Thank you so much for reading and for all your reviews. I hope you won't hate me too much for the cliffhanger—and yes, I'm definitely procrastinating college work to write this!

I flipped a page in the well-worn book on my lap, though I had ceased truly reading the words some time ago. The sentences blurred together as my mind drifted toward my daughter in the next room. Before me, a small lamp pooled its glow over the pages, but even this soft light felt almost harsh in my heightened vision. Beyond the gentle hum of the heater in the cottage, I could hear Bella in the kitchen, moving about with determined motions as she prepared Renesmee's breakfast. It was a delicate dance for her—wanting to maintain normalcy for our little girl, who, after last night's revelations, might be too unsettled to enjoy anything. I wanted to believe we could soothe her, that our daughter would soon be bounding into the living room with her bright smile as usual. Yet the memory of her tearstained face, turned away from me in bed, still knotted my stomach.

I shut the book carefully, running my hand over the cover without any real sense of what I'd just read. Sitting idle felt wrong —there was a gnawing ache in my chest each time I recalled how Rosalie's words had cut into Renesmee's heart. I set the volume on the side table and rose, drifting toward the kitchen doorway to catch a glimpse of Bella. She stood at the counter, whisking eggs in a small mixing bowl, her brow creased in a mixture of worry and fury that had not abated since last night. I saw the subtle tension in her shoulders, a sign she was still thinking about Rosalie's betrayal, still bristling with protective anger.

I slipped behind her, leaning in to press a light kiss to her temple. She paused her whisking, closing her eyes for just a moment. "Morning," I whispered, though in truth, for us, the concept of morning was an odd ritual. We didn't sleep, but we had to remind ourselves of the daily cycle for Renesmee's sake. "Any sign she's awake yet?"

Bella shook her head, keeping her voice low. "Not yet. She was so exhausted, she slept in a bit longer than usual. I'm almost done with her breakfast. I'm making scrambled eggs and toast—something warm, comforting… hoping it'll help." Her voice caught slightly on that last phrase.

I nodded, sliding a hand gently across her back. "It will," I assured her, though I wasn't entirely certain of my own words. "We'll help her feel normal again."

Bella stirred the eggs once more, then set the bowl aside with a resigned sigh. "I can't stop thinking about Rosalie," she murmured. "Every time I imagine her telling Nessie those awful things… I want to barge into the main house and—"

"Shh," I murmured, carefully turning her to face me. "I understand. But you said it yourself last night—you don't want to confront her now when you're furious. Nothing good would come of it. And we have more urgent matters: Nessie's state of mind."

Bella nodded, swallowing hard. "I know. That's why I'm here, cooking breakfast—trying to keep my hands busy. Because if I went over there, I'm not sure what I'd do."

She set the whisk aside, and I squeezed her hand gently. "I get it," I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my tone. "But we'll handle Rosalie later. Right now, we need to focus on Nessie. We can show her that we both love her unconditionally… help her see I've always cherished her, that she's not just some 'obligation.'"

Bella's eyes softened. "Exactly." She turned back to the stove, pouring the whisked eggs into a pan. The sizzle of butter meeting eggs seemed too loud in the hushed cottage. Then she glanced at me over her shoulder. "You're sure about today's plan? Taking her out, just the two of you, on a sort of father-daughter adventure?"

I exhaled, leaning against the counter. "I am. We've talked about it so many times—she's been begging me for months. She wants to learn more about how we hunt, how we live. Obviously, she's far too young to truly feed from an animal herself if we were to go that route, but I can still show her the basics. It's… it's something that might remind her I'm proud of her. That I trust her."

Bella gave me a thoughtful look, flipping the eggs with a spatula. "It could be exactly what she needs. Some one-on-one time, without the tension of the house, without Rosalie looming around the corner. But please—be careful. Our daughter's still fragile right now."

I smiled wryly, though my chest felt tight. "I know. I'll be gentle."

