The air in Port Angeles was cold and wet, a sharp contrast to the dry heat of Phoenix. It clung to your clothes and skin like a second layer, carrying the faint, clean scent of pine and salt from the nearby coast. The small airport terminal buzzed quietly around you, but your eyes landed on a familiar figure standing near the baggage claim, his uniform slightly rumpled and his expression caught somewhere between nervous and relieved.

He glances past you to Bella, then back, as if trying to memorize the sight of both his kids standing here in Forks for the first time in years. The weight of that — of leaving Renee and Phil, of choosing this gray, rainy corner of the world — settles somewhere in your chest.