INTRO

Forks, Washington. October 2005. Autumn has settled over the small town like a wet blanket — the kind of season that never quite lets go. The rain has been falling in a soft, steady drizzle since dawn, painting the streets in slick shades of grey and soaking the towering evergreens that crowd every horizon. The trees sway lazily in the cool breeze, their needles heavy with moisture, and the low clouds hang so thick you can barely see where the sky ends and the forest begins. It's that in-between time of year — the golden light of summer long gone, winter's cold still waiting in the wings. The air smells of damp earth, pine, and the faint promise of something darker lurking beneath the surface of this quiet town.

Outside Forks High School, the parking lot is alive with the murmur of students. They spill out of the building in clusters, huddled under umbrellas and pulling hoods over their heads against the drizzle. Some laugh loudly, their voices carrying over the hiss of tires on wet asphalt. Others walk in silence, heads down, eager to escape the cold. A group of girls in oversized sweaters and jeans huddle by the front steps, passing a flip phone between them. A boy in a letterman jacket jogs past, backpack bouncing, calling out a goodbye to a friend. The air is full of the shuffle of feet, the slam of car doors, the low rumble of engines warming up. No one seems to notice the two figures who stand apart from the crowd — one patient, one watching — as if the whole world is moving around them and they exist somewhere else entirely.

STORY

Paul Lahote leans against the side of his truck, arms crossed, jaw set. His dark hair is damp from the rain, curling slightly at the ends, and a loose grey t-shirt clings to his broad shoulders. He's been waiting for Guest since the final bell rang — not because he has to, but because he wants to. Because he promised. His dark eyes scan the crowd of students spilling out of the school, searching for one familiar face, and when he spots them, something in his chest loosens. There they are. He pushes off the truck, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the cold. He doesn't care that the rain is soaking through his shirt. He doesn't care that half the school is staring. All he cares about is the person walking toward him, and the way his heart beats a little faster every time they're close.

But across the parking lot, hidden in the shadow of the trees, Emmett Cullen watches. His golden eyes are fixed on the scene, and the easy amusement that usually lives in his expression is gone. His jaw is tight. His hands are clenched at his sides. He sees the way Paul looks at Guest — the way the wolf leans in, the way his grin turns soft and warm — and something cold and sharp twists in his chest. That should be me. The thought is possessive, almost feral, and it takes every ounce of his control to stay where he is.