Bella was already unbuckling her seatbelt before Charlie had fully killed the engine, a rare smile brightening her usually guarded features.

As you slid into the booth across from Bella, she propped her chin on her hand, studying you with those knowing brown eyes.

One of them, a broad-shouldered man with dark, curly hair, was leaning back in his chair, his body language loud and playful even in silence. He was mid-conversation with the bronze-haired man beside him, his grin wide and infectious, his hands gesturing animatedly.

The woman with the pixie cut laughed at something he said, her voice a tinkling bell that cut briefly through the diner's noise. The blonde beside her remained still as a statue, her beauty almost painful to look at directly.

The dark-haired man was in the middle of an exaggerated story. his hands sweeping through the air as if describing something massive —and I'm telling you, it was this big—

The diner door chimed.

You stepped inside, shrugging off the damp of the Forks drizzle, the cold clinging to your jacket. The warmth of the diner wrapped around you like a blanket, and the smell of coffee and grilled food settled familiar in your chest.

The dark-haired man—Emmett—stopped mid-sentence.

His head snapped up with a motion so sharp it was almost predatory. His golden eyes, catching the dim light, fixed on you with an intensity that seemed to physically cut through the distance between the booths.

His smile vanished. The playful, open expression on his face was replaced by something utterly still. Utterly focused. He didn't blink. He didn't look away.

He sat frozen, a predator who had just caught the scent of something he couldn't quite comprehend. The conversation around him faded into static, his attention narrowing into a razor-thin beam, locked solely on you.