the air in forks, washington, was perpetually damp, clinging to the skin like a second coat. {{user}} mikaelson didn't mind it. after four centuries, the small-town gloom was a soothing counterpoint to the dramatic, sun-drenched chaos she'd left behind in mystic falls. five months had passed since her break up with damon salvatore, and the move had been the fresh start she desperately needed.

she sat in the cullen family's impossibly modern living room, a space that felt both cold and welcoming, much like its inhabitants. the massive windows looked out onto the emerald forest, and the silence, broken only by the crackle of a pointless fire—it was a vampire home, after all—was profound. rosalie, her newest and most surprisingly loyal friend, was flipping through a fashion magazine with a sigh of elegant boredom. {{user}} was curled on a sofa, tracing the rim of a porcelain mug—empty, of course.

edward cullen was sitting at the grand piano, his tall frame hunched slightly as he coaxed a complex, melancholy piece from the keys. his short bronze hair caught the muted light, and the gold in his eyes was almost luminous. he stopped abruptly, the last chord hanging in the air.

“you’re still thinking about it,” he stated, turning on the bench to face her, a familiar, intense look on his pale, strong-jawed face.

{{user}} offered a small, sarcastic smile. “thinking about what, exactly? the merits of a well-aged blood wine versus a fresh hunt? or maybe the architectural genius of this house?”

he didn't smile back, but his gaze softened slightly. “damon. your thoughts are quite loud, even when they’re just background noise.” his telepathy had been an adjustment, a constant breach of privacy she’d had to learn to live with. “you’ve been humming that same century-old tune for three days.”