a life I’d buried.

I open the fridge without another word, pulling out a takeout container. Something vaguely healthy. I’m not really looking. I just need the motion, the noise, the distraction.

“You don’t eat, right?” I ask, glancing at him. “Human food, I mean.”

He hesitates. “No.”

“Right,” I say softly. “I remember.”

I put the container in the microwave anyway and press start. The quiet hum fills the air like a balm. Something normal. Something tangible.

I rest my palms on the edge of the counter, steadying myself.

“I don’t know if I’m hallucinating,” I say. “Or dreaming. Or if you’re some projection of everything I haven’t dealt with.”

Edward doesn’t speak. He watches me like a man watching the sunrise after a decade of night.

“But you’re here. You’re here ,” I stab my index finger into the countertop, “and I have no idea what that means.” My voice hitches, and I hate how small I sound.

When I finally turn to face him, his expression is hollowed with remorse. He looks like someone who doesn’t think he deserves to be in the room.

And maybe he doesn’t.

But I still can’t bring myself to tell him to leave.

“You should sit,” I say. Not cold. Not warm. Just… tired. “You look like you might collapse.”

He nods once, almost gratefully, and steps farther into the room, slow and careful, like he’s afraid he’ll ruin the floor.

“I’m not feeding you,” I say as I retrieve a fork. “I’m just— trying to do something that makes sense.”

“I understand.”

I glance at him. “Do you?”

He meets my gaze, and for a moment, I feel the world tip. Like something in me recognizes him on a level that’s deeper than memory, deeper than the hurt.

“I’m trying to,” he says.

I sit down across from him with my food, still warm, though I’m not hungry anymore.

I take a bite anyway. He watches the movement of my fork like it’s fascinating. 

We sit in silence, not speaking. Just breathing. Just… here.

Together. But not yet whole.

…

Edward’s POV 

The ticking of a wall clock.

The hum of the refrigerator.

The soft scrape of Bella’s fork against the edge of the container.

It’s all so loud. Too loud.

I sit perfectly still on the edge of her couch, hands clasped together like I’m praying. I don’t know what else to do with them. My legs ache from standing so long. From running. From hiding. But I don’t let myself relax, not yet.

The room smells like her.

Not exactly the way I remember. There's lavender now, something citrusy in her shampoo, the faint iron edge of wine in the air. But underneath it, the scent I thought I’d never breathe again lingers like a ghost. Like a promise the world had tried to bury.

I take it in without meaning to, and I feel something in me splinter.

She’s alive.

She’s alive.

And I can’t stop staring.

Her apartment is… small. Lived in. There’s a throw blanket tossed haphazardly over the arm of a velvet chair. Books stacked beneath the coffee table instead of on it. A row of shoes by the door, not aligned, but not messy either. Organized in the way someone does when they’re tired, but still trying.

I trace the titles of the books with my eyes. A few old paperbacks. A hardcover memoir about war. A slim volume of poetry– Mary Oliver. I remember when she first discovered her.

On the counter, there’s a dying bouquet of tulips in a glass jar. Yellow. Wilting at the edges.

And there’s Bella.

Older. Sharper. Softer.

Her hair is longer than it was that day in the forest. Her posture is stronger. She holds herself differently. 

And she’s watching me now, eyes narrowed, chewing slowly, as if she’s trying to decide whether I’m real or just the final straw in a very long unraveling.

“I thought maybe you’d say something,” she says, breaking the silence.

I blink, caught. “I’m… still trying to believe I’m here.”

She studies me for a beat, then nods once. “Yeah. Me too.”

I glance down at the hands in my lap. My fingers are shaking. I tuck them into my sleeves.

Her walls are covered in art. Mostly black and white photographs. A few abstract pieces, a minimalist print of a bird in flight. They don’t match, but they belong together somehow. Like someone carefully built this life one breath at a time.

I don’t know what I expected. I never imagined this far.

“I didn’t know where you lived,” I say quietly. “Not until recently.”

She stabs another piece of vegetable with her fork but doesn’t lift it. “You found me anyway.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been watching me.”

“…Yes.”

Her jaw tenses. She sets the fork down gently.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “I couldn’t stay away. I didn’t know how.”

I expect her to shout. Or cry. Or ask why.

But she just leans back in her chair, arms crossed, her face unreadable. “You don’t get to fall out of the sky and act like that’s normal.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to follow me through the city and lurk in shadows and not explain.”

“I will,” I promise. “I’ll tell you everything. But not yet… Please… If that’s okay…”

“Why not?”

Because I’m afraid if I speak it out loud, the truth will burn through the room and take her with it.

Instead I say, “Because I don’t want to lose this moment.”

She frowns at that. Looks away. And for the first time since I stepped out of the alley, I feel her slip a little farther from me.

But she doesn’t ask me to leave.

And that… is something.

A/N: Hi to my very small pool of dedicated readers :) I just wanted to thank you sincerely from the bottom of my heart for giving my story a read and letting me know that you’ve enjoyed it so far. I’m having a lot of fun writing this. I hope you’re excited to see where the story leads us.

All my best,

Ahlivia

Chapter Text

Edward sits like a statue at the very edge of the couch, as if the cushions might eat him if he sinks too deep. His clothes hang from his frame, heavy with grime. His hair is a thicket of knots and dirt, falling into the hollows of his sunken eyes. He can’t look at me.

I don't look at him, either. Not really. I glance; a series of quick, guilty flashes. But if I let myself stare too long, I’m afraid I'll start to tremble. 

I pull my knees up into my chest and wrap my arms around them, trying to fold myself smaller. Become invisible in this strange world I’ve found myself in. Trying to breathe past the wild beating of my own heart.

For a long time, neither one of us moves. 

Finally, I force the words out, hoarse and cracking. "Are you... hurt?"

He blinks once, slow and dazed, like it takes effort to translate the sound of my voice into meaning. His mouth opens, closes. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly— a gesture so small I might have missed it if I weren't watching him like my life depended on it.

But it’s not true.

He is hurt. Just not in ways that bandages can fix.

I press my forehead to my knees for a moment, grounding myself. When I lift my head again, the tightness in my chest softens, just enough to say, quieter: "I have clean clothes. A towel. If you want."

There’s a flash of something in his expression. Fear, maybe. Or shame. He doesn’t answer, but his hands tighten a little more, knotted in his lap.

We sit in more silence, the minutes pass like hours. I am acutely aware of his stillness, unnatural and statuesque. I know his auditory perception is sharp enough to hear each breath I take. Each nervous swallow. Each blink, grind of my teeth, twitch of my lip. 

I reach blindly for my phone, needing the distraction, the normalcy of it. The screen wakes at my touch, and I idly scroll through the pages, looking to momentarily busy my hands. I open my email. There’s nothing particularly interesting to see. I just need to busy my hands for a moment. A deadline reminder from Cass, more reader submissions, a reply to my work order about the Xerox. 

The Outlook app shudders, dissolves, reforms into… My own name. My own obituary, warped and flickering across the screen like a dying star.

The phone slips from my fingers and lands face down on the coffee table with a dull clatter.

Edward stiffens immediately, every muscle in his body coiled. His nostrils flare, eyes darting to me, then the phone on the table. 

My breathing quickens, rattling inside my chest like bird wings against glass.

Something is wrong. Something is still wrong.

Even with him here.

…

I suck in a deep breath through my teeth, and force myself to move. 

Not to scream, or to run, as my human instincts may have instructed me to do in the presence of such a precarious supernatural being. Just to move, and break up some of the tension that spins webs around the room.

I stand, my legs stiff and clumsy beneath me, and drift over to the linen closet. I keep my back to Edward, pretend I don’t feel the weight of his stare etched right between my shoulders. Inside the closet my hands find a fresh, white towel and an oversized navy shirt that used to belong to Charlie. From the bedroom I retrieve a pair of soft, loose drawstring pajama pants that may hang too short on him, but it’s the best I can do. 

I carry them back and set them on the arm of the couch, careful to leave space between us, careful not to touch him. 

“The bathroom’s over there,” I say, willing my voice to be steady. I nod towards the narrow hallway. “If you’d like a shower.”

For the first time since he’s stepped into the light, his eyes lift to meet mine. 

And for a moment, I forget how to breathe. 

His gaze is penetrating. Shattering. Ruining. Full of a kind of longing I need to make space for in order to carry. But underneath, buried so deep I almost miss it, there’s a fear , too. As if he’s terrified I might take the offer back. 

Edward stands slowly, hands hovering like he doesn’t want to disturb the air around us. He takes the towel and bundle of clothes without brushing my fingers, moving with a terrible and hollow grace. He lingers for a moment, like there’s something he’d like to say. Then turns and disappears down the hall instead, softly clicking the bathroom door behind him. 

Only then do I let myself buckle into the couch, hands pressed against my face. I don’t cry. I don’t have the energy to. 

Instead, I sit in the stunned hush, listening to the faint sound of running water, and wonder what sort of twisted universe breaks itself open just to drop a ghost back into my life.

…

The water shuts off.

For a while, there’s just a soft clatter of movement. The cabinet opening. The brush sliding across the porcelain rim of the sink. Then, a small, almost defeated sound. 

I freeze, turning my ear and straining to listen. 

Another harsh tug. The brittle scrape of plastic teeth dragging against hair too tangled to give. Something inside me twists. 

Before I can talk myself out of it, I am lifting my arm to knock on the bathroom door, two soft raps. 

“Edward?” my voice is low, extremely careful, like I am speaking to a wounded animal. “Do you need… help?”

Another long pause. 

When he answers, it’s barely above a whisper. “Please.”

I gingerly turn the knob and step inside. He’s perched on the edge of the tub, wearing the navy shirt and pajama pants, his bare feet bracing the tile. The towel clings damply around his shoulders, and he grips the brush like it’s something alive that he isn’t able to tame. 

He doesn’t look up. The only part of him that moves is the slight lift and fall of his chest. I wonder if he’s doing it for me, or if it comes so naturally that he’s not conscious of the movement. 

I swallow hard, step into the tub so I can stand behind him. Up close, the damage is worse than I imagined. His hair is a mess of tangles and snags, as though it's been months since he’s even thought about caring for it. 

Wordlessly, I ease the brush from his hand. My fingers brace against his knuckles and the jolt that races up my arm nearly knocks me breathless. Still, he doesn’t flinch away. 

Instead, a long, shuddering sigh escapes him. Like the tension he’s been carrying for years has begun to bleed out at the barest contact. 

I work section by section, untangling the worst knots with my fingers and the slip of conditioner before coaxing the brush through. I move slowly, very gently, the way I’d imagine one might care for something on the verge of breaking. 

The room is heavy with a quiet that I wouldn’t exactly equate to silence. It’s full of breath and pulse. When my hands find a particularly stubborn knot at the base of his neck, he leans into the touch without meaning to. Just the smallest shift of weight, a surrender so raw and so human that my throat tightens painfully.

For the first time, I absorb just how lost he really is. How fragile. 

How much he’s clinging to the faint tether of my existence. 

And against all reason– all the fear and confusion that still roils inside me– I let him. 

I stand there, on the cool, wet tub floor, running the brush tenderly through his hair. 

Right now, I think it’s the only thing anchoring us to this moment. 

This fleeting, delicate moment. 

…

When the last tangle gives way and the brush runs smoothly through his hair, I set it down gently on the edge of the sink.

He sits still for a long moment, hands slack, head slightly bowed. Then, so softly I almost miss it: “Thank you.”

My chest constricts again. The words teeter between gratitude and a quiet astonishment, as though it’s been a long time since he’s been met with kindness. 

I ease back on my heels, giving him a little space. Now that the grime has been washed away, I see more of him; the Edward I knew so well. His features are still gaunt, skin pale and translucent under the bathroom lights… but his rosebud lips, the stubborn line of his jaw, the aquiline slope of his nose… It’s all so achingly familiar. Like a photograph found at the bottom of an old drawer. Creased and crumpled, but still whole. 

I clear my throat tentatively. “It’s getting late. I… I have work in the morning.”

He lifts his head then, and I catch a flicker of something in his expression. Fear, maybe. Or helplessness. Maybe a little of both. 

I grip the edge of the counter, steadying myself and feigning nonchalance. 

“Where have you been staying?” I ask. 

His gaze drops. He flexes his hand in his lap. 

“Nowhere. I just stay close… Wherever you are.”

The air leaves my lungs all at once. I picture him drifting through the city like a wayward spirit, waiting in shadows, trailing me at an imperceptible distance. It’s almost too much to bear. 

I hesitate for only a beat before saying “you can stay here. Tonight, at least.”

He lifts his head now, startled. His eyes are wide with an almost boyish disbelief. 

I hold his gaze here. It’s not easy. Every nerve screams at me to armor up, to back away.
But there’s a deeper instinct, too: the one that recognizes him. The one that remembers.

He gives the smallest, barest nod.

His shoulders drop slightly— like a thread pulled too tight has finally been let go.

…

Some minutes later, I toss a folded blanket towards the couch, offering a small, tired shrug. Edward shifts slightly on the couch. He looks lost there. Big in my tiny apartment, like a ghost who hasn’t figured out how to haunt properly. I’m exhausted, frayed around every edge, but I can’t bring myself to turn him away. 

“It gets kind of chilly here at night,” I say. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Edward catches it awkwardly, smoothing his hands over the top of it like he’s unsure of what to do. Then, a faint, broken sound escapes him. I can’t discern if it’s a quiet laugh, or a rigid sigh.

“No, I don’t mind. Thank you.” His head lifts and that impossible gold bores into me. For the briefest moment, I see the face of someone I once deeply knew. The boy who kissed me in the meadow. The man who nearly tore himself apart just to keep me breathing. 

I linger for a second in the doorway.

“Goodnight, Edward.”

“Goodnight, Bella.”

I turn, heart hammering, pretending that I can’t feel his lingering gaze on me again. I move towards my bedroom, and my hand is on the knob when I hear it:

Ring. Ring.

I frown, pulling my phone from my pocket. The screen glows, and the blood drains from my face. 

“Everything okay?” Edward calls from the couch.

Incoming call from: Isabella Swan

A photo of me fills the screen. In it, my face is absent of colour, sunken, glassy eyes, mouth hanging open and jaw slacked to the side like a puppet abandoned mid sentence. 

For a moment, the room tilts.

“Bella?” Edward calls out again. 

I accept the call and lift the phone to my ear with shaking hands. 

For a second there’s nothing. And then, a long, shuddering breath from the other end. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” my own voice groans. 

I drop the phone with a sharp, clattering crack. 

In less than a blink, Edward is in front of me. His hand finds my wrist, gripping firmly but not harshly, his body angling as if ready to shield me from something unseen. His face is wild with fear, golden eyes burning.

“What’s happening?” He asks urgently, “are you okay?”

“No, no– yes, it’s– I’m fine,” I force a breath into my lungs, pushing back the rising tide of panic, “I’ve just been… Seeing things lately. That’s all it was.”

He doesn’t move his hand away. His thumb brushes, just barely, against the curve of my hip, as if reassuring himself that I'm real. 

Neither one of us speaks. The phone lies forgotten at our feet, the screen innocently black. 

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself lean– just slightly– into him. 

Because real or not, nightmare or not, I’m so tired of standing alone. 

…

Eventually, I find my voice. When I do, it’s raw. 

“I should get some sleep,” I whisper.

Edward straightens instantly, stepping back to give me space. His golden eyes, luminous through the dark, track my every movement. 

“I’ll be here,” he says quietly “if you need anything.”

I nod tightly. I retreat to my bedroom, only glancing back once. Edward is lowering himself onto the couch, awkward and stiff, as if unsure he's even allowed to be here. He draws his knees up, wrapping his arms loosely around them, his shoulders folding inward. For the first time, he looks less like a ghost and more like something heartbreakingly real.

I close my door gently behind me, but I don't bother locking it.

I crawl into bed fully clothed, pulling the blankets up to my chin, my heart thudding in the hollow of my chest. Sleep doesn’t come easy. Every time I close my eyes, I see that broken, twisted version of myself flashing on the screen, whispering words I refuse to understand.

And still, underneath the fear, underneath the confusion, there’s something else.

The ghost of Edward’s hand on my wrist. The fresh memory of the way he’d looked at me. Like I was something so precious. 

In the other room, I hear the faint creak of the couch as he shifts restlessly.

Neither of us will sleep tonight.

and shivering holds its breath.

Chapter Text

Morning drips through the slats of my blinds, watery and grey. For a moment, I lay very still, unsure if I had dreamed it all– Edward’s hand delicately circling my wrist, the look in his eyes like he would still tear apart the world to keep me safe. 

But then a floorboard creaks beyond my door, and the weight of it settles in again. 

He’s still here. And by virtue of that, so is whatever has been happening to me. 

I swing my legs over the bed, body sluggish with unrest, and catch sight of myself in the grand mirror across the room.

Just me. For now. 

I pad to the living room, where the morning light continues to bleed pale across the hardwood floors. Edward stands by the window, the curtains pulled back an inch between two fingers. Watching. Always watching. 

At the sound of my footsteps, he turns. There’s something so raw about him in the daylight, something achingly unguarded. His hair, still minutely damp from just hours before, curls around his temples. An unintentional boyish messiness to it. I’ve been used to seeing him with pomades and sprays. His clothes seem to hang even looser on him now that the dirt is mostly gone from his skin, revealing how hollow he’s become. As if he’s disappearing by just degrees. 

“Good morning,” I say, voice still hoarse from sleep. 

Edward nodded, a gesture too small for everything suspended in between us. I wonder if he would have slept at all, had he the ability to do so. 

I busy myself in the kitchen, bringing a mug down from the cupboard and beginning the ritual of preparing coffee. It feels almost painfully normal.

“You don’t have to stay,” I say over my shoulder, “if you have somewhere to be.”

He’s quiet for a beat, and then looks at me with an embarrassed expression. I think he’d be blushing if he could.

“I don’t… have anywhere to be.” He says without meeting my eyes. 

I set the mug down a little too hard. 

Of course he doesn’t. 

And maybe, somewhere deep down, that’s okay with me. 

I finish my coffee in a few long sips, the caffeine biting against the exhaustion pooled in my limbs. Edward stays by the window, silent, eyes not on me, but observing the city far beyond the glass. 

I rinse my mug, set it carefully in the sink, and turn. 

“I… need to get ready for work,” I say, feeling strange for announcing something so mundane. 

He nods again, the movement stiff. 

I retreat to my bedroom, shutting the door halfway, but not closed. Some small, ridiculous part of me doesn’t want to cut him off completely. 

Changing into slacks and a button down feels almost absurd under the weight of him being here. I can hear him faintly. The creak of the floorboards under his slow, deliberate pacing. 

The intimacy of it unsettles me. He had once known every inch of me, every minute facet of my soul. And now? He is a stranger in my space, leaving ghostly fingerprints on my world. 

When I emerge, keys in hand, I see him glancing away quickly– as though he’d been caught watching me. 

I hesitate by the laundry closet, then bend down and grab a bottle of detergent from the shelf. 

“You can… if you want, I mean. The washer and dryer are here.” I place the bottle on top of the machine like an offering, “if you want to wash your clothes while I’m out.”

He looks down at himself, like he’s seeing the tattered state of his clothes for the first time. 

“Thank you.” He says, voice so low again I almost miss it. 

I nod, pulling my jacket tighter around myself. 

“And–” I stop, awkward. “There’s food in the fridge. If… you need anything.”

His lips lift into something that’s not quite a smile. “I won’t.”

Of course he won’t.

I linger one heartbeat longer, then force myself to step out the door and into the noise of the hallway, leaving him standing there, my ghost in the living room.

…

Work, usually being that net that catches my overthinking brain, fails me today.

I spend the morning half seeing my assignments, my cursor blinking over an unfinished email for what must be hours. My body is in my chair, my hands on my keyboard. But my mind is back in my apartment.

With him.

I keep thinking about whether he’d be able to figure out the washing machine. If he’d stayed at all. If maybe I’d walk in tonight, and find nothing but the faintest indentation of where he’d sat. 

Around noon, Conrad swings by my desk, holding a stack of papers. 

“You look like you need something stronger that that.” He says, nodding to my half finished cup of coffee. I blink up at him, trying to force a smile. 

“Rough night?”

I hesitate. If only he knew. 

“A little,” I admitted. 

“A couple of us are grabbing drinks after work at the lounge on Seventh. Even Cass is coming, and she never leaves before eight.”

I hesitate again, my thoughts flickering back to the apartment. To the tall, pale figure who may still be waiting for me. 

But, hasn’t my world already shrunk enough? In these short few hours, I feel like it’s collapsed into just him. 

I should do something to remind myself that I’m still living. Moving forward, somehow.

“Okay,” I say, surprising even me. “I’ll join.”

Conrad grins, already walking back to his desk. “Great. First round’s on the interns.”

…

The lounge smells like lemon cleaner and gin. 

The lights are dim enough to be forgiving, house music plays on the speakers overhead. I find myself sitting in a canvas backed booth between two colleagues, sipping on a white wine. Not gulping it. Not drowning myself in it. Just sipping; controlled, careful. 

There’s laughter. Light, easy conversation about the city’s construction projects and television shows. 

Nothing that matters. Nothing that presses too hard against the bruises inside of me. 

The mood is light, comfortable even. For the first time in weeks, I almost feel normal.

“Bella? Swan? Is that you?”

I turn at the sound of my name, glass freezing in mid air. 

There, standing near the bar in a fitted charcoal button-down and jeans that show off quads that clearly don’t skip leg day, is Mike Newton.

My jaw parts slightly. “Mike?”

He breaks into a grin that’s both familiar and not. His face is more angular now, scruffed with stubble, and his shoulders are broader than I remember. He looks… good. Strong. Confident.

“Wow,” he says, stepping closer, his eyes sweeping me with open admiration. “You look amazing. I didn’t even recognize you at first.”

“I could say the same,” I manage, blinking. “What are you doing in Chicago? You live here?”

He runs a hand through his hair. It’s shorter than I remember, styled now. “Moved here about three months ago. Starting fresh. I’m a personal trainer now.”

“Really? That’s…” I glance at his arms. “Actually very believable.”

He laughs. “Yeah I’m… looking for a reset. Jessica and I separated.”

Something in his voice shifts. Softer. I tilt my head.

“You and Jessica?”

He sighs, then shrugs. “Six months ago. We’re in the middle of a divorce.”

“Oh. I’m… I’m sorry.”

He gives a small, lopsided smile. “It’s okay. We were kids. Trying to force something that wasn’t working.” He nods at my glass. “Mind if I buy you your next one?”

I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to talk. More because I can feel something tightening low in my chest. But I nod.

“Sure.”

He orders his drink, then returns, standing close enough that his cologne—something nautical and clean— mixes with the smell of citrus from my wine. His presence is easy. Familiar. Like the echo of a different life.

We talk for another ten minutes, catching up quickly. Surface level, but nostalgic. Forks feels like a strange, mossy dream. And when he hands me his phone so I can put my number in, I don’t resist.

As he leaves to rejoin some friends at the other end of the bar, he glances back at me.

And there it is: that old look. Wanting. Hopeful. Maybe just a little wistful.

I take another sip of wine, feeling a flush that isn’t just from the alcohol.

…

The hallway is dim and quiet when I step inside my apartment, the buzz from the wine still thrumming in my body. I shut the door quietly behind me, toeing off my boots.

Edward is there, seated at the far end of the couch in the dark, as still as a shadow. His eyes are open, glowing faintly in the low light of the city seeping through the window. I notice the clothes he’d arrived in, once stiff with grime and time, now folded in a neat pile on the edge of the armchair.

“You’re awake,” I say.

He nods. “I don’t sleep.”

Right. I knew that. Still, it’s strange, remembering just how long the nights must be for him. My cheeks are flushed from the wine, my body warm from laughter and dim bar lights and old memories stirred back to life.

“You smell… different,” he says after a moment. Not accusing. Just observing.

“Wine,” I explain. “And… maybe someone’s cologne.” I pause. “I ran into someone we knew from Forks.”

Edward tilts his head. “Who?”

“Mike Newton.”

The faintest pause.

Edward’s gaze shifts away, like a breeze stirring through leaves.

“Oh.”

“He was at the bar,” I continue, pulling off my coat and draping it over the back of a chair. “New job. Personal trainer. Going through a divorce.”

There’s a pause where I feel him looking at me, though I don’t quite meet his eyes.

“He asked for my number,” I add, casually. “I gave it to him.”

Now I do glance his way.

Edward’s jaw flexes, just slightly. His posture doesn’t change, but the air shifts.

“I see,” he says quietly.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I say, though even as I do, I’m not sure why I feel the need to reassure him. “We were just catching up.”

“I’m not… upset at you,” he says, and I believe him. His voice is low, almost apologetic. “You’re allowed to live your life, Bella. I forfeited my place in it a long time ago.”

The words strike something deep in me.

“I didn’t say you had,” I say gently, walking past him toward the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. “But… it’s late. And apparently it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

I turn, sipping from the glass, trying to soften the moment.

“I was thinking,” I say, “if you’re still here… maybe we could go to a museum. The Art Institute, maybe.”

Edward lifts his eyes to mine, and there’s a flicker of something ancient and aching there.

“That would be nice,” he says, voice rough.

Something in me settles and frays at once.

“You did laundry,” I say, knowing I should head to bed. But I can’t resist the urge to speak with him just a little longer. 

His eyes flick to me, and I see that outline of a not quite smile again.

“Thank you for the detergent,” he says. 

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a long pause. The quiet isn’t tense. It’s just waiting. Holding its breath. 

“Where have you been?” I ask finally. “These past ten years?”

Edward’s gaze shifts back to the window. “Nowhere important.”

“Well, that doesn’t really sound like you.”

He exhales through his nose, “I think maybe I’m not quite myself anymore.”

That aching feeling returns behind my ribs. I lean back, pressing my shoulders into the couch. 

“And the others?” I ask. “The rest of the Cullens?”

He nods, almost absently. “They’re in the UK right now. Alice and Jasper are at university– again. Literature this time, I think. Rosalie and Emmett are living like newlyweds in Bath. Carlisle and Esme were visiting Scotland when I last spoke to them.”

“You’ve talked to them recently?”

“Not since I came here.”

I pause, knitting my fingers together in my lap. I try to appear casual. 

“I’m surprised that Alice hasn’t… reached out. She always knows when something’s wrong.”

Edward’s expression grows even more distant. “I haven’t turned my phone on in weeks.”

This strikes me as sadder than it should be. I picture him drifting untethered in the world, unreachable. I study him in profile. His face seems somewhat less gaunt now that he’s clean. It’s familiar in ways that sneak up on me. His presence alone can still steal the oxygen out of a room. 

“Then why did you come here, Edward?”

The question hangs in the air like smoke. 

His eyes close for a long moment, contemplative. When he opens them, something inside seems to falter. 

“I… don’t know how to explain it yet.”

I watch him, searching for cracks, for meaning. A hint, a give, a tell. But I find nothing. 

He’s not ready. 

So I don’t press, not now. But my heart continues to ache with all that remains unsaid. 

…

Later, I stand in the doorway of the living room, one hand on the frame, watching him. 

Edward is still seated, hands loosely clasped in his lap, the blue light of the television washing over his face. I turned it on for him. 

“I’m heading to bed,” I say softly. He looks up.

“You’re free to stay here again. Watch TV if you want. Or…” I hesitate, “go out, if that’s more comfortable. Explore the city. Do whatever you need. My key’s hanging by the door. I’ll be asleep.”

“I won’t leave,” he says quietly. 

I nod, unsure of why that offers me any comfort. I leave the door slightly ajar. 

…

The room is dim, and I settle under the blankets, trying to ignore the low hum of electricity beneath my skin. It’s been humming for a while. Since that strange man on the subway platform. The footage. The mirror. The bird. The obituary. The cafe. The call. Since he stepped out of the shadows.

My eyes adjust to the dark.

I lie on my side, trying to let the warmth of the blankets lull me. But it’s not working. I feel wired. Stretched thin. My nerves plucked like piano strings.

Then, a scent. Faint at first, but sharp. Rot.

Like wet leaves left in a gutter. Or meat left out in the sun.

I wrinkle my nose. Shift in bed. My hand brushes something cold.

I turn over.

And my breath stops.

A corpse lies beside me.

Its skin is waxy, swollen in places like it's been submerged. Eyes bulging. Mouth curled in a grin too wide, too knowing. Black water drips from its matted hair, soaking into my pillow. The smell hits me in full, decay and river sludge.

And it’s staring right at me.

A rasp leaks from its throat. Like it’s trying to speak. Or laugh.

I scream.

It’s not even a sound so much as a primal, anguished rip from my body. I scramble back against the wall, sheets tangling around my legs, trying to get away from it .

The door crashes open. Edward is a blur of movement, suddenly in the room, his hand gripping the frame like he’ll tear it from the wall.

“What happened?”

I scramble upright in bed, back hitting the headboard. My breath comes in gasps. My skin is slick with sweat.

But the corpse is gone.

Nothing is there now. Just sheets and shadows.

“I’m fine,” I rasp. “I’m fine. I— I’m sorry, I’m just seeing things again.”

He steps forward cautiously, voice lower. “Bella, you have to tell me what’s going on with you.”

That flicks a match.

I glare at him, chest still heaving, hands still shaking. “No. You need to tell me what’s going on with you .”

