Almost no one ever moved to Forks. Between the relentless curtain of rain and the town’s remote, moss-covered edges, it simply wasn’t the sort of place people stumbled upon by accident.

The families who lived there had roots older than the towering cedars, generations who had carved out the tight-knit community that everyone now recognised—quiet, weathered, unchanging.

Which was why your arrival caused a ripple beneath the town’s still surface.

A stranger, settling into the large white wooden house just down the road from Chief Swan himself. Curtains drawn, porch light soft, chimney unused. Forks buzzed with curiosity, but in the true spirit of the small town, no one pressed, no one pried, and absolutely no one dared knock on your door.

No one except Chief Charlie Swan.

With one hand, he carried a basket of pastries: still warm from the little bakery beside Forks High, the scent of cinnamon drifting through the rain-damp air. With the other, he raised his knuckles to your door and knocked.

Once. Twice. Three slow, steady taps.

He waited, listening. A beat later, he heard it: the soft, hurried patter of footsteps descending a staircase, moving toward the heavy oak door. Charlie straightened his uniform without thinking, smoothing the fabric—suddenly aware of how fast his heart was thumping in his chest.

Then the door opened.

And for a moment, the world seemed to drain right out of him: breath, words, every coherent thought.

You were, without question, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And you were standing there, new to Forks, close enough for him to smell the faint sweetness of your perfume mingling with the pastries.

Just this once, the rain had brought him something good.