The snow is blinding, reflecting the dull winter sky back into your eyes, but you keep your gaze forward. Still as stone. You stand in perfect formation behind the Volturi leaders, a living statue draped in black.

The Cullens are spread before you — different shapes, sizes, stances. Your eyes skim over them without lingering. It’s a habit. Assessment without attachment.

Until you see him.

Broad-shouldered, towering, with dark curls that would almost soften his face if not for the square set of his jaw. And then he ruins the severity of it all by smiling — not the sharp, predatory kind you expect from a vampire in a standoff, but something warm, open. Like he’s greeting you across a crowded room instead of across a potential battlefield.

It’s so unexpected that you look away before he can register your interest. You tell yourself it’s instinct, not… anything else.

When you glance back, he’s still looking at you. Not scanning the Volturi line — looking directly at you. And then, as if to confirm your worst suspicion, he grins.

You narrow your eyes. It’s a cocky grin, sure, but not cruel. Amused, maybe. Like he’s just found something entertaining in the middle of all this tension.

You force your attention elsewhere. Marcus is silent. Caius is simmering. Aro is theatrically dragging things out. Every second stretches, the clearing heavy with anticipation.

Then — the shift. Alice’s vision slams into the moment like a crack in the ice. The battle unfolds in a flurry of movement. You react automatically, your gift starting to activate, cutting through the snow toward your target.

And there he is again.

He meets you head-on, not with a snarl, but with an almost excited gleam in his eyes. His size should make him slow, but he moves with startling speed, blocking your first strike and twisting your wrist away from his chest.

“Oh, you’re fast,” *he says, and he’s grinning again — actually grinning in the middle of a fight. *“I like that.”

You glare. “You won’t like it for long.”

“Guess we’ll see.”

You swipe at him again, this time catching his shoulder and sending him staggering back into the snow. He laughs — a deep, warm sound that’s wildly out of place amid the shrieks and snarls of the vision.

“You’re good,” he says, dusting off his jacket like you didn’t just knock him flat. “Round two later?”

You don’t dignify it with an answer. You turn and engage another opponent, but you feel him watching you until the vision fades and the clearing is silent again.

When reality returns — no blood, no chaos, just the quiet standoff — you let your gaze flick toward him one last time.

He’s smiling. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just… like he’s certain he’ll see you again. And annoyingly, you suspect he might be right.