Forks High Cafeteria — Monday
Lighting: Overhead fluorescents buzzing like stressed-out bees. Outside, the snow is piled high and blindingly white, already half-melted into slush by passing boots.
Bella was already in a mood.
It started when her alarm didn't go off because the batteries in her flip clock had died. Continued when she slipped down half the driveway in a graceless slide while juggling her Walkman and a toaster pastry. Peaked when her cherry Pop-Tart made a Jackson Pollock out of her only clean hoodie — the one without holes.
So by the time she trudged into the cafeteria — boots squelching, jeans clinging, hair aggressively frizzing like it had a personal vendetta — she was ready to file a complaint against winter, gravity, and Mondays. Maybe God, too.
And then she saw them.
The Cullens. All nine. Back like a scene from a very high-budget CW reboot.
Jasper looked like he could hear a banshee screaming in the distance. Alice, vibrating in place, gestured so wildly she nearly knocked over a tray. Emmett, mid-story and full grin, acted like he'd never been cold in his life. Rosalie didn't smile — she didn't need to. She could melt glaciers with a glance. Katherine and Elizabeth sat side by side like Vogue-approved gargoyles: symmetrical, unbothered, and probably telepathic.
Hadrian — because of course he was real — had that aloof, literary snob aura down to a science. He was flipping through a paperback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo with the kind of reverence most people reserved for sacred texts or mixtapes.
And Daenerys — well, her hair was moonlight, her thermos probably held molten starlight, and her expression could pass for benevolent if you squinted. Or prayed.
Then there was Edward Cullen. The glitch in her system.
Bella stopped walking. Just… stopped. Boot roots. Tray suspended. Breath held.
Edward was smiling.
He looked less corpse, more… guy. Like the week away had given him back five percent of his humanity. Maybe ten.
"Oh my God," Jessica hissed at her elbow, appearing like she'd teleported from a lesser teen comedy. "Swan, what did I say about going full possum in public? Move your legs."
"I think I feel sick," Bella muttered, because she did. And also because it was easier than explaining the existential brain static.
Jessica raised a brow. "Sick as in 'I might hurl'? Or sick as in 'I just saw Edward Cullen and now I'm not okay' kind of sick?"
"Soda sick."
"So Cullen-sick," Jess said, smug, bouncing slightly in her UGG knockoffs. "Noted."
They got in line just behind Eric, who was holding a chili bowl like it held the secrets of the universe.
"You know, chili has anti-viral properties," he said to Angela.
Angela stared at him like she wasn't sure if he was serious or contagious. "So does Lysol. Doesn't mean I'm eating it."
Mike suddenly swung in, hoodie flapping like a hero cape, grinning like a snow-obsessed golden retriever.
"Snowball fight after school! Field by the parking lot. Battle for Forks begins at 3:30 sharp."
"Hard no," Bella said.
"Why not? You can be on my team," Mike added with a hopeful lilt. "I'll protect you. I've got great reflexes."
"You tripped over your shoelace yesterday," Angela pointed out.
"Strategically," Mike shot back.
Jessica leaned closer to Bella, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or maybe you'll team up with one of the Cullens. Edward has 'secret assassin' energy."
Bella opened her mouth to argue, then accidentally caught Edward's eye across the cafeteria.
And oh.
He was already looking. Right at her. Not bored. Not annoyed. Just… watching. Like she was something interesting. Or confusing. Or both.
Her heart did something rude inside her chest. Possibly illegal.
Jessica jabbed her in the side. "Bella. Earth to Swan. You're doing that dreamy-exorcist stare again."
"He started it."
Jessica gasped. "He's in your head. Like a hot Jedi."
"I'm gonna throw this soda at you."
"Promises, promises."
Angela tilted her head toward the Cullens' table. "They look different today. Less 'goth homecoming court' and more… I don't know. Real."
"Except Rosalie," Eric added. "Rosalie would murder me with a spoon if I asked for a pen."
"You asked her if she was single," Mike reminded him.