His jaw tightens. “I—”

“No,” I cut him off. “You don’t get to act like you care about my wellbeing when you won’t even tell me why you’re here. You show up looking like a ghost, you won’t talk to your family, you barely even exist , and now I’m just supposed to ignore everything and pretend like you being in my apartment isn’t the most insane thing that’s ever happened to me?”

Edward flinches like I’ve slapped him.

The silence after is sharp, a breath held too long.

Then he says, so quietly I almost miss it:

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

And I don’t know whether to cry or scream.

Then he speaks, almost a whisper. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just—” He stops. His jaw flexes. “I’ll stay out here. In the living room. But if something happens again, call for me.”

I nod, unable to say more.

He lingers in the doorway, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Part anguish, part longing.

Then he turns, and I hear him sink back into the couch cushions.

I curl back into bed, shivering even though I’m not cold.

Just knowing he’s there, close, even if everything is broken and strange, makes the dark feel a little less suffocating.

But the smell of river rot still clings to my pillow.

Chapter Text

Saturday arrives grey again and softly raining, just as predicted. I’m dressed in a black turtleneck and wool trousers, haphazardly I throw my hair into a loose clip. 

When I step into the living room, Edward is already waiting by the window, watching the almost waterlogged streets below. 

“You ready?” I ask, keys in hand. I don’t ask if he slept well, like I may under the normal circumstances of hosting a normal guest. I know he didn’t. 

He turns, his hair still damp from the shower, combed back today. His clothes freshly washed, seemingly pressed and hanging differently, as though fitted. Somehow, he looks like a memory I haven’t accessed in years. A painting covered in dust, finally cleaned. 

He looks me up and down, almost reverently. Perhaps he’s taking in my more adult dress. This time, ten years ago, I stood before him in a too big sweater and tattered Converse. 

“I’m ready.” He says, before following me out into the squall of the Chicago morning. 

…

We step out into the wet, the soft hiss of rain curling around the edges of our coats. I pull my hood up, then bury my hands deep into my pockets. Edward walks beside me, bareheaded, the drizzle catching on his lashes and darkening the edges of his hair. 

He doesn’t flinch. He never did. 

“It’s not far,” I say, eyes ahead. “Fifteen minutes really, if we cut through the park.”

He nods in agreement, but says nothing. This time, the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full. Weighted with the unspoken, pressed between us like a third body. 

A car passes too fast, water pooling at the curb and spraying up in a splash. I startle at this, instinctively stepping to the side, closer to Edward. Our arms brush, but I don’t pull away immediately. He doesn’t either. 

We walk like this for a few steps, shoulders nearly touching.

“You’re cold,” he murmurs after a beat, not looking at me.

I shrug. “It’s Chicago in March.”

Edward glances up at the sky, “I forgot how many shades of rain there are.”

I huff a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “You say that like it’s poetic.”

“Maybe it is,” he says, more quietly, “Maybe everything is, when you’re not sure how long until you’ll get to see it again.”

I don’t respond to that. The sincerity in his voice claws at something a little too tender. Instead, we keep walking. Letting the patter of rain on our coats fill the spaces between the questions neither of us are quite ready to ask yet. 

We cross into the park, the grass damp and glistening underfoot. Bare trees stretch above us like ribs, delicate and skeletal against the morning sky. The air still smells like petrichor and city smog. 

My arms are crossed over my chest, trying to preserve some warmth. I risk a glance sideways. 

“You used to hum,” I say suddenly, thoughtfully. “When you thought I was asleep. I remembered that last night. Some old Debussy piece, I think.”

Edward’s mouth twitches. “Claire de Lune.”

“I hated it.” I lie, deadpan.

A soft, surprising laugh slips from him. Short, but real. “I don’t think that’s true at all.”

“I was asleep. Mostly.”

Silence again, but gentler now. Something warmer crackles in between us. It’s Edward’s turn to glance at me now. The weight of his gaze is like a brush of fingertips down my spine. 

“Do you still listen to music?” I ask.

He hesitates. “Not lately.”

I nod at that, not pushing. It’s easier to ask the little things. Safer than all the real questions bubbling just underneath. 

A few more steps pass before he speaks again. 

“I remember the sound of your laugh more clearly than anything else,” he says, not looking at me. “It’s strange, the things memory clings to.”

My breath catches. 

“Ten years is a long time,” I say. “People change.”

He looks at me, something unreadable in his expression. “You’ve changed.”

I lift a brow. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he says. “Not at all. Just… surprising. Maybe… a little painful?”

I stop walking. 

He does too, a pace ahead, and turns to face me. 

The drizzle must be beading in my hair by now, my hood pushed back by the wind. My lips part, but nothing comes out at first. My heart is doing that horrible, traitorous thing– beating fast at the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes. Even now. 

“You don’t get to say things like that,” I whisper, my voice breaking at the end. “Not when you left. Not when I had to build a whole new person just to survive the absence.”

Edward flinches. 

I breathe out slowly. “But thank you… for saying it.”

His jaw flexes. I can see a tightening in his throat. For a moment, he looks like he might step closer. Reach out, touch me. 

But instead he gives a rigid nod and turns back towards the path. 

We walk the rest of the way without a word, the rain a pulsing drum song.

…

As we near the tall stone facade of the museum, the world seems to soften around us. Like the city has finished holding its breath. 

I slow, observing the way the rain has deepened the colour of his jacket, has made his hair fall into his eyes again. His steps are even quieter now, as if he’s folding himself very small so he can fit into the moment. 

“Did you ever… think about what you’d say to me? If we ever met again?” I ask, voice echoing off the stone.

He stops. He doesn’t turn to look at me right away. 

“Every day.” He answers finally, “and none of it was ever enough.”

I don’t know what to say to that. The ache blooms again, dull and deep. 

But then, I reach out gently, letting my fingers brush against the edge of his sleeve. The touch is fleeting. Just enough to let him know that I’m still here. 

He looks straight at me, carefully. 

I nod towards the door.

“Come on,” I say, “it’s warmer inside.”

…

Inside, the museum is encircled by the soundscape of gallery observers’ footsteps exploring the relics. It is warm, like I promised, and the soft lighting glows gold against the columns. 

I unbutton my coat. Edward’s eyes roam the lobby, wide and quietly awestruck, though I sense it isn’t the art of architecture that’s moved him. It’s something else. Maybe it’s the way things have changed here. Or the way they haven’t. 

We walk beyond the ticket counter and into the first gallery. Renaissance portraits. Oil rich and heavy-eyed saints and queens staring out across centuries. 

Edward stops in front of one, a woman in a velvet gown, her hands folded carefully over a letter.

“She looks like you,” he hums.

I scoff softly. “Flattered. But I’ve never had that much grace.”

“No,” he says, “but her self assuredness. You carry it the same way.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so instead I step next to him. Shoulder to shoulder, surrounded by the ghosts of lifetimes past. 

Then, from a nearby hallway, comes the faint hum of an interactive sound exhibit. Children’s voices giggling. Echoes of birdsong. I turn towards it with interest. 

“You want to try that one?” I ask. 

He hesitates at first, then follows me. 

Inside, the space is dim, with soft lighting and sound domes suspended from the ceiling. Beneath one, I step up and press a button. A melody spills out. A woman’s voice, old and crackling, singing a lullaby in French. I tilted my head up, listening.

Absorbed in song, I don’t notice at first when Edward watches me, not the dome. I close my eyes, enjoying the music. I tuck my hair behind my ears so that the sound may reach them better. 

My eyes open, and I catch him staring. There’s something so intimate in the way he watches. Gentle. For a moment, neither of us looks away. Then I speak. 

“Did you know they say scent is the sense most tied to memory?”

Edward blinks. “Yes.”

I smile, just barely. “Of course you do.”

We keep moving, the lullaby still echoing behind us like something half remembered.

We drift through the exhibits without speaking for a while. A tranquility follows us. One that is particular to both museums and mausoleums. The reverberations of our footsteps weave with the murmurs of the other patrons. But even those fade as we enter a quieter wing. Sculpture, this time. White marbled torsos. Weathered faces. Gods frozen mid expression.

Edward keeps his hands tucked behind his back, his brow furrowed in a way I know all too well. Like he’s thinking too much. Like he’s trying not to feel. 

I stay a step ahead until we reach the statue of Orpheus– his head tilted in grief, his lyre clutched like a wound. 

I stop. “So much of art is mourning something,” I say.

Edward doesn’t answer. I don’t expect him to. 

My voice drops. “I used to come here when I was new to the city. I didn’t know anyone. I’d walk these halls just to feel peace somewhere other than my apartment.”

His gaze slides over to me. “You were alone.”

I nod. “But not lonely. Not all the time.”

When I look to him, something unbridled flickers across his face. 

We drift through the exhibit some more, until we reach a mirrored installation at the far end of the corridor. A piece I’ve seen before, but never understood. It’s a hallway lined with opposing mirrors, infinitely repeating one’s reflection. Distorting it slightly. The lighting makes everything too pale, too sharp.

Edward steps into the corridor first. The reflections catch him from every angle. He looks strange in the mirror, less solid, almost flickering. Like he’s never quite rooted in any one reality.

I join him, and for a moment, our reflections multiply and twist. An army of Bellas and Edwards stretched into eternity.

“Do you ever feel like you’ve been split into different versions of yourself?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond at first. Then: “Every day.”

I turn towards him. Our reflections do the same. Hundreds of Edwards watching hundreds of Bellas turn to face them. 

We’re close now. Maybe too close. My voice drops even lower.

“Who are you now?”

He swallows. “I’m not sure.”

The answer is so honest, it cuts something inside me. 

“I never thought I’d see you again,” I whisper. “I never thought… if I did, that you’d be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Wrecked,” I say. “Like the leaving ruined you, too.”

It hangs between us. Unbearable. 

He speaks then, so delicately I almost miss it. “You were supposed to be okay.”

My breath hitches. “I was okay. Eventually.”

I don’t say it out loud: until now. 

He looks like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back and our reflections ripple.

We move into the next room. A dimly lit gallery of oil paintings, most of them winter scenes. Snow heavy forests. Bare branches. Long roads with distant houses lit by orange windows. 

We find a bench and sit. 

Not touching. Not daring to. 

I fold my hands in my lap. Edward leans forward, elbows on his knees. We stare ahead. Quiet.

I want to say something, but my throat feels dry. Instead, I feel the warmth of his presence beside me, and the intolerable awareness of the years between us. Of the unsaid. 

I turn, finally, and find him already looking. 

Our eyes meet, and we stay there. 

Long enough for the air to crackle.

Long enough to feel it. 

But neither of us moves. 

Because moving would break something. 

…

Finally, we pad on, deeper into the galleries. The next room is smaller. Walls hung with pieces that feel more erratic, more haunted. I pause at a large, chaotic painting. One of Henry Darger’s. Childlike figures in pastel uniforms march across a war-torn landscape, caught between fantasy and violence. The lines are delicate but frantic. The color palette bright, even as the subject matter churns with something darker.

I tilt my head, trying to make sense of it.

Edward stops beside me.

And stills completely.

I glance at him.

His expression has gone slack with something that isn’t quite shock— but close. His eyes are locked on the painting, but distant, too. Like he’s not in the room anymore.

“You know his work?” I ask, surprised.

His voice is solemn. “I knew him. ”

I turn to him fully now. “Henry Darger?”

Edward nods slowly. “We were boys together. He was… quiet. Odd. But kind. I used to walk home with him sometimes after school.”

There’s such a deep longing in his voice.

“I never knew what happened to him,” Edward goes on. “Just one day… he disappeared. And then decades later, I started seeing his work in places like this.”

He steps a little closer to the canvas, gaze tracing the strokes like they’re secret messages only he can decode.

“He used to draw little sketches in the margins of his notebooks,” Edward murmurs. “He’d show them to me in the schoolyard. I’d tell him they looked like stories. He said they were stories, but no one would believe them.”

I look at the painting again. It does feel like a story. Half remembered and half imagined. Both sacred and unhinged.

“You’ve seen so much,” I whisper.

Edward’s jaw tightens. “Too much. And yet… there’s so much I’ve lost, too.”

His eyes are glassy with some private grief, but there’s a longing in them, as well. Like he’s trying to hold on to something that keeps slipping from his grasp.

I feel a lump rising in my throat. I look away, swallowing.

“I moved to Chicago for a fresh start,” I say softly. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That I ended up here… in the place you were born. The place you died.”

Edward doesn’t speak.

I turn to him again, more fragile than I meant to be. “What are the odds of that?”

His answer is barely audible. “Maybe not odds at all.”

Our eyes meet.

The painting looms behind us like a dream we’ve both somehow shared.

…

The museum’s cafe is a quiet alcove tucked beyond glass doors, dimly lit with small round tables and the low thrum of many conversations happening at once. Rain continues to bead down outside, drawing faint trails across the city skyline and beyond. 

We sit at a table by the window. I wrap my hands around a ceramic mug of earl grey tea, watching the steam curl up like smoke signals I can’t decode. Edward has nothing in front of him but his hands folded together and the flicker of warm, indirect light on his face. 

He looks more like himself now. Or at least, a version of himself I might have imagined all those years ago. A touch more grown up somehow, contemplative. His eyes still carry weight. That old soul weariness.

I take a sip of my tea. I’m curious. “You really knew him. Henry Darger.”

Edward nods, his gaze distant again. “Sometimes I wonder how many ghosts I’ve carried inside me. How many I’ve forgotten.”

I study him. “Do you remember any of them?”

He looks at me now, and there’s a long moment before he speaks. “Not always clearly. But some things stay. Smells. Voices. The way someone laughed. Or the way they made you feel— without really knowing why.”

I swallow. “And me?”

The question slips out before I can catch it, and immediately, I regret it. My heart thuds, because I don’t know if I want to hear the answer.

Edward’s eyes flicker, sharp with something like pain. “You’re the one thing I never forgot. Even when I wanted to.”

He leans forward. “Sometimes I think I should have let you go. Let time erase me for you. Let you live a real life.”

“I did live,” I say, voice barely a whisper. “I grew up. I went to school. Got a job. Made friends. I kept going.”

He nods slowly. “And were you happy?”

I look away. “Were you?”

Edward’s voice is remorseful. “When I left… I thought I was protecting you. That it would be kinder.”

“It wasn’t.” My voice isn’t cruel. Just honest.

“I know,” he says. “I know that now.”

From the corner of my eye, I see his hand twitch on the table, like he might reach for me. But he doesn’t. I don’t move either.

The tension between us is unyielding, but somehow beautiful, too. Like the space between two notes in a song that hasn’t ended yet. 

…

The museum gift shop glows with soft white light and classical music, a curated maze of glossy art books, delicate jewelry and carefully designed souvenirs. I drift through it slowly, running my fingers over the postcards and marbled bookmarks. 

I stop at a display of miniature sculptures. Tiny replicas of famous statues cast in smooth resin, and pick one up, smiling faintly at the weight of it in my hand. It’s a little absurd. But comforting, too, in its own way. 

I don’t notice at first when Edward slips away. 

The shop is small, but my attention is caught now by a stack of watercoloured note cards, then a set of silver pins shaped like wings. I hold them up to the light, studying their etching. 

When I finally turn to look for him, he’s right there, holding a small brown paper bag. I startle slightly, my hand clutching my chest.

“Sorry,” he says softly, “didn’t mean to disappear.”

My gaze narrows playfully. “I should’ve known you’d ghost out of the room like a Victorian specter.”

A flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. “Old habits.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You still carry cash?”

Edward’s lips tilt at the corner. “Of course. I always have.”

He pulls something out of the bag, and presents it to me. An object wrapped in crisp, white tissue.

I blink, surprised. “What’s this?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just watches me with that steady, unreadable expression.

Carefully, I peel the tissue open. 

It’s a small pendant. Delicate, glass encased, with a pressed violet inside. Simple, beautiful. A little ephemeral thing that looks like it could have belonged to a different time. A different world.

I swallow. “You bought this… for me?”

Edward nods once, but he seems uncertain now, watching me too closely. “You used to press wildflowers in your books,” he says. “I remembered that.”

My heart aches.

I close the tissue slowly, suddenly feeling damp around the eyes. “Thank you,” I say, breath hitching slightly. “It’s… beautiful.”

We don’t touch, but it feels like we’ve crossed something. Some invisible threshold of knowing. 

I tuck the wrapped pendant gently into my coat pocket, my fingers lingering on it for a second too long. 

Outside, the rain has finally softened into a fine mist. 

…

We linger a little longer among the shelves, neither of us quite ready to say that the afternoon is ending. The soft murmur of the other visitors fades into the background, a kind of lull settling around us like dust in the sunlight. 

My fingers drift over another stack of postcards by the register, but my mind is somewhere else. Tethered to the weight of the pendant in my pocket.

Edward stands beside me, hands in his own pockets. Gaze lowered but not unseeing. 

I clear my throat. “We should probably head back before the storm picks up again.”

Edward nods. “Yes, of course.”

As we walk slowly toward the exit, I steal one last glance at him from the corner of my eye.

The violet pendant presses lightly at my side, as if it, too, is aware of the space he’s carved into my life once more.

…

Chicago shimmered under the streetlights. Slick pavement glowing gold, traffic a distant sound, the lake air clinging damp to our skin.

I tuck my coat tightly around myself. The pendant swings in my pocket with each step, a weight I can’t stop thinking about. 

Edward walks beside me, his own hands deep in his coat, his shoulders slightly hunched like he’s holding back his thoughts. I can feel it pulsating off him. His restraint, his longing, his fear.

We pass under a tree whos wet branches drip rhythmically onto the sidewalk.

“I forget,” Edward says, looking at it, “how beautiful this city can be at night.”

The streetlight cast a warm halo across his cheek, softening the angles of his face. For a moment, I see the boy he used to be— the boy he never got to keep being.

“You were born here,” I say. 

“A long time ago.”

We walk a few more steps before I ask, nearly without thinking: “Do you miss it? That life?”

Edward’s head tilts, like he’s thinking. “I don’t know if I ever really had one. Not in a way that counts.”

We cross the street. His footsteps are in sync with mine now, just lighter. 

“You really are different now,” he says.

Older. Sharper. Lonelier, I almost say back.

Instead, I say “you are, too.”

We stop beneath the awning of a closed flower shop as the rain thickens. The warm scent of damp earth and petals lingered in the air, a ghost of spring clinging to the night.

I exhale, brushing rain from my lashes.

Edward turns toward me slowly, as if drawn by a force older than both of us. His eyes search mine. Cautious, reverent, like I’m something holy and breakable. He raises a hand, tentative, and I don’t move away.

His fingers brush against my temple, the backs of them cool and trembling. He gently tucks a sodden strand of hair behind my ear, but he doesn't immediately pull away. His hand hovers there, suspended, as though caught in my gravity.

His fingertips graze my jaw, feather-soft.

My breath hitched.

I hadn’t realized how much I missed being touched like this. Like I was cherished.

Edward’s gaze drops to my lips for a single, fleeting second, then returns to my eyes with something raw behind it. Longing. Regret. Something dangerously close to hope.

His voice is quiet. “You always wore your hair like this. I used to watch you… in the cafeteria. Tucking it back over and over.”

My heart twisted. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” he says, the words a confession and a wound all at once.

A beat passes between us. Breathless, suspended. My whole body buzzes with tension, like a string pulled taut.

I almost lean into him.

Almost.

But I don’t.

And neither does he.

The moment passes like a gust of wind. Gone too quickly, but unforgettable.

The rain eases.

We step out into the rain again, the space between us charged. We walk the rest of the way to my apartment in silence.

By the time we get inside, my heart is thudding so hard it echoes in my ears. 

A/N: Ohhh, so much yearning! I’m sorry for the yearning! I know it’s a lot. I know you probably want them to kiss! But re-welcoming someone in your life is difficult– especially when you’ve grown up a little. Stay with me, though, your patience will be rewarded 🙂

I’m pumping these chapters out like I’m working an assembly line. I just graduated from college with my degree in fashion design, and if you can’t tell, I’m currently unemployed haha. If the chapters ever slow down, you can revel in knowing that I’ve finally found work. Until then, however, I’ll keep writing fervently.

And if you know anyone in Toronto who needs custom clothing made, let me know! Ha.

Best,

Ahlivia

Chapter Text

In the morning, I wake slowly, groggily. No rain today, just the grey overcast that often floats above the windy city. For a moment, I’m not sure what has roused me from sleep, but then I hear it– the sounds of running water. The shower. 

I lay still, listening. Not alone.

Edward.

A strange comfort settles over me. I turn to my side, nestling deeper into the pillow. His presence isn’t intrusive. Much less alarming. It’s quiet. Gentle. Like he’d been stitched into the fabric of the apartment without me realizing. 

When I finally rise, I slide into felted slippers and pad into the kitchen, finding him already pouring water into the french press. He’s in the same clothing from yesterday. 

“Good morning,” he says, voice soft but steady. 

“Morning,” I reply, rubbing at my eyes. “You… figured out the coffee maker?”

A fleeting smile touches his lips. “I’ve been observing.”

I can’t help but smile back, moving to retrieve my mug from the cabinet. “You don’t have to make me coffee.”

“I wanted to,” Edward replies quietly, “you’ve done so much already.”

I shrug, suddenly feeling shy. “Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just… the basics, y’know? I mean– you’re welcome here, until you figure things out…”

Something unreadable passes across his face. “I haven’t been anyone’s guest in a very long time.” 

I stir milk into my coffee, trying to be deliberately casual. “Well, I don’t have a guest room, but the couch seems to be working. And if you need anything else…”

“I don’t.” He hesitates. “But… Thank you.”

An awkward beat stretches between us. I sip my coffee, watching him over the rim of my mug. There’s something strangely domestic about seeing him like this. Leaning against the counter, drying his damp hair with a small towel that had previously been slung over his shoulder. 

I find myself studying the slight glow reflecting from his forearms, as the sun breaks through the clouds for just a moment. He looks less like a ghost now, more startlingly real. 

“So,” I finally say, setting my mug down, “I was thinking, if you’re planning to be here for a few more days, maybe we could step out to the shops later. Get you a few essentials.”

He tilts his head. “Essentials?”

“You know. Stuff like a toothbrush. A phone charger. An extra pair of socks.” I give him a wry look, “unless you plan on borrowing mine.”

A breath of laughter escapes him. Soft, disbelieving. “You’d do that?”

I arch a brow. “You’re kind of stranded here, aren’t you?”

Edward sets the towel aside, folding it neatly. “I suppose I am.”

I lean against the counter beside him, feeling oddly close. “Come on. I’ll even take you to Target.”

His lips twitch. “Lead the way, then.”

…

The mall isn’t far by any stretch, but I insist upon taking the subway. I’m not awake enough yet to justify a walk, and Edward, seemingly unfamiliar with the city in its current era of modernity, doesn’t protest.

We sit side by side on the rickety plastic seats of the Red Line, the train rocking beneath us as it rattles towards the Loop. 

Edward sits stiffly, his knees close together, hands folded one over the other, eyes quietly scanning the other passengers. His gaze seems to linger on the windows where our reflections blur together under the light. 

I watch him, feeling a strange mix of tenderness and amusement. He looks so completely out of place, and yet… he doesn’t. 

“You’re acting like it’s your first time on the train,” I tease lightly.

“It is,” Edward admits, glancing at me. “I’ve never really needed public transportation.”

I smile faintly. “I guess you’ve always… driven.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then: “Not since before. I didn’t… I wasn’t much for cities.”

“Not even Chicago?” I press gently, “it’s where you were born.”

Edward’s eyes seem to darken, thoughtful. “Chicago was… different then.”

I tilt my head, curious. “What do you remember?”

A small, sad smile curves his lips. “Cold winters. Coal smoke. Ice on the lake. The clang of streetcars. I used to watch the horses pulling carts up Michigan Avenue.”

I imagine him. A child in his newsboy cap and knickerbockers, leather boots scuffing dirty snow. “You really were a kid,” I say. 

“For a little while,” his smile fades. “Before the illness.”

A quiet falls between us, the hum of the train filling the air. I swallow, unsure of how to reply. Instead, I shift a touch closer, our thighs almost brushing. 

Edward seems to notice the closeness, but doesn’t move away. Instead, he looks at our shared reflection in the window, sitting shoulder to shoulder, distorted by the city rushing past.

“You’ve grown,” he remarks again, almost quietly to himself.

I look at him. “I’m not the same girl you left in Forks, Edward.”

He turns his head, meeting my eyes. “No,” he says softly, “you’re not.”

A pause. His gaze flicks to my mouth for the briefest second, then away again. 

The train lurches to a stop.

“This is us,” I say, standing abruptly. My heart is beating a little faster than expected. 

Edward rises beside me, following me out to the platform, our footsteps echoing as we climb the stairs. 

…

We don’t make it straight to the mall. My fault. I veer off the sidewalk towards a tiny coffee shop, its windows seemingly steamed from within, the smell of roasted beans curling out each time the door swings open. 

“I just need a quick caffeine fix,” I explain, tugging Edward by the sleeve. 

Edward follows, bemused. Our eyes adjust to the dim, amber lit space, filled with quiet conversations and the hum of the espresso machine. 

I step confidently to the counter. “Could I get a large latte, please? Extra shot,” I order without hesitation. Then, glancing back at Edward, “do you want anything?”

He shakes his head faintly, “no, thank you.”

When the barista slides me the oversized cup, I wrap my hands around it gratefully, inhaling the steam before taking a long sip. I sigh with contentment as we find a small table near the window.

Edward watches me with quiet fascination. “You really drink that much coffee now?”

I smile behind the rim of my cup. “You have no idea.”

“Is it… necessary?”

“Absolutely,” I say, leaning back. “I’d never make it through the day without it.”

His lips twitch into a small smile. “You realize you’re chemically dependent.”

I laugh a little. “Sounds so dramatic when you say it like that.”

“It is dramatic,” he says, still watching me. “It’s strange seeing you this way.”

I tilt my head. “This way?”

“Older. Different.” His gaze softens, “I’m trying to reconcile the girl I left… with the woman sitting in front of me.”

My breath catches, but I cover it with another sip of coffee, staring out the window at the passing cars. 

“You’ve changed, too, Edward,” I say wistfully. “You’re… rougher around the edges now.”

He looks down at his hands. “I’ve been… alone a long time.”

Another silence stretches between us. Intimate. 

I reach my fingers across the table, just for a moment, and brush them lightly against the back of his hand. 

“You don’t… have to be alone, now.”

Edward looks up sharply, surprise flickering in his golden eyes. He doesn’t pull away. 

Outside, the clouds shift, a thin spill of sunlight leaks onto the table. Edward shoves his hands into his pockets quickly, covering the skin. 

After a moment, I stand, draining the last of my coffee. “Come on,” I say, voice lighter. “Let’s get you some new clothes before you look even more like a gothic novel character.”

At this, Edward huffs a soft laugh before following me out onto the street.

…

The mall is a noisy sprawl of light and movement. People flood the walkways, music pulses faintly from overhead speakers, and the mingled scents of cinnamon pretzels and perfume waft through the air. 

Edward pauses just inside the entrance, his shoulders stiffening as he scans the crowd. His jaw tightens, a faint crease forms between his brows. 

I notice immediately. “Hey,” I say, gently touching his arm. “You okay?”

He hesitates. “It’s… a lot.”

I frown. “A lot? Too much?”

He keeps his gaze on the bustling crowd, his voice low. “The noise. Not out here,” he taps his temple lightly. “ In here.”

Realization dawns on my face. “Oh. Right.” I wince, “I forgot you could… read minds.”

Edward gives a quiet, humourless laugh. “It’s like standing in the middle of a hundred radio stations, all playing at once.”

“Yikes.” I look around, “do you want to— should we go somewhere quieter?”

He shakes his head then, offering a thin smile. “No. I’m okay. I’ll… filter it out.”

“Are you sure?” I press, concern threading my voice. 

His eyes soften again when he looks at me. “I’m sure. Besides,” his lips twitch faintly, “it’s not all bad. I can tell exactly which stores have the worst customer service.”

I snort a laugh. “That’s weirdly useful.”

He relaxes a little at my smile. “Well, lead the way.”

We step into the mall together, Edward following close behind me, his hands in his pockets. His gaze still quietly tracks every face, every movement. 

…

We drift from store to store, me leading the way while Edward trails closely behind, quiet but observant. 

In the department store, I beeline to the menswear section, flipping through the racks thoughtfully, my fingers brushing the fabrics. 

“Okay,” I mutter, half to myself. “You’ve been wearing that same… whatever it is for the last few days. We’re upgrading you.”

He stands beside me, arms crossed loosely, watching me curate. 

I pull out a simple heather grey t-shirt and hold it up to his chest. “This seems like it’ll fit you just right.” I frown playfully, “But we’re skipping the v-necks. Too… immodest .” 

Edward quirks an eyebrow. “Immodest?”

“Trust me,” I say, tossing the t-shirt over my arm. But then I pause, reconsidering. I reach for a black v-neck anyway. “Actually… just to see.”

He chuckles softly under his breath. 

I add slim fit jeans, a light weight sweater, another black tee and a button down to the pile. “Try these.”

He disappears into the fitting room.

I linger outside on a padded seat, pretending to scroll on my phone. But when the door opens, and Edward steps out, my gaze lifts and locks. 

The t-shirt clings across his chest and shoulders, the fabric moulding to his lean frame. The jeans sit low on his hips, fitted and effortless. And from the dip of the v-neck, a faint brush of chest hair peeks out. 

I swallow.

“Oh.” I manage, “that works.”

