He felt raw. Still burning from the argument—Bella's voice sharp in his ears, the mention of Edward and his cold granite family, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke of a future without him. His jaw tightened.

Not thinking about that. Not today.

He slammed the truck door hard enough to echo across the yard, boots crunching against the wet stone path. The house was warm—he could feel the heat spilling from the kitchen window, mixing with the smell of rain and something sweet, something baking. He'd planned to throw open the front door without knocking, quirking a sarcastic remark at whatever lunatic was occupying Sam's kitchen.

He pushed the door open. The screen door rattled behind him.

The air inside wrapped around him, smelling like cinnamon and rain and something else—something like the electricity that could not be seen but still filled the room. The rain beat louder. The wind howled. Sam looked up from the table, his mouth open mid-sentence. Emily stood by the stove, her hand frozen over the pan.

But Jacob wasn't looking at them.

His gaze had already latched on the figure by the window, tucked into the corner with a mug cradled between her hands, a book open on her lap. Her hair, damp at the edges like she'd been caught in the rain, was streaked with a natural brown, curling just past her shoulders. She hadn't looked up yet.

Jacob didn't realize he'd stopped breathing. He didn't realize he'd stopped thinking at all.

She looked up.

The girl in the window seat blinked. Rain water dripping down the glass steamed behind her. Her eyes, brown and gray-flecked, softened with something curious—and then, something else entirely. A spark. A pull. A jolt in her chest that made her breath catch.

The book slid from her hands, landing softly on the floor.