"In my defense, it was Valentine's Day."
Bella cracked open her soda. It fizzed with all the enthusiasm of a dead lightbulb. She took a sip anyway.
Edward looked away. But not before giving her the tiniest nod. Like punctuation. Like he'd decided something.
She wasn't sure what.
Jessica grinned. "I am begging you, Swan, if anything happens between you and Hot Vampire Jesus over there — and I mean anything — I need minute-by-minute coverage."
"What about Hadrian?" Angela teased. "He looks like he writes poetry and stabs people with the same pen."
"Daenerys would end the snowball fight with a monologue and a flaming sword," Eric said, a little too reverently.
"I just want to survive math," Bella muttered.
But inside, her brain was not thinking about math. It was thinking about green eyes, and unreadable smiles, and how absolutely nothing felt normal anymore.
Something had shifted.
And this time, it didn't feel like a page turning.
It felt like the book had just started writing her.
—
Forks High — Biology II
Fifth Period
Weather: Rain tap-tapping like a metronome on windowpanes. The scent of bleach and frog memories clings to the air.
Bella walked into the classroom five minutes early and for once, she wasn't the one squinting at the clock like it had personally offended her. She dropped her backpack beside the lab table, kicked her chair out with a low screech, and collapsed into it like a disgruntled Victorian ghost.
No Cullen.
Good. Great. Grand.
She exhaled and started rearranging her notebook into neat little stress piles. Maybe today wouldn't be a Shakespearean tragedy in denim.
And then—
The door opened.
Like, of course it did.
And he walked in, all bronze hair, black hoodie, and bookish brood.
Edward Cullen. In the rain-damp flesh.
He looked like someone had Photoshop'd the cover of a Brontë novel. Like Heathcliff, but with better conditioner.
His eyes locked on hers — golden, bright, unsettling — and his whole face did this soft recalibration, like he'd just opened a new tab in his mental browser labeled Bella Swan, Updated Edition.
"Hi," he said.
Velvet. Silky. Like a British boyband's solo line, if that boyband only sang about eternal damnation and bio labs.
Bella blinked. "...Hi?"
He gestured toward the seat beside her, like he was asking permission to enter her personal bubble.
"May I?"
She blinked again. "It's your assigned seat."
He smiled. Small. Careful. Still way too charming for a public school lunch period.
"Doesn't mean you wouldn't rather have it to yourself."
Was he—bantering? Since when did he come with a banter plugin?
"Depends," Bella muttered. "Are you going to act like I kicked your puppy again?"
That got a pause. And then—surprise—a soft, huffed laugh. The kind that sounded like it hadn't been let out in a while.
"No puppies were harmed," he said as he slid onto the stool beside her. "Last week was… complicated."
"You don't say," Bella muttered, flipping open her biology textbook in a way that definitely wasn't dramatic. "You glared at me like I owed you rent."
"I wasn't glaring," he said, glancing at her from under too-long lashes. "I was… thinking very hard."
"Right. About murder."
Another laugh. This one quieter. A little crooked.
"I'll admit," he said, "I didn't make the best first impression."
"And this is the improved version?"
"Work in progress."
Bella snorted. "You've got your work cut out for you, Cullen."
Before he could respond, Mr. Banner swept into the room with all the grace of a winded bat carrying too many plastic bins.
"Okay, lab rats, mitosis day! Grab a slide set and see if your brains still work after winter break."
Bella leaned forward toward the bin at the same time Edward did. Their hands brushed.
And her brain short-circuited.
His skin was freezing. Like… cold case morgue drawer cold.
She snatched her hand back like he'd tased her.
He froze too, like he hadn't meant it. Like his system had glitched.
"Sorry," he said, voice low and tight.
Bella rubbed her fingers on her jeans like that would reset her temperature. "Do you… always run cold? Or is that just a side effect of intense stares and brooding?"
Edward looked like he was about to answer something real — something not meant for cafeteria gossip — but instead he just gave her a ghost of a smile and said, "Bad circulation."