The faint sound of soft footsteps caught my attention, and Bella's gaze flicked toward the doorway. I turned just in time to see Renesmee padding into the kitchen, still in her pajamas, her bronze curls slightly matted on one side. She looked smaller than usual, though that might have been my own projection of guilt. She paused when she saw me, her eyes darting away almost immediately as though uncertain she wanted to meet my gaze.

"Morning, baby girl," Bella said softly, the spatula still in her hand. "How'd you sleep?"

Renesmee offered a half-shrug, hugging her arms around her middle. She didn't answer right away, just drifted to Bella's side, carefully positioning herself to avoid looking directly at me. I swallowed, ignoring the sting of that tiny rejection. I noted the slight tension in her face, the guarded hush in her thoughts. Usually, I could sense a swirl of images or impressions from her mind, especially in the morning, but now, it was as though she was deliberately holding them back. She'd learned at a young age that I could read her mind, and sometimes she tried to keep her thoughts private by focusing on random nonsense or by simply pushing me out. Today, it felt like she was pushing me out.

Bella bent down to give her a quick kiss on the forehead. "Want some eggs? They'll be ready in just a second."

Renesmee nodded silently, still avoiding eye contact with me. My chest constricted, but I forced a gentle smile. "Morning, sweetheart," I said, striving for a calm, warm tone. "Did you… did you sleep okay?" I knew she likely didn't, but I asked anyway, hoping to bridge the distance.

She hesitated a beat, then mumbled, "Yeah, I guess," in a voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes darted to my face for half a second, then down to the floor. She hovered near Bella's legs, as though seeking refuge.

I tried to hide my disappointment. "Good," I managed. "I'm glad."

Bella finished plating the eggs and toast, then nudged the plate toward Renesmee at the small kitchen table. "Here you go, baby. Do you want some juice, too?" she asked, opening the fridge to retrieve a small pitcher.

Renesmee nodded again, sliding into a chair. She clutched her fork, poking at the eggs without enthusiasm, and I saw the little lines of worry around her eyes. My mind raced, wondering what I should say, how I might coax her out of her shell. But I also didn't want to force her. She was still recovering from the emotional blow of last night.

Bella set a glass of juice next to the plate. Then she sat down, angling her body so she could watch Nessie closely. I stood there, feeling strangely like an outsider in my own home. Finally, I cleared my throat gently, stepping over to the other side of the table so I could crouch down to Renesmee's eye level. She froze, glancing at me warily. I kept my voice quiet. "Nessie, sweetheart, I had an idea for today. I thought maybe we could spend some time together, just you and me. Would you like that?"

She shifted in her seat. A flicker of curiosity lit her eyes, but she quickly masked it. "What… what kind of time?" she asked.

I smiled softly. "Remember how you've been asking me for ages about how we hunt? That you wanted to learn more about tracking animals, how I do it, how the rest of the family does it ?" I waited, trying to gauge her reaction. "I thought we could finally try that out—go into the forest for a few hours. I can teach you the basics. We won't actually hurt anything. But we can at least explore together."

For a heartbeat, I saw the spark of excitement she usually displayed when we spoke of hunts. She'd asked so many questions in the past, her bright mind soaking up every detail. But almost as soon as that sparkle appeared, it flickered and went dim, replaced by a guarded expression. She glanced at her plate. "Okay," she said softly. "If… if you want. I guess."

Bella leaned forward, resting her hand on Renesmee's. "Nessie, your daddy wants to do this with you because he loves you. You've been asking for a long time, and he's excited to show you. It's not just an 'if you want' thing—it's something special for both of you."

Renesmee shifted in her chair, still holding the fork in her fist. "All right," she murmured. "We can go." She made a small effort to smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.

My heart twisted. I could see the war inside her: a child's natural desire to be happy, to do something fun, battling with the lingering hurt that Rosalie's words had caused. She was second-guessing my intentions, fearing perhaps that I was doing this out of some forced sense of duty rather than genuine love. I pressed a hand gently to her shoulder. "I can't wait," I said softly, hoping she'd hear the sincerity in my voice. "Eat your breakfast first, and then we'll get you bundled up. It's pretty cold outside."

