Chapter 8

The smell of coffee always beat the alarm in this house. Charlie wasn't much for conversation before eight a.m., but he was a master of making the kitchen smell like a diner in a town that still had one. By the time I padded down the stairs, hair damp from the shower and hoodie half-zipped, he was already at the table in uniform, badge catching the early light from the window.

"Morning, Dad," I said, stepping around him to grab a mug.

"Morning," he said, voice low, like it hadn't warmed up yet. "Sleep okay?"

I poured coffee, added the splash of cream that made it more tolerable. "Fine. No raccoons on the roof this time."

"That's a plus." He glanced over the paper at me. "You got plans after school?"

I shrugged. "Homework. Maybe the garage. Bella's got what, like, three hours of brooding to get through?"

From behind me, a dry voice cut in. "I don't brood."

I looked over my shoulder as Bella appeared, hair slightly frizzed from rushing the dryer and a faint crease on her cheek from her pillow. "You do brood. It's one of your top three hobbies."

She made a face and went for the fridge. "And the other two?"

"Reading depressing books and staring at people in public."

Charlie raised his coffee like he was toasting me for the accuracy.

Bella ignored both of us and poured herself juice. "I don't stare."

I sipped my coffee. "You're a cafeteria stalker."

Her glare bounced off me like raindrops off a tarp.

Charlie closed the paper. "You girls want eggs? I've got time."

"Yes," I said before Bella could decline like she usually did. "She does too."

Bella gave me a look but didn't argue. We sat, and Charlie scrambled eggs in his no-nonsense way, as if the pan and spatula were a quiet negotiation he'd been winning for years. The three of us ate in companionable silence for a while—Charlie working through his coffee, Bella pushing eggs around before finally giving in, me going through two pieces of toast like I hadn't eaten in weeks.

When the clock on the wall hit the quarter hour, Charlie pushed back from the table. "You'll be late."

Bella and I exchanged a glance and got moving. Shoes, jackets—mine was an oversized black denim with a tear at the left elbow that I liked too much to fix. Bella grabbed her bag; I slung mine over my shoulder, lighter than it should've been if I'd actually packed everything.

Outside, the truck waited, patient and ugly in that reliable way old machines have. The morning air was damp, smelling faintly of cedar and the river. The drive to school was always quiet at first—Bella watching the road like it might jump her, me leaning into the window with my hand propped against my jaw.

Halfway there, Bella broke the silence. "Do you ever think about what people are like outside of school?"

"You mean like... they're actual people?" I said.

She gave me a flat look. "I mean, you know, the Cullens. What they do when they're not... being perfect."

I smirked. "Rosalie probably fixes cars. Emmett probably lifts something heavy just to put it down again. Edward probably... broods."

"That's not—" She stopped, realizing what I'd done. "You're impossible."

"You're curious," I said, tilting my head toward her. "And nosy."

"I'm not nosy."

"You've got Cullen-vision in the cafeteria," I said, turning back to the window. "I'm just waiting for you to start taking field notes."

She muttered something under her breath, and I let it drop.

By the time we pulled into the school lot, the sky had shifted from gray to lighter gray—Forks' version of a sunny morning. The Cullens' cars sat in their usual place, gleaming even under the muted light. I didn't linger on them. Rosalie wasn't outside, and without her, they were just expensive vehicles taking up space.

Bella parked, and we stepped out, the damp air wrapping around us like a second skin. The first bell was still a few minutes off, so clusters of students loitered near the doors. I caught snippets of conversations—weekend plans, complaints about homework, speculation about the Cullens like they were a TV show that never updated.

First period was English. I liked the teacher—he had a voice like an audiobook narrator and a habit of letting discussions go sideways if they were interesting enough. Bella sat two rows over, already unpacking her notebook, while I slid into my seat near the back. We weren't assigned to sit together, and I didn't mind. We worked better when we weren't in each other's pockets.

Class drifted by. I took notes in my own shorthand, more sketches than words, the way I always did when my brain was half-listening and half-watching the room. The Cullens didn't share this class. I noticed anyway that a few people in the front kept sneaking looks toward the window, like they were hoping one of them would walk by.