"Yeah. Or you're a reanimated Victorian piano prodigy."
He didn't deny it. Which was somehow worse.
They started on the lab — prophase, metaphase, anaphase, telophase — sliding the microscope back and forth in silence.
Except it wasn't silence.
There was the low hum of rain outside. The occasional awkward click of the light switch on the scope. The way her breath kept catching every time his sleeve brushed hers.
Bella finally broke the tension.
"Okay, either you're a genius or you've done this exact lab before."
He didn't even look up. "Maybe I'm just trying really hard to impress the girl who thinks I'm a Victorian piano ghost."
She stared at him. He glanced up and smiled — small, self-deprecating, impossibly warm for someone with literal ice hands.
"Also," he added, "I may have a thing for mitosis. It's very… orderly."
Bella raised an eyebrow. "So you're into cell division?"
"You're not?"
"Guess I'm more of a meiosis girl. You know—more drama."
Edward actually laughed. It was a quiet, strange sound — like he wasn't sure his lungs knew how to do that anymore.
They finished the slides quickly, both too competent for their own good. Banner looked faintly disappointed there was no need to step in and correct anything.
Bella closed her notebook, then hesitated. She couldn't let the earlier moment slide.
"Okay," she said. "Real question."
He turned to her, expression suddenly unreadable.
"How did you know I go by Bella?" she asked. "No one calls me that until I correct them. I've only been here a week."
Edward's jaw tensed — the faintest hitch in that otherwise perfect calm.
His eyes dropped to the table.
"Lucky guess," he said, voice soft.
Bella narrowed her eyes. "You're a bad liar."
"You'd be surprised," he murmured, almost like it wasn't meant for her.
—
They finished the mitosis lab in record time, because of course they did. Bella might've just moved here, but she wasn't about to let Edward Cullen flex his broody, immortal IQ like he was on Jeopardy: Tragic Edition.
Now they were just... sitting.
The kind of awkward stillness that made time stretch in weird directions. Bella's pen tapped a twitchy beat against the corner of her notebook. Edward, on the other hand, was frozen in place — posture unnaturally perfect, like someone had posed him for a painting called Boy with Existential Crisis and Microscope.
Bella shot him a glance. He was staring straight ahead. Not at her. Not at anything, really. Just... existing intensely.
It was unnerving.
She squinted. Something was... off.
Not like "he's-too-hot-to-be-in-a-public-high-school" off — though, yes, there was that. No, this was subtler. She leaned in a fraction, just enough to notice.
"Wait." Her voice sliced through the silence, soft but pointed. "Did you get contacts?"
Edward blinked, slow. Turned to look at her. "What?"
"Your eyes," Bella said, sitting back, arms folding like armor. "They were practically black last week. Now they're, like… honey. Or butterscotch. Or that one eyeshadow shade everyone lied about not stealing from Sephora."
His face didn't move. Not even a twitch.
A full second passed. Maybe two.
"No," he said finally. "No contacts."
Bella narrowed her eyes, suspicious. "Right. Just woke up today and decided to cosplay a whiskey commercial?"
Edward exhaled a quiet, amused breath. "They change color sometimes."
"That's not a thing."
"It is for me."
Bella stared at him, skeptical. "And what are you blaming it on? Allergies? Mood ring powers? A cursed amulet you found in a Victorian trunk?"
There was a flicker of a smile at the edge of his mouth — like he was trying not to let it out. "Bad lighting," he offered, deadpan.
"You're the worst liar I've ever met," Bella said bluntly.
"You'd be surprised," he murmured, so quietly it almost didn't make it past the rain and the hum of fluorescent lights.
Before she could dig deeper, Banner swooped in like a crow high on too much coffee.
"Well, look at you two! Finished already?"
Edward straightened slightly. "We worked efficiently."
Banner raised an eyebrow. "Efficiently, huh. Or did Mr. Cullen here do the whole thing while you watched?"
