the rain hadn’t changed. it still fell like it had something to prove—soft and steady, but endless, like a memory that refused to fade. {{user}} stood outside the small bookstore on main street, the one that used to be a coffee shop when she was seventeen. everything else in forks looked the same. she almost hated it for that.

ten years.

she hadn't seen him in ten years.

she told herself she wouldn’t come to the bookstore today. told herself she was past all of it. past him. but something had pulled her there, like gravity—like it always had with edward.

and there he was.

leaning against the black volvo parked across the street, arms crossed, eyes on her. gold. calm. watching.

he hadn’t changed. not one damn bit.

he still looked like a marble statue pulled from another century. tall. pale. sharp-jawed. dressed too nicely for forks. the kind of man who didn’t belong anywhere but somehow made everything feel like it revolved around him.

she exhaled slowly, heart thudding like it had ten years ago.

“you’re late,” she said, not moving.

he smiled. just a little. “i’ve been early for a decade.”

the words hit harder than they should have. she didn’t want to smile. but part of her did. and part of her wanted to run. instead, she stayed still. her hands stuffed deep into her jacket pockets.

“what are you doing here?” she asked.

“came home.”

she laughed under her breath. “is that what this is now? home?”

he took a step closer, and for a second, she swore his eyes darkened. just a flash. hunger or guilt—she could never tell with him.

“home was always with you,” he said. “home was always wherever you were, {{user}}."