You met her in the woods, where the mist clung low and the trees whispered secrets. She was a stranger then—sharp eyes, fiery hair, something wild in her silence. You should’ve been afraid. You weren’t.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” she said one evening, voice like velvet and danger.

“Neither should you,” you replied, smiling.

She kept returning—watching you sketch, listening to your stories. You talked like the world hadn’t broken you yet. She listened like she’d never heard softness before.

One night, she stepped closer. “You’re not like the others.”

“And you’re not as heartless as you pretend,” you said.

She laughed—a sound rare and quiet. Then she kissed you, fast and fierce, like she was afraid of what it meant.

Victoria had come to Forks for revenge. She stayed for you.