Bella's jaw ticked. Her voice, when it came, was dry enough to crack pavement. "Oh yeah, totally. I sat here and twirled my hair while he solved the mysteries of cell division. Obviously."
Banner blinked.
Edward looked at her, eyebrows lifted slightly in what might've been admiration.
"I was in the accelerated program back in Phoenix," Bella added. "This lab was kindergarten."
Banner still looked unconvinced, but he made a vague hand-wavy noise and muttered something about "overachievers" before trudging off toward the group still trying to figure out how to plug in their microscope.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Edward leaned just slightly in her direction. His voice was lower now, like he was sharing a secret. "Kindergarten?"
Bella glanced sideways at him. "What? You're not the only one who knows how to sound smug."
"I wasn't smug."
"Oh, please. You literally smiled at a textbook earlier. You were thriving."
Edward let out a low laugh, almost soundless, like it surprised him. "Maybe I enjoy biology."
"Maybe you enjoy intimidating people with your creepy supernatural calm," she said. "Honestly, at this point I wouldn't be surprised if your college applications were written in Latin and sealed in wax."
He grinned — a real one this time. Small, slanted, just the tiniest bit crooked. Like it hadn't been worn in a while.
Bella blinked.
It did things to her brain. Terrible, fluttery things.
Before she could recover, his posture shifted. Just slightly. Muscles tensing like he'd heard something she hadn't.
A beat later, the classroom door creaked open behind them.
A dripping student slunk in, muttering apologies.
Edward's eyes flicked that way before flicking back to Bella. His face was blank again. Too smooth. The tension was gone… but not forgotten.
Bella didn't take her eyes off him.
"You're really bad at pretending to be normal," she said quietly.
Edward looked at her — slow, deliberate — and something in his expression shifted. Not playful now. Just honest.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I've been told."
Bella tilted her head. "Well… at least you're consistent."
His mouth twitched again, like he couldn't decide if she was an insult or a gift. Maybe both.
She turned back to her notebook, doodling vaguely threatening flowers in the margin.
"So what happens now?" she muttered. "Do we just sit here in silence while everyone else fumbles through metaphase, or are you going to tell me your tragic backstory while the rain provides dramatic ambiance?"
"I'm not that interesting," Edward said.
"You literally glared at me like I was a demon last week and now you're flirting via mitosis metaphors," Bella shot back. "You are at least medium-interesting."
He looked like he might argue — or confess to something — but then he changed the subject.
—
The snow had started while they were still pretending to study mitosis. Outside the lab windows, the rain had thickened into flakes the size of thumbprints, drifting like someone shook a giant snow globe over Forks.
Edward glanced at it, then at her. "Do you like the snow?"
Bella didn't even pause in her notebook doodling — now a suspiciously aggressive bouquet of roses with thorns that looked vaguely like middle fingers.
"No."
Edward blinked, head tilting slightly. "That was… blunt."
"Yeah, well, you asked. Did you want me to lie and tell you it's magical? That it makes the world look like a Christmas card from 1994?"
"I would've accepted picturesque," he offered.
She snorted. "It's picturesque in the same way taxidermy is art. Technically impressive, but mostly just cold and dead."
Edward smiled, faint and crooked, like he couldn't help it. "You're unusually passionate about precipitation."
"I contain multitudes," Bella said dryly. "Especially when said multitudes are trapped in wet jeans and fogged-up glasses."
Edward hummed softly, turning back to the window. "It's different in other places."
"Yeah, well, I'm not in other places, am I?" Bella muttered. "I'm here. In Forks. Where the sky looks like printer paper someone cried on."
He glanced at her again. "So why are you here?"
Bella paused. The question wasn't sharp, but it landed like it had teeth.
She closed her notebook with a soft snap. "My mom got remarried," she said, voice flat but not unkind. "His name's Phil. He's a minor league baseball player. Travels constantly. You know. Planes, buses, locker rooms with weird carpet."