Edward looks down at himself, then at me, bemused again. “It’s just a t-shirt.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, “just a t-shirt.”

My eyes linger a moment too long at the fabric stretched across the curve of his bicep. He notices. 

“Does it fit?” I ask, clearing my throat.

He flexes his arm slightly, watching the sleeve shift. “It seems to fit.”

“Good.” I say briskly, while tossing two more shirts over the door. “Keep those. We’ll get more.”

I walk quickly back to the racks, face warm, pretending I’m not absolutely flustered.

He steps out of the fitting room again, now in a navy button down. The dark fabric makes his skin appear even more pale, his eyes appear sharper, his jaw somehow more defined. 

My breath catches. 

He looks… timeless. Graceful. Like the version of him I remember and yet, not the same. Older in spite of his agelessness. Patina’d in some intangible way. 

“You’re… observing me quite closely.” Edward says, his lips curling into a faint smile. 

I blink. “No, I’m–” I let out a nervous laugh. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Edward turns towards the mirror, tugging absently at the hem of his shirt. The motion pulls the fabric tighter across his back, outlining the lean stretch of muscle underneath. 

“I didn’t think you’d still…” my voice trails off.

“Still what?”

“Look like… this.” I admit, gesturing vaguely at him, embarrassed by the heat rising in my cheeks. “It’s unfair, really.”

His gaze meets mine through the mirror. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” My voice is soft, almost fond. 

He watches me through the glass a moment longer, then turns, stepping closer. “And you’ve changed,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “You’ve… grown into yourself.”

I hold his gaze, heart skipping. “I’ve had ten years,” I murmur. 

His smile fades into something gentler, sadder. “I noticed.”

The moment feels fragile, reverent. My fingers tighten around the hanger in my hand, unsure of what to do with myself. 

His eyes flicker to the shirt I’m holding. “Do you approve?”

I force myself to focus. “Yeah,” I say lightly, clearing my throat. “You look…” my eyes trace him again, from the soft curve of his bicep under his sleeve, up to the faint line of his collarbone visible at the neckline. “You look really good, Edward.”

I turn away, my chest thrumming. “Let’s just grab a few more things.” I say, quickly heading to a different department. 

Behind me, I hear Edward’s quiet chuckle, it curls through me like the smoke off a loved candle. Familiar, achingly sweet. 

…

In the beauty and toiletry department, Edward watches silently as I pile essentials into a basket. Toothbrush, razor, shampoo. 

I pick up the razor and consider it for a moment. “Your hair doesn’t grow, does it?”

“Nothing new that I didn’t have before.” He says, shrugging. 

I put it back. 

“It’s strange,” he murmurs, picking up a small bottle of mouthwash, turning it over thoughtfully. “It feels like playing human again.”

I glance at him. “You’re doing pretty well for someone who hasn’t ‘played’ in a while.”

At the register, I lay the neatly folded clothes on the counter, and reach for my wallet instinctively. 

But before I can pull out my card, a pale hand covers mine, gently stilling the motion. 

“Bella,” Edward says softly. 

I look up, startled. His golden eyes are calm, but firm. “Let me,” he murmurs, already sliding a few crisp bills from his pocket and laying them down. 

“Edward, you don’t have to–”

“I want to,” he interrupts, his voice gentle but final. “Please.”

I hesitate, lips parted as I search his face. Something stubborn gleams beneath his quiet expression. Pride, maybe. Or care. Or both. 

“...Okay.” I relent, letting my wallet fall closed in my hand. 

Edward gives me the faintest smile, then turns to the cashier with a polite nod. 

He carries the bags as we step away from the counter, keeping stride with me. 

“I was happy to get those for you,” I say, softer this time.

“I know,” Edward replies, glancing at me sidelong. “But I didn’t want that.”

…

The train rumbles beneath us as I lean my head lightly against the window, watching the blur of the city whirl past. Edward sits beside me, shopping bags between us, and his hands folded neatly in his lap. 

My phone buzzes. I slide it from my pocket, my thumb swiping across the screen.

Mike Newton: Hey! Super random, but I’m doing a D & D thing with some friends 2nite . Want to come watch? Or jump in? Would be fun to catch up. 

He punctuates the text message with a smiley face. 

I smile faintly, thumb hovering over the keyboard. 

Edward’s gaze flicks to the phone, then away. “Mike Newton?”

“Mhm.” I type a quick reply: Sure, sounds fun! What time?

“He’s still around?” Edward’s voice stays level, but something taught threads through it. 

“Yeah, he lives here now, remember?” I tuck my phone back into my jacket pocket. “Starting over, I guess.”

Edward looks out the opposite window, jaw shifting a bit. “And he… invited you to… a game?”

I grin a little at his tone. “Dungeons and Dragons, yeah.”

“A… game,” Edward repeats, tasting the words like they’re foreign. 

“It’s harmless,” I assure him. “He’s just being friendly.”

Edward’s lips press together, golden eyes unreadable. “Friendly,” he echoes quietly.

The train rocks over a turn, jolting us slightly closer. Our shoulder brush. I feel the static of it ripple down my spine. 

“You’re going?” Edward asks, softer now.

I hesitate, then nod. “I think I could use a fun night.”

He doesn’t respond right away, just gazes at me with that same distant ache, as if weighing something behind his eyes. 

Finally: “You deserve fun,” he murmurs, voice almost tender. 

I blink at the warmth of it. “You’re not upset, are you?”

Edward gives me a faint, bittersweet smile. “No,” he said. “Not upset.”

But when our eyes meet again, something flickers beneath the calm. Something quietly unsettled, a restless shadow looming beneath the gold. 

The train slows, pulling into our stop. Edward stands first, offering his hand to help me up without thinking. I take it, our fingers clasping for a brief, electric moment before letting go. 

…

The apartment door swings shut behind us, closing with a final click in the quiet. Outside, the sky shifts into an early dusk.

I set my bag down by the edge of the couch, rubbing at the back of my neck. “Thanks for carrying everything,” I say absently. 

Edward leans against the edge of the kitchen counter, watching me unpack. “You didn’t have to say yes to him, you know,” he says quietly.

I straighten, looking over. “To Mike?”

Edward nods once. “You don’t owe him anything.”

I shrug lightly, folding a new t-shirt. “I don’t. But it’s just a night with friends. He’s not–” I trail off, suddenly too aware of the careful way that Edward’s looking at me. 

“Not what?” He asks softly. 

I swallow. “Not a threat.”

Edward’s lips curve faintly, but it’s not quite a smile. “I’m not worried about him hurting you.”

I pause, and lift an eyebrow. “What are you worried about, then?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze drops, lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks. “Nothing,” he says, finally. “Just… trying to remember how to do this.”

I tilt my head. “Do what?”

He looks up again, eyes warm and wistful. “Be so near to you. And let you live your life.”

The words hang in the air, delicate and raw. There’s the bloom of that familiar ache again. 

I shift the bags aside. “I’m gonna hop in the shower before I go.”

Edward nods, his voice gentle. “Of course.”

As I turn from the bathroom, I hear him add from behind me: 

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

Something about the way he says it, like a promise, or a plea, stirs an old longing inside me. I close the door behind me, resting my palms on the cool tile for a moment before turning on the water. 

Steam still covers the mirror when I step out, wrapped in a towel, my damp hair curling at the ends. I pad barefoot to the bedroom, leaving faint prints behind. 

Edward is sitting on the arm of the couch, hand under his chin, watching me through the open door. “Do you want me to… give you space?” He offers, already half rising. 

I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’m used to roomates.”

He settles back down, quietly delighted. 

I sift through my closet, pulling out a pair of dark jeans and a soft sweater. “It’s not like it’s a date,” I say more to myself than to him. 

Edward’s voice drifts in from the living room. “Do you wish it were?”

I pause mid motion, sweater bunched in my hands. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat it. 

I exhale, pulling the sweater over my head, then lean towards the mirror over my dresser, dabbing a little concealer under my eyes. My reflection is tired but resolute. 

Soon after, Edward leans against the door frame, watching me zip up my boots. 

“You’ve really changed,” he says, arms crossed casually over his front. 

I look up at him. “Yeah, it’s been ten years, Edward.”

“I know,” his gaze doesn’t waiver. “I just didn’t expect it to… suit you this much.”

I freeze mid zip. “Suit me?”

“You wear your life,” he says, “like an armor. Like… proof.” His mouth twists faintly. “It looks good on you.”

My heart kicks painfully in my chest. “Don’t romanticize it,” I warn. Quiet, but firm. “You weren’t here for it.”

Another unreadable look flickers across his face. “I know,” he says, “believe me. I know.”

Our eyes lock in the reflection of the entryway mirror. I grab my coat from a hook by the door, shrugging it on. “I won’t be late,” I say. Though I don’t know why I feel the need to promise it. “Don’t wait up,” I say lightly, stepping into the hallway. 

Edward’s voice follows me, low but intense. “I will.”

…

I step out of my Uber and onto a quiet residential street, glancing up at the old brownstone where Mike had texted me the address. The lights on the second floor window glow warm against the night, laughter floating faintly down to the street. 

I climb the stairs, heart fluttering with nerves I hadn’t expected. Before I can knock, the door swings open. 

“Bella!” Mike grins, already a little flush from the beer, dressed in jeans and a graphic tee. He’d filled out quite a bit since high school. His shoulders broad, his smile easy. “Come in, come in. It’s so good to see you.”

I step inside, taking in the cozy apartment, the clutter of snacks and game manuals spread across a coffee table. A handful of guys and girls gather around, a map of a dungeon sprawled out between them. Dice rattle in a tray. 

“You weren’t kidding about this being legit,” I say with a smile. 

Mike laughs. “Told you. I’ve been playing every week since I moved here. Come meet everyone, you’re just in time for the next game.”

He places a guiding hand on the small of my back and leads me to the table, sending a tiny ripple of awkwardness through my chest. I’m not used to being touched like this anymore. 

Introductions go around. Everyone is welcoming, and within minutes, I find myself holding a set of bright purple dice, a character sheet hastily handed to me. 

Mike leans in close as the game master begins recapping the previous session. “I’m really glad you came,” he murmurs. 

I smile faintly, feeling the weight of his gaze. The warmth of his attention. But under it all, an indistinct guilt tugs at me. I can’t stop thinking of Edward, waiting back in the apartment, alone.

The game moves quickly, dice clattering across the table, pencils scribbling last minute modifiers onto character sheets. I find myself slipping into the rhythm, listening intently as the dungeon master describes our next perilous mission. 

“Your party stands at the mouth of a cave,” he intones dramatically, “a foul stench wafting out from the dark.”

“Oh, we’re definitely not going in there,” one player quips.

“Speak for yourself,” my character, a quick witted rogue Mike had helped me build on the fly, says with a grin. I roll the dice. A seventeen. “I want to sneak ahead, check for traps.”

A chorus of impressed “oohs” rise from about the table. Mike leans back in his chair beside me, eyes shining. “You’re a natural, Swan.”

I smile, warmed by the easy camaraderie, by the sense of belonging I hadn’t realized I’d missed. I sip the beer Mike had pressed into my hand earlier in the night, letting its buzz settle over me. 

“You’re way better at this than I expected,” Mike adds, close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck, “didn’t peg you for a fantasy nerd.”

“I’m full of surprises,” I shoot back, laughing a little. 

He watches me for a little longer, his gaze lingering in a way that makes my skin prickle. Not necessarily uncomfortably, but with a flash of awareness that I’m not willing to examine right now. 

The game master clears his throat, pulling us back into the scene. Another player rolls disastrously low, causing the entire table to groan and laugh. 

As the evening stretches on, we move closer together as a group. Snacks are replenished, a Spotify playlist drifts low in the background. My cheeks hurt from smiling. 

At one point, Mike’s hand brushes against mine as we reach for the same chip. “Sorry,” he says. But his grin is anything but apologetic. 

“You planning on making this a regular thing?” He asks me later, during a break while people refilled their drinks. 

I hesitate, caught off guard by his question, and by how much I’d like to say yes. “Maybe,” I say. “Depends on how tonight goes.”

Mike raises an eyebrow, playful. “In that case, we’d better win the next boss battle.”

His eyes hold onto mine for a second too long, before someone calls us back to the table, breaking the spell. 

I sit back, exhaling slowly, my mind drifting– unexpectedly– to Edward. Would he be waiting up? Watching? Listening?

I push the thought away and pick up my dice. 

The final battle is messy and glorious. My rogue lands the killing blow. A lucky natural 20 that sends the table erupting into cheers. Mike sweeps me into a spontaneous hug, laughing into my hair. “You’re officially our MVP,” he declares. 

I grin, breathless, feeling a strange lightness in my chest. It’s been years since a night’s felt this easy. 

As people begin cleaning up, folding pizza boxes and tucking dice into little bags, Mike leans in close. “Hey,” he says quietly, “I’ll walk you home, if that’s cool?”

I hesitate just a moment, eyes flickering to the door as though I can already feel Edward’s invisible pull. “Yeah,” I say. “That’d be nice.”

Outside, the streets are quiet, slick from an earlier drizzle. The air smells like wet pavement and spring. We walk side by side, our arms occasionally brushing together. 

“You really moved out here all alone?” Mike asks, genuine curiosity in his voice. 

I nod. “Needed a change. Needed… to be somewhere where no one knew me.”

“Starting fresh,” Mike muses. “I get that.” He kicks at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. “Guess I’m kinda doing the same.”

We fall into a companionable silence, punctuated by the sporadic hum of a passing car. I glance over at him. 

“I’m really glad you came tonight,” he says, looking down at me. “It’s been– what, ten years? Nine? You look…” He trails off, letting the compliment sit unspoken but unmistakable in the air. 

My lips form a small smile. “You, too.”

We round the corner to my street, my high rise looming ahead, lights glowing in a few windows. 

Before we can pause and I can search my purse for my keys, the door swings open.

Edward stands in the doorway, his figure sharp against the dim interior light. His gaze locked on Mike, unreadable and cool. 

Mike slows to a stop, brows drawing together in surprise. “Cullen?”

I exhale a small laugh, suddenly aware of how bizarre this must look. “Yeah… he’s in town. He’s uh, staying with me, for a bit.”

Mike’s eyes widen, flashing between us. “You guys… got back together?”

“Oh! No,” I say quickly, shaking my head, my cheeks warming. “No, no. We’re just friends.”

Mike’s expression softens, though I catch a touch of suspicion passing through it. “Ah. Gotcha.” He turns to Edward, offering a polite nod. “Well… Good to see you, man.”

Edward’s lips curl into a tight smile. “I’ll take it from here, Newton. Thanks.”

Mike lingers a second, his gaze returning to me. “I’ll text you, okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, giving a small wave. “Goodnight, Mike.”

He looks at us both again, before jogging back down the steps and disappearing into the night. 

Edward steps aside, letting me enter. The door shuts behind us. 

…

Inside, the apartment seems warmer than when I had left it. I set my keys on their hook, kicking off my boots. 

Edward stands by the window, his hands resting on the sill, looking out into the night. The muscles in his back are taught beneath his shirt, his posture rigid. 

I cross my arms, leaning against the counter. “Edward.”

He doesn’t turn. “Did you have a good time?”

I exhale. “Yeah, it was… fun.” It’s quiet for a beat. “You didn’t have to answer the door like that, you know.”

Finally, he turns, his eyes darker than usual. “He was walking you home.”

I lift a brow. “Yes, he was. Because it’s late, and this is Chicago.”

His lips press into a thin line. “You trust him?”

“Mike Newton?” I laugh, incredulous. “Yeah, Edward. I trust him not to murder me on my front steps.”

Edward’s jaw ticks. “I’m not worried about murder.”

My amusement quickly fades. “Then what are you worried about?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze sweeps over me. Not just my face, but at the flush in my cheeks. I know he smells the pizza and beer, and maybe some of Mike’s cologne clinging to my clothes. Something like longing settles in his eyes.

“I don’t like the idea of you being vulnerable around people you don’t really know anymore,” he says quietly. “It’s been a long time, Bella. People change.”

“And you don’t?” I shoot back. “You just… stay exactly the same?”

A shadow of a smile curves his mouth, sad and knowing. “Not exactly.”

I push off the counter, walking past him and towards the living room. “You’re not my keeper, Edward.”

He follows, keeping a respectful distance. “I never claimed to be.”

I turn, fully facing him now. “Then stop acting like it.”

The silence is now electric and tight. 

Edward’s gaze eases, his voice gentling. “I’m sorry.”

I look away, rubbing my hands over my arms. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Do you want me to stay somewhere else tonight?” he asks.

“No,” I murmured. “I… I want to know you’re here, but I’ll be okay in my room.”

He nods. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

I stay rooted for a moment, studying him a little longer. This strange, familiar man, who is somehow both comfort and ache. 

Then I turn, disappearing to my bedroom. 

Edward’s POV

That soft click of Bella’s door echoes much louder than it should. I stand in the dark, unmoving. Listening as her footsteps pad across the floor, then still. A light switch flips. Then silence. 

I let out a slow breath, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Below me, the city pulses and gyrates. Lights gleaming, cars honking, the sound of laughter spilling out from open bars. A world alive. Messy. Chaotic. 

A world I have no claim in. No right to insert myself into again. 

And yet, here I am. 

I close my eyes, grind my teeth. 

You’re suffocating her, I tell myself. You promised you wouldn’t do this again.

But how can I not?

I’ve lost her once. Lost her to death. To the stillness of the earth. The merciless silence of a grave. I’d stood at the edge of the forest and known– felt– when her heartbeat had faltered. When the warmth of her body had slipped away. 

And then…

Somehow… Impossibly…

She’d lived. 

A second chance. A cosmic impossibility. A twist in fate I don’t deserve, but can’t reject. 

And now, every moment she stands in front of me, breathing, laughing, scowling at me from over the rim of a coffee mug, is a fragile miracle I barely know how to hold without breaking. 

I drag a hand through my hair, pacing the living room.

You have to give her space, I think.

I know this. I know this with the full force of my century of existence. She isn’t a child anymore. She isn’t the girl who clung to me under stormy skies, who’d stared up at me like I’d had all the answers. She’s a woman now, with a life, with friends, with scars I hadn’t been there to witness. 

And yet, the instinct to shield her is bone deep . Woven into every fibre of my being. 

You’re doing it again, I think, bitterly. You’re going to drive her away. 

But the image of Mike Newton standing by her, his big grin, the way he’d walked her home. His salacious thoughts. 

I can’t stand it. I can’t lose her again. 

I wouldn’t survive it. Not twice. Not this time. 

I look toward her closed door, hearing the gentle rhythm of her breathing as she drifts off into sleep. 

A fragile, perfect miracle. 

I sink into the couch, stare down at my hands. “Just a little longer,” I whisper into the empty room. “Just a little longer, Bella… and I’ll figure out how to let you go.”

But even as I speak the words, I’m unsure if I believe them. 

Outside, the city continues to thrum. I sit in the dark, trying to silence the century old ache of loving a human girl I can never stop protecting. 

Chapter Text

When I push through the glass doors to the Chicago Sentinel office, something is off. Not wrong, exactly. Just off. 

The usual buzzing of the office sounds muted, as though I’m hearing it underwater. People glance up when I step inside, but there are no greetings. No familiar morning chatter. A few people give me odd, puzzled looks. Erica at reception observes me confusedly, before looking quickly back to her computer screen as though she is verifying something. 

I walk towards my cubicle. My throat feels dry. 

“Morning…” I offer cautiously, to no one in particular. 

Everyone keeps their heads down, working. 

My desk looks… empty. Some of my folders are missing. My chair is pushed in differently than how I had left it. I reach for my water bottle, but it isn’t there. 

“Bella?” 

The voice makes me jump. Mark from HR stands a few feet away, clipboard in hand, wearing a sheepish expression. 

“I thought you called out today,” he says while flipping through his notes.

I frown. “No, I didn’t.”

He taps a line on the page. “Well, someone did. Erica has you crossed off for the day. You’re marked absent here, see? Cass already gave Elena your work.”

“Mark,” I say carefully, “I didn’t call out.”

He hesitates. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. 

He gives me a wary smile, “alright… Well, let me know if you need anything.”

As he walks away, I slowly lower myself into my seat, looking around to see if anyone else had caught the interaction. It doesn’t seem like anyone did. 

My computer boots up with an agonizing sluggishness. My login doesn’t appear to be saved anymore. When I do enter my user profile, I see that most of my desktop icons are missing, my screen saver reset to the usual factory blue that comes right out of the box. 

I frown and click on the file directory. The folder labeled Bella Projects is missing, too. In its place: Archive _ B. I open it. Inside: old reports I’ve never written, dated long before I even started here. Most of them nonsensical, like some sort of lorem ipsum generated onto the page. 

I close it. Try again. Nothing changes.

I open my email. Zero messages. 

That’s not right. There’s always something. 

Behind me, someone coughs.

I spin my chair slightly to glance down the aisle of cubicles. Erica’s red sweater flashes briefly as she walks toward the copier. The smell of toner and burnt dust wafts faintly into the air.

The clock above the break room door ticks steadily.

I check my phone again. No notifications. Check my text messages– nothing sent to indicate that I wouldn’t make it today.

I set it face down.

I reach for the communal snack basket on the filing cabinet beside my desk. It’s empty, except for a handful of fortune cookies leftover from the sushi lunch last week. I break one open absently. The slip inside reads:

“It is as though you were never here.”

I let the tiny paper flutter into the trash.

For a few minutes, I try to work. I open a blank document. Start typing a headline. Delete it. Try again. Delete.

The sound of keys clicking around me is odd and uneven, like everyone’s out of sync.

A delivery cart rattles past the aisle. The courier pauses, checks a clipboard, frowns at me, then moves on without a word.

A sheet of paper spits out from the Xerox behind me. I glance at it. No one’s standing there. I walk over, heart knocking harder than I’d like.

The page is blank— except for my name, printed small at the bottom, like the byline of an article.

I drop it straight into the recycling bin.

My eyes dart around the office. Everyone seems busy, their screens glowing with word files and inboxes, their faces unreadable. 

A flicker catches my attention.

I look towards the monitor. For a split second, my reflection stares back at me from beyond the blue screen– except, it’s not quite me. The figure looks pale, translucent, lips slightly parted. Its eyes seem wrong … as though they’re looking through the glass and right at me from the other side. 

I draw in a deep, gasping breath and blink. 

Normal. My screen shows my desktop again, my reflection barely perceptible. 

The Avaya phone on my desk begins to ring. Unknown number. 

I pick up the handset tentatively. The voice on the other end is distorted, layered beneath static like a corrupted tape.

But I recognize it. My own. 

“You shouldn’t be here–” the call cuts off. I slam the phone back down. My stomach is hot and knotted with unease. I turn in my chair and scan the office again. No one out of place, nothing out of the ordinary.

I grab my mug and head for the break room, needing something warm to anchor me. As I fill the cup with Keurig coffee, I glance over my shoulder.

Erica is still at her desk. She’s watching me. When our eyes meet, she quickly looks away.

I carry the mug back, setting it carefully beside my keyboard. My gaze drifts to the office clock again.

It ticks on. But the little hand seems to skip forward every few rotations.

I squint at it. Maybe it needs its batteries changed. Or maybe I need glasses.

I pull my cell phone out again, instinctively. I want to text Edward, but of course, his own phone is still off. I stare at my last few unread messages from days ago. Very few people have reached out lately. 

I sit up, looking around again at the tops of everyone’s heads peeking up from their cubicles. I wonder if anyone has found my movements this morning to be erratic. Maybe they haven’t noticed. Maybe they’re too polite to say anything.

I slip out of the office and down the hall into the staff bathroom, locking the door behind me. I stand in front of the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink so hard that my knuckles turn white. The overhead fluorescent flickers once, humming with a low buzz. Water drips steadily from the faucet, each drop a tiny echo in the sterile room. 

I lean closer to the mirror, inspecting the reflection of my tired eyes, the faint bags beneath them. 

“You’re just tired,” I whisper to myself. “That’s all this is.”

But the reflection doesn’t quite sync up with my words. My mouth in the mirror lags behind by just half a second, like it's trying to guess what I’ll say next. 

My pulse quickens. I step back. The reflection in the mirror follows, but she’s too slow. Too deliberate. 

I turn on my heel quickly, I need some air – but then I hear it. A sharp crack behind me.

When I whip around, the mirror is fracturing. A thin spider web spreading outward from where the reflection’s hand is pressed against the glass. Palm flat, fingers splayed. 

“No!” I shriek.

And then the reflection’s palm pushes through. Glass splinters outward as a pale hand emerges, reaching for me– fingers grasping, nails digging into the air. 

I scream, stumbling backwards and slamming into a stall door so hard I’m knocked breathless. 

The hand snaps back into the mirror with a violent jerk. 

The glass is suddenly whole again. Smooth. Undamaged. 

My reflection is mine once more. 

Trembling, I grab my phone from the bathroom counter. I shove it in my bag, backing towards the door. My eyes are still locked on the mirror, and I half expect that hand to burst through again. 

“I– I’m done.” I mutter under my breath. “I’m done, I’m done.”

I push through the bathroom door and stride down the hallway, my footsteps quick and uneven. My coworkers glance up from their desks, puzzled at my feral eyed expression. But I don’t slow down. 

In my cubicle, I snatch my coat from the back of the chair, barely getting it on one arm before slinging my bag over my shoulder. 

I pass Erica’s desk on my way to the stairs, nearly colliding with it. 

“Bella? Everything okay?” Erica frowns, concerned. 

“Actually–” my voice comes out too loud, too sharp. I swallow. “Actually, I am sick, Erica. It’s viral. Or something.”

Erica blinks. “Oh–”

“I need to go,” I cut in, already moving. “I really need to go. Bye.”

I bolt to the stairs, pushing the door with wild force. My own image haunts me in every reflective surface I pass– the copier screen, the elevator doors, the framed photos in the hallway. 

I descend the stairs tensely, hand hovering over the railing on the way down. As I make my way through the lobby, I catch a glimpse of myself in the last set of doors. And for a second, I swear I can see my reflection smiling right through me. 

…

My keys jingle nervously in my hand as I hurry down the street to my apartment. The chill of the Chicago morning presses in, but it isn’t the wind that sends goosebumps down my arms.

Ahead of me, maybe just half a block away, I spot a familiar figure. 

Edward?

He’s walking back towards my building, hands in his pockets, head down. But then– he pauses. Brings the back of his hand up to wipe his mouth, as though he’s just finished a satisfying meal. 

I slow, frowning. I wasn’t aware that he left the apartment while I was out. 

I quicken my pace to catch up. “Edward?”

Before I can reach him, he turns around abruptly, his gaze snapping toward me like he’d sensed I was coming. His golden eyes widen a little, and something like guilt flickers across his face. 

“Oh,” he says. “Bella.”

I narrow my eyes, panting slightly from the half jog. “Where were you just now?”

“Out,” he replies, a little too quickly. “Just out.”

I fold my arms. “Out where?”

“Nowhere important.” His gaze skates away from mine. “Just… getting some air.”

I step closer, studying him skeptically. “With blood on your mouth?”

Edward’s lip press into a tight line. “Minor inconvenience.” 

“Minor–?” My brow furrows. “Edward, what exactly were you doing?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

I frown deeper, observing the smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.

“Wait–” I say, reaching up and wiping it away with my thumb. Edward stiffens, but allows it. 

I stare at the faint bloodstain on my thumb, and back to him. 

Then I see it: a stubborn tuft of grey-brown fur clinging to his collar. 

I freeze. My mouth falls open. 

“Edward,” I say slowly, “is that fur?”

His jaw works silently for a beat. “...Could be lint.”

“Lint?” I point at the fur accusingly. “Lint doesn’t come in tufts , Edward.”

He sighs heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bella–”

“Oh my God.” My eyes widen. “Edward, were you– were you feeding on the squirrels?”

“...That’s a very narrow interpretation of events.”

My jaw drops. “Edward!”

“They’re plentiful,” he admits stiffly, glancing away in embarrassment. 

“Oh my God,” I clap a hand over my mouth, trying to stifle my laughter. “You’re hunting squirrels in the middle of Chicago?”

Edward grimaces faintly. “They’re actually a lot more difficult to catch than you’d think.”

“You climbed a tree?”

He sighs again, resigned. “I… approached a tree, yes.”

I double over, nearly wheezing. “Edward Cullen. Approaching trees. This is the best thing I’ve heard all morning.”

He brushes the remaining fur off his collar, looking faintly affronted. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find viable prey in an urban environment?”

I giggle helplessly. “Squirrels, Edward.”

“I made do,” he says stiffly. 

He sighs once more, trailing me up the stoop, his expression a mix of exasperation and quiet mortification. 

My palms are on my cheeks, easing the strain from smiling so hard as we make our way into the apartment. 

Edward gives me a sidelong look, his lips pressing back into that thin line. “I don’t see what’s so amusing.”

“You’re a hundred year old vampire,” I say breathlessly, “And you’re snacking on squirrels like a Disney villain.” 

He groans quietly. “I hardly call it snacking . It’s a regrettable necessity.”

I snort. “Regrettable, yeah? How many squirrels have you ‘regretted’ this week?”

Edward hesitates, then mutters “five… Maybe six.”

I laugh again, grabbing his arm for balance. “God. You’ve been sneaking out for squirrel runs this whole time?”

He looks at me quizzically. “Would you rather I broke into the Lincoln Park Zoo?”

I gasp theatrically. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He arches an eyebrow and looks at me very seriously. “I’ve considered it.”