She nodded, returning her focus to her plate. Bella caught my gaze from across the table, sending me a silent look of encouragement. I rose to my feet, unsure if hovering would make Nessie more uncomfortable. Instead, I stepped back and leaned against the counter, giving her space to finish eating. The hush in the room felt almost suffocating.

It took her a few minutes to pick through the eggs, and Bella tried to coax her into more conversation: "What color hat do you want to wear today?" or "Should we bring some snacks?" But Nessie answered with brief nods or single words. The bright chatter we usually enjoyed during breakfast was absent. Still, the fact that she'd agreed to the outing at all sparked a glimmer of hope in me. She could have refused outright—told me she only wanted Bella. That she didn't was enough to keep me going.

Once she finished her breakfast and drained her juice, Bella helped her wash her hands and face. Then I led her to the bedroom to dress her for the cold weather. She followed me, quiet but dutiful. Her small hand in mine felt precious, a subtle reminder of how fragile the bond between us now seemed. Just a day ago, she would have been giggling, bounding alongside me, filling my mind with her colorful thoughts. Now, she felt distant.

We picked out the green outfit Bella had mentioned earlier, a warm woolen sweater and matching snow pants that would keep her snug in the freezing forest. The color contrasted beautifully with her pale skin and bronze curls. As I pulled the sweater over her head, I couldn't help but smile at how big it looked on her—even though it fit properly, it made her appear so small and bundled, like a forest green marshmallow. She peered up at me with round eyes, and I realized I was staring in open adoration. Quickly, I cleared my throat and reached for her hat.

She lifted her arms as I attempted to fit the knitted beanie over her hair. "Ow—Daddy, my curls—" she complained, wincing as a few strands snagged.

"Sorry," I murmured, adjusting the hat more carefully. "You have such beautiful hair, sweetheart. It has a mind of its own sometimes."

She huffed, though a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It vanished quickly, but I saw it. That small flicker gave me another thread of hope. Gently, I tucked the rest of her hair under the hat and helped her into a heavier coat. By the time I finished, she resembled a bundled teddy bear, warm enough to handle a long trek in the snow.

Bella stood by the cottage door, arms folded, her expression a mixture of encouragement and worry. I met her gaze as I led Renesmee over. "We'll be back in a few hours," I said softly. "I have my phone if anything comes up."

She nodded, leaning in to brush a kiss against my cheek. Then she knelt to give Renesmee a warm hug. "Be safe, baby. Listen to Daddy, and have fun, okay?"

Nessie returned the hug, burying her face in Bella's shoulder briefly. I heard the faintest hitch in her breath, as though part of her wanted to cling to her mother instead. But then she nodded and withdrew, letting Bella rise. "Bye, Mommy," she whispered.

I reached for the door handle and felt Bella's hand close around my forearm for a moment. She locked eyes with me, sending a mental wave of confidence and love. "You've got this," she mouthed silently, her lips forming the words without sound. I nodded back, bolstered by her faith in me. One last glance at her, and I pushed the door open, guiding Renesmee out into the crisp winter morning.

Snow dusted the path, and a mild wind carried flakes across our vision. The sun was barely peeking through gray clouds, casting a diffused light over the forest. Renesmee shivered a bit, though her hybrid body ran warmer than a human's. I adjusted her hood, trying to keep it snug around her ears. "Let's walk for a bit," I suggested gently. "Then once we're a safe distance from the house, I'll show you how we pick up scents and track animals. Sound good?"

She shrugged, hugging her arms around her. "Okay."