Edward was listening — not just hearing her, but actually listening, with that stillness he had, like his body was a statue and only his eyes were alive.
"She wanted to go with him," Bella went on, shrugging like it was no big deal. "I told her to. It made more sense for me to come here. Live with my dad. Let her be happy."
Edward's brows furrowed slightly. "That doesn't sound fair."
Bella's lips twitched. "I wasn't under the impression fairness was an option."
"But you sound like it doesn't bother you," he said. "And I think it does."
She looked at him, sharp. "Wow. Did you minor in Advanced Psych Analysis or just pick that up from staring dramatically across lunch tables?"
"I pay attention," Edward said quietly. "You don't eat much. You don't talk much. You flinch when people shout. You look like you're always waiting for something bad to happen."
Bella stared at him. "Okay, seriously, you need to stop narrating my internal monologue like you're auditioning for Dateline."
A ghost of a smile played at his lips. "It's not a judgment."
"It's weird," she shot back. "Like, high-key weird. Do you just... keep a Bella Swan file in your creepy mental Rolodex?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Should I not?"
"Definitely not."
Edward laughed — quiet and breathy, like he wasn't used to doing it. "You're not easy to read," he said after a second.
Bella blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You think you are. But you're not. You're guarded. You wear sarcasm like a jacket, and every sentence you say sounds like a dare."
Her mouth opened, then shut. "Okay, wow. Did you practice that in front of a mirror this morning?"
He tilted his head. "Would you be flattered or disturbed if I said yes?"
"I'm already disturbed, thanks," she said. "I mean, you basically glared at me like I murdered your cat last week, and now you're trying to unravel my soul between microscope slides."
"I didn't glare at you," he said mildly.
"Oh, you absolutely did. I thought you were going to report me to the Ministry of Brooding."
Edward leaned forward slightly, resting one elbow on the lab table. "Maybe I was just... surprised."
"By what?"
He didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice had dropped again — softer, almost confessional.
"You weren't what I expected."
Bella squinted. "Okay. That could either be charming or incredibly insulting depending on your tone."
He smiled — this one more real, less mysterious. "Charming, I promise."
"Hmm," she said, unconvinced. "You've got that haunted orphan energy going. Like, you probably compose piano sonatas when you're upset."
"I don't play piano," he lied.
"Liar."
Edward looked down for a moment, a strand of bronze hair falling into his eyes. "Maybe a little."
Bella grinned — teeth and all. "Thought so. You look like you've had a tragic music montage."
"You're very sure of your theories."
"Only when I'm right."
They stared at each other for a moment, and the snow outside pressed in against the glass like a backdrop someone had staged just for this scene.
—
The soft scrape of Mr. Banner's voice cut through the thick hum of the fluorescent lights, dragging them back from the snow globe outside and the dance of unspoken truths between them.
"Alright, class, eyes up. Mitosis waits for no one."
Bella barely blinked in his direction, but Edward's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists on the edge of the lab table, knuckles white beneath the sleeve of his black hoodie — the one that probably had its own tragic backstory.
Bella caught the way he leaned away, subtle but deliberate, like he was trying to create distance from some invisible weight she wasn't invited to carry.
Her curiosity flickered — not the polite kind, but the kind that scrapes beneath the surface like a restless cat.
She wanted to ask what was wrong. Wanted to reach out. But then the bell rang, sharp and abrupt, slicing through the fragile quiet.
Edward was already gathering his books with that effortless grace — like every movement was choreographed, rehearsed, impossible to replicate.
"Later," he said, voice low, a whisper almost lost under the din of chairs scraping and students shuffling out.
Bella's heart hitched. That single word was both a promise and a question.
She watched him disappear through the door, snowflakes sticking to the back of his hoodie like tiny white secrets.
And in the sudden emptiness he left behind, she realized — this wasn't just about the snow.
It was about the space between them. A storm gathering beneath a fragile surface.
