Chapter Text
It rained the way she remembered — soft, constant, and soaks-you-to-the-bone cold. But memory could never replicate the feel of it. Not like this. The weight of it in the clouds, the endless gray of the sky pressing down on her skin like fog come alive. Forks had a way of getting inside you, of making you feel like you were breathing underwater.
Bella Swan pressed her forehead lightly to the cold window of Charlie’s cruiser and watched droplets streak down the glass like racing tears. Trees blurred past in wet smears of green and black, branches heavy with moisture, needles slick with mist. Every inch of the Pacific Northwest looked like it belonged in a faded photograph.
And yet, something in her chest ached.
Forks had never been home. Not really. It was the place her father lived. The place her mother left. The place she visited every couple of summers when guilt outweighed her discomfort. But now? Now it was permanent. She had packed her life into three duffel bags and left Phoenix behind for good.
Charlie cleared his throat beside her, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming absently against the steering column. “Truck’s already in the garage,” he said, not looking at her. “Figured you’d want to drive yourself to school.”
She gave a faint nod. “Thanks, Dad.”
Neither of them was good at this — at talking, or sharing, or finding the right words to make it less awkward. But Bella appreciated the effort. She always had.
Still, her stomach wouldn’t settle. Not from the move. Not from the new school. It was something deeper, sharper. A low hum beneath her skin that hadn’t gone quiet since she stepped off the plane. It wasn’t nerves.
It was pull.
Like something inside her was stirring. Watching. Waiting.
Charlie’s house was unchanged — same tan walls, same battered recliner, same faint scent of coffee and worn leather. Her room upstairs looked untouched from the last time she visited, as if her fourteen-year-old self might still be hiding under the covers with a flashlight and a dog-eared book.
She didn’t unpack. Not really. Just enough to find a hoodie and jeans for school in the morning. The rest stayed zipped away, like if she kept the bags full she could pretend she wasn’t really staying.
Sleep didn’t come easy.
The rain had softened to a steady patter on the roof, rhythmic and soothing, but the heat in her bones wouldn’t fade. Her skin felt tight, like her muscles were bracing for something. Her dreams were worse — shadows in trees, running feet, silver eyes flashing in the dark. Something just out of reach.
When the morning light finally crept across the floorboards, pale and weak, Bella was already awake.
Forks High School looked exactly like she imagined it would — squat buildings connected by covered walkways, a dozen students huddling beneath their hoods and umbrellas. No one looked particularly thrilled to be there.
She parked the old rust-colored truck Charlie got for her at the back of the lot, out of the way. Its engine still growled too loud, but she found she didn’t mind the sound. It felt honest.
The office was warm and smelled like toner and dust. The receptionist handed her a slip of paper with her schedule and a map she barely glanced at.
“Hope you brought a good jacket,” the woman said with a smile. “You’ll need it here.”
Biology was fourth period. The morning passed in a haze of introductions and half-hearted small talk. Angela, a quiet girl with a kind smile, showed her to English and offered to help her catch up on the reading. Mike Newton tried to flirt in the way teenage boys often did — clumsy, overeager, and too confident. Bella was polite but distant. She wasn’t here to make friends. Not yet.
But it was biology that stopped her short.
The classroom was warm, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and damp wool. The lights hummed faintly overhead.
And there, by the window, she saw her.
Bella’s feet stalled. Her heart did too.
A girl sat in the far seat, spine impossibly straight, her golden hair cascading down her back like molten silk. Her skin was the kind of pale that wasn’t natural — flawless, marble-smooth, and unreal. There was something sculpted about her posture, her presence. Like she didn’t belong in a high school classroom. Like she didn’t belong in this world at all.
Rosalie Hale.
Bella had heard the name whispered earlier in the day. One of the Cullens. Gorgeous, cold, unapproachable. But gossip had done her no justice.
The seat beside her was the only one left.
Bella moved toward it slowly, her palms suddenly damp.
As she slid into the chair, Rosalie turned her head — just slightly. Their eyes met.
And something snapped.
Not in a painful way. More like a thread pulled taut. Bella felt it down to her bones — a sudden, electric jolt that shot through her chest and made her breath catch. Her skin prickled. Her heart skipped, then thudded, hard and uneven.
Rosalie’s gaze was sharp, unreadable. Her eyes — a pale, honey-gold — lingered for a moment too long. Her jaw tensed.
And then she looked away.
Bella swallowed hard. Her throat was dry.
What the hell was that?
The teacher began the lesson, droning about cell division and mitochondria, but Bella couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think.
Because next to her sat a girl carved from myth — and every part of Bella was suddenly, irrevocably aware of her. The heat under her skin flared, the hum in her chest louder than ever.
Rosalie didn’t speak. Didn’t glance her way again. But Bella could feel the tension in the air like static before a storm.
And the strangest thing was… she didn’t want to move.
She wanted to stay there.
Next to her.
Whatever this was — whatever strange gravity pulled between them — Bella felt it like the pull of the tide.
And it terrified her.
Because she wasn’t supposed to feel anything like this. Not yet. Not for anyone.
Not for her.