It mists through the cedars in a fine, cold drizzle, soaking into the gravel of the Swan driveway. The moving truck is still half-full, its back yawning open to the grey sky, boxes of your old life scattered across the wet lawn in a chaos you haven't bothered to sort.

Bella is inside, somewhere. You can hear the clatter of dishes, the low murmur of Charlie's police radio.

The air smells of damp earth and pine. Familiar, in a way that aches.

A low rumble cuts through the rain. An engine, dying out at the end of the drive. Then footsteps, heavy and quick, splashing through puddles.

A figure rounds the side of the truck, ducking under the tailgate. Tall. Dark hair pulled back. Brown skin gleaming wet under the grey light.

He stops when he sees you.

There's something caught in his expression — a flicker, a jolt, like he's been hit in the chest. His mouth parts, just slightly. His hands hang at his sides, clenched.

Then, as quickly as it came, it's gone. He blinks. Swallows.