—
Mike Newton appeared at Bella's elbow the second they stepped out of Bio — all windbreaker swoosh and gelled optimism, like he was auditioning for a Disney Channel Original Movie where the lead's defining trait was "can almost do a kickflip."
"Dude," he groaned, dragging the word out like it owed him money. "You're so lucky you got Cullen. Lauren spent the entire lab adjusting her hair clips and talking about her split ends. I didn't even get to see the slide — I think she thought mitochondria was a shampoo brand."
Bella raised an eyebrow without looking at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Tragic. Did the mitochondria survive the trauma?"
Mike snorted. "Barely. I think it filed a restraining order."
She glanced over at him, smirking. "Honestly, that's fair. I've seen Lauren's flat iron work. That's chemical warfare."
Mike laughed, clearly pleased with himself for being within proximity of a decent joke. "But seriously — Cullen? You're like, the chosen one."
"Please don't Harry Potter me," Bella muttered. "I don't have the energy to fight Voldemort today. I've got gym class next period, which is basically the same thing."
Mike blinked at her. "Wait — you didn't think the lab was hard?"
Bella shrugged, adjusting the strap of her messenger bag. "Not really. Cells divide. People disappoint. Life goes on."
Mike stared like she'd just casually solved a Rubik's Cube while reciting Pi. "That's… wow. That's deep."
"No, Mike," she said, patting his arm like she was breaking bad news, "that's sleep-deprived nihilism and three Post-it notes of revision crammed into ten minutes before class. But sure. Let's pretend it's profound."
They exited the science wing, stepping into snow so thick it looked like a glitch in the Matrix. The air smelled like wet pine and impending frostbite.
Bella's boot sank into a hidden puddle with a suctiony shlurrrp.
"Ugh." She groaned theatrically, dragging one foot behind her like she was limping into battle. "Here lies Bella Swan, murdered by slush, survived by her tragic lack of core strength."
Mike grinned as he matched her pace. "It's not that bad. Gym's kinda fun."
"That's because you can throw things without dislocating your shoulder," Bella muttered. "Meanwhile, I'm out here doing avant-garde ballet every time a dodgeball looks at me wrong."
Mike laughed, pushing open the gym building door for her like he was scoring points. "You're exaggerating."
"Am I?" Bella gave him a flat look. "Last week I tripped during warmups. Warmups, Mike. I somehow managed to kick my own ankle. It was like watching a baby giraffe try to riverdance."
He laughed harder, eyes crinkling. "I'm sorry — I shouldn't laugh."
"No, you should. It's hilarious in a Darwin Awards kind of way."
They stepped into the gym foyer. It was the same as always — smelled like expired body spray, sweat, and rubber soles. Somewhere in the back, someone was already aggressively slamming basketballs against the floor like they were trying to summon an ancient god.
Bella slowed to a halt and looked at the chaos unfolding like a general surveying enemy territory. "Jesus, this place is a war crime."
"C'mon," Mike said, nudging her arm gently. "You'll be fine. You've got me on your team."
Bella deadpanned, "So you're saying I'll have a witness to confirm my tragic demise. Thanks. That's comforting."
Mike leaned closer, smirking. "If you die, I'll avenge you. Probably by dropkicking a volleyball or something. It'll be emotional. People will cry."
"I want my funeral playlist to be exclusively Avril Lavigne," she said solemnly, walking past the locker room doors. "The Let Go album. Start with 'I'm With You.' Let people feel things."
Mike laughed so hard he actually wheezed. "Okay, but Sk8er Boi for the credits, right?"
"Obviously," Bella said, as if that were the most serious thing they'd discussed all day.
They reached the gym floor, and Coach Clapp's whistle blew like a gunshot.
Bella sighed, adjusting her ponytail like someone preparing for battle. "Alright. Time to embarrass myself in front of the student body again. Let's hope I make it out with both kneecaps."
Mike gave her a thumbs up. "You've got this."
"I absolutely don't," she replied, already scanning for the safest corner to hide in. "But thanks for the propaganda."
