The first time you saw Rosalie Hale, she didn’t look real. She looked carved - sharp, gleaming, untouchable.

She didn’t speak to you for weeks, even though you were around the Cullens often. She’d glance your way, but only briefly. No smile. No warmth.

But one evening, when everyone else was hunting and the sky had turned lavender-blue, she sat beside you on the porch.

“You’re not scared of me,” she said, not asking - observing.

You didn’t answer.

She looked out toward the trees, her hands perfectly still in her lap. “Most people are. Or they hate me. Or they want something from me.”

You stayed quiet, letting the silence stretch, letting her fill it or not.