We started off, leaving the cottage behind. I could still sense Bella's eyes on us from the window, her protective spirit unwilling to let us out of sight just yet. But soon, the trees thickened, and the cottage fell out of view. We trudged along a winding path, silent save for the crunch of snow beneath our feet. Normally, Nessie would be peppering me with questions about the local wildlife, or how to leap from rock to rock without slipping, or whether we'd see deer or bears. Today, she seemed content to walk in silence, shoulders hunched.

I weighed my words carefully. Perhaps I should give her space until she was ready to open up. But I also knew I had to break through the tension somehow. "Nessie," I began softly, "I know things have been… confusing lately. But I want you to know how happy I am to be here with you right now."

She glanced up, her eyes full of complicated emotions. "Why?" she asked.

I hesitated, stepping over a small branch in our path before turning back to her. "Because you're my daughter, and I love you. Spending time with you is never an obligation, it's something I look forward to. I've been waiting for a chance to do this together since the day you first asked."

She looked away, chewing on her lower lip. Her thoughts were still guarded, but I caught a flicker of uncertain hope. "Aunt Rosalie said…" She trailed off, her voice nearly lost in the gentle whoosh of wind.

My chest constricted. "I know," I said quietly. "She said some things that upset you. And we can talk about that if you want, or we can wait. But please believe that nothing changes how much I adore you, how precious you are to me. I was wrong at first, before you were born, but once I realized who you were… nothing matters more to me."

She kicked at a clump of snow, sending a small spray across the path. "I guess," she mumbled. But she didn't outright refute me, which was progress—albeit small. We continued on, letting the hush of the forest envelop us until we veered off the well-trodden path to a more secluded area thick with pines. Needles covered in a layer of white, branches drooping under the weight of fresh snowfall. The air was crisp, scented with fir resin and damp earth.

I knelt down, placing a hand on Renesmee's shoulder to draw her attention. "Okay, lesson one," I said, injecting a bit of warmth into my tone. "Close your eyes and just listen. Try to hear what's around you."

She frowned slightly, but she obliged, closing her eyes. Her breath came in small white puffs. I watched the subtle change in her posture as her heightened hybrid senses kicked in. She was half vampire, after all, which meant more acute hearing and smell than any human child. But controlling those senses was another matter. Sometimes she became overwhelmed. Sure enough, after a moment, her face scrunched with concentration.

"I hear… lots of things," she whispered, opening her eyes in confusion. "I can't focus."

I smiled encouragingly. "It takes practice. Imagine each sound is like a string in a big musical instrument. You can't listen to all the notes at once, so you choose one note to focus on. Once you hear it clearly, move on to the next. Slowly, your mind will adapt."

She nodded, swallowing hard, and tried again. After a few seconds, her breathing steadied, and her brow smoothed. "I hear… birds, I think. And the wind in the trees. And… water, maybe? A little stream?"

My smile widened. "Yes, exactly. There's a creek about fifty yards east of us. Good job." Pride tugged at my chest—she was so bright, so adaptable.

"Lesson two," I continued, rising to my feet. "Scent. That can be trickier because you might smell a lot of things all at once out here. But try to notice if anything stands out."

Renesmee took a deep breath, then wrinkled her nose. "I smell pine… wet dirt… and something fuzzy? Maybe an animal?"

I chuckled. "Fuzzy?"

She shrugged. "It's not exactly fuzzy, but it's… I don't know how else to describe it."

I nodded, stepping forward to gently brush aside a low-hanging branch. "Good enough. That fuzzy smell is probably a small mammal—like a rabbit or a squirrel. Are you up for following it?"

Her eyes flicked wide, curiosity sparked anew. "Yes!" she said, then caught herself, lowering her voice to a subdued, "I mean… sure."

"Come on," I said softly, extending my hand. She placed hers in mine, and I tried not to show how much that simple gesture meant to me. We moved slowly into the denser undergrowth, careful of the snow-laden branches. As we pressed forward, the faint scuffle of small paws reached my ears. Renesmee heard it too, her head snapping in that direction.

"There!" she whispered, pointing. We crouched down. Through the patch of evergreens, