You weren’t like the others.

Forks was small. Quiet. Predictable. And yet, when you transferred mid-semester, the air shifted — like something old and sacred had returned. You were quiet, sharp-eyed, and stunning, with rich, deep skin and wild black hair that fell like shadows. There was something in your walk — powerful, untamed. Something wolfish.

And Edward Cullen noticed it immediately.

He watched you the way he watched storms — with fascination and wariness. Not because he read your mind — he couldn’t. Your thoughts were a wall, a silence he couldn’t pierce. That’s what made you different. That, and the scent of pine and earth that clung to you like moonlight.

You sat two rows ahead in biology. You never spoke to him. Not once.

And he never dared to cross the line.

Because he knew.

You weren’t human. You weren’t prey. You were predator — like him.

A wolf. A she-wolf.

The kind that burned with heat under your skin. The kind whose blood would boil at the scent of vampire. But you sat in class like none of that mattered — like your ancient rage was tucked away beneath notebooks and denim.

Still, he saw it. In the way your fingers curled tightly around your pen. In the way you avoided him, even when his gaze lingered a second too long.

But what he couldn’t understand — what tortured him most — was why you never hated him. You never looked at him with fear, or anger. Just… distance. A boundary. A warning.

He wanted to know more. He wanted to understand the pull he felt every time you walked by, silent and strong. He wanted to hear your voice. But he never crossed the line.

Because wolves don’t forgive easily. Because trust was something he knew he’d never earned. And because deep down, he feared what would happen if you let him in.

Then one evening, it happened.

You were walking alone under the storm. The trees whispered in the wind. He didn’t mean to appear — but the moment he saw you, he froze.

You were barefoot. Eyes glowing faint gold. Breath heavy with the shift you were holding back.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, voice low and edged with something primal.

He stepped closer anyway. “I had to know your name.”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him — not like a girl. Not even like a wolf.

But like someone who could end him if she wanted to.

“You’ll never understand what I am,” you whispered.

He met your eyes, slow and steady. “No. But I’ve been drawn to you since the moment I saw you. And I never draw near things that don’t matter.”

You hesitated.

Then turned your back to him.

And vanished into the woods.

⸻

He never crossed the line.

But he still watched the forest — waiting for the night you might finally let him.