—
The gym floor was already a battlefield. Somewhere to the left, a dodgeball bounced off the bleachers with the velocity of a minor explosion. Whistles pierced the air at random intervals like someone was operating a haunted tea kettle.
Bella adjusted the too-loose elastic on her borrowed gym shorts and sighed like she was about to undergo a public execution.
Coach Clapp stood at center court with a clipboard and a scowl. "Badminton today. Pairs. Newton, Swan — you're up. Court three."
Mike perked up. "Sweet. I've been practicing."
Bella blinked at him. "Practicing… badminton? That's a thing people do?"
"Hey," he said defensively, "it's more intense than it looks. It's got strategy. Reflexes. Drama."
"I once hit myself in the ear with the birdie," Bella said flatly. "The only drama here is whether or not I'll break my glasses."
They walked to their assigned court, where a net drooped slightly in the middle like it, too, had given up on its dreams.
Mike handed her a racket. Bella took it like he'd just given her a live grenade.
"You grip it like this," he said, demonstrating with the casual swagger of a boy who once placed third in a summer camp tournament and would never emotionally recover from it.
Bella mirrored his stance, sort of. Her racket wobbled dangerously in her hand. "I look like I'm about to swat a fly the size of a Buick."
"You'll do great," he said with all the blind optimism of someone who had never seen her try to hit anything on purpose.
"Are we defining 'great' as 'not a public liability' or 'didn't sprain anything'?" she asked, already backing into position.
Mike just grinned and tossed the birdie into the air. "Let's find out."
The game began with a serve that Bella somehow managed to not miss entirely. The birdie bounced weakly off her racket and fluttered like a dying moth over the net.
"Hey!" Mike said, catching it midair on the return. "Not bad!"
"Don't jinx it," she hissed, eyes darting around like she expected the floor to open beneath her at any moment.
They volleyed — generously speaking — a few rounds. Mike was clearly holding back, aiming gently and offering encouraging one-liners like, "That was better than last time!" and "You're almost facing the right direction!"
Bella, for her part, was trying not to trip over her own feet or accidentally decapitate anyone with her backswing.
It was going okay. Too okay.
Which meant, obviously, the universe had to intervene.
She lunged for a shot, mistimed the swing, and smacked herself square in the shin with her own racket. Hard.
"Son of a—!"
She bit off the rest, hopping on one foot while Mike tried to smother a laugh.
"Okay. That was... aggressive," he said, biting the inside of his cheek.
"Tell my future ghost I tried," Bella muttered, rubbing her leg and mentally drafting her lawsuit against the Washington public school system.
Across the gym, a group of guys launched into an overly intense dodgeball game, and one of the rubber spheres — bright red and vengeful — bounced violently off the wall and skidded across the floor, coming to a stop near Bella's feet.
She bent to grab it, wincing as her shin protested.
And that's when she felt it.
That weird little buzz at the edge of her awareness — like someone had turned the spotlight directly onto her spine.
She straightened slowly and glanced up toward the bleachers.
There he was.
Edward Cullen. Perched like some brooding vampire bat halfway up the stands, ignoring the open book on his knee and staring directly at her like she was a particularly confusing math problem.
Bella blinked.
Edward didn't look away.
Mike followed her gaze, then did a double take. "Is that… Cullen?"
"Apparently," Bella said, tossing the dodgeball back toward the court. "Do you think he's plotting my demise or just deeply confused by my badminton technique?"
Mike scratched his head. "Maybe both? He's kind of hard to read."
"You don't say."
Edward still hadn't moved. Just sat there, one hand loosely gripping the edge of the bleacher, eyes fixed. Like he was watching something important. Or dangerous. Or… hers.
Bella swallowed and turned away before she could start internally monologuing herself into a panic attack.
"I think I need a juice box," she muttered.
Mike snorted. "You good?"
"Nope." She picked up her racket again with the weary resignation of someone about to charge into battle. "Let's get this over with before Cullen starts writing my eulogy in cursive.".
---
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