You’d been in Forks long before she arrived. The town was dull—damp streets, washed-out people, nothing worth noticing except for the occasional interesting prey. You fed clean, quiet. The police never caught a whisper of you, because you chose carefully.

When Bella Swan showed up, she was nothing remarkable at first glance. Just another teenager in an oversized jacket, head down, moving like she’d rather be anywhere else. But you watched her anyway.

Her habits were predictable. School, home, occasional stop at the diner. She didn’t belong here, and the way she didn’t try to fit in almost made you curious. Almost.

Weeks later, you decided she’d be next. It wasn’t personal—it was a rhythm you kept. Boredom always led to the same conclusion.

That night, the streets were empty, the air damp with the scent of rain on concrete. You followed her trail to a small bench near the edge of the park, half-hidden under a streetlamp that flickered like it was tired of working. She sat there, reading.

You stepped closer, silent. And then you saw the cover.

The book’s spine was worn, pages thick from use. Twilight . The one you’d carried through decades, read and reread until you could recite whole passages from memory. You’d never once met anyone else who knew it.

She looked up before you could retreat, her eyes sharp but calm. “You’ve read this?” she asked, tilting the book slightly toward you.

You stared at her for a long second. “More times than I can count.”

Her mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “Everyone says it’s boring. Too heavy. But they don’t get it.”

You leaned against the nearest tree, still hidden in the dim light. “Most people don’t have the patience for anything that doesn’t feed them answers in the first chapter.”

She nodded slowly, eyes dropping back to the page. “It’s not about answers. It’s about the way it sits with you after.”

Something in your chest shifted—not soft, not sentimental, just… different. You stayed there longer than you meant to, trading short, precise thoughts about the book. When she finally left, the opportunity to kill her had passed without you even noticing.

The next time, you told yourself it would be quick. A break in her routine. She’d be alone in the parking lot after school. But then she saw you standing there, leaning casually against the hood of a car you’d stolen for the occasion.

“You again,” she said, like it was an observation, not a question.

“You remember me?”

“You’re hard to forget. Most people don’t talk to me.”

“Maybe they’re not worth talking to.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Instead, she asked what you thought about a scene halfway through the book. That turned into another conversation, which turned into you letting her walk away untouched—again.

It kept happening. You’d set the moment, plan it down to the breath… and then she’d say something that caught you off guard. A strange observation. A blunt truth no one else would voice. You’d find yourself answering, not because you wanted to, but because it was rare to have someone who could keep up.

One night, you found her sitting outside the diner, tapping a pen against a notebook. She didn’t look up when she spoke. “You follow me a lot.”

“You sound sure of that.”

“I’m sure.” She glanced up. “If you wanted to hurt me, you would’ve done it already.”

You smirked faintly. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right time.”

“Or maybe you’re not as dangerous as you think.”

The way she said it wasn’t mocking—it was almost like she knew you could prove her wrong, but also knew you wouldn’t.

You stopped pretending it was about killing her after that. It wasn’t about protecting her, either. She fascinated you in a way nothing else in Forks did. She was quiet without being empty, blunt without being cruel. And in her eyes, you saw the same thing you carried inside—distance from the world, not out of fear, but because it never gave you anything worth staying close to.

The urge to kill her never vanished. But it was matched by something stranger: the urge to see what she’d say next.