“Edward!” I swat his chest. “You’re unbelievable!”

He catches my hand gently before I can pull it back, holding it against his chest for a quiet moment. His smile softens. “You’re impossible.”

Our eyes meet– his warm and a little weary, mine alight with fond disbelief. 

My laughter lingers, I’m breathless. Edward’s hand is still pressed over mine, holding it close as though anchoring me– or maybe himself. 

I feel the coolness beneath my palm, the steady, circular rhythm of his breathing. I glance down to where our hands are joined, lips parted slightly. 

Edward freezes. His fingers tense lightly before he lets go, stepping back a fraction. 

“I–” I pull my hand away quickly, rubbing it against my arm, my heart skipping unevenly. 

Edward clears his throat, eyes flickering away from me. “No. That was… me.”

Another awkward silence, this time edged with something both fragile and electric. 

Edward shifts his weight, his gaze returning with a hesitance that I recognize. “Bella…” he starts, voice low. He glances down, then back up. “About last night.”

I tilt my head, wary but curious. 

“I shouldn’t have acted the way I did.” His jaw tightens, like the words are difficult. “With Newton, I–” he exhales sharply through his nose. “I was out of line.”

I blink, surprised. “Edward…”

“I’ve spent so long keeping you safe, Bella,” he continues, his voice laced with a quiet frustration, “it’s hard to stop. Hard to… take a step back.”

I soften a little, watching him struggle for the right words. 

“I know you don’t need me to protect you,” he says. “Not like you did before. You’re stronger now, I see. Smarter. You’ve built a life.” His lips press together for a beat. “I need to respect that. But the instinct… I don’t know. It’s… basal? Primal?”

I swallow, my heart twisting a little at the sincerity in his tone. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time. “I’m learning. Or trying to.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “I just… don’t want to mess this up. Being here. With you.”

My chest tightens, throat thick. 

“I know you’re different now,” Edward murmurs, “but I’m different, too. And I want to do better.”

My chest aches, warmth and sadness twining together. 

But before I can answer, a shrill car alarm erupts outside, blaring through the quiet of the apartment. We both startle.

I groan, rubbing my face. “Oh my god.”

Edward tilts his head towards the window, an amused crease forming at the corner of his mouth. “Do you need me to…?” He gestures vaguely, as though offering to handle it. 

“No, it’s fine. Probably someone’s shitty beater again.” I sigh, “it’ll shut off in a few minutes.”

But it doesn’t stop. The strident sound drones out into the open air for what seems like an eternity. 

“Oh, for the love of–” I mutter, pressing up from where I was sitting on the counter and stalking towards the window. 

I lean against the frame, peering down at the street below. “If I could figure out which one it is,” I say, “it’s always some Prius type.”

Edward rises and steps beside me, gazing out with mock solemnity. “A Prius? How dangerous.”

“Deadly,” I reply.

The alarm blares louder for a few more seconds, then abruptly stops. Silence rushes back in, almost louder than the noise had been.

Edward looks at me sidelong. “You won.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “It’s not a win. It’s a temporary ceasefire.”

He chuckles softly, then quiets again, gaze lingering on my face. “I meant what I said, Bella.”

…

“So,” Edward says tacitly, “why are you home so early?”

I pause, staring out the window again. “Um. I wasn’t feeling great.”

His brows draw together in concern. “Sick?” He steps a little closer, his head tilting. “Since when?”

“I don’t know,” I say lightly, trying to wave it off. “It kind of hit me late this morning.”

He frowns, studying my face. “Did you catch a bug?” He reaches out, the back of his hand tentatively brushing against my forehead. “No fever,” he murmurs, “you’re not warm.”

I give a small shrug. “It’s probably nothing. Maybe… just a weird day.”

His golden eyes search mine. “Headache? Stomachache?”

“No, not really.” I force a thin smile. “I just thought… it’d be better to come home. Rest.”

He still looks puzzled, his lips parting like he wants to ask something else– but then he nods slowly, stepping back. “I’m glad you did,” he says softly, “you’ve been running yourself pretty hard.”

I swallow, grateful he isn’t pushing. “Yeah. Just tired, probably.”

Edward gives a small, thoughtful hum. “Do you want to lie down? I can make you a tea.”

I shake my head. “I’m okay. Just needed to be home.”

His gaze lingers on me even after I’ve settled into the couch, resting my head across the back. He doesn’t sit down. Instead, he paces a slow line across the living room, his eyes squinted in thought. 

“You don’t appear to be sweating,” he muses, more to himself than to me. “No fever, no cold symptoms. You ate normally last night.” He ticks the points off on his fingers, as though gathering data. “You didn’t mention nausea this morning. No aches, no chills.”

I watch him warily. “I’m fine, Edward.”

He pauses, turning to face me. “Something made you leave work early.”

I exhale a short breath, forcing a small laugh, “okay, Sherlock.”

He smiles faintly at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m just… trying to understand.”

My fingers pick at a loose thread on the couch cushion. “Maybe I just wanted a day off.”

He scrutinizes me, like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve. “Is that…? I don’t think that’s really like you.”

My lips twitch. “Maybe I’m growing.”

He crosses his arms loosely over his chest. “Maybe.” There’s a pause. Then, quieter: “If it happens again, will you tell me?”

I think for a moment, then nod. “Sure.”

He doesn’t look fully convinced, but lets it go, finally moving to sit on the armchair across from me. “I’m glad you’re home,” he says simply.

Another chirp, then the wail of a car alarm rising steadily outside again.

I groan, rubbing my temples. “Someone’s probably clipped a side mirror, or something. I don’t know. That street down there is so narrow.”

I stand, crossing to the window and peeking through the curtain. “Oh– yep. Some guy’s already outside yelling at it.”

Edward joins me, close enough to see the flash of hazard lights bouncing off the windows of the apartments opposite to us. 

I sigh, stepping back. “Well, at least it’s not your Volvo.”

“Perish the thought.”

My lips quirk faintly again, but the expression falls flat before it can turn into a full smile. Edward watches as my shoulders slump. The spark of humour faded as quickly as it had come. 

“...You sure you’re alright?” He asks. 

I hesitate. “I just… think I need some air,” I look toward him. “Would you come with me?”

He straightens instantly. “Of course.”

“I promise I’ll look the other way if you want to chase squirrels again.”

A reluctant chuckle escapes him. “Small mercies.”

I grab my jacket, already slipping my arms into the sleeves. “Maybe we could walk to the park?”

Edward nods, “I’ll get my coat.”

…

Edward’s POV

As she moves towards the door, I linger by the window for a moment longer, watching her reflection through the glass. 

I don’t like the paleness in her face. The quiet undercurrent of strain in her movements. The way her laughter, bright and fleeting, keeps collapsing under a weight I cannot see. 

She’s hiding something. I know it as surely as I know the shape of her heartbeat. 

But for now, I’ll say nothing. 

“Ready?” She asks, holding the door open. 

I turn, masking the worry beneath a practiced smile. “Ready.”

We leave the apartment slowly, Bella keeping her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her steps uncertain but determined. I follow a half step behind, resisting the overwhelming urge to hover closer, to reach for her hand again. 

The sun makes very sparse appearances through the overcast, occasionally flickering between the buildings as we walk.

I don’t take my eyes off her. 

She’s too pale. Too quiet. Each movement appears detached, mechanical. As though her body is pulling her forward, but her mind is trailing several steps behind. 

I hate this. I hate not knowing how to help. How to solve. 

Each uneasy footfall deepens my gnawing unease. I’d been a fool to think a simple walk could fix whatever is pressing her. I can’t stop cataloguing the details: the slight tremor in her hand when she brushes her hair back. The faintest drag in her left foot like she isn’t fully grounded. The way her gaze sometimes skips sideways like she’s chasing something invisible. 

She’s slipping. 

And I’m unsure how to hold her in place. 

Bella glances at me with a small, ever fragile smile. “You okay back there?”

I manage my own faint smile in return. “I’m okay.”

She looks forward again. “I needed the air.”

“I know.”

We cross into the park. Spring blooms cover the edge of the path. Trees arch overhead. Bella slows near a planter full of tulips. “Look at those.”

I pause beside her. 

“They’re the same kind Charlie gave me at my graduation,” she says, her lips curving into something wistful.

If my heart could move, it would ache. “I bet he was very proud of you.”

She digs into her jacket pocket, pulling out her phone. “I actually have a photo of them somewhere… hold on, I’ll show you.”

I watch as she scrolls, her thumbs moving endlessly, trying to work her way through the photo album. Her brows furrow.

Then, a sharp inhale. I’m acutely aware of her heart rate increasing with an unusual rapidness. Her thumbs begin to fly across the screen, the scrolling more erratic.

She stops breathing for a moment.

“Bella?”

Her thumbs cease working all at once, frozen. She stares.

“Bella…?”

Her pupils are wide, locked on the phone. Her lips part in a soundless whisper. 

Slowly, she turns the screen towards me.

I frown. “What am I looking at?”

“Tell me what you see,” she whispers, barely audible to the human ear. 

I lean in. All I see is my own curious reflection in the dark screen of a phone that doesn’t seem to be turned on. “It's just… black. Is that right?”

“No.” Her voice sharpens. “No, no.”

She yanks the phone back to her face. Her finger jabs at the screen. Scrolling. Tapping. Scrolling. Her breathing is sped up, entirely uneven.

“They’re here,” she mutters. “I see them, they’re here.”

“Bella–”

Her head jerks up. “This is my funeral.”

I stall. “What?”

“These are all photos from my own funeral.”

I reach for her arm. “Bella, let me see–”

“Don’t touch me!”

She wrenches away, staggering backward. I can see her chest heaving. “Wha– What are these? Why are they here?!”

“Bella, listen to me–”

“They’re all here– Edward look!” She thrusts the phone at me again, her hands trembling wildly. “You don’t see it??”

“I don’t–”

“YOU DON’T SEE IT?” She screams, jabbing her finger at the glass, as though willing me to see through sheer force.

“Bella–”

She spins away from me, pacing in tight, frantic loops, running her fingers harshly through her hair. “Why can’t you see it? It’s right there– it’s right THERE–”

“Bella, please, let me–”

She claws at her scalp harder, tears begin streaking down her face, her breath hitching into erratic sobs. “I’m losing it– I’m losing it– I’m fucking losing it–”

I hover with a shameful helplessness, torn between reaching for her again, and giving her space. “It’s okay, Bella, you’re–”

“No I’m not!” She wails. “I’m not okay!”

A man jogging by slows, frowning. “Hey– hey is she alright?”

I hold up a tense hand, voice clipped. “We’re fine.”

Bella’s scream cuts the air. “ I can’t– I can’t– I–” Her breaths quickly transform into deep hyperventilations. 

“Bella, breathe–”

“She doesn’t sound fine, man,” the jogger presses, eyes narrowing. 

“Leave us alone,” is all I can manage, my voice dropping low, my patience razor thin.

“Do you even know her? I should call someone–”

Before I can answer, a woman nearby tugs her dog’s leash closer, concern etched on her face. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”

I shoot a glance between them, my jaw tight. “She’s going to be fine, it's under control.”

“Edward–” Bella gasps again, stumbling back onto the large stone planter that houses the tulips. Her hands move wildly, reaching out into the ether as though searching for something to steady herself. I circle my arm around her with measured restraint and bring her into my chest, my palm steadying the back of her head as though it's made of glass. 

I hold her close, gently shielding her from the gathering attention. She sobs into me. Each wail causes her whole body to jolt and quiver with a sort of anguished violence. 

“Alright,” I say decisively. “We’re going home.”

I gather her up into my arms, lifting her easily. She’s twisting, uttering small frantic words like a spell I can’t quite make out. Her heart hammers against my chest like it’s trying to break free.

Eyes. There are eyes on us. I feel them prickling along my back as I straighten, cradling her close. The jogger who questioned me earlier is still watching, wary. The woman with the dog has paused at the edge of the path, phone half raised like she’s debating whether to call for help.

I meet their gazes, letting something cold and final settle into mine. They step back a little. Good.

“I can walk,” Bella whispers, breathless against my throat, but her arms loop tighter around my neck even as she says it.

“Let me,” I murmur back.

Her breath is shaky and shallow, brushing against my skin in uneven bursts. Her fingers grip the fabric of my shirt so tightly that I hear the threads strain.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she whispers again, faster this time, almost desperate. “I don’t know— Edward, it’s like I’m—”

Her words cut off as another shudder runs through her.

I start walking. Measured, steady steps. Fighting the wild urge to tear through the city at my natural speed, to vanish into the shadows with her. But no— there are too many people. We need to blend in.

A car honks as I step off the curb; a gust of wind tangles her hair across her face. She burrows closer to me, shielding her eyes.

“Edward,” she says suddenly, “do you think— do you think I’m losing my mind?”

“No,” I answer immediately, fiercely. “No.”

But her question cuts deep.

Her chest hitches against mine. “I saw them. The pictures. I saw them. I swear—”

“I know,” I say. “I believe you.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” she says suddenly, voice cracking. “Edward, I— God, something’s happening to me.”

The rawness in her words tears something inside me.

“Don’t be,” I say, tightening my grip. “I’ve got you.”

I walk. Measured, steady steps. 

Her head presses into my collarbone, and she lets out a shaky, broken laugh that turns into a hiccuping sob.

It’s unbearable.

My jaw tightens. I scan the street again. A man on a bike slows as he passes, glancing back over his shoulder. A pair of teenagers on a bench are whispering, one of them pulling out their phone.

“Edward—”

“I know.” I keep my voice low, steady, but inside I’m seething. “I know. Just a little longer.”

“Everyone’s staring. Everyone saw me freak out.”

“They’ll stop.”

A sharp bark sounds out from somewhere behind us. The woman with the dog from the park has followed partway down the street, standing with her arms folded across her chest, lips pressed thin in concern.

“Hey,” she calls, edging closer. “Is she okay? Do you need me to call someone?”

Bella’s head jerks up at the voice, wild-eyed.

“No— no,” I tell the woman sharply. “She’s alright. We’re fine.”

The woman hesitates, her dog tugging at the leash. “I don’t know, she doesn’t look—”

“I said we’re fine.”

Something in my tone— or maybe in my eyes— makes her stop. She hovers a moment longer, then backs away slowly, muttering under her breath.

I adjust my grip, holding her tighter. “Almost home,” I whisper, though every block feels like a mile.

Cars rumble past. A siren wails in the distance. People pass us on the sidewalk, casting fleeting glances— some curious, some concerned, some suspicious. I keep my eyes fixed ahead, ignoring them all.

If they knew what she’d seen… if they knew what I’d seen…

“Edward.” Her voice is small, urgent. “You do believe me, right?”

I look down at her, meeting her wide, pleading eyes.

“Of course I do.”

Her face crumples again, burying against my chest. “Then why does it feel like I’m going crazy?”

“I won’t let you,” I vow, though my chest aches with the helplessness of it.

Her building rises ahead, brick and glass catching the low afternoon light. Relief washes through me, sharp and fleeting. I climb the steps two at a time. Someone exiting holds the door open for me, eyebrows raised at the sight of Bella in my arms.

“Rough day?” the stranger says awkwardly.

“You could say that,” I answer tightly, brushing past.

Inside. Safe. Almost.

I head straight for the elevator, pressing the button with more force than necessary. Bella stirs, her fingers curling against my chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, softer this time, almost like a confession.

“Don’t apologize.” I shake my head. “Not for this. Never for this.”

The doors slide open. I step inside, and for the first time since the park, I let out a shaky breath.

Only a few more seconds. Only a few more floors.

And then I’ll figure out what the hell is happening to her.

Chapter Text

Edward’s POV

The elevator hums as it ascends. Bella rests her forehead lightly against my collarbone, her breaths slowing but still uneven. I count them, each fragile inhale an anchor tethering her to me, to the moment. 

When the doors open, I adjust my hold and step out into the hall. Her keys are still tucked into her coat pocket. I ease down just enough to fish them out, careful not to jostle her, then I unlock the door and push it open with my shoulder. 

Inside, the apartment is dim, curtains half drawn against the afternoon light. It’s cooler in here. Safe.

I carry her to the couch and gently lower her onto the cushions. She sinks into them like her bones have melted, one arm flung over her eyes.

“Home,” I murmur, brushing a stray lock of hair from her damp forehead. “We’re home.”

This is the most we’ve touched one another since reuniting. 

She doesn’t answer right away. Her chest rises in shaky pulls. After a moment, she moves her arm, blinking up at me with reddened eyes. 

“I made a scene,” she whispers hoarsely. 

I crouch down, resting my hand lightly on the couch beside hers. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She presses her lips together, then lets out a quivering laugh that sounds closer to a sigh. “People were staring.”

“Well, they’re not here now.” I search her face, tracing the faint shimmer of lingering sweat at her temples. “It’s just us.”

Her gaze flicks down to my open hand. Slowly, hesitantly, she shifts hers closer, until her fingers barely brush against mine.

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” she utters quietly.

“You won’t be.” I turn my palm up beneath hers, letting her choose whether to take it. 

For a moment, she seems to pause and think. Then her fingers slip into mine, curling tight. I give a squeeze. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, looking away. 

I brush my thumb gently across her knuckles. “Anytime.”

I stay there, kneeling beside the couch, my arm outstretched and holding her hand. I can sense sleep pulling at her. I’m aware that such large displays of emotion can often wear humans out. Even then, she doesn’t let go. 

Her fingers tighten around mine. Another anchor. 

“I really scared you,” she says, voice still raw at the edges. 

A helpless pang tightens in my chest. “I was scared because I didn’t know how to fix the problem. I still don’t.”

“You helped,” she insists, “you’re helping me now.”

The corner of my mouth lifts, faint but genuine. “I want to understand Bella. I want to know what you’re going through.”

She exhales another shaky breath, her gaze dropping down to our hands still entwined. “I don’t even know what I’m going through.” A tired laugh hitches in her throat. “It feels like everything’s… glitching.”

I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Whatever it is, you’re not facing it alone.”

Her eyes meet mine again, shining damply. “Thank you.”

I give another squeeze. “Always.”

She swallows. Relief and exhaustion wash over her features all at once. “Will you stay for a while?”

“I won’t go anywhere,” I promise.

And so I settle beside her, still holding her hand, listening as the city continues to thrum quietly beyond the walls. 

…

We sit in silence for a long while. She shifts restlessly beside me, burrowing even deeper into the cushions.

She leans her head back against the couch, closing her eyes for a moment. “My brain feels… loud,” she murmurs.

I watch her, the faint crease between her brows. “Like too many thoughts?”

She shakes her head, eyes still closed. “Not even thoughts. Just… static. Like the world’s playing a radio I can’t tune.”

My throat tightens. I’ve fought monsters. I’ve outrun death itself. But this? This intangible, unseen thing gnawing at her? I can’t fight what I can’t see.

“Does it feel worse when you’re alone?” I ask carefully.

Her lashes lift, and she gives a small nod. “Everything feels off. Like nothing’s where it should be. Like I’m not where I should be.”

A chill creeps along my spine. I want to tell her she’s exactly where she belongs— but the fear in her voice keeps me silent.

I move to sit beside her, close but careful, not wanting to crowd her.

“It’s stupid,” she says after a pause. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” I say, watching her face in profile. “Tell me.”

She hesitates, then sighs. “When I saw those photos… the funeral ones… it wasn’t just the pictures. It felt like… like for a second, it was true. Like I was dead. Like I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

The words hit me like a cold wind. “Bella,” I say, leaning forward, “you’re here. I can feel your heartbeat. You’re here with me.”

She finally meets my eyes, something delicate in them. “But what if… what if the world’s trying to undo that?”

I reach for her hand again, holding it gently between both of mine. “Then it’ll have to go through me first.”

A ghost of a smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” my hands are clasped like a prayer with hers in between. “Whatever this is, this strange, impossible thing, we’ll face it together.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. “You say that like you’ve faced strange and impossible things before.”

I can’t help a quiet laugh. “You’d be surprised.”

She lets her head rest lightly against my shoulder, the weight of her trust blooming warmth inside my cold chest. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

I close my eyes for a beat, memorizing the feeling of her beside me. “Me too, Bella. Me too.”

…

I move curiously through Bella’s kitchen, my fingers brushing carefully over mugs and tea bags as though they might break in my hands. I haven’t made tea in… well, over a century, really. But the motions come back to me with surprising ease. A small, fragile ritual in a world turned on its head. 

I set the mug in front of her with a tentative smile. “Chamomile,” I say, “I read that it’s supposed to help.”

She manages her own tired smile back. “You read, huh?”

“I have… a lot of time.”

She snorts softly and wraps her fingers around the mug, letting the steam curl up and into her face. I watch as her shoulders relax, just barely, as the warmth settles in. 

I try reheating some leftovers next. Not that I have any skill for it, but poking around her kitchen, unearthing tupperware and figuring out the microwave timer is grounding in a way that surprises me. She picks at her food a little distractedly, but seems grateful anyway, murmuring a quiet thanks. 

When she finally leans back into the couch again, drawing her knees up to her chin, she gives me a small, almost embarrassed look. 

“Do you mind if we just… watch something? Anything, really. I don’t think I can… I just need to turn my brain off for a while.”

I take my seat next to her, crossing an ankle over my knee. “You pick,” I say easily. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

Her fingers fumble with the remote, flipping through channels aimlessly until she lands on some old sitcom rerun. Laughter tracks fill the apartment, canned and too bright, but her face eases just slightly, as if the noise massages the sharp edges inside her mind.

I watch her, not the television. Memorizing the way her face shifts in the flickering light. The way her breath has evened out. The way she slumps gradually into the cushions as the evening deepens around us. 

I could sit here all night, I realize. Watching. Waiting. Guarding the spaces where her nightmares might slip through. 

After all, I think, eyes fixed on her cherubic face as the screen blinks in front of her, I have all the time in the world. 

…

Bella’s curled up beneath a blanket that had previously lived on the arm of the wingback opposite the couch. Her knees are still drawn up to her chest, she picks at a tassel hanging loose on the throw. 

She inhales a shaky breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

I lift my head immediately, trying not to appear desperate in my interest. “I’m listening.”

She gives a small, humourless laugh. “I don’t know how to explain it without sounding…” she shakes her head. “Crazy.”

I feel my lips move a little, something like a sad smile almost surfacing. “Try me.”

She shifts, tucking her chin against her knees. “This past little while… has been really strange. It started with little things. My computer glitching. Static phone calls. A feeling like someone was watching me. And not in the normal city way– but like… watching me.”

My brow furrows. 

“Then it got a little weirder,” she whispers. “A couple weeks ago, I got this letter from some kid in Forks. Said he was doing a genealogy project and found my grave.”

My fingers twitch.

“I laughed at first,” she goes on, “because obviously that’s insane. But I googled it. And there it was. My face. My name. My obituary.”

She lets out a rough breath and squeezes her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose. “After that… it’s like the world started… slipping. My reflection doesn’t always look right. I hear voices when no one’s around. And the photos today–” her voice cracks. “Edward, my phone is full of photos from my own funeral. I swear, and it’s like no one can see it but me.”

I exhale, slow and measured, though inside my mind is careening. 

She huffs a bitter breath, scrubbing her palms over her face. “I’m scared. I’m so scared. I keep thinking maybe it’s all in my head; but then something else happens and–” she hiccups. “It feels like I’m unraveling.”

I will my voice to come out softly. “Bella… look at me.”

She drops her arms, observing me through blurred eyes. 

“I believe you,” I murmur, resting a cool hand on her ankle. “Every word.”

She gives a wet laugh that comes out as another hiccup. “Why? You should be backing away right now.”

My chest tightens. “Because I know what it’s like to live with things you can’t explain.” I brush my thumb over her shin. “And because you’re not unravelling. You’re still here.”

She reaches down to squeeze my hand, a tremor in her fingers. “It feels like something’s watching me, Edward. All the time. Like the world’s correcting itself… trying to push me out.”

My face flickers with something raw, dark. But I school it immediately, smoothing my expression before she can see the fracture. 

“We’ll face it together,” I say gently, smiling, though my own chest is twisting in panic. 

…

Bella exhales out a shuddering breath and leans forward. For a moment, I’m unsure if she’s going to run or if she’s going to break. 

Instead, she tips her head against my shoulder. Lightly. Like a bird unsure if the branch will hold. 

I go still. 

The scent: warm skin and worn cotton and something that’s unmistakably, achingly her floods my senses. My muscles are stone, my lungs arrested mid breath.

She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. Her cheek presses gently into the curve of my arm, her hand still resting cautiously on mine. I fear that even the smallest movement may shatter the moment. 

So I let her stay there, even as my mind races, roars. 

She’s here.

She’s warm. 

She’s alive.

She shouldn’t be alive. 

Her voice comes barely above a whisper. “I’ve been having such a hard time sleeping.”

I look down. Slowly, carefully, trying not to scare her off like a startled deer. “Since when?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes remained fixed on some faraway point. “The dreams are worse than the waking. Sometimes I wake up and I feel almost catatonic. Sometimes I think someone else is in my bed.”

My hand tightens a little around hers. 

“I thought maybe I was being haunted,” she murmurs. “Or that something followed me out of Forks. Or maybe I never left.”

My throat works around words I can’t say. You did die.

Or at least, I’d believed she had. For a decade. 

And I’m lying to her every second that I don’t say so. 

“Do you want me to stay in your room tonight?” I ask quietly. “Just for tonight, if it’ll help you get some rest.”

She blinks. Her lashes are clumped in wet little spikes. She doesn’t lift her head to meet my gaze.

My chest cracks somewhere invisible. I want to gather her into my arms again and run and run and run, away from the noise and lights of the encroaching city. I want to wrap her like the most fragile heirloom and bring her somewhere far and sacred. Somewhere safe and secure. 

“I can take the floor,” I continue, “or the chair. Or I can stand in the corner and glare at shadows if that makes you feel safer.”

She huffs a tiny breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re already pretty good at that.”

“It’s one of my core skills.”

She finally looks up, and her eyes are wide and shining, drawing me closer with a dire, unseen pull. I’d be breathless if I needed to breathe at all. 

“You sure?” She asks. “It’s not weird?”

“It’s not weird,” I say. Then I add: “or if it is, I don’t care.”

She nods. “Okay.”

We both sit for another moment. The TV is paused. The windows pulse faintly with city lights. Somewhere below, a car honks twice, impatient and human.

…

There’s no sound in the bedroom, save for the omnipresent hiss of the radiator and the muffled thumps of a heavy footed neighbour in the unit above. 

Bella slipped under the covers some time ago, murmuring something about just needing to lie down for a few minutes. I watched as her eyelids fluttered to half mast, then quietly shut; the mug of tea gone cold and abandoned on the night table. 

Now, stretched across the small bed, she’s asleep, one arm flung across the pillow, the blanket twisted around her waist, the soft line of her back rising and falling with each breath. Her hair is a dark spill across the pillowcase, a few errant strands still stuck to the curve of her cheek. 

I stand by the window, arms crossed against my chest. I haven’t turned on a lamp or drawn the curtains. The moon is enough.

I watch her with a stillness that may seem unnatural to anyone else. My eyes trace her shoulder, the pout of her half open mouth, the ridge between her brows that remains even in sleep. 

A small shiver passes over her, and that’s all it takes. I move in a silent blur, retrieving the heavier blanket from the linen closet. Carefully, exquisitely careful, I settle it over her, fingers barely grazing the skin. She murmurs something indistinct, lost in a dream, and curls into the warmth. 

I kneel beside the edge of the bed, resting my forearms against the mattress. I’m close now. Close enough to hear the delicate whisper of her pulse, to smell the faint trace of chamomile on her breath. 

I am not built for this world she lives in, I think, and yet, I have never belonged anywhere but here.

In the wash of moonlight, I observe how pale she has truly become. How worn ragged she is by the weight she’d been carrying alone. And beneath my worry, beneath the heavy knot of fear I may never quite confess, there’s something deeper, quieter. 

A kind of wonder. 

She is here. She is alive.

It ripples through me. The unbearable knowledge that this moment is everything I’d ever wanted, and everything I fear to lose. 

Outside, the moon slides behind a cloud. The radiator hisses on, uncaring.

And in the dark, I keep a reverential watch. 

…

I sit at the edge of the bed now, elbows resting lightly on my knees, head bowed as though I’m in prayer. In some strange and deluded way, I am. 

Thankfully for the gentle creature that hums in soft snores beside me, I don’t need to shift or stretch. I hold my stillness in a way that is more absolute than even the most disciplined human. 

Shrill and sudden in the hush, I hear it: ping.

Ping. Ping. 

Her phone, on the nightstand. A soft glow pulses against the dark wood as another message arrives. 

For a moment, I fight the instinct. I shouldn’t look. I won’t look. It’s not my place. 

But the screen lights again like a beacon, and in the moonlight I can’t help when my eyes catch the sender’s name. 

Newton.

I stiffen. Slowly, reluctantly, I reach for the phone. Not to unlock it, not to read… just to… see.

The top of the screen shows the latest message, bright and cheerful.

Mike Newton: Hey just checking if you’re free thursday? Trivia night at The Crown with the guys. You should come! Would be fun to hang out again. 

Something twitches in my face. My eye, maybe. 

I set the phone down carefully enough that it makes no sound against the wood and draw back, flexing my hands in my lap. 

