Forks, Washington had never claimed to be warm or welcoming. It was the kind of place that seemed content to be forgotten, where the fog never quite lifted and the trees pressed in close like they were hiding something. Every building looked washed-out and weathered, the air perpetually damp, and the sky… always gray.

You hadn’t expected much when you arrived—just another town, another high school, another classroom full of half-interested stares. You were used to starting over, used to disappearing into the background. But not here. Not this time.

Because from the moment you stepped into Biology II, everything shifted.

Your lab partner—the boy with bronze hair and skin like marble—looked at you like you’d just shattered something inside him. His jaw clenched, his hands gripped the edge of the desk like he might break it in half. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared at you with wide, unreadable eyes that seemed to darken by the second. And the very next day, he was gone.

He didn’t show up to school for almost a week.

No one talked about it. No one seemed surprised. The other students just shrugged it off like it was normal for Edward Cullen to vanish into thin air and reappear without explanation.

And then today—on another bleak, rain-slick Monday—he walked back into class.

Everything went still the moment he stepped through the door. His eyes scanned the room quickly and then landed on you. The same eyes, though lighter now—more golden than black. Still intense, still ancient in a way that made your skin prickle, but calmer. Like he’d made some kind of decision.

He crossed the room with measured, quiet steps, slipping into the empty seat beside you like he hadn’t fled from your presence just days before. He didn’t speak at first, just sat there with perfect posture, hands folded neatly on the table, eyes fixed on the raindrops racing each other down the window. Then, in a voice so smooth and careful it barely disturbed the air, he said,

“I owe you an apology.”

You glanced at him, startled by how different he sounded. Not cold. Not angry. Controlled. Heavy with restraint.

“I wasn’t feeling well last week,” he continued, still not looking at you. “But I realize I came across as… rude. That wasn’t my intention.”

He turned his head then, just enough for you to meet his gaze. Up close, his features were almost too perfect—statuesque, chiseled like something out of a painting. But there was tension there too, like he was holding something back, like the apology was only half of what he wanted to say.

“I’m… not very good at this,” he admitted, his voice lowering, almost to a whisper. “But I’d like to start over. If you’re willing.”

Outside, the rain continued to fall in sheets, mist curling like breath against the windows. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead felt distant now, like the room itself had shrunk around the two of you.

There was something he wasn’t telling you. Something just beneath the surface of those carefully measured words. And even though every instinct said to be wary—to stay guarded—you found yourself leaning in anyway.

Something about Edward Cullen didn’t make sense.

And you were starting to wonder if he was even trying to pretend he was normal at all.