Second period was math, which I tolerated rather than liked. Numbers were fine; they just didn't hold my attention the way engines or hands-on work did. Bella wasn't in this class, and neither were the Cullens, so I tuned in enough to get the work done and let my mind wander the rest of the time. Mostly, I thought about the Ferrari under its cover in the garage, waiting. I could almost hear her.

By third period, I'd shaken the morning off. History was better—dates and cause-and-effect I could map in my head like a mechanical diagram. Bella and I shared this one, sitting together because the seating chart forced it. She kept her head down, scribbling in her notebook, but I caught her glancing toward the back corner once or twice. I didn't have to follow her line of sight to know who she was looking at.

When the bell rang, I leaned over as we packed up. "You're not subtle."

She flushed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh-huh. Just make sure you blink once in a while. People will think you're broken."

She shoved her notebook into her bag with more force than necessary. "You're such a pain."

"Part of my charm," I said, grinning.

We split in the hall for our next classes, the tide of students carrying us in different directions. I kept moving, eyes flicking over faces out of habit more than interest. The Cullens passed in a loose formation, the way they always did—silent, graceful, like the rest of the hallway wasn't there. Rosalie was at the center, hair catching what little light there was, eyes straight ahead.

Our gazes didn't meet, but mine lingered just a fraction longer than necessary. Then I looked away and kept walking.

________Fifth period was shop, my favorite part of the day. The smell of metal, grease, and faintly burned rubber felt more like home than any classroom. We were rebuilding a small block Chevy V8, and the sight of engine parts laid out on the workbench was enough to make me forget how slow the morning had been.

I lost myself in it—wrench in hand, mind ticking over torque specs and clearances. Mr. Harland, the shop teacher, knew I didn't need much supervision, so he mostly left me alone except to wander over now and then and comment on my work.

"You ever think about doing this for a living?" he asked as I was tightening a head bolt.

"I already do," I said without looking up.

He chuckled. "Fair enough. Just make sure you get the grades to back it up."

By the time the bell rang, my hands smelled like warm steel and oil—better than any perfume. I cleaned up, stowed my tools, and headed for sixth period.

⸻

Chemistry was next, and it couldn't have been more different. The air smelled faintly of alcohol wipes and chalk dust, and Mr. Lane's voice had the energy of a sedated turtle. Today's lesson was on covalent bonds. I copied the diagrams just to keep my brain occupied, letting the scratch of pen on paper drown out the monotone.

Outside the window, clouds gathered low and heavy. Forks rain had its own kind of clockwork—slow, deliberate, but certain. My mind drifted to the woods again, to the clean air and the rush of ground under my feet when I ran in panthera form. I decided I'd go out after school, let the day bleed off in the trees.

The bell broke through my thoughts, and I packed my notebook away.

⸻

The cafeteria was already buzzing when I stepped inside, a mix of laughter, overlapping conversations, and the scrape of chairs. Bella was at our usual table with her small group of friends. I got in line for food I wouldn't touch, settling for a bottle of water, and slid into my spot across from her.

From here, I could see the Cullens at their table without making it obvious I was looking. Rosalie sat angled slightly away, hair catching the muted light from the high windows. She wasn't laughing, but she wasn't frowning either—just quietly composed, the kind of stillness that made her more noticeable.

Bella's gaze lingered longer than mine. I leaned forward just enough for her to hear me over the noise.

"You know," I said, "if you stare any harder, you're gonna set something on fire."

She jerked her head toward me. "I'm not staring."

"You are. You've got Cullen-vision."

She rolled her eyes and stabbed at her apple slices. "You're annoying."

"Part of my charm," I said, peeling the label off my water bottle.

Across the room, Rosalie's eyes flicked in our direction. For a second, they met mine, and something in her expression shifted—just a fraction, but enough to make the background noise fade for a heartbeat. Then she looked away, and the moment was gone.

I sat back in my chair, hiding a small smile behind the bottle.