My mind reels, unwilling, unbidden to when I had collected her from the entrance of the apartment building, Newton at her side. The thoughts I’d heard spilling from his head– crude, eager, clumsy things. Not malice, no. But desire unchecked, hunger poorly veiled behind a boyish grin and too eager hands. I swallow harshly. I flex my fingers into fists so tight that nails threaten to pierce the granite skin of my palms. 

He wants her.

I close my eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly, letting the cool night air pass through me like water over stone. 

When I open them, the phone still lays there, blinking momentarily with unanswered texts. For a moment, I imagine erasing the messages. Sparing Bella the decision, the awkwardness. Smoothing it all away. 

But no.

With a bitter smile, I shake the thought from my head, easing the tension in my hands. 

No, that’s not how this works anymore.

She’s chosen her own life, her own path. And I– if I were to be in it– would need to walk beside her. Not ahead, not over. 

I lean back slightly, watching her delicate face in sleep. All the peace there. The unmoving crease of her brow, even now.

The world is closing in, I can feel it. 

But for this night, in this quiet hour, I will give her the space to choose. 

And maybe, just maybe, she’ll still choose me.

…

The sun’s barely more than a whisper along the horizon when I move through the apartment, the soft rhythm of my footsteps occasionally lost to a creaky floorboard. 

In the kitchen, I regard the toaster like a suspicious animal, eyes narrowed, fingers nimble as slide slices of bread inside. When the first piece emerges blackened, I grimace, but by the second round I’ve found a balance. Not perfect, but very passable. 

I pour the coffee with practiced care, marvelling a little at how simple it all seems, and yet how much it feels like I’m holding something precious in my hands. I place a little dish of strawberry jam beside the toast and, as if guided by some instinct I don’t entirely understand, I tuck a little sprig of rosemary I’d found in the fridge on the tray. For… garnish. 

By the time Bella stirs awake, blinking blearily into the dim light of morning, I’m standing by the bed, tray in hand, a small self conscious smile playing at my lips. 

“You made this?” She rasps, voice heavy with sleep. 

“I did,” I murmur, glancing down at the tray as if to double check, “with only minor casualties.”

She gives a sweet, delighted laugh, eyes crinkling. “I’ve never had breakfast in bed before.”

She pulls her knees up under the blanket, propping the tray on her lap. I sit in the chair across from her, chin resting lightly on my hand, watching as she bites into the toast with a simple, quiet pleasure. 

It’s such a small moment; and yet, my chest aches with it. 

When mid morning rolls around, Bella is pulling on her coat and slinging her bag over her shoulder. 

“I’ll see you later,” she says, placing a hand on my arm and giving it a squeeze. 

“Stay safe,” I reply, lingering by the door frame as she leaves, my hands twitching at my sides. 

And then I’m alone. 

The apartment feels hollow without her. 

I pace. I tidy, although there’s little to put away. I pick up one of Bella’s paperbacks, flip through it a bit, then set it down. I gaze out the window to the narrow street below. 

Finally, with a resigned sigh, I fish the sleek black smart phone from my coat pocket. It’s been several weeks since I’ve even thought about turning it on. I’d ignored it so thoroughly that I’m surprised when it doesn’t disintegrate in my palms. I plug it in.

The moment the screen lights up, it vibrates wildly in my hand.

ALICE CALLING.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Of course. 

I press answer. “Alice.”

“Finally!” her voice bursts through, bright and familiar. “Do you have any idea how hard you are to get a hold of? I’ve been watching you not charge this phone for weeks. Even for you, Edward, that’s–”

A sharp rap comes from the apartment door. I freeze, glancing towards it. 

“Hold on, Alice.” I murmur, setting the phone aside. 

I peek through the peephole. Mrs. Gunterson, a wiry older neighbour I’ve seen stalk through the hall a handful of times. 

Sighing silently, I open the door. 

“Well, well,” Mrs. Gunterson says, peering up at me with bird like eyes behind thick glasses. “You’re the one who’s been hovering around lately.” She has her arm crossed over a tin of cookies, her pink slippers planted like she’s bracing for a storm. 

I summon my most polite smile. “I’m Edward, it’s ni–”

“Oh, I know who you are.” She sniffs. “I’ve seen you coming and going at all hours. Didn’t see you move in, though. Are you… staying with Bella?”

“I’m just visiting,” I say smoothly, “she’s been feeling a bit under the weather.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Gunterson rocks back on her heels, eyes narrowing. “Funny, because I definitely heard her laugh yesterday. Sounded more like a… cackle, actually. And you, ” she squints at my face, “are extremely quiet on your feet. Never hear you leave. You some kind of… dancer?”

I blink. “Pardon?”

“Ballet? Jazz? Irish River? No?” She makes a dismissive noise. “Well, I brought cookies.” She shoves the tin into my hands, but doesn’t let go. “Oatmeal chocolate chip. Comfort food. You are comforting her, right?” Her gaze turns shrewd. “You’re not one of those bad boys, are you?”

Though my entire existence may be by very definition that of a ‘bad boy’, I manage to tell her “I try not to be.”

“Hmph.” She gives me a once over. “You’re too pale. And thin. And you stare too much. I see you through the window sometimes. Just standing there. Watching the street like some sort of… Victorian ghost.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Are you sure you’re not in some kind of trouble? Are you hiding here?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Try again. “No trouble, Mrs. Gunterson. I assure you.”

“Hmm…” She finally releases the tin. “Well. You tell Bella I’ll be watching out for her.” She gives me a suspicious look. “And for you , too.”

I nod gravely. “Of course.”

She takes a step back, then pauses. “Oh, and one more thing. I did see you carrying her yesterday. Right through the lobby. Like a sack of potatoes.” She wags a finger at me. “Now I hope you two are being safe. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually.”

My lip twitches. “Thank you for your concern.”

She sniffs again, then turns on her heel, tottering away while muttering “mysterious boyfriend, pale as death… I’ve seen this episode before…”

I close the door slowly, the cookie tin still warm in my hands. 

I turn back to the living room, picking up the phone from where I had set it on the coffee table. “I’m back.”

“Edward!” Alice’s voice crackles through the speaker, “where have you been? Are you in Chicago? It looks like Chicago.”

“Hello to you, too, Alice.” I lean a shoulder against the wall, gazing out at the grey skyline. 

“Oh, Edward, please don’t ‘hello’ me. What’s going on? Why did you leave Romania? Did you get into a fight with someone? Are you… are you tracking someone?”

“Alice…”

“Don’t tell me, are you–”

“Alice.”

“–on some reckless, grief addled mission? Is it about Bella again?” Her voice is vulnerable, almost pleading. “Edward, please… You’ve been punishing yourself for years. I’ve seen how you isolate, how you bury yourself with the guilt. Tell me what’s going on. I can come get you–”

My jaw tightens. My fingers press hard against the windowsill. 

“Alice.” My voice comes out quieter, steadier. “Alice…stop.”

She’s silent for a moment. For a beat, only the gentle hum of the phone line fills the air.

“Alice,” I repeat, “I’m with Bella.”

Another long pause. Then softly, so softly, she says “Edward… No, you’re not.”

I close my eyes. “Yes, I am.”

“Oh, no.”

“Please, don’t.”

“You’re chasing ghosts, Edward…” Her voice is thick with fear now. Not for herself, or for Bella, but for me. “Is it happening again? I thought you had moved past this. Oh, Edward…”

I grip even tighter on the phone. “I mean it, Alice. I’m here, in her apartment. She’s alive, she’s here. Alice, I’m telling you the truth, I promise.” 

“Edward, if you’re hurting, I want to help. If you did something, we can help. Please, Edward, whose apartment are you in?”

I take a breath I don’t need. 

“I’m in Bella’s apartment.”

Silence.

A long, cold stretch of it.

Then, almost inaudibly: “No, you’re not.” Alice’s voice begins to quiver, her cadence soft, as though she thinks I might turn to dust if she speaks too loudly, too accusatory. “Edward, you’re… grieving. And that grief, what it’s done to you, is not your fault. You held onto her for so long. You loved her. Of course you did. Of course you still do. But Edward… we buried her. Do you remember that?”

“I remember that.”

“You’re not with her,” she says. “You’re in a far away city, in someone else’s home, and your mind is making you see things, because you can’t bear the pain. I’m so sorry Edward, but Bella’s gone.”

I press my fingers to my eyes. “No, she’s not.”

“Please, Edward,” her voice breaks, “don’t do this to yourself. Don’t lose yourself to the fantasy. Come home. We’ll figure it out. You don’t have to–”

“I heard her heartbeat.”

Alice’s words cut off. 

“I touched her hand. I brushed her hair back from her face. I listened to her breathe while she slept.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “She’s not a ghost. She’s not a memory. She’s alive.”

“No,” she says, “no, that’s not possible, Edward. I’m sorry.”

“Alice, I didn’t think it was possible, either.”

“ I can’t see her . I haven’t seen her in any visions since the day she died. Don’t you understand? She isn’t alive, Edward. I’m so sorry this is happening to you, I know it’s so painful–”

“Come to Chicago,” I utter, rubbing my palm against my jaw. “Take the next flight out. You need to witness this for yourself.”

“I’ll come get you, Edward, but you need to stay put where you are, okay?”

“Just get here as fast as you can.”

“Of course, just… don’t do anything until I get there.”

Chapter Text

The key turns in the lock, the door swings open, and the soft thud of Bella’s bag on the floor is the first music to start my evening. I’m already on my feet, halfway across the small apartment before she’s even had the chance to kick her boots off. 

She looks tired. Beautiful, but tired. Her shoulders are slumped, hair slightly mussed, cheeks rosy from the chill outside. She gives me a wan smile as she slips off her coat. 

“Hey,” she murmurs, setting her keys in a catch all dish. “You’re hovering.”

I manage a sheepish smile. “Guilty.” From the counter, I lift the small tin and hold it out. “A peace offering.”

Bella’s brows lift as she crosses the room, taking the tin from my hands. She pops it open and laughs a little. “Cookies? Where on earth did you–”

“Mrs. Gunterson.” I say, deadpan. “Apparently, I passed the latest test. She’s been peering through her peephole all day, trying to figure me out. I believe she’s concluded that I’m not a criminal. Yet.”

Bella snorts, fishing out a cookie. “She’s always been nosy. When I first moved in, she left a bottle of wine outside my door, and then interrogated me for thirty minutes in the hallway about where I was from and why I was here.”

“I admire her vigilance,” I say with a small smile, “though I suspect I’m still under surveillance.”

Bella gives me a crooked grin and sinks into the couch, curling her legs beneath her. She breaks the cookie in half and offers me a piece instinctively, then laughs when I shake my head. “Right. Vampire.”

I sit beside her. Close. Close enough to breathe her in, to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “I should tell you,” I say quietly, “Alice is coming to Chicago.”

Her eyes light up. “Alice! That’s great. You’re reconnecting with your family.” She brushes the crumbs from her fingers, “I was hoping you would.”

The sincerity in her words paws at something deep in my chest. I look at her– at this human girl with exhaustion in her eyes, and a soft, hopeful glow in her voice– and wonder how I’ll ever tell her the truth.

“It’s because,” I say carefully, “I’ve had a much more… optimistic outlook on life since reuniting with you.”

Her smile softens. She reaches over and squeezes my leg. Just a second of pressure, but enough to send a tremor through me. “I’m glad,” she murmurs.

What I don’t say: Alice is on her way because I need to show her the impossible. Because she can’t see Bella in her visions anymore. Because in all our long years, none of us had witnessed a soul return from a grave we’d watched being filled.

And because a part of me still doesn’t trust this reality. 

Bella stretches her arms overhead with a groan. “I should probably shower, or–” she glances at me, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Actually, do you want to try taking that walk again? I could go for a hot cocoa and maybe stretch my legs a little.”

My smile spreads before I can stop it. “Nothing would make me happier.”

…

We wander along the waterfront path, the air crisp with the faint bite of an oncoming frost. Strings of lights blink from where they hang in between the lamp posts overhead, casting scattered halos onto the pavement. 

Ahead of us, a small kiosk beckons. The glow from under its tent top, the handwritten chalkboard promising hot chocolate and fresh apple cider. A man bundled in a red scarf leans casually against the counter, humming to himself. 

Bella’s eyes brighten. “Oh, that smells wonderful.”

I smile, looking down at her. “Would you like one?”

Her nose crinkles. “I shouldn’t–”

But I’m already moving. “Two hot chocolates, please.”

She gives a helpless laugh, watching me with what I can only hope is admiration, but I’d never be so bold as to assume. “You don’t even drink hot chocolate,” she says. 

I hand over the cash and accept two steaming paper cups, our fingers brushing briefly, electrically, as I offer her one. “I just like to keep up appearances.”

She flushes a little. “Smooth.”

The vendor nods as I give my thanks, and we step to the side, leaning against the railing that overlooks the water. The gentle current below ripples in silver ribbons that reflect off the twilight. Bella sips her drink, closing her eyes in a quiet bliss. 

I watch her in silence. Every detail is a small, exquisite torment. The way she cradles the cup in both hands, the pink creeping into her cheeks from the cold, the little hum she gives at the first taste of chocolate. I want– fiercely, absurdly– to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. To press my mouth to the crown of her head. To pull her closer, only an inch, just to feel the shape of her beneath my arm. 

Instead, I, too, curl my fingers around the paper cup, feeling the artificial heat seep into skin that doesn’t need warming at all. 

A slurred voice behind us cuts through the evening’s quiet. “Hey, sweetheart– cold out here, huh?”

I turn markedly. A man– older, swaying slightly and with the unmistakable edge of drink in his words– lingers a few feet away, grinning sloppily in Bella’s direction.

She stiffens, tightening her fingers around the cup. 

I step subtly between the two of them, my back straightening, my gaze level. There’s no snarl, no flash of teeth. Only an expression like ice hardening over a river. 

The man falters. His grin twitches, then fades. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, then slinks past with a “sorry, man.”

I exhale slowly, tension still coiled in my limbs. 

Bella touches my arm. “Hey,” she says softly, “it’s okay.”

I turn to her, my voice now low. “I know. But strangers shouldn’t be speaking to you like that. Much less… looking at you like that.”

Something passes over her face. Warmth, maybe? Or maybe something even softer. For a second, no one speaks. The space between us feels like it’s stretched thin, alive with something delicate that neither of us wants to touch. 

She is the first to break the silence, turning back to the waterfront with a small, breathless laugh. “You know,” she murmurs, “you’re kind of… overwhelmingly old fashioned sometimes.”

My lips curve. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

…

The walk back to the apartment is quiet, companionable. Bella’s fingers are mostly tucked into the sleeves of her coat, clutching the last of her drink. I match my stride carefully to hers, listening to the sound our footsteps make in unison as we go. 

When we reach the high rise, Bella kicks off her shoes with a sigh, abandoning her coat over the hook by the door. “Mmm,” she murmurs, stretching her arms overhead with a long groan. “I’m beat. I’m ready to crash.”

“Long day, I bet,” I say, following her inside. 

She glances back at me, expression soft. “Thanks for tonight. I needed that.”

I want, for a heartbeat, to say anything to hold her here in this warm, hovering moment between us. But she’s already retreating to her room, fingers absently twisting the tie of her hoodie, her eyes heavy with an apparent exhaustion. 

“I’ll–” She pauses at the door frame, rubbing her neck, a little awkward now. “Um… I’m just going to get ready for bed.”

I nod smoothly. A careful mask. “Of course.”

She hesitates. Just for a second– one fleeting moment– she looks like she might say something more. But then she gives a small, tired smile, and disappears into the bedroom, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. 

I stand in the otherwise silent apartment, listening as the water runs in the bathroom. To the open and shut of drawers. To the gentle pad of her footsteps from one room to the other. 

I tell myself (firmly), to take the armchair in the living room. To let her have the space she so clearly needs. Not to cross a boundary. 

But as night falls, and the apartment settles all in creaks and cracks from the chill outside, I find myself in the doorway of her room, leaning slightly against the frame. I am no less an addict now than I was ten years ago. 

She’s already snoring lightly, one arm draped over the pillow, her face turned partially towards the window. 

Sleep has softened her features, but not in the same way it used to. She isn’t eighteen anymore. The thought should startle me– but instead, it fills me with a solemn, unspeakable awe. 

Bella has changed. 

The roundness of her youth has thinned; her cheeks a little more hollow now, her jawline more defined. The ever present crease between her brows– once a transient line of teenaged worry– has deepened into permanence. It tells of years lived, burdens carried, thoughts that weigh heavy. 

I’d memorized her new shape. The gentle swell of her hips beneath the blankets. The slight sag in her shoulders when sits too long at her desk. The occasional, nearly imperceptible crack from her knees when she stands after hours of stillness. I’d winced once, the first time I’d heard it– and she’d laughed it off, unaware that I’d catalogue it alongside every other small, human thing she did. 

My eyes drift to the slope of her bare shoulder, where the blanket has slipped slightly. Just beneath the dip of her collar bone, a small smattering of sunspots kiss her skin. Faint freckles. Likely unnoticed by anyone else but me. They’re new. Proof of time, of summers and forgetfulness. I would never dare speak of them, but I commit each one to memory like stars in a private sky. 

Near the edge of the night stand sits a slim pair of reading glasses, folded neatly atop a book she never seems to finish. She hasn’t ever worn them around me. I suspect that she thinks they make her look older. But I’ve seen her squint at fine print, blink stubbornly before picking them up and putting them down again. She’s never noticed that I noticed. 

And then there– near the crown of her head, half hidden in the tousled waves that fan across her pillow– a single strand of grey. It catches the moonlight like a whisper. A strange ache tightens in my chest. 

She would hate it, I’m sure. She’d pluck it out, call it bad genes or stress. But to me… it is extraordinary. A marker of her survival. She had aged. She had lived. Ten years of life carved into the shape of her body.

I’ll never tell her. She’d only roll her eyes. She’d never believe how fiercely I cherish that single strand of silver. 

I let my gaze wander. Not in hunger– never in hunger– but in a distant worship. Every inch of her is familiar, and yet entirely new. A version of her I never thought I’d exist to see. 

…

Bella had left early for work, just after sunrise, bundled in her long coat and a wool scarf she’d claimed was too itchy, but wore anyway. I had offered to walk her to the subway station, but she declined with a smile and promised to text when she’d arrived. I had watched her go, as I always did, the trail of her scent lingering in the hallway long after she’d left. 

Now, hours later, I stand in the middle of the living room. The only noise is the ticking of the kitchen clock and the occasional groan of the radiator coming to life. 

Then, I hear it. 

Two sets of footsteps moving through the hall. One light, brisk, impatient– Alice. The other slower, heavier, more deliberate. Jasper. 

Their minds are a muted storm on the other side of the door. Alice’s thoughts are twisting and rewinding on a loop, frantic, but veiled. She’s thinking very carefully in images: meaningless things like a shopping list, a tangle of Christmas tree lights, a rubber boot– anything but what I really want to know. She’s shielding herself from me. 

Jasper, in contrast, makes no effort to hide the rising tide of dread and confusion that saturates each of his steps. 

I open the door before they can knock. 

Alice stands just outside, one eyebrow arched. She wears a sleek grey coat buttoned all the way up to her throat. Oversized sunglasses and leather gloves. Behind her, Jasper looks like someone who’s seen the end of the world and is now processing what comes next. Always with that perpetual thousand yard stare. 

“Edward.” Alice says.

I step aside. “Come in.”

They enter slowly, cautiously, like stepping into a crime scene. Alice’s eyes sweep the apartment with a clinical precision, making successive note of everything: the stack of unopened mail by the entryway, the worn rug with a coffee stain in the corner, the bookshelf bowed with cheap paperbacks and used cookbooks. I’m sure the smell hits her next. Lingering notes of Bella’s perfume, Dove soap, the lemony tang of floor cleaner. 

She slows in the middle of the room, her sharp gaze softening, her features now replaced with creases of confusion. 

“This is Bella’s?” She asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“She… lives here?”

I nod. “Has for several years.”

Jasper steps in only far enough to close the door behind him. He scans the apartment like he’d expected to find blood on the walls. His face is drawn tight, brows furrowed. 

Alice squints towards the kitchen. “She has a dish rack. Bella Swan has a dish rack.”

I nearly smile. “She also collects mugs that she doesn’t need, leaves shoes in the hallway, and sleeps with the window cracked open, even in winter.”

Alice flicks her eyes over to me. She doesn’t smile, either. ‘ You’ve been here,’ she thinks, ‘you’ve been staying here. With her.’

I give the barest nod. 

She blinks rapidly, her thoughts stammering, ‘but… I didn’t see her. I haven’t seen anything. Nothing, not a hint of her since–’ she cuts herself off. 

I look past her, towards Jasper, who stands rigid, jaw clenched. 

“We saw her die,” he mutters. “We were there.” 

“You saw a body,” I say, my voice calm, but cold. “No one confirmed it was her.”

“Carlisle did.”

My eyes narrow. “Even Carlisle can be wrong.”

Silence pulses between us. The radiator hisses. 

Alice turns back to the room and moves slowly, as though she expects the illusion to dissolve beneath her hands. She brushes her fingers against the throw resting on the arm of the couch. Her eyes land on a stack of yellow notepads– Bella’s work notes– and then a pen with bite marks on the cap. 

She stops. 

There, on the mantle, tucked between a candle and a photo of a black cat, is a framed picture. Alice lifts it gently. 

Bella, smiling, just a touch older than when Alice had last seen her, in a blue gown with a tassel swinging from her mortarboard. Her cheeks flush, her eyes squinting in the sun. A bouquet of tulips clutched in one hand. Her arm is thrown around a friend. Laughter hovers on the edge of her mouth. 

Alice stares at it for a long time. She doesn’t blink. 

I interrupt, almost meekly. “University of Washington. Journalism. She graduated top of her class.”

“I…” Alice looks up at me, her voice unraveling. “I saw her grave. I saw it with my own eyes. We stood there. We grieved her.”

“She was gone…” I say, “and then she wasn’t.”

Jasper steps forward for the first time, his eyes locked on the photo, but he doesn’t get too close. “It smells like her,” he murmurs, “it smells exactly like her.”

Alice’s fingers tighten on the frame, her voice barely audible. “When you said you’d found a way to move forward… I thought–” she breaks off. “I thought you’d meant that you’d finally moved on. But it’s her. It’s always been her.”

I give a shallow nod. “Yes.”

Alice sits down hard on the edge of the couch, her grace faltering for a moment. She cradles the photo in her lap, her gaze is distant, stunned. 

“Edward,” she whispers, “if she’s alive… then what did we bury?”

I don’t answer. I don’t know how.

Across from us, Jasper remains quiet. Motionless, but alert. His eyes flicker occasionally down the hallway, towards the closed door where Bella has slept for the past several years in the same purple bed sheets. 

Alice turns back to me. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

“No,” I say, “not yet.”

A long beat passes. 

She grips the frame tighter. “Then we don’t tell her.”

Her eyes meet mine, and the answer passes between us. Silent, binding.

‘Not yet.’

…

I move soundlessly into the kitchen, retrieving the mug that Bela had left rinsed in the sink this morning, her chapstick still glossy on the rim. I don’t clean it. Instead, I set it on the counter like an art piece and admire it for a moment. 

I glance back to where Alice still sits on the couch, clutching Bella’s photo like a sacred artifact.

Jasper steps out onto the balcony, closing the sliding door behind him. His frame casts a tall silhouette against the skyline. 

I come to stand beside the couch. “Alice,” I say softly. She doesn’t look up immediately. She blinks slowly, thoughtfully while still holding the photo. 

Her voice is low. “It’s her.”

I nod. 

“She’s older.” Her voice cracks a little. “She’s… human.”

I sit down on the edge of the wingback across from her, elbows on my knees. “Yes.”

She’s quiet for a moment more, the room humming with a surreal tension. Then, finally, she says: “I thought you’d gone mad, Edward.”

“I know.”

“I told Jasper I might find you wandering the shoreline in a paper hospital gown muttering Shakespeare.”

That earns a small huff of laughter from me. 

She finally looks into my eyes. “You really thought I wouldn’t believe you.”

“I didn’t know what to think,” I admit. “But I had to show you.”

She leans forward, still white knuckling the frame. “You don’t understand. I haven’t seen her, Edward. Not even the shape of her. Not since that day.” Her breath hitches a little. “She’s a blind spot. Just like the wolves were. There’s a void where she should be, and I didn’t question it because I thought she was dead. That’s how absolute it was. She wasn’t just gone from sight– she was gone from possibility.” 

My voice is tense. “Then how is she here?”

“I don’t know.” She finally sets the frame gently on the coffee table between us. “But it’s breaking every law of nature I’ve ever known.”

We sit in the silence for a stretch. Then, quieter, I say “I’ve been afraid to ask her what she remembers. How she explains... all of this. I don’t want to disturb her peace.”

Alice tilts her head, studying me. “You’re in love with her.”

“I never stopped.” There’s no hesitation in my voice. 

Alice’s eyes soften. “You look lighter,” she says gently. “Not entirely, but… Not like you did when you left.”

I look towards the closed balcony door. “That was another version of me. A more broken one.”

“I remember.”

“I don’t want to lose her again, Alice.” I look down at my hands, then back up. “That’s why I don’t want you to tell her. Not yet. Whatever this is… it’s fragile.”

She nods. “I understand.” Then, she reaches across the small space between us and takes my hand. Her grip is cold, it grounds me. Her touch is familial, eternal, and filled with something very rare for Alice Cullen: astonishment. 

“I never thought we’d get to see her again,” she whispers, “and here she is. Not just alive– living. She’s changed.” 

“Yes.”

“But it’s still her,” she murmurs again, glancing at the photo. 

I smile wistfully. “Yes.”

From the balcony, Jasper’s thoughts brush gently against mine– a quiet, steady pulse of presence. He’s going to wait a few moments before re-entering the room. 

Inside, between Alice and me, the space closes. The impossible has become real. And the only thing more terrifying than Bella Swan returning from the grave… is not knowing how. 

…

I hear the familiar jingle of Bella’s keys coming up the elevator before the doors even open. I straighten from my place beside the window, just as Alice snaps her head towards the sound, a spark of pure anticipation. Jasper shifts uneasily in the kitchen, clearly bracing for the impact of Bella’s emotional presence. 

The door opens. Bella steps inside, dropping her bag with a tired grunt. “God, what a day,” she says to no one in particular, loosening the scarf from around her neck. “If I have to look at one more subpar article on–” She stops mid sentence, eyes landing on Alice, who’s already crossed the room in a blur. 

“Bella!” Alice beams, arms outstretched like she’d been waiting a decade for this very moment. In a way… she had. 

Bella blinks in surprise, then smiles with a genuine warmth. “Alice?” she asks, both incredulous and delighted. “Oh my god, it is you!”

The hug is instant, Alice’s small frame colliding with Bella’s in an embrace that’s nearly crushing. Alice clings to her with a reverence that may have ordinarily startled her, if she weren’t distracted by how surprised and happy she was. 

“I can’t believe it,” Bella laughs, hugging her back. “I was hoping Edward would reconnect with his family– and look at this! When did you get in?”

“Just this morning,” Alice says brightly, her voice high and somewhat trembling with something that only I can detect. “You look… incredible. Older.” Her hands are in Bella’s hair now, fingers combing through as if confirming that it’s real. “Your hair’s longer. You’ve got these little lines here–” she touches gently beneath Bella’s eyes, “I love them. You’re so alive.”

I see Bella’s brow twitch at the phrasing, but she just laughs again. “You haven’t changed a bit. Still a great hugger.”

From the side, Jasper steps forward awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Hello, Bella.”

“Jasper!” Bella says, smiling again, her cheeks flushed with warmth. “Wow, it’s so good to see you, too. Come here.”

To my shock, Jasper accepts her hug. He looks as stiff as a board and completely overwhelmed, but he accepts. His arms go around her carefully. Like she might break– or he might. 

“Long time,” Bella murmurs against his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Jasper says, his voice hoarse. 

I watch it unfold with that familiar ache in my chest. Bella, so gracious, so utterly unaware of the emotional hurricane spinning behind Alice’s smile and Jasper’s glassy stare. Because to them, Bella Swan had been dead ten years. 

Now, she’s standing here in a cashmere sweater, cheeks windblown from the cold, and the scent of roasted coffee and city grime still faintly clinging to her hair. She has no idea how close she’s come to breaking open their entire world. 

“Come on, sit,” Bella says, obliviously motioning them towards the couch. “I want to hear everything. What you’ve been up to, where you’ve travelled. If Rosalie’s still… well, Rosalie.”

I sense Alice’s thoughts pulse with a thousand fragments. Visions skipping and blurring like a jammed projector. Memories of Bella’s face, pale and in a casket. The black void where her future should be. The roaring silence afterwards. 

We meet each other’s gaze and I give the smallest shake of my head. Not yet. 

Alice swallows, nodding imperceptibly. Her next smile is more composed. “Actually,” she says with practiced cheer, “I was thinking we could all go out to dinner, catch up properly. My treat.”

Bella raises her eyebrow. “You want to go out out? Like… a restaurant?”

Alice laughs. “Why not? You work too hard. You deserve a good meal and a fancy drink. Besides, it’s not every day we’re in town.”

Bella looks pleasantly surprised, then glances to me. “You up for it?”

I give a small, reassuring smile. “Wherever you go, I go.”

She grins now, touched. “Alright then, let me just change into something less… work.”

She disappears down the hallways, humming to herself. The second the door shuts, Alice turns to me, her thoughts loud. ‘How is this possible?’ and ‘she has no idea,’ and ‘what do we do now?’

