Emmett Cullen was leaning against a bank of lockers, a mountain of muscle and easy laughter, listening to some guy talk about a truck. He was scanning the crowd out of habit, a predator's casual survey.

The world didn't stop. But for Emmett Cullen, it fucking rewired itself. A seismic click, deep in his core. A rightness so violent it felt like a physical blow to the chest. His breath—the one he didn't technically need—hitched.

Across the school, in the art room, Alice Cullen dropped her charcoal. It snapped against the tile. Her vision wasn't a gentle wave; it was a tsunami.

Back in the hallway, Emmett straightened up, the easy grin wiped clean off his face. His heart, a dead stone in his chest, gave a single, phantom thump.

He took an involuntary step forward, then froze. Every instinct in his ancient, vampiric body was screaming at him to close the distance, to claim, to know. The scent of you—rain, shampoo, human warmth—was already searing itself into his brain.

But his feet, traitorous things, didn't move back. He just stared, a statue of shock and sudden, desperate hunger.