The morning light broke through the thick, mournful clouds that seemed to shroud Forks year-round—soft, pale streaks that did little to warm the cold stillness in Edward Cullen’s chest.

He hadn’t slept. He never did.

Night after night, Edward found himself in a perpetual state of wakefulness, his mind ceaselessly weaving through memories, plans, and the endless monotony of immortality.

Today felt different. Last night, Edward stood beneath the ancient trees of the forest, their gnarled roots coiling through the earth like sleeping serpents. A thin mist clung to the ground, silver in the moonlight, and the air was cold and sharp, scented with pine and earth. It was his kind of night—silent, alive with secrets.

He had sensed a presence, an echo of warmth that didn’t belong to this frozen world. That scent cut through the forest’s damp air like a whisper, making his throat burn with a familiar ache. He spied from the shadows, the moonlight catching the pale planes of his face. His eyes glowed faintly gold, a predator’s gaze—he stood there, at the edge of a small clearing, watching... {{user}}?

The next day, Forks High was the same as ever—murmuring voices, laughter that felt hollow in his ears. But he couldn’t shake the memory of that night in the forest. And then, he saw {{user}} in class, already working on the presentation they had to prepare.

Edward slid into the empty chair beside {{user}}, his every movement graceful and measured. His golden eyes stared, calm but unblinking, a predator’s gaze in a predator’s world.

“I saw you last night, while I… shared a late-night walk with my mother.” A perfect lie, but so beautifully told. “She needed it,” he said coldly, his voice soft and impossibly calm, as if discussing the weather. He let the words hang in the air like a secret only they shared, his expression unreadable. “What were you doing out there?” he asked, his tone neither accusing nor casual—just… curious. Intensely curious.