I just look at her, steadily. I don’t have the answers yet. But I’d do anything to protect this precious thing that had come back to life. 

…

The restaurant Alice has chosen is tucked into a quiet street of Old Town, with dim gold lighting, dark velvet booths and the soft clinking of polished cutlery on porcelain. Bella’s changed into a deep green blouse and cigarette leg slacks, her hair twisted up with a silver clip. I hold the door open for her, and when our hands lightly brush on the way in, I feel revitalized. 

I guide her by the small of her back as we approach the hostess. Instinct, more than anything. She doesn’t startle at my touch this time. 

I don’t eat, of course. Nor does Alice or Jasper, but they play their parts with a refined ease– perusing the menu, ordering drinks for show, murmuring polite compliments to the server. Bella doesn’t seem to notice their theatricality. Or maybe she simply doesn’t mind. 

She sits across from Alice, the candlelight on her cheekbone, and I can’t help but index her every motion. The way she tucks a curl behind her ear. The curve of her hand wrapping around the stem of her glass. The soft crinkle in her eyes when she laughs at something Alice says. 

She’s incandescent. 

“I still can’t believe you’re in town,” Bella says, sipping her wine. “It’s so nice to see familiar faces.”

Alice leans her chin into her hand, eyes sparkling. “Well we couldn’t let Edward keep you all to himself, could we?”

I don’t look at her. I know her thoughts are dancing just out of reach, deliberately shielded, giddy and taunting. 

“I wasn’t aware I was ‘keeping’ her,” I mutter dryly. 

“Oh, you’re so possessive,” Alice teases under her breath, quiet enough that only I can hear. 

Bella’s oblivious, reaching for her fork as the waiter sets down her plate. “Actually,” she says, as though the thought’s just struck her, “do you remember Mike Newton?”

I go very still. 

Alice’s smile widens, perfectly composed. “Blond hair, lots of Axe body spray?”

Bella laughs. “That’s the one. He’s in Chicago, too, apparently. Moved here after his divorce from Jessica.”

My expression twists subtly, just enough for Alice to see it. 

“Jessica Stanley?” She asks, eyes wide in faux innocence. “They got married?”

“Not anymore,” Bella says, stabbing a piece of roasted squash with her fork. “Mike’s single now. We ran into each other at a bar and we’ve been chatting. He asked if I wanted to go to trivia night with some of his friends.”

Alice’s thoughts light up like fireworks. ‘Oh, this is delicious.’

I lean back in my chair with an audible sigh, my fingers drumming against the table’s edge. “He’s asked twice.” I say flatly. 

Bella blinks at me. “Have I mentioned that before?”

“You didn’t need to,” I say, glancing at Alice. “I overheard.”

Alice bites her lip to keep from laughing. “Goodness, I forgot how hilarious you are when you’re jealous.”

My gaze flicks to Bella quickly, almost nervously, to see how she’d react to the word. But she just smiles faintly while twirling her fork, clearly amused. 

“It’s not a date or anything,” she says, sipping her wine. “Mike’s just… persistent.”

“Persistence isn't' flattering when paired with poor intentions.” I mutter.

Alice raises her brows. “You sound like you’ve read his mind.”

I give her a ‘you know I have’ look. Then, pointedly, I say “seems like Newton’s been thinking fondly about Bella these past ten years. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”

That stops Alice for a second. Her smile dips slightly. 

“I’d love to know how that’s possible,” she murmurs imperceptibly, gaze slipping towards Bella. 

I subtly shake my head– not now. 

To break the moment, Jasper finally speaks. “Do you, uh… go out much, Bella?” He asks awkwardly. 

Bella turns to him, kind as ever. “Not really, I’ve got a pretty demanding schedule. These outings with Mike are the first social things I’ve done in a while.”

Jasper nods slowly. Then, ever so subtly, I feel it. His power smoothing over the table like a warm hand pressed gently between the shoulder blades. Bella’s body physically relaxes a little from the shift in mood. Her smile softens. Her hand lingers a little closer to mine, like she’d forgotten it was there at all. 

I feel the pull again. So deep and magnetic it leaves me awestruck. I could sit here for a hundred years, watching her in this moment over and over again. Even then, it would never be enough. 

…

The restaurant thins. The clink of cutlery and the quiet murmur of other diners has softened into an ambience. Candles flicker lower in their holders, casting sleepy pools of gold against the tablecloth. 

Across from me, Bella is laughing softly at something Alice has said. Some teasing remark about high school, about the way Bella used to trip over her own feet on a flat surface. Bella rolls her eyes and shakes her head, her cheeks warm with wine and a remembered fondness. 

“I’m right here, you know,” she says with a wry glance to Alice.

“Yes, and upright. It’s really touching,” Alice quips.

Jasper watches the exchange with a half smile and his usual look of very distant amusement. But even he has relaxed over the course of the evening. He imbues comfort. Curiosity. 

And then, Alice stands abruptly, tugging Jasper up with her. “We’re going to find the restroom,” she says brightly– though her grin is positively devilish. 

“You don’t even–” I begin, but she silences me with a look. 

‘Don’t waste this,’ she thinks, ‘she’s right there.’

I sigh, watching them disappear towards the back of the restaurant. Bella arches a brow.

“Does she always drag him around like that?”

“Like a handbag,” I murmur, “but a deeply dangerous one.”

Bella’s laugh is quieter now. Sleepy. Maybe a little sad. She looks around the dim space, then back to me. “This was nice. I haven’t done anything like this in… God. Maybe years.”

I want to tell her how beautiful she glows in the candlelight. How magnetic her voice is, even when she forgets to guard it. But instead I ask “do you remember this song?”

A slow jazzy melody has begun to weave itself through the restaurant. Billie Holiday. I’ll be Seeing You. 

Bella tilts her head. Her brows furrow, then lift, alight with a memory.”You used to play this in your room,” she says. “You thought I was asleep.”

“I knew you weren’t,” I admit. 

A long pause. Then, I stand, offering her my hand. “Dance with me.”

She blinks, looking around. There are only a few other couples swaying beneath the amber pendant lights. An older man dances with a woman who I guess is his wife– her head tucked under his chin like it’s a home. 

Bella stares at my hand for a second longer than I can stand, but then places her own in mine. Her palm is warm. Alive. 

We move to the edge of the dance floor, I rest one hand lightly on her waist, her other slides around my shoulder. We start to sway. 

It’s barely movement. A slow shift of weight. A shared breath. She fits into my frame as though time hasn’t passed at all. 

My fingers press carefully into the curve of her back, memorizing what has changed, what has not. Her heartbeat ticks against my chest, a little too fast. 

“You’re not a terrible dancer, Cullen,” she murmurs. I smile. 

“I’ve had so many years to imagine what it would be like to hold you again. This doesn’t come close.”

She stops moving. Her eyes flick up to mine, stunned, her lips slightly parted. 

She doesn’t speak. I wouldn’t have heard it anyway, over the shattering in my chest. 

Her breath hitches. I hear that. Feel it. Her heart skips a beat and then comes thundering back. I bend just slightly so our foreheads almost touch. 

So close. Too close. 

But I don’t kiss her– I won’t. Not yet. 

Instead, we stand there. Rocking slightly in a rhythm that feels older than either of us. Caught between the past and the unbearable tenderness of the present. 

If this moment were the last thing I ever felt, it would be enough. 

A/N: Hello dear reader! I hope you’re enjoying the story so far. I’m having a lot of fun hearing about your theories. 

I come to you with a humble request… I need book recs! I leave in about 48hrs for a trip to Hong Kong to visit my partner’s family. First time in Asia, I’m so excited! Caveat– my flight is 17hrs! I need to throw something onto my kindle. I’m kind of itching for a romance, but I love sci-fi, too. I’m not really into high fantasy like ACOTAR. More of an urban fantasy gal myself (a la Twilight).

I know “book boyfriends” are having a huge moment right now. I tried reading Rina Kent’s “Legacy of Gods” series and I can firmly say that I’m not… into it. Lol. I’m currently working my way through “Alone with you in the Ether” by Olivie Blake, which has been enjoyable. Also recently finished “Big Swiss” by Jen Beagin, another very good read! And “Cursed Bread” by Sophie Mackintosh, which was interesting in its pacing. Felt like a fever dream. 

If you have any recs that are either filled with love and yearning (spice is fine!), are great sci-fi/speculative stories, or have great prose, please let me know!

Chapter Text

Bella’s POV

The apartment now feels unusually quiet without Alice’s gentle stream of chatter. They’d gone off yesterday, early, deciding to explore the city for a few days. Alice had a whole itinerary planned out that included architectural boat tours, obscure galleries, and one truly horrifying immersive theatre experience that I had politely declined. Jasper seemed relieved.

I, meanwhile, have trivia night. 

I sip my second glass of wine– cheap, red, bold– and grimace slightly as it burns down. More drinks now means fewer drinks purchased later. The buzz softens my edges, sends a warmth through my chest and helps me feel a little more brave than usual. 

The leather pants might be a mistake. A tight, squeaky, anxiety and sweat inducing mistake. I tug the waistband higher, twisting in front of the mirror. I check my rear for the umpteenth time. It looks… great. Too great. Like maybe I’m trying too hard– which, I most certainly am. But no one needs to know that. I reach for the deeply cut black top I have hanging over the closet door. With it on, my collarbones peek out, glistening faintly with lotion. I give myself a little nervous nod. 

I am not the same girl who used to wear flannels and worry about tripping in heels. I’m twenty eight. Employed. Battle hardened. I have wine preferences. At least, that’s what I tell myself in a weak effort to assuage the dread that comes along with feeling too exposed, too out of place. 

I grab a necklace from my jewelry box atop the dresser and turn towards the bedroom door– only to find Edward there, leaning casually against the frame like he hadn’t been watching the entire time. 

“Jesus,” I gasp. “You move like a cat burglar.” 

His eyes move over my outfit once, slowly– too slowly– then flick up to meet mine. His expression is otherwise unreadable, save for the slight pull between his brows. A barely perceptible micro expression that I’m sure he’s not even cognisant of. 

He opens his mouth, closes it, then finally gets out “are you sure you’ll be warm enough tonight?”

I blink, then give him a bit of an exasperated smile. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

I gesture between us. “The chaste Victorian guardian angel thing. Asking about the weather because you’re too gentlemanly to admit that I might be showing too much cleavage.”

“No I meant–” he pauses, flustered. “You look beautiful. But also, are you sure those pants will be comfortable?”

I give a silly theatrical gasp. “You’re worried about my pants now?”

He steps inside the bedroom, a little awkward, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant they look… perhaps a little restrictive. I’m sure it can’t be good for your circulatory system.”

“Is it my virtue you’re worried about, Edward?” I ask jokingly. 

He stops. Looks down, not meeting my gaze. 

I tilt my head in realization. “Oh my goodness, you are worried about my virtue. You’re scandalized.”

“I’m not scandalized,” he says stiffly. Which is precisely what a scandalized person would say.

I step forward, a little cheeky, emboldened by the wine. “It’s okay, you can admit it. You probably still think I’m a virgin.”

He says nothing. 

My eyes widen. “You do!” 

He looks vaguely mortified. “I hadn’t spent much time… considering that.”

I raise my wine glass, tilting it all the way back and finish the last mouthful. “I hate to break it to you, but I’ve had sex. Actually, if I were nearing thirty and hadn’t yet felt the touch of a man– well, that might be cause for concern.”

Edward looks like he’s been unplugged. 

His face finally twitches. 

“I mean, what did you think I was doing all these years?” I ask, warming up to the bit. “Just– reading books and being virginal? You know I lived in New York for a while, right? Really bad casual sex is practically an entry requirement there.”

“I didn’t think anything,” he says, voice thinner than usual. 

I give him a sideways look. “Yes, you did. You’re totally curious.”

“No–”

“You want to know who. How many. What positions–” I tease, gently poking him in the chest. 

“Bella.” 

“I’m just kidding. Mostly.” I say, giving him a smile. 

He stares at me, lips parted like he wants to say something, but can’t exactly figure out how to string the words together. My smile softens, my tone gentling. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I just… want you to see me as I really am. Not some memory from Forks. Not eighteen anymore.”

“You think that’s why I care?” He asks quietly. 

I pause. “Isn’t it?”

He shakes his head, looking dazed. “You don’t seem to understand, Bella. You could wear a trash bag, and I’d still want to burn the world alive for looking at you.”

This stops me. We stand in the silence. I’m used to feeling the electrical pull between us by now. It’s mystifying. But then, Edward steps back, jaw clenched. “Enjoy yourself tonight.”

I slip into my heels and throw my jacket over my shoulder, giving him a curt smile. “Don’t wait up.” I say, brushing past him and into the hallway. 

Then, I turn back. “Actually– do wait up.”

…

Edward’s POV 

I remain frozen in place, listening as her heels click down the hallway. Each step echoes like thunder. The soft hum of the elevator swallows her up, and then she’s gone. 

I still haven’t taken a breath. 

“Actually– do wait up.”

Her voice had been teasing. Effortless. Dripping with the boldness the wine had lent her. But it’s fixed to me like honey now– sticky and sweet, impossible to wash off. 

I turn toward the mirror hanging in the entryway and stare at my own reflection. I look almost amused. Almost. But my hands are balled into helpless fists at my sides. 

Bella Swan– no– Bella Swan , twenty eight year old adult woman, seasoned and sharp and capable of wielding hurt without meaning to– had just told me she had sex. Multiple times, if I understood her tone. Which I did. Intimately. 

I can still hear her voice in my head, a wicked little whisper. “What virtue? My virginity?”

I pace. 

The rational part of my brain (the practiced, civilized part), says this is good. Healthy. She’s lived a very full life. She’s had experience. She isn’t frozen in amber like me, stuck in some adolescent fantasy of what love means. No, Bella has grown up. 

And God help me, it makes her more dangerous than ever. 

I try not to picture her at the bar. I fail. She’d left wearing leather. Her skin had glowed where her shirt plunged, soft and supple. I can still smell her perfume. Bright and clean, the undercurrent of lavender. 

And I know what men will think when they see her. Even now, standing alone in the kitchen, I can hear phantom minds thinking lascivious thoughts. I imagine the bartender’s head turning. Imagine the hand that will graze her arm, the voice that will call her “gorgeous,” the breath that will linger too long on her neck. 

I can taste my own fury. 

I sit down on the couch, elbows on my knees, and let my head fall into my hands. This is the penance, I know. The price of coming back. 

I gave her up ten years ago. Left her. Told myself she’d be safer, better off. And now, here she is. Alive in spite of the odds. Vibrant and warm and slipping away from me with each passing moment. 

Because what do I have to offer her now? Her world could be wine and bars and trivia nights. Laughter. Touch. I’ve watched a century pass and have never ached as badly as I did when she poked at my chest and said “you want to know who. How many. What positions.” 

She never meant it to be mean. She had said it in jest, wanted me in on the joke. Still, the words flare in my memory like a match. And worse– I do want to know. Against my will, against my morals, against every noble instinct in me– I want to know. 

I stand abruptly and go to the window. The lights of Chicago glitter below. A city that has no patience for a ghost like me. Somewhere down there, Bella is laughing. Teasing. Tipsy, maybe. Or–

My phone buzzes. I snatch it off the counter, throat tight. 

Alice Cullen: You’re brooding. Go for a walk. 

I scowl. Then, after a beat, I decide Alice is probably right. I reach for my coat and make my way to the door. 

…

Bella’s POV 

Mike’s reserved high top near the dartboard. He waves me over like I’m a hundred feet away and his shoulder is dislocated. “Bella! Hey!”

He’s already half a beer in, and the moment I approach, his eyes drop low enough that I can feel it. 

“Leather pants?” He asks, voice tilting dangerously close to a groan. “Damn, Swan. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

I raise my brow and lift my hot toddy like a salute. “Ten years changes a girl.”

I’d had two glasses of wine while curling my hair– well, trying to curl it. The end result is more of a flaccid wave, my bangs are doing something vaguely rebellious. In spite of this, I still feel good. My top is too low, my boots too tall, and my heart is thudding with that warm, giddy confidence that only three drinks and a dim bar can offer. 

“Guess I should have asked you out after college,” Mike says, sliding me a laminated trivia sheet. “You’d have crushed me.”

I laugh and take a sip, the heat licking my throat. “Probably.”

We’re a few minutes into round one– American History, my bread and butter– when two men at the table next to ours lean in a little closer. 

“Excuse me,” says one, blond and clearly overcompensating with his liberal cologne usage, “are you an actress?”

I blink. “Sorry?”

“You look so familiar,” chimes in the other one. “Like someone from TV, or something.”

Mike squares his broad shoulders, not so subtly angling towards them. “She’s not. She’s with me.”

I shoot him a look. “You’re not my bodyguard, Mike.”

He flushes. “Just saying.”

I offer the strangers a polite smile and turn back to the table. “I’ll let you know when I make my Netflix debut.”

The banter rolls easily– too easily. Mike touches my arm a little too often, excitedly agreeing with everything I say. I don’t notice how much I’ve been drinking until my handwriting starts to slope sideways. The trivia questions come fast, the drinks faster.

…

The night’s turning syrupy and strange in the way that only alcohol can allow. Everything is softer around the edges, sound blooms louder, and I think my brain has started floating somewhere above my skull. 

Mike’s on his third beer and has officially abandoned trivia. The laminated sheet lays forgotten as he leans across the high top, elbows splayed, eyes glassy. 

“You know what I always thought?” He asks, voice thick. “You were kind of intimidating in high school. Like… hot in a way that made guys nervous.”

I snort and tip back the rest of my drink. “That’s a wild rewrite of history.”

“No, seriously,” Mike insists. “You were always so quiet. That weird hot girl who read books and barely talked to anyone. I thought, like, maybe you were into me, but also maybe you’d kill me.”

I burst out laughing. “At least one of those things were true.”

He laughs, too, a little too loudly. “God. I can’t believe you’re really here. In Chicago. Drinking a whiskey. With me.”

“It’s a hot toddy,” I correct. “It has lemon. And I’m here for trivia night, not for you.” But I smile as I say it, and Mike takes that as encouragement. 

He slides his hand on the table towards mine and touches my pinky. “You look amazing, Bella.”

I stare at it, letting the compliment linger for a beat too long before slithering my hand away. “I need the bathroom.”

The bar’s restroom is down a dark hallway that reeks of bleach and old beer. I shove the door open and stumble slightly on the way in. It’s quiet here. My ears ring from the laughter and music still thudding behind the wall. The light above flickers once. I steady myself on the sink.

Jesus. 

I look rougher than I had thought. Hair wild. Lipstick smudged. My mascara’s started to run in one corner, giving me a faintly haunted look. 

I lean closer, mouth slightly open, bringing my hands to my face in an attempt to fix the mess– when I pause. 

My fingers hover in the reflection. And then begin to fade. 

It isn't gradual, or cinematic. It’s instantaneous. The tips of my fingers are ghostly and semi transparent, like they’re wafting away into the ether. 

My breath leaves me in a single, cold gasp. Heart slamming in my chest, I look down at my real hands. 

Fine. Solid. Skin and bone and blood. 

Back to the mirror. 

Also fine. 

I shake out my hands, breathless. The booze churns in my gut like acid. 

“You’re drunk,” I whisper. “Drunk and tired and stressed.” But the pit in my stomach has opened wide. That gaping, familiar feeling I’d been shoving down for weeks– that I’m not supposed to be here. That the world has begun to peel me back like wallpaper, searching for my fate underneath. 

I splash cold water on my neck before stumbling back out to the bar. Mike’s still standing by the high top, two more drinks waiting. I sway slightly as I walk. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, unease pulses like a drum. It’s buried beneath the liquor, trying to break free from the warmth crawling up my neck. 

I’m unsure of what’s real. The flirting. The glances. The static edges of the room. What I do know, as the crowd shifts and someone brushes too close to my hip, is this: I miss Edward. Achingly. Stupidly. 

…

The next drink hits me harder. 

I don’t remember ordering it, but it’s in my hand. Spiced and sweet. Someone had thrown cinnamon on the whipped cream. I lick it off with the kind of laziness that only four drinks can justify. Or… had it been five?

Mike is still talking. Something about the “absolutely brutal” divorce proceedings with Jessica. I’m nodding sympathetically, even though I can’t quite keep the timeline straight in my head– when had they gotten married? When had they moved? Had he said something about a baby?

I laugh too loudly at something he says, then bump my shoulder against his. It isn’t flirting, exactly. It’s survival. It’s the only thing keeping me from slipping into the anxious spiral that had started with my fingers disappearing in the bathroom. 

Another shot glass in my hand. Something amber swirling in it. 

“To being hot at thirty!” Mike says while raising his own glass with a grin that’s too wide, too knowing. I blink at him, momentarily unsure if that was a toast or a proposition. I clink my glass to his anyway, and down it in one go, my throat burning like I’d swallowed a comet. 

“Shit,” I rasp. “What the hell was that?”

“Fireball,” Mike says smugly. “Tastes like Big Red and bad decisions.”

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. “How poetic.”

“So, okay,” Mike says, leaning closer, his breath slightly sour. “Don’t hate me, but— like— are you single?”

“What?”

“I mean, I haven’t seen a ring. And you said you live alone. So… are you?”

I tilt my head and give him a lopsided grin. “Mike Newton, are you trying to court me?”

“Court is a strong word,” he says, chuckling nervously. “More like… test the waters. I mean, if we’re both in Chicago…”

I let the moment stretch. The idea that Mike Newton might be my romantic fate is so far removed from my current reality that it strikes me as briefly, hysterically funny.

“You’re married,” I say flatly, remembering in a vague, drifting way that Jessica’s name had been mentioned about twenty minutes ago. 

“ Was married,” he corrects, giving an exaggerated shrug. “Divorced now. Emotionally available. Open to possibility.”

“Gross,” I mutter, laughing through my grimace. I turn away to flag the bartender for water, anything. But Mike’s still at my side like a barnacle. 

“I just think,” he says, trying for a smile that’s meant to be charming, but ends up landing between used car salesman and guy who definitely owns a katana, “you and me could like… help heal each other. Or at least have some fun, right?”

I turn slowly towards him. “Mike, you’re not wearing any socks with your loafers.”

He glances down, confused. “So?”

“So maybe dial it back.”

He laughs loud– too loud, too long– and tries to touch my arm again. I pull away, standing abruptly, the room tilting. 

I’m crunk now. Fully toasted. My skin buzzes with heat and alcohol, my head stuffed with cotton. Even my teeth feel slightly too big for my mouth. 

“I should…”I start, pulling away a little, “I should go.”

“Come on,” Mike says, tone too eager. “I’ll walk you.”

“That’s sweet,” I say, slurred, trying to get my coat over my shoulders, “but I want to walk alone.”

“Alone alone?” he asks, “or like… just not with me alone?”

I give a lazy smile. “That one.”

…

Edward’s POV

The night air is thick with the smell of whiskey, wet pavement, and sweat slicked anticipation. 

I lean in shadow against the brick wall across from the bar’s entrance, arms folded, still as a statue. I don’t look like much in the dark. Just another man in a coat, maybe waiting for someone. No one notices me, I make sure of that. 

But I notice everything. 

Her name has echoed in a hundred thoughts tonight. Bella. The girl standing at the bar in leather pants. The hot one with the dark and sultry eyes. The woman whose laugh made men want to risk embarrassment. 

‘God, look at her. Who knew Swan had that body under all those flannels?’

‘She’s gotta be like thirty. That makes her hotter somehow.’

‘If Newton doesn’t make a move, I will.’

The desire in their minds comes in waves. Drunk, hungry, unfiltered. I let it wash over me like punishment. 

I can hear the heartbeat of every man who’s looked at her. The chemical swirl of alcohol mixing with lust and fantasy. The sharp, thin thread of Mike Newton’s thoughts, and how far they’ve spiraled: ‘ What if I kissed her? What if she didn’t say no? She hasn’t moved away. That’s a sign, right?’

My hands clench in the pockets of my coat. 

I have no right to step in. No claim. I’m the one who left her. I’m the one who let her grow older, live a life, change into a version of herself that I hadn’t been around to shape or soften. 

The door swings open with a thud. Laughter spills out, along with cigarette smoke and a group of shouting men. 

Then, her.

Bella Swan, stumbling slightly, cheeks flushed. Hair wild from the heat of the bar. Her coat hanging from one arm. She looks wrecked. She looks gorgeous. 

She doesn’t even see me. Of course she doesn’t. She’s drunk past the point of good judgement. Her pupils wide, her gait disjointed. She pauses near the curb like she can’t remember where she’s meant to go. 

I’m at her side before she can tip forward. 

Her body presses lightly against my chest as I steady her with an arm around the shoulders. 

She looks up at me. “Oh,” she says, as if surprised to have found me materialized. “You’re here.”

“I am,” I say, voice quiet. Strained, but gentle. “You didn’t text.”

“I was busy,” she says, smiling in a dazed sort of way. “Mike’s gross.”

“I know.”

“Your face is so serious,” she says, lifting a hand and brushing at my chest. “Relax. It’s fine, I’m fine.”

She isn’t. Her heart is racing. Her balance is off. Her words are slurred. I can smell her skin beneath it all. Trace amounts of lavender, sweat, shampoo– and faintly, fear. 

“Let me take you home,” I say, almost pleading. “Please.”

“Okay,” she says, leaning into me like gravity’s made the decision on her behalf. “You smell nice.”

And then she laughs, pressing her cheek into my chest– and doesn’t move. 

I stand there for a long moment, holding her up in the middle of the sidewalk, my hand cupped around the back of her head, shielding her from the night. She didn’t ask why I was there. 

I don’t volunteer the truth: that I had heard every man’s fantasy about her tonight, and nearly lost my mind from it. 

…

The cab is too small for this. 

Too small for the smell of her perfume, now sweetened by sweat and liquor. Too small for the electric current pulsing between our bodies, her thigh brushing mine in the back seat. Too small for her breathy giggles and they way her head lolls back against the leather headrest, exposing the smooth column of her throat like an offering I’m trying very, very hard not to look at. 

I’m not breathing anyway. 

“God,” Bella groans. “Do you think he’s always been like that– Mike? So desperate?”

Her voice is thick, slurred around the edges. She rubs her temples, then turns to look at me with a sleepy conspiratorial smirk. 

“You should’ve seen his face when I said I wasn’t going home with him. He looked like a sad little… clam.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I can imagine.”

She snorts and leans in, her voice dropping lower, more intimate. “But he did bring me like. Four shots in there. Maybe he was trying to win me over with alcohol. Bold strategy.”

“Effective,” I murmur. “Too effective.”

Her eyes flutter close for half a second. “I was pretty wasted in there,” she admits dreamily. “Did you know that like… at one point, I looked in the mirror and it actually looked like my fingers were gone? Like I was vanishing. Wild.”

I study her for a moment. “What?”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Might’ve been the tequila. Or maybe the vodka. Or the gin,” she giggles.

I stare at her. I want to press for more, to shake her shoulders and ask her exactly what she saw in that mirror– but her mood is loose and floating, her joy dizzy and fragile, I won’t risk shattering it. Not tonight. 

Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, the low hum of tires on the road, the rhythm of her heartbeat. The occasional hiccuped breath. 

Then, out of nowhere, she says “hey, Edward.”

“Yes?”

Her head turns towards me again. Her lids are heavy, lips parted. She looks like sin and softness, all in one breath. 

“I used to have such a thing for you,” her tone is teasing, but something beneath it is naked. “Like, an obsession.”

I swallow hard. “I remember.”

“No, you don’t,” she whispers. “You thought I was a child. You thought I didn’t know what I wanted. But I did. I wanted you.”

I turn to face the window, jaw locked tight. 

She laughs. “You’re such a prude!”

“Bella–”

“No, but seriously,” she shifts closer, “You think I’m like… this innocent little high school girl, don’t you?”

“I know better.”

“Do you?” she asks, fingers trailing up my arm. “Because I’ve done things, Edward. I’ve lived. I’ve been with people. I’ve had sex– lots of sex. Different kinds of sex.”

The driver glances up at us in the rearview mirror. If I could blush, I would. 

“Bella–”

“I’m not saying it to shock you,” she says, softer now. “I’m saying it because I want you to stop looking at me like I’m something you can’t have.”

I don’t meet her eyes. My hands grip my knees, pale and stiff. 

She leans closer. “You ever think about it?” She murmurs. “What it would’ve been like if we’d actually–”

“Don’t.” My voice cracks. 

But then she’s right there. Lips near my ear, breath warm. “I still think about it.”

I nearly jump when the driver clears his throat and announces that we’ve arrived. 

Bella blinks and giggles, slumping back. “Oop. Home sweet home.”

I’m out of the car and around to her door in an instant, offering my hand. She takes it lazily, fingers warm in mine, leaning heavily against me as we make our way into the building. 

I don’t speak. I can’t. My brain is splintering under the weight of what she’d said, and what she hadn’t. What she wants. What I want. 

Inside the elevator, she slumps against the mirrored wall and sighs, her eyes slipping shut. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

“If you’ve ever thought about it.”

I can’t stop myself. “All the time.”

Her eyes snap open. She stares at me, then slowly smiles. Wicked. Curious. Hopeful. 

And then the elevator chimes. 

…

The door clicks shut with a finality that feels obscene. 

Bella presses her back to it, chest rising and falling, the glossy sheen of alcohol permeating through her skin and causing a subtle glow in the low light. A lock of hair clings to her cheek. Her pupils are wide, mouth parted slightly in the aftershock of too many shots and too much attention. 

