Stephenie Meyer owns all of these characters. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

It's morning. Craaaaap.

I pretty much fall out of bed, I'm so tired. No sleep at all last night. Every time I tried, there came that inexplicable fear: the racing heartbeat, the cold sweat, the – well, you know. That feeling. I know someone was in my room last night.

I should tell my dad. I should, I know I should, but I…I can't. I just can't. I'm seventeen. Soon I'll be going off to college where I'll have to take care of myself. And I can take care of this problem.

Of course, right now, I have to take care of this headache.

My dad's cooking breakfast as I come down the stairs. The gurgling of the coffee machine is music to my ears. And…oh, is that the sizzle of a frying pan I hear? Fantastic.

"Breakfast time, Bells!" My dad is very much a morning person. Hell, he's even whistling.

"Morning," I mutter, trying to sound as if I got a normal amount of sleep.

He stops. "You don't look so good. Had a bad night?"

Cue an incomprehensible teenage grunt from me as I help myself to breakfast. "Yeah. You know, still getting used to school and all that."

He shrugs, scratches his mustache, and says, "Well, Bells, if there're any problems, you make sure you tell me." He glances at his watch. "Gotta go, kiddo. Duty calls." He ruffles my hair like I'm six again.

And there he goes. If you ask me, he's way too cheerful to be a cop.

Right. That is it. You know that guy in my Bio class? He's still staring at me. Same creepy I-have-you-now-my-pretty look in his eyes.

It might just be the lack of sleep talking, but I really want to punch him in the face and then zap him with the pepper spray in my bag. Fortunately, my mind decides that this course of action is a little too extreme, so I bide my time until after class. I take notes on genetic structures and try to make a plan.

Crap. He's still staring. Doublecrap. I'm blushing. What the hell are you doing, blood vessels?

Notes. Right. Plan.

The bell rings. Time for lunch, thank God. But first…

"You. Hey, you." I tap his shoulder, adrenaline buzzing around my ears. "What's your problem?" I hope I come across as rude, but the most I can really manage is mildly intrusive.

His expression is completely different when he turns around. Bland, generic innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says.

Aaaand there goes my self-confidence. Coward. A simple denial has you afraid again. Look at him. Lazy, self-absorbed eyes. Aristocratic features. Meticulously styled bed-head. What an asshole. Pretty, but a complete and total asshole. And despite that, he has you cowering like some little maggot.

I recover a bit. Direct suspicion away from myself. "You look so angry in that class. What, you don't like Mr. Brennan?"

"Ah, so you're looking at me, then." He's got this stupid little half-grin on his face as he sticks a hand out. "Edward Cullen."

"Yeah, okay. Way to answer the question. Bella Swan." I don't shake his hand.

"Miss Bella, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the outside world for lunch? It's a senior privilege." Wow. Is he really trying that with me? Really?

I snort. "To put it plainly, no. I'll see you later." As my mom says, a nice short reply will always confuse the bullshitters. I'm feeling much better. Less scared, for one thing.

I see his expression flicker. There's that look again, the subtle twitch of the eyebrows, a clenching of teeth. He recovers, but by that time, I'm already turning to walk away.

Right. I need more coffee.