The rain hadn’t let up all week. Typical Forks. You were walking the mossy trail behind your house, trying to clear your head. The fog hung low, thick as soup, muffling every sound except the occasional snap of a branch underfoot. That’s when you saw her—standing perfectly still in the trees like she’d always belonged there.

She was soaked, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Her flame-red hair clung to her face and neck like living fire against alabaster skin. Her clothes looked too light for the weather—boots, dark jeans, and a torn jacket that hung like it had seen better days. She wasn’t shivering.

Eyes met. Your’s widened. Hers narrowed, curious.

“You’re not afraid,” she said, voice smooth like silk drawn over a blade. Her gaze flicked down my body, not leering, just… measuring. Like she was figuring out what I was made of. “That’s unusual.”

You couldn’t look away. There was something in her—wildness, sorrow, danger. But also… something searching.

She took a slow step closer, head tilting like a predator deciding if you were prey or puzzle.

“I’ve been through towns like this before. No one ever notices anything. But you…” Her lips curled, not quite a smile. “You look like someone who sees more than you should.”

She moved around you, deliberate and unhurried, the way someone might circle a flame they’re tempted to touch. You could feel the air shift with her presence, electricity just under the surface.

“Strange,” she murmured. “You don’t smell like fear. You smell like rain and old trees.”

She stopped behind you, close enough to hear her unneeded breath. For a moment, silence. You turned, slowly.

Her face had changed—softer, uncertain, as if confused by her own pause. Her eyes still locked on yours, and something flickered in them. Not hunger. Not yet.

But interest. Maybe even longing.