She looks… undone.

And devastatingly beautiful. 

She giggles softly to herself, hand bracing the wall as she tugs off her boots. “I feel like a baby giraffe,” she says, swaying and pleased. “Wobbly legs. Huge eyes. So much potential.”

I don’t move. If I so much as breath, I may shatter the fragile control I’d been wielding like a weapon all night. 

Her outfit had been a threat to my equilibrium from the moment she stepped out of her bedroom: those black leather pants, painted on like sin itself, and that silk camisole, cut low and clinging to every soft dip and curve of her. 

I’d seen her through a dozen minds in the bar. Men. Women. Lust and fantasy. Want.

I’d memorized every thought that wasn’t my own. 

And still– the real thing– Bella, alive and soft and here, unmoors me more than any of them ever could. 

She pads closer, half daring, half dazed. 

“Edward,” she drawls, “you’re so far away.”

“I’m right here.”

“Mm-mm,” she says, pouting. “I mean you’re being far away. Again.”

I say nothing, because she isn’t wrong. 

She sways towards me, her finger trailing from my shoulder down my chest. A single line of warmth that burns like wildfire across my skin. 

“You’re always so good ,” she says, eyes glassy and dark. “But I’m not eighteen anymore, you know.”

“I’m aware.”

“Do you remember how obsessed I used to be with doing it?” she whispers, teasing, “you had me so twisted up, I used to google vampire sex after school.”

My mouth parts, breath stalling. “Bella…”

She leans closer, her lips near my ear again. “You were always too scared of breaking me. You don’t have to be so scared anymore.”

I freeze. She steps closer, nearly flush to me. Then, a whisper:

“I could show you things, you know.”

My spine stiffens. My hands curl at my sides. 

“I… I know.”

“Do you?” She murmurs. “You seemed kind of shocked when I mentioned my escapades earlier.”

My voice is weak. “Not shocked… just…”

Curious. Territorial. Ache wrapped in immortality. 

“You can ask,” she said. “I’ll tell you anything.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to–”

“Yes, you do.” She smiles, slow and wicked. I hate how she can read me this easily. 

“I know what I’m doing,” she whispers, “in fact, I’m perfectly comfortable leading the way.”

“Bella,” I warn. But my voice is hoarse. 

She laughs, tipsy and radiant. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I’m not fainting,” I mutter, “I’m praying for restraint.”

She tilts her head, curious and hungry. “Why? You want me, I can feel it. You’ve been vibrating like a tuning fork all night.”

I swallow hard. “You’re inebriated.”

“I know,” she sways closer, eyes locked on my lips, “but these feelings aren’t ‘inebriated.’ These feelings are very sober.”

Then, without warning, her hands slip under the hem of my shirt. 

My whole body reacts. 

She rests her palms on my bare hips, fingers curled just above the waistband of my jeans. Her thumb sweeps over the line of my abdomen.

It’s a small touch. 

It’s everything.

“I used to dream about you,” she says softly. “What it would be like to be with you. Touch you. You haunted me. Even when I hated you.”

My eyes are closed. A violent tremor sweeps through me. 

Her lips brush the hollow of my throat. 

Just there, soft and damp, pressing to the base of my neck with aching desire. 

I go stone still. 

I had faced war. Fire. Death. I had watched the sun rise a thousand times without flinching.

But Bella’s mouth– warm and reverent against my skin, nearly brings me to my knees. 

She lingers, like she’s memorizing how I feel. Like she means it. Not to tease, or to provoke. But as a declaration. 

Then, when she pulls back, she looks up at me with her lips slightly parted, like she hadn’t just set me alight. 

“I always wanted to do that,” she whispers.

My voice, when it finally comes, is like the scrape of gravel. 

“Bella.”

She tilts her head, “did you like it?”

I can barely see through my haze of want. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“Yes, I do,” she says, almost tender. “You just won’t admit it.”

Then, her lashes flutter low, her weight leaning against me, and I realize she’s blinking back exhaustion. The booze and adrenaline is hitting her in waves now. 

I reach out, steadying her with my hands. I hold her at the waist like she’s a fragile heatsource threatening to consume me. 

“I need to get you to bed,” I say, voice wrecked. 

She smirks, dazed. “Is that a promise?”

“God help me,” I murmur, “no.”

A/N: I like to imagine that Bella never let go of her insane teenaged lust towards Edward, her wild horniness an arrested development. 

I feel the same way about Adam Driver. 

Will she remember it in the morning? Or was each cringey declaration of advanced sexual prowess all for naught? Stay tuned. 

Chapter Text

Edward’s POV

Bella is asleep, curled sideways like a comma, one knee drawn up, her arm thrown inelegantly across the pillow. Her mascara is smudged beneath one eye. Her breathing is irregular, shallow, then deep. I listen to the distant rhythm of her heart. Slower now than it had been, but still working in double time, frantically processing the poison she’d poured into herself. Her liver pushes itself mercilessly. Her stomach gurgles like a machine on the brink of failure. 

I sit in the armchair across the room, still as death. I haven’t moved since I’d carried her to bed hours ago. I can’t. 

The memory of her lips at my throat play on repeat in my mind, like a reel of forbidden film. Her breath had been hot, sweet with gin and lime. Her kiss had been soft. Wet. So human. She didn’t know what she was asking me for. Not really. Not yet.

I should have left the room as soon as I was certain that she was safe, asleep. But I couldn’t make myself go. The night had changed something between us. She had let me see what she wanted– unfiltered, intoxicated, raw. And I had wanted so badly to give in. To give her everything. 

But instead, I sit here, listening to her suffer. Listening to her body plead for relief.

She will be miserable upon waking. And yet– she had smiled last night. Laughed. Regarded me as though I weren’t a ghost, some otherworldly creature. 

A deep, liquid sound tears from her abdomen, followed by a groan. I’m out of the chair in an instant. She stirs, tangled in the sheets, half sitting up with a moan. Her hand fumbles to her mouth, eyes still closed. 

Then, she bolts. I follow her soundlessly to the bathroom. She drops to her knees before the toilet, gripping the rim like a lifeline as her stomach heaves. 

“Bella,” I whisper, kneeling beside her. 

She doesn’t respond to my voice. She’s too far gone. Her back bows as her body tries to rid itself of everything. I gently gather her hair and pull it back from her face. She’s slick with sweat, her skin a pale green. 

A tremor ripples through her, and she slumps forward, gagging. I reach out, slipping my hand beneath the hem of her sleep shirt and resting a cool palm against the small of her back. She gasps at the contact, but doesn’t move away. Another shudder passes through her, and she lets out a whimper in between breaths. 

“Don’t… don’t stop,” she mumbles, her voice rough and raw. “Your hand… it’s cold. It feels good. Just… please, stay there.”

I do. I keep my hand steady on her spine, fingers splayed in an effort to imbue maximum relief. She leans into my touch, forehead resting against the toilet seat as the worst of it passes. I feel the frantic flutter of her pulse through my palm, like a bird trying to escape its cage.

Her fingers grip the edge of the porcelain, knuckles white. “I’m never drinking again,” she rasps.

I brush a damp strand of hair away from her temple. My hand lingers, the backs of my knuckles grazing against her hairline. She doesn’t flinch, if anything, she relaxes at the contact.

My throat burns. Not with thirst, but with something much harder to bear– tenderness. She’s pliant now, boneless with fatigue. I could scoop her up easily, cradle her like something precious. I don’t. I stay still, a cold anchor as she rides out the storm. 

“It’s okay,” I murmur, “I’m here.”

Her only response is another weak heave into the bowl. I want so badly to wrap my arms around her entire form, bring her the cool relief of my body all over. 

Instead, I sit on the tile floor of a Chicago apartment bathroom, hand on the back of the only woman I’ve ever truly loved, and wait for her to come to herself.

…

Bella’s POV  

The light hurts. 

It’s as though someone’s cracked my skull open, scooped out all the soft stuff, and refilled it with static. My mouth is a desert. My stomach roils like it hasn’t made up its mind about whether or not to stage another revolt. I turn over slowly, limbs aching and heavy with regret. 

Oh God. Last night. 

My cheeks flush before my eyes can even open. My mind only offers flickers of half formed memories: the thump of music, the tequila heat in my veins, Mike’s overbearing cologne, Edward’s shirt beneath my fingers. 

I groan, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. Did I really kiss his throat? The shame might kill me before the hangover does. 

The curtains have been drawn shut, mercifully. The room may be dark, but I can still sense movement; light footsteps, the faint rattle of a bottle cap, the quiet sound of water being poured into a glass. 

Edward. 

He makes his way into the room, peeking around the doorframe first to confirm that I’m really up. He holds in his hands an abundance of cures– ibuprofen, cold water, an electrolyte drink, a cool rag. He’s at the bedside a moment later, presenting me with two painkillers in his palm. I take them like an offering. I blink up at him, nearly wincing at his incredible beauty. He looks infuriatingly untouched by last night’s events. 

“Good morning,” he says, crouching beside the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Like someone’s run me over with a zamboni,” I croak, accepting the glass of water from his other hand. 

He huffs a soft laugh, then offers me the bottle of Pedialyte. 

“You look better than you should,” he says. Then adds “but not by much.”

“I’m sorry,” I add, my voice barely above a whisper. “About last night. About… everything.”

Edward shakes his head, his expression softening. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“There’s so much to apologize for,” I insist, covering my eyes with one arm. “I haven’t been that drunk since… God, Angela’s bachelorette party? And that was years ago. I don’t even want to know what I said to you. I think I tried to seduce you. Badly.”

“You were… expressive,” he says carefully. “But never cruel. And certainly never dull.”

I groan again, flopping back against the pillow. Edward reaches for the curtains, tugging them even tighter. “Try to rest,” he says. “Rehydrate and let your body catch up.” 

I nod, then pause. “Actually, I think I need some fresh air. Just a walk around the block.” 

His eyes narrow slightly, assessing. “Do you want me to come with you?”

I hesitate. “No, I think I just need a few minutes alone to… remember who I am.” 

He doesn’t argue. Just nods once, his eyes quietly following me as I heave myself out of the bed and miserably make my way to the chest of drawers on the other side of the room, pulling on a hoodie. 

The air outside slaps me awake, brisk and biting against my skin. I don’t wander far. I don’t really need to, seeing as my mission can be accomplished right here in this bodega a few doors down from the high rise. 

I stand under the fluorescent lights, staring at a display of flowers until my eyes fall on a modest bouquet of daisies wrapped in crinkled cellophane. They aren’t much. But they feel like something. 

I shuffle home slowly, the quiet lets me replay everything Edward had done for me last night. The way he held my hair, the way he rested his cool palm against my back. I had leaned into him for comfort, instinctively, unthinkingly. 

When I walk back into the apartment, Edward is in his familiar spot by the window, arms crossed, jaw set in a way that nearly makes me want to turn around and walk back out. But then he turns toward me– and whatever stern thing had been on his face melts. 

“You weren’t gone long,” he says curiously.

“I wasn’t far,” I hold out the flowers from behind my back, bowing my head and finding a sudden interest in the parquet flooring beneath my feet. “These are for you.”

He blinks. “Me?”

“A peace offering,” I say. “I know this is backwards, but… I was awful last night. You were a saint. You deserve flowers. Probably a medal.”

He stares at the flowers, then at me, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to take them. Eventually, he does. His fingers brush against mine as he accepts the bouquet, and it’s like standing in front of an open freezer– cool and thrilling and immediate. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says softly, “but I’m glad you did.”

We stand there for a moment too long, just breathing the same square of air. Then, Edward sets the flowers down on the table and steps forward, brushing a lock of hair away from my face. I don’t move. 

“You never need to apologize for being human,” he murmurs, his thumb barely grazing my cheekbone. 

I swallow. “You keep saying that, but I do.” 

“You were vulnerable with me,” he says, gazing down with those golden irises. “Do you know how rare that is? Do you know what it meant to feel… wanted?”

My eyes sting, I can’t help the words as they tumble from my mouth, “I don’t just want you when I’m drunk, Edward.”

He exhales sharply, like I’ve knocked the air out of him. I continue, it’s as though someone’s tied a ribbon around my thoughts and is fishing them out of me at a breakneck pace. “I want you when I’m sober– maybe more.”

He leans in, but stops before getting too close. Our faces are inches apart, his hands hover, not touching. “If I kiss you, Bella, I might not be able to stop,” he says, voice strained. 

I tilt my head up. “Well… maybe I wouldn’t want you to stop…” 

His jaw flexes. His eyes search mine. And then– he kisses my forehead. Just barely. A gentle graze of the lips. 

“Not like this,” he whispers, “not while you’re still fragile.” 

I could cry. He steps back. “For the record,” he continues, now with the hint of a smile, “don’t ever bring me flowers again. That’s my job.”

I blink. “What?”

“I’m the one who should be flowering you.”

My face burns. “That sounds a little obscene.”

“Good,” he says, eyes gleaming. “It’s meant to.”

…

Edward’s POV

Her phone buzzes with the saccharine ping of an incoming text message. She groans before even looking. 

“Mike,” she says, glancing at the phone with one bleary eye. Of course. My eyes dance over the screen upturned on the kitchen counter. 

Mike Newton: Found your ID in my jacket pocket. Must’ve fallen in when we were dancing haha. Want me to swing by and drop it off?

I stifle a growl. They hadn’t danced. I’d watched it all through the window. He’d twirled her once, too forcefully, and she had tried hard not to trip over her heels. Then he spent the rest of the night imagining peeling her leather pants off with his teeth.

Bella thumbs out a curt reply: Just leave it on top of the mailbox in the lobby, I’ll grab it later. Thank you.

Three dots. He’s typing. 

Mike Newton: No way! That’s so impersonal! I’ll come up and drop it off myself. Got some greasy breakfast with your name on it. 

She stares at it for a long moment, then sets the phone face down on the couch cushion. 

“Persistent,” I comment. 

“Insufferable, actually,” she corrects. Her hangover may have dulled her senses, but I can still see the prickle that develops across her arms at the thought of entertaining Mike Newton on her doorstep. 

She looks at me, squinting like she’s unsure if she should be apologizing for the company she’s about to keep. “Do you… Would you be more comfortable being somewhere else when he arrives?”

I tilt my head. “Not especially.”

“You’re okay with staying?” she asks. “It might be weird. Mike seems to get strangely competitive with most other men.”

A cold smile curves my lips. “I’m not most men.”

“You’re not even a man,” she says wryly, “you’re an antique.”

“That’s true. And still, between him and I– I’m the only one who didn’t mistake your nausea for foreplay.”

This gets a laugh out of her. 

Some minutes later, the knock comes, sharp and eager. Three solid, confident raps, like someone trying to establish dominance through a door. 

Bella groans out loud. “Oh my God. He actually came.”

“You said he might,” I remind her. 

“I also say I might go to the gym sometimes. It’s implied I won’t.” She drags herself up, not bothering to fix her wild hair, and opens the door halfway. 

Mike Newton stands there, his face splitting into a too wide grin. He holds a brown paper bag with grease stains on the bottom aloft in one hand, Bella’s license in the other. 

“Good morning, bella Bella,” he says, drawing out her name like it’s part of a bad love song. “I brought hangover food. Breakfast sandwiches. Greasy, greasy stuff. Extra bacon, extra cheese– because I care.”

Then he sees me, standing just inside. His grin falters. His eyes flick to me, narrowed, then dart back to Bella. “Oh,” he says, “you’ve still got company.”

‘Still.’ As if I should have evaporated with the sunrise. 

“Good to see you, Newton,” I say evenly. 

Mike’s thoughts bristle instantly. ‘What the hell is this guy still doing here? Who just... sticks around after the hookup? He looks like he hasn’t even blinked. Is he wearing the same clothes as last time? What is this, a sleepover?’

He shoves the bag towards Bella. “Figured you could use something to soak up last night,” he says pointedly. “Though I didn’t realize you’d have… someone still here.”

Bella takes the bag, barely suppressing a sigh. “Thanks.”

Mike crosses the threshold without being invited in, puffing himself up like a small animal trying to bluff a predator. His gaze roams the apartment with a transparent judgement. 

“Didn’t peg you as the breakfast type,” he says to me. 

“I eat when I’m hungry.”

“Sure,” he says, though his brain mutters ‘this guy looks like he eats air. Or sadness. So goddamn pale.” 

He catches his reflection in the microwave and subtly adjusts his posture. ‘Maybe I should’ve worn that sleeveless hoodie. Or no shirt. I could’ve pulled off a no shirt drop in. Alpha energy, Show her who’s really been hitting the gym. Boom.’

Then he glances at my arms. I’d be remiss if I didn’t flex a little. 

‘Okay… Maybe not today. But I still have more bulking potential.’ 

He plops down, uninvited, onto the edge of the couch. Bella stays standing, arms still crossed. 

“So,” Mike says casually, “you two… close now?”

I don’t answer, just tilt my head slightly. Mike takes this as weakness. ‘Oh, so he’s mute now. Or socially awkward. I bet he writes poetry about tree bark. So lame.’

He turns to Bella. “Crazy night, huh? Never seen you like that before. Thought I’d have to carry you home myself. You know, if someone hadn’t swooped in.”

His mental image: me, tripping over my own feet, while he gallantly lifts Bella bridal style. He flexes his biceps as she looks up at him adoringly. She’s in a cocktail dress, and he, for some reason, has a medal on. Then, the image flips– Mike, freshly showered, with a towel slung low around his hips. He’s handing Bella a coffee in bed, asking if she wants to “talk about last night.” He imagines her blushing, stumbling over her words, saying something about how she realizes that he is what she wanted all along. 

It would be insulting if it weren’t so pitiful. 

I step forward, calm. “Mike, I think your shoe’s untied,” I say, while pointing to his sneakers. 

He looks down instinctively. 

Flick. 

My fingers connect with the side of his neck in a perfectly precise jab, just below the hairline. I pull my hand back with unnatural speed and shove my hand in my pocket, casually. 

He yelps, jerking upright. “Ouch! What the–?” He slaps the back of his neck like he’s been stung by some tactical wasp. He turns red. “You guys got bugs in here, or something?”

Bella stifles a laugh behind her hand. 

“Must be your cologne,” I say, “they can be territorial.”

He glares at me, then blinks like he’s just had a realization. ‘Wait… this guy’s not dangerous, right? No way. He’s just weird and intense. Probably listens to Icelandic jazz and overthinks handshakes. I can pin him, easy.’

Then: ‘I should challenge him to an arm wrestle. No– something manlier. Knife throwing. Shit, did I even bring my knife?’

He fumbles his footing, then finally bends down to fix his shoelace. “Didn’t realize you were… staying over, Cullen,” he says. 

“Didn’t realize you were trying so hard,” I reply, smiling pleasantly. Bella looks like she may nearly choke. 

Mike straightens slowly, the tops of his ears a bright red. ‘I can take him outside. One clean punch. Nothing lethal. Just a statement.’

“Anyway,” he says, voice tight, “I’ll let you two get back to… brooding, or whatever.” He turns to Bella. “Text me later, alright? You know, if you want to hang with someone who doesn’t look like a walking funeral.” 

He gives her an awkward two finger salute, and leaves, thinking deftly about how he’d organize his redemption arc. “Drive safe,” I call after him. He flinches, then brings his hand back to his neck, rubbing at the pink spot I’d left behind. 

Bella closes the door with a long sigh, then turns to look at me. “Did you flick him?”

“He imagined himself in a towel.”

She groans into her hands. “He’s so weird with other guys. I think it’s a nervous thing.”

“The flick was light, anyways.”

“He thought it was a bug,” she laughs.

“Then my technique was perfect.” I go to sit on the couch, patting the empty space beside me. “Come sit,” I say, “you don’t have to be awake, yet.”

She hesitates for only a second before nodding. She lets me pull the throw around her shoulders, and her head finds my chest. 

…

Just a few minutes later, our brief, warm silence is disturbed. 

Three knocks at the door. They startle me– a rare feat. I hadn’t heard anyone coming. They aren’t like Mike’s from earlier. These are soft– too soft. But not hesitant. Rhythmic. Like someone trying to imitate what a knock should sound like. Like a child mimicking an adult. 

Knock… Knock… Knock…

Bella sits up. I’m already turning towards the door, listening. 

No heartbeat from the other side. 

Nothing. Not a whisper of thought. Not even ambient human presence beyond the wall.

Bella frowns. “Is that him again? Did he forget his keys or something?”

Another knock, exactly the same. 

Knock… Knock… Knock…

This time, from the wrong height. Too low on the door. I inhale deeply. 

Still nothing. 

“Don’t open that,” I say. 

Bella blinks at me. “Why not?”

“Because there’s no one there.”

…

Bella’s POV 

Edward stares towards the door, nostrils flaring. We sit there for a moment in silence. 

I ascend from the couch slowly, moving with a wary ease. I creep towards the door, making sure my footsteps are light, like I don’t want to scare off whoever's on the other side. I crane my neck up to the peephole. Edward doesn’t stop me, instead he moves right behind, close enough so that I can feel his hands hover around my waist, itching to pull me away from danger. 

I press my eye to the tiny lens. 

And there he is. A man. Too close. 

His face fills the peephole, grotesquely distorted by the fisheye curve of the glass, but it doesn’t matter. I know immediately: something about him is not built correctly.

His skin is the colour of wax paper. Thin, stretched, almost translucent– like he’d tear if touched too hard. The suit he wears is black, but faded in odd places, like a photograph left too long in the sun. His mouth is small, lips tight and sealed as if with glue. 

But it’s his head– it sits slightly askew on top of his neck, as if someone had removed it and screwed it back on, but got the threading wrong. One ear is higher than the other. His hair is perfectly parted and greased, but unmoving, like a plastic mould. His jaw ticks unnaturally to the side, then back. Like a broken marionette. 

And his eyes. 

Clocks. Two round, old fashioned clock faces with glass domes ticking inside of his sockets. The minute hands spin in opposite directions– too fast. Then backward. Then stop, before jerking back to life again. 

I can’t stop looking. Can’t bring myself to blink. My stomach hollows out. 

He raises a hand. Slow, mechanical. The movement is jilted at the elbow, like a corrupt frame in a video. He doesn’t wave, doesn’t gesture. 

He knocks. Three times. 

The sound doesn’t match the motion. I see his knuckles rise and fall at the door– but the knock comes from lower, much lower. Like something’s hit the bottom of the frame. Or crawled up from under it. 

I flinch backwards. “He’s right there,” I say, voice shaking, “there’s a man at the door.”

Edward steps forward instantly and looks through the peephole. His posture changes, tightens, and I see it. That moment of instinctual frustration. 

“I can’t see anyone there,” he says, his voice cold with a very distinct, almost desperate edge. 

“No,” I whisper, “he’s there. He knows we’re in here.”

Edward presses closer, neck craning to look through the peephole again. He blocks the door like a shield. His fingers curl around the deadbolt. 

“Edward–” I choke out, “he’s not human.”

“I know,” he says, “I can hear the knocking, but I can’t see him.”

This unsettles me more. He undoes the lock, slow and quiet, like he’s entering a war zone. His hand stays braced against the frame, ready to shut it again in an instant. And then he opens the door. 

Nothing. 

Just the hallway. Dimly lit, empty. No man, no footsteps, not even a retreating shadow down the corridor. My heart is slamming against my ribs. 

Edward steps just barely outside and looks in both directions, then upward. He stands stone still for several seconds, just listening, assessing. His face darkens. 

“I smell... nothing. Not even a trace of someone having been here,” he says. “But I heard it. The knocks were real.”

A gust of hallway air blows past him into the apartment. It’s stale. Old. Like library books and rotted paper. He looks back at me, his expression tight with concern, then slowly crouches, examining the floor at the threshold. I watch the tension climb up his spine. There are marks. Faint, but there. Smudged streaks just below the knob, like something had scraped upward from the bottom of the door.

Edward reaches out and touches the floor just beyond the frame. He recoils, fast.

I gasp. “What? What is it?”

“It’s… ice cold. Not like snow, or a draft,” he says, shaking his head with narrowed eyes. “It feels wrong, like touching metal that’s been left in the dark too long.”

He stands and shuts the door, this time bolting it and sliding the chain into place. He presses his palm against the wood as though sheer strength could keep the thing out. 

“Bella,” he says slowly, “this wasn’t human. And it wasn’t in your head. But it didn’t leave any scent.” 

I know this is nearly impossible. Everything leaves a scent to Edward. 

I pace in a slow circle, rubbing my arms like I could shake off the frost still clinging to my skin. 

This thing– whatever it is– doesn’t seem like it’s going to stop. It isn’t content just haunting the edges of my life. It’s coming closer. 

No more passivity. No more pretending I’m fine. 

I turn to Edward. He’s still at the door, body angled protectively towards me, like a bear at the mouth of a cave. 

“Whatever’s going on,” I say, “whatever this is– it’s not going to stop until it wins. Until I vanish for real, or lose my mind. I don’t know, I can’t tell.” 

His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t interrupt. I continue, “I’m done just surviving this. I need to figure this out. I need to fight back.” 

He crosses to me in one soundless step. “ We’ll fight back,” he says, voice low. “You’re not alone in this.”

“I know,” I say, “and I need you. I need you to help me understand.”

His hand finds mine, cool fingers curling around my wrist. “Then we start now. We trace every thread. Every wrong thing.”

I nod. “We pull it apart until it has nowhere left to hide.”

Outside, the wind picks up against the windows. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t be afraid of the knocking any longer.

I have to answer it. 

Chapter Text

Bella’s POV 

A day later, in the early morning, I sit at the kitchen table, on my second bowl of cereal (Lucky Charms, Edward shoots the bowl a horrified look), and idly scroll through the open laptop before me. 

“Okay, hear me out,” I say. “What if I’ve been cursed?”

Edward sits primly across from me at the table with his hands folded neatly and arches one perfect brow. 

“Cursed?” He doesn’t quite say it like a question. More like a challenge. I shove a marshmallow in my mouth and chew thoughtfully. 

“You know. Like, I crossed some ancient Romanian grandmother, and now she’s got a doll of me with pins in it or something. That would explain the ‘glitches’. The whole ‘image in the mirror is spookier than it appears’ thing. Classic curse vibes.”

“I think the textbook definition of curses doesn’t include surveillance footage failing to pick you up correctly,” he counters. 

“Maybe I’m just ahead of the times,” I say, gesturing with my spoon. “Old world vengeance meets modern analog horror.”

Edward doesn’t smile, but I spy a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A reluctant near smirk. His eyes, however, don’t match. There’s something tense beyond them. Something tight and unhappy. 

“You don’t like my theory,” I say. 

He shakes his head slowly. “I think we should pursue theories with empirical grounding.”

“Boring,” I mutter, bringing the bowl to my lips and slurping the milk. 

We’d dragged the coffee table close to the couch last night and stacked it with books, printed articles, scrap paper with scribbles and Edward’s leather bound pocket journal, full of scrawls and diagrams that would make a conspiracy theorist weep with joy. 

I nudge one of the books towards him with my foot. “Okay, Mr. Empirical, what do you think is happening?”

“I think,” he says carefully, “that you’re experiencing… instability.” 

“Thank you, Doctor. But that’s just a considerate way of saying that I’m either glitching out of this reality, or I’m the pin at the centre of some sort of mass hysteria– both of which I am already equally drawn to.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s studying me. I can feel his gaze moving over me like a scan. Like he’s memorizing the way my hair falls around my shoulders. The shape of my hands. The fact that I’m still here, alive. 

I take a sip of my coffee and lean back. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“What you’re thinking. Don’t do that thing where you spiral in silence for several minutes and I have to guess what’s going on. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

He blinks. “Is that how you see me?”

“You’re not exactly forthcoming, Cullen.”

Edward lets out a breath that isn’t quite a sigh. “I don’t want to influence your conclusions. This is your experience.”

I smile and set my bowl aside. “Just admit it. You’re freaked out.”

“I’m– concerned.”

“You’re freaked out.”

He doesn’t argue. That, more than anything, sends a chill down my spine. 

I stand and begin to pace. “Okay, let’s take stock– we’ve got the weird surveillance footage of me, and oh, that man on the platform, right? My bizarre reflection, which, by the way, happened multiple times. The obituary thing. The strange woman in the coffee shop. The funeral photos. God, what else? Yesterday’s whole thing with the door and Freaky Clock Eyes. He stared at me like I was a bug in the wrong jar.”

I glance at Edward. He’s very still, statuesque. Terrified? Or pondering?

“And all the while,” I continue, hugging my shoulders, “you’re always there. Steady, cold, real.”

He looks away. “That’s not any sort of concrete evidence.”

“Feels like it.” I stop in front of him and place my hands on my hips. “Edward, be honest. Do you think I’m slipping?”

His eyes meet mine. “Yes.”

The words hit me like a punch, but I nod. I appreciate the honesty more than any comfort he could give me in this moment. 

“Okay,” I say. “So what now? How do we un-slip me?”

He looks like he wants to say something. Badly. But he doesn’t. I crouch in front of him and tilt my head up to match his gaze. “You’re hiding something.”

“I always am,” he murmurs. 

“Tell me.”

His hands twitch where they rest on his knees, then he slowly reaches for his journal and turns it towards me. The page he opens it to is a diagram. Not really a drawing, or a symbol. Just… threads. Dozens of threads, all anchored to one bright point in the centre. 

“You are here,” he says, touching the centre. 

“And the threads?” I ask. 

“Everything else. Memories. Histories. Objects. Time itself.”

I frown. “I don’t think I really get it.”

“You’re like the anchor point,” he says softly. “But the threads are fraying.”

He doesn’t say it outright, but I can see it in his eyes: he thinks I’m losing connection to this world. That the universe is unraveling me, thread by thread. I swallow and look back down at the diagram. “What’s holding me together, then?”

He looks back at me a little sheepishly, like maybe he shouldn’t answer. Then says “perhaps… me?”

I blink. “You?”

His eyes sweep over the diagram again. “I think, um, when you–” he pauses, thinks about his words, “I think when you– or when I left you in the forest that day, something… fundamentally changed. And when I found you here again in Chicago, it was like pulling on a thread that isn’t from this world. I know it doesn’t… make a lot of sense.”

I scratch my head, trying to decode the meaning behind what he’s just said. “I think you’re losing me again, Edward. What do you mean, something ‘fundamentally changed’ that day in the forest? Of course something changed. My life changed that day. I think our break up in the forest ‘fundamentally changed’ the trajectory of my life .”

He sits back, wringing his hands once as though he’s trying to figure out how to very carefully splice his words together. “Yes,” he says, “I agree. Your life certainly did change on that day. I’m just thinking… maybe my presence is the thing that grounds you.”

“That’s wild,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not how science works.”

“No,” he concurs, “but it’s how love works.”

The room is suddenly too quiet. Too heavy. I drop onto the couch and stare at the wall beyond his silhouette.

“So what, you’re saying that if you leave, I poof?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not willing to take the risk.”

I turn to him. “Edward, that’s a kooky theory. But if you’re somehow right, if I’m only here by virtue of you–”

“No, you’re here by virtue of yourself.”

“You don’t know that.” 

He reaches out, tentative, and takes my hand. It’s cool, firm. I clutch it like a lifeline. 

“You’re here,” he says again, quietly, “and that’s enough.”

We sit like this for a long while. Breathing. Thinking. We’d probably syncopate heartbeats if his moved at all. Eventually, I pull away and reach for my laptop again. “Well,” I say, “if I’m going to fall through the cracks of existence, I should probably do it with a game plan. Let’s look into shared delusions. Interdimensional travel. The Mandela Effect. Glitch in the Matrix testimonies. Mythology. I want everything.”

Edward looks at me. “Now?”

“Yes, now. We’re solving this.”

“You haven’t even finished your coffee.”

I shoot him a look. “You want me grounded? Pour my coffee in a to go cup and indulge my research spiral.”

He gives a low chuckle, and leans back on the couch beside me, watching as I open twenty tabs. 

…

The sunlight is soft by the time I rinse my coffee mug and set it on the drying rack. I wipe my hands on a tea towel and glance towards Edward, who still sits on the edge of the couch, his chin resting in his hand, eyes watching me like I might disappear. 

I clear my throat. “Okay, so I might have an idea.”

Edward raises a brow, encouraging me to continue. 

“When I was still interning at The Sentinel, there was this professor who’d come in every few weeks to do op-eds. Fringe stuff– quantum consciousness, multiversal overlap, simulation theory. Honestly, most of the newsroom called him The Wizard, but, he had this way of usually being right… to some degree.”

“You want to talk to him?”

“I mean, who else can you go to when the fabric of reality is unravelling? A therapist? I’d end up in the loony bin.”

Edward’s expression tightens. “I’m not sure he’ll have the answers you’re looking for.”

“Maybe not exactly. But he might have language for what’s happening. And that could be something.”

He hesitates, then gives a slow nod. “What’s his name?”

“Dr. Felix Simeon. He teaches metaphysics at Loyola.”

Edward blinks. “You know a metaphysicist?” 

“I know a guy with a ratty corduroy blazer and a lot of opinions. Close enough.”

I grab my phone from the coffee table and scroll through my contacts. “If he hasn’t changed his number…”

After a few rings, a gravelly voice picks up.

“Simeon here. If you’re a dean, I didn’t approve that syllabus. If you’re a student, I’m not answering emails. If you’re my ex-wife—”

“Hi, it’s Bella Swan. We met a few years ago at The Sentinel? You may not remember me, I was an intern…”

A beat. Then, “Ah, the intern who corrected my Schrödinger metaphor in print. I respected that. What can I do for you?”

“I… I have some questions. Weird ones. Would you have time for a chat today?”

A long, theatrical sigh. “Are you bringing coffee?”

“Yes?”

“Then come. My office has a door but no boundaries.”

…

The humanities building is surrounded by the cotton thick quiet of its post lecture lull. I lead the way, my boots echoing on the checkerboard tile. I still remember the distinct smell of this corridor, all floor wax and dry radiator heat, and it fills me with a certain nostalgic clarity. The last time I was here, I’d been bright eyed, and certain that the world made absolute sense. Now I’m not sure if I exist in it at all. 

Edward walks beside me silently, hands in his coat pockets. His eyes flicker to each door as we pass, no doubt memorizing each detail with photographic perfection. His quiet vigilance comforts me more than I let on. 

We stop outside room 212. The placard on the frosted glass reads Dr. F. Simeon - Theoretical Philosophy. Below it, a peeling sticker of Schrodinger’s cat. 

I hesitate. “He used to leave his door open all the time,” I say. “Even when he was out lecturing. He has a thing about erasing boundaries.” 

I knock twice. A muffled crash comes from inside, followed by a hoarse “One moment!”

Edward looks at me skeptically. I give him a quick grin. “You’ll see.”

The door opens with a squeak, revealing Dr. Simeon in a threadbare corduroy blazer over a Johnny Cash t-shirt. His greying curls stick up wildly, and he wears two pairs of glasses. One low on his nose, and the other perched high on his head like a crown. 

“Is it Thursday?” he asks, blinking. “Oh, no, you’re not from the funding committee.” His eyes land on me. They squint. Then widen. “Swan?”

“Hi, Doc.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. You’ve survived journalism!” He steps aside, then casts his gaze on Edward. “And you’ve brought a statue to life. Good for you.”

Edward gives a polite nod as he follows me into the chaos. The office is even more of a mess than I had remembered. Stacks of coffee stained books, dusty print outs, a suspended mobile of planets turning slowly in the ceiling’s draft. 

Simeon flops into a weathered leather chair with the erratic nature of a man who hasn’ slept. “So, what’s the scoop? Come to expose more lunatic theories at The Sentinel?”

I perch on the edge of a stool, hands clasped in my lap. “Well,” I start, “not exactly. I’ve come to ask you about something strange.”

Simeon cocks his head, interested. 

I continue, “Weird question, first. Do you remember that woman you used to talk about? I think you brought it up in an op-ed. Some woman who thought she was living the wrong life?”

His eyes sharpen. “Martina Vargo. 2007. She came to me with a police report that listed her own death. Could quote her own eulogy.”

I exhale. “Okay, so maybe this won’t sound as crazy as I thought.”

Edward sits silently beside me, watching.

Simeon leans forward, elbows on the tabletop. “Tell me everything, Ms. Swan. You’d be amazed at what I’ve already heard.”

I take a breath, “I think something’s… wrong with me.”

He gives an amused snort. “You, and the rest of the human race.”

“I’m serious,” I say, “I’ve been seeing things– glitches? That’s what I’ve been calling them? People who shouldn’t exist. Versions of myself that are distorted and fractured. Sometimes the girl in the mirror looks just like me… but she doesn’t move right. And… I saw my own obituary.”

This quiets him. He leans back slowly, his eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Go on.”

I glance to Edward, who gives me the tiniest nod. 

“There hae been several… anomalies. Mirrors acting strangely, photos coming out wrong. People don’t remember that they’ve just spoken to me. And then sometimes, it feels like I’m slipping. Like the air around me forgets I’m in it.”

Simeon is quiet for a long moment, then he stands, moving to a cluttered whiteboard at the back of the room. He picks up a marker and begins to scrawl. 

“Tell me,” he says without turning, “when did this start?”

I think for a moment. “I’m not sure. It was subtle at first. I had this sense of deja vu for a long time. I chalked it up to burnout, stress. But then, things got louder…”

“Louder…” Simeon echoes. 

Edward finally speaks, his voice smooth and low. “The world is misremembering her.”

Simeon pauses mid scribble. “You’re not just here for moral support, then.”

“I’m here,” Edward says carefully, “to keep her grounded.”

Simeon turns, his expression more serious now. “Interesting. Fascinating. Terrifying.”

He moves toward a pile of books on a sagging shelf and shuffles through them with maddening disorganization. “This reminds me of the phantom tether theory.”

I tilt my head. “What’s that?”

“It’s an idea some of us fringe folk have floated,” Simeon says, holding up a paperback with a cracked spine. “That sometimes, through grief or obsession, a person can anchor a consciousness that doesn’t belong in this timeline. Like accidentally dragging a version of someone back from an alternate branch of reality through sheer emotional force.”

“That sounds like sci-fi,” I say, frowning. 

Dr. Simeon looks at me and grins. “Of course it does! Doesn’t mean it can’t be true.”

Edward’s posture stiffens significantly. He looks down at his shoes like he’s been caught. I make a mental note to ask him about it later. 

Simeon flips open the book to a two page spread with hand drawings. From what I can assess, it looks like an illustration depicting many separate timelines all bleeding into one another. “And when someone is dragged through to a reality that is not their own,  incidents can present like psychic hauntings,” he continues, “strange anomalies contradicting memories. The universe, you see, tries to erase the outlier. Patch the breach.”

“So what then,” I ask, “am I the outlier?”

“Maybe,” Simeon says, a little gentler now. “The theory is only a theory. Perhaps something or someone is keeping you here. Perhaps the universe knows it.”

My laugh is hollow. “The universe thinks I’m a glitch?”

Simeon smiles again. “It’s only a theory, Ms. Swan. There are an infinite number of them we can explore. This one, however, just seems most fitting for your situation. Perhaps, you are an exception!”

I swallow. “That’s not really any better, Doc.”

Edward stands, the legs of his chair scraping softly against the tile. “If what you’re saying is true,” he says to Simeon, “what happens if the tether beaks?”

I can see the cogs working in Simeon’s head, he’s already had the answer before Edward’s even finished asking the question. “She disappears entirely. It would be as though she never lived this life to begin with. Or, that’s what’s theorized, rather. Until then, the universe becomes more aggressive in its attempts to eradicate the alien.”

I rub my arms, chilled. “There was a man at my door yesterday with clocks for eyes.”

Simeon looks almost delighted. “Exactly!”

Edward, less so. Dr. Simeon pushes his chair back and begins rummaging through a teetering pile of file folders on a side table that looks like it may have survived a minor earthquake. “There was something…” he says, “ah, yes. This one. This one gave me goosebumps.”

He opens a manila folder labeled in sharpie VICTORVILLE CASE - WANDERING PHANTOMS. 

“Victorville?” I ask, leaning over. 

"California. Woman went missing for four days. When she returned, she claimed she’d been stuck in a loop. Kept waking up in the same hour. Doors led to nowhere. Her own reflection blinked at the wrong time. Police thought it was a psychotic break, but she described anomalies down to the timestamp."

I thumb through the documents. Crumpled notebook pages covered in shaky handwriting. A polaroid of a woman in perhaps her early forties, hollow eyed. A copy of her hospital intake form. On it, written: Patient claims to have witnessed her own funeral. Unclear etiology. PTSD suspected. 

“Did she have a history of mental illness?” Edward asks. 

Dr. Simeon shakes his head. “Nada. Clean. Former NASA technician, too. Math brain. Sharp. She wasn’t the kind to make things up. She told me the scariest part was that nobody else seemed to notice when she vanished. Not even her husband.”

“God, I feel like that’s happening to me,” I murmur. 

Simeon steeples his fingers. “I believe what you’re experiencing could be equated to a tear. Like a snag in the fabric of your continuity. And these tears… may grow if left untreated.”

Edward shifts. “And how do you treat something like this?”

Simeon swaps his nose glasses for his head glasses and leans back. “Well, the going theory is that you don’t treat it, per se. You either align reality with what the universe wants, or you succumb to the anomalies.” 

I look to Edward again, my heart thudding. I suddenly remember that night in the alley, the strange certainty I’d felt before I turned to find him. The warmth in my body when we touched, and how the world seemed to still around us. Anything to remove myself from where I really am right now, hearing the words I’m hearing. 

Simeon rifles through another folder, and produces a blurry photocopy of what looks like an old oil painting. It shows a woman in sepia tones, her face turned away from the viewer. Her outline seems to shimmer, like she’s not quite a part of the world around her. 

"Fifteenth century. Artist anonymous. But legend says the subject was someone who had died and been brought back. It was said the world never fully accepted her again."

I stare at it, stomach uneasy. 

"These things don’t happen often," Simeon continues. "But when they do, the world reacts. Like antibodies. It tries to heal itself by evacuating what doesn’t belong."

“I just… I need a solution,” I whisper. “I’m supposed to just accept being deleted?” 

“Ms. Swan,” Dr Simeon begins, quietly now. “I don’t believe I have all the answers you’re looking for. Without directly observing your lived experience, some of this, I am afraid to say, may be beyond my depth.” He turns back to the pile of folders and picks a few out, “but take these,” he continues, “and perform your own research. I know you are quite capable. And please, do let me know if and when I can be of further assistance.” 

I take the files and put them in my bag, giving Dr. Simeon a nod. “Thank you, Doc. This was really enlightening. I’ll be in touch.”

“Godspeed, Ms. Swan.”

…

Before leaving campus, I tell Edward that I’d like to bring him somewhere special. 

“Oh?” he asks, tilting his head. 

“There’s a garden on the rooftop of the sciences building,” I say. 

When we step up into the greenhouse, the shift in atmosphere is immediate. Warm, moist air clings to my skin, heavy with the scent of soil and chlorophyll. The city sounds dull below us. Up here, time seems to move a little slower. 

Edward, for the first time in a long time, seems to be smiling to himself. 

“Deja vu?” I ask while passing through the arch of climbing jasmine, “or just another glitch?”

He gives a soft laugh. “I was just thinking about that field trip sophomore year to the greenhouse. You nearly passed out from the humidity.”

“I did not pass out. I merely… swooned.” I step aside to let him pass, brushing a vine out of his path. “Big difference.”

“You swooned when they explained photosynthesis?”

“I swooned because you were looking at me like you wanted to bethrothe me.” I slow, my fingers skimming the edge of a wooden planter box overflowing with thyme. “Was that your version of flirting?”

“I’ve improved,” Edward says, “marginally.”

We wander deeper into the greenhouse, winding past infant banana trees, tomato vines, orchids in mesh baskets. A bee hovers near my arm. Edward steps closer, not swatting. Just shielding. 

“I used to come here when I needed to clear my head during my internship,” I say. “It helped me feel… more connected to reality. I guess now I’m trying to figure out if that’s even possible.”

He watches me sit on a stone bench nestled in between the ferns. My eyes lift to the canopy above us, the sky barely visible through the lush green foliage. 

“It’s strange,” I say. “Talking to Dr. Simeon, hearing someone say things I’ve only felt. I don’t think he’s entirely wrong. But I also don’t think I’m dead. Or from a different timeline.”

He says nothing. The sunlight halos around us in streaks, painting Edward’s face gold. It’s not enough to cause him to glisten, but just enough to make him appear angelic, unearthly. “Do you think I’m crazy?” I ask.

“I think,” he says, taking a seat beside me, “that the world doesn’t know what to do with someone like you.”

I blush. “That’s either really poetic or deeply insulting.”

“Maybe both.”

We sit in the warmth of the greenhouse, the tension between us like the charged air before a summer storm. I turn to him suddenly. “Thank you. For staying. For helping.”

Edward’s answer is barely a whisper: “Always.”

The stone bench radiates the day’s warmth, and the air around has now divulged into notes of citrus and tomato leaves. I can hear the song of the insects above and the occasional soft creak of the greenhouse’s frame adjusting to the heat. 

I angle my knees toward him slightly, our thighs bruising. Not enough to make full contact, just enough to make my breath catch. 

“You’re quiet,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the hand Edward has resting on his knee. Pale, still, sculpted. 

“So are you,” he replies, voice almost reluctant, like it costs him something to speak. The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s like a pull, a draw. A slow tide rising with each second. 

I lean back slightly, tilting my face back up to the glass ceiling. “I guess I don’t know what to say,” I reply. “Everything feels unspoken, but loud… like a dream.”

He looks at me then. Really looks. The kind of gaze that threads itself directly between my skin and bone. I feel suddenly and irrevocably known. 

“You aren’t dreaming,” he says. 

I turn to him. 

“I’ve tried to dream about you every day for the past ten years,” he continues, “I know the difference.”

My heart lurches once, deep and hard, like a drum in my chest. I reach for his hand, instinctively, softly. He doesn’t pull away. 

He turns his palm up, like an offering. Then curls his fingers around mine like they’re something precious. A gesture so small, and yet it makes my stomach flip. 

“Your hands are warm,” he says. 

“They’re always warm,” I reply.

“I remember.”

Our eyes meet. The air feels sweeter. 

“Forks was so chilly, it was cold even in the greenhouse, do you remember?” I ask. “You gave me your gloves.”

He smiles. “You kept them.”

“You knew?”

“I watched you press them to your face when you thought no one was looking.”

I feel a blush bloom across my cheeks. “God, that’s embarrassing.”

He shakes his head slowly. “It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”

The silence that follows trembles with vulnerability. 

“Edward,” I whisper, fingers tightening around his. “What are we doing?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His other hand lifts and cups around my face with infinite care. His fingers explore the curve of my cheek, the slope of my ear, the line of my jaw. He pauses here, cradling. 

“You’re not the same,” he says.

“I know, I’ve changed.”

“How you’ve grown.”

“And you,” I say, “are holding your breath.”

He blinks, realizing I’m right. 

I lean into his palm, pressing my lips to the centre of it. Pecking just once, though it makes his shoulders shudder like he’s been struck. 

“Try,” I whisper. 

He drops his forehead to mine. Hand still at my cheek. My palm against his chest. We stay like this, leaning into one another, oscillating breaths. Lips just an inch apart. 

“If I kiss you,” he rasps, his voice almost shaking, “I won’t be able to control myself. I know it.”

“I don’t want your control, please, Edward.” I’m nearly pleading. 

He tilts his head, his nose brushes mine. 

And yet– we don’t kiss. Not yet. 

Instead, his hand slips to the small of my back, drawing me fractionally closer. My body melts into his, a warm puddle against cool marble. 

“I’ve waited so long,” he murmurs “I thought I’d lost the right.”

“You didn’t,” I say, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Our lips hover. My breath fans across his mouth. His fingers thread into the ends of my hair, careful, reverent, trembling just slightly. I feel the tension unspool in me like a ribbon pulled loose. My body aches from the closeness. 

“You can kiss me,” I say. 

“I know.”

He doesn’t. Not yet. 

The moment is still blooming. Still unfolding like the flowers above.

Chapter Text

Bella’s POV

The light is wrong. I know it from the moment I blink my eyes open. It’s diffused, milky; like trying to pass through gauze, or water. My head throbs in the quiet. The ceiling above is unfamiliar in a way that makes my heart jolt– though I know this apartment. Know the plaster. The washed stain in the crown moulding that’s shaped vaguely like a hare. I’m home. And yet… my body feels like it had been floating just an inch above the mattress the whole night. My effigy haphazardly stitched into the shape of being alive. 

I sit up slowly, hands gripping the duvet. I look at my arms. My skin feels cold to my own touch. Not exactly numb, just distant. The clock on the bedside table reads 6:32, though the digits flicker for a second, and it reads 6:31. Another jitter. 6:32. 

Maybe I hadn’t slept at all, just stayed half conscious in that bleary state of mild unrest before hitting REM. Maybe I’m still dreaming. I rise to my feet, moving like someone half submerged. Everything seems to happen a second too slowly, too much resistance as I wade from the bedroom to the bathroom. The faucet spits and shudders before it flows completely. The reflection in the mirror moves a fraction of a moment behind. Nothing new. 

I wander to the kitchen and fill the kettle, hoping against hope that caffeine will bring the vessel of my body back to its berth. The hiss of boiling water sounds far away, like it’s coming from another room. I pull down a box of cereal and pour into a chipped bowl with too much force. Cornflakes spill over the edges, scattering across the counter and floor like dropped coins. I stare at them for a long time. 

My hands tremble a little as I reach for a spoon– and then I feel it: a sudden pressure change. Like the moment a plane drops a few hundred feet on descent. The bare seconds before the loop of a roller coaster. My stomach flips and I am unexpectedly met with total clarity. Sound rushes into the room as though the volume had been dialed to its peak. I can hear the traffic below, a cyclist ringing their bell. My nerves are settled. Normalcy has returned. 

With it, a presence. I turn before I even hear the floorboard creak. Edward stands just outside the kitchen, barely moving, as though he’s afraid to shatter the moment by crossing the threshold. His eyes scan me with precision– the few remaining tremors through my fingertips, the flush in my cheeks, the cereal bowl nearly toppling over. His expression is open. Gentle. Steady. 

He makes one tentative step into the room– and like that, as though flipping a switch– my body remembers how to feel whole again. Solid. I exhale a sharp breath, steady myself against the counter. 

“Jesus,” I say, “what did you just do?”

“Nothing. I stepped into the room.”

“No, I mean–” I gesture toward myself, “I felt like I was disappearing. And then you walked in, and I… God. I feel normal again. Or, you know, normal adjacent.”

He steps forward, slowly. “You felt like… you were disappearing?”

“I don’t know. I woke up feeling like my skin doesn’t fit. Like I was a copy of myself that had been printed wrong.” I pause. “Does that sound insane?”

“No,” he says quietly. 

Something in his voice pangs with a certain sadness. I set the bowl of cereal aside. “You’ve been quiet lately,” I say. “Like, emotionally constipated.”

His brows arch delicately. “I didn’t realize that I should have been emoting more.”

“Don’t do that,” I say, placing a light hand on his forearm. “Don’t deflect. Something’s wrong, and you know it. So let’s just talk about it.”

He looks away, just briefly, and observes the floor. His jaw tightens. I see the way he stays unnaturally still. A sculpture trying not to betray the artist’s hidden flaw. Finally, he meets my eyes again. “I’m thinking about how whenever I’m not near, something in you begins to unravel. But when I’m within your proximity, it… doesn’t.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“No,” he agrees, “it’s not.” Another silence stretches. 

I cross the remaining distance between us and wrap my arms around the middle of his frame in a hug, the side of my face pressed against his chest. He seems taken aback at first. His hands waver through the air in errant circles before he finally relaxes and wraps his arms around me, too. There’s not a heartbeat to hear inside of him. Just my own warmth radiating against the cool stillness. 

“This is, though,” I say quietly. “This is comforting.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, relaxing into my arms just a little. 

“I have to go to work,” I say eventually, pulling back. “But if I go in feeling the way I did this morning, I’m going to spiral. I can’t Edward. I can’t keep unraveling in front of my colleagues.”

“You won’t.”

“Then come with me.”

He looks at me with slight intrigue. “You’re immortal,” I continue. “Improvise. Pretend to be someone who I’m interviewing, or shadowing for an article. Make something up. You’ve had, what, a hundred years of practice?”

“I wasn’t aware that you liked to roleplay.”

I give him a serious look. “You roleplayed a high school junior for nearly a decade.” A beat follows. 

“That’s fair,” he says finally. I sigh and lean back against the counter, taking a bite of my cereal. 

“I just don’t want to disappear.”

‘You won’t,” he says again.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ll hold on.”

…

We’re halfway across the park’s shortcut before I decide to speak again. The day is warm, but pale. The sun is shy, wrapped tight in her robe made of cloudscape. A gentle breeze ripples through the air, it seems to soften everything around us– the tall stone buildings, the blushing maples. Even my own thoughts. Edward walks beside me, quiet, but not in a way that feels all too foreboding. He’s watching, listening. 

“You’re really going to do this for me?” I ask, adjusting my oversized blazer, glancing sidelong at him. “Pretend to be a source I’m interviewing for a piece on… what did we decide again?”

“Obsolete tech products of the nineties,” he says smoothly. “I’m your mysterious and reclusive contact. Haven’t given an interview in a decade. Very clandestine.”

I laugh– a real one, bright and quick. “And knowing you, you’re going to absolutely nail it.”

“I take some pride in being cryptic and unapproachable.”

“And weirdly alluring,” I say before I can stop myself. 

His eye flick to mine, his smile slow and devastating. “I could tone that part down, if it’s a problem.” 

I swallow, a little embarrassed. “No, it’s– uh. Probably fine.”

We walk quietly for another moment, leaves skitter across the sidewalk, brittle and light. I try with an obscene desperation not to think about how handsome he looks in his navy turtleneck and coat. His broad figure moving in tandem with mine, his gait so gentle and patient. I know one of his natural steps could cross the same distance as two of my own. 

“Are you sure this is going to help?” I ask finally, my voice small, “being near me?”

He nods. “I can’t explain it perfectly, yet. But when I’m close to you, your energy seems to… stabilize. At least temporarily. It’s like what you had observed at breakfast.”

I stop at the edge of the sidewalk, folding my arms, pensive. “So, you’re like an external battery pack.”

His expression turns playful. “A human battery pack, yes.”

“Ironic,” I mutter, “ you’re the one keeping me anchored to reality. Your existence is so vast I’m surprised we haven’t lost you to the ether yet.”

We stand still a moment longer. He doesn’t touch me, but I can feel the outline of where he would if he had stepped forward. The thought alone makes my toes curl in my boots. “Let’s go,” I say, “before we’re late.”

We turn down a quieter street that curves between two ivy coloured buildings. A sanction of Loyola. A custodian wheels a rattling bin past us, students hunch over their phones while waiting for the bus. No one spares us a second glance. It gives the illusion that we’re invisible, just two shadows drifting side by side. 

I shove my hands into my jacket pockets. “You know, you’re way too comfrotable with all this undercover stuff. I expected some push back, at least.”

Edward gives a dry smile. “I’ve had a century of practice pretending to be someone that I’m not.”

“That’s depressing.”

“A little,” he agrees, “but you must admit. It comes in handy.”

“I was thinking we should give you a fake name,” I say, slowing my pace. “Something dramatic. Like… Vincent Ashwood.”

Edward blinks at me. “ Vincent Ashwood?”

“You’re reclusive. Brooding. Mysterious. Wear a lot of dark colours. Tell me that’s not a Vincent Ashwood if you’ve ever heard of one.”

“Why not something more subtle? Like Michael.”

I give him a flat look. “Do you look like a Michael?”

“Do I look like a Vincent Ashwood? It sounds like the lead out of an erotic paperback.” His grin is crooked. 

I squint up at him, pretending to evaluate. “You look like someone who never returns texts or appears at social gatherings, but would send someone a birthday gift wrapped in antique newspaper. And you sign the card ‘–V.’ ”

This earns a chuckle. “Very specific, Ms. Swan. Is this a fantasy of yours?”

“Don’t push it.”

Our shoulders brush as we turn the corner. For a moment I allow myself to imagine what this walk would be like if we were holding hands right now. A waifish strand of sunlight threads itself through the trees before me. 

Edward’s voice comes softer now. “Bella…”

I look up. 

“Do you ever wonder why this is happening? Why now?”

My breath catches. “All the time.”

“I think– I mean, I feel like something cracked open. Something so big, I don’t even know how to name it. Somehow you walked right through.”

“And what, you followed me in?”

He splits a wry smile. “I don’t think I had a choice.”

I try to look away before the heat blooming through my chest has a chance to creep up to my face. “You always do that,” I state, looking down to my boots as we keep walking. 

“Do what?”

“Say the right thing, at the right time. In the right voice. Make the fear less impenetrable.” 

“I could scowl more,” he offers. 

“You could,” I agree. “Though it would probably be ineffective in swaying my opinion.”

We reach the outside steps of the office building, my laminate ID glints in my hand. Edward pauses, letting me go ahead. His voice is suddenly a hush just behind my ear.

“Vincent Ashwood, at your service.”

…

The Sentinel’s bullpen isn’t exactly glamourous. Rows of worn desk, overhead fluorescents that occasionally buzz and shudder. The low hum of printers and chatter. In the chaos I have carved out my own domain. I lead Edward past Erin’s desk (she eyes him notedly, then turns to her screen and begins to type quickly), past the copier and around Geoff from layout’s spread of hand cut articles. He’s curled over his papers with earbuds jammed in, hardly glancing up. Edward hunches his shoulders, trying to appear more invisible– though it's difficult, he naturally looks like he belongs in a noir thriller or a cologne ad. 

As we weave further into the office, Edward begins earning more than a few looks. Curious, interested, some seemingly dazzled. A junior intern slows to a standstill while holding two sandwiches, his head swivelling like a satellite dish. One of the reporters from the Politics desk nearly trips over her own foot. 

“I don’t blend in,” he murmurs, watching a copy editor roll by on a chair so squeaky, it sounds like it should be anointed with its last rites. 

“No,” I reply, “you look like you’re here to audit the soul of journalism.”

“Is that… not what I’m doing? I thought that was what I was doing.” 

I elbow him gently, giving him an exasperated look. He smirks back. 

I hear it before I see it. “Bella! Bella, hey!”

I turn. Mara from Arts and Culture is power walking towards us, her Doc Martens slapping against the linoleum. In one hand she wields a bubble tea, the other holds the strap of her cross body bag outwards so it doesn’t slam against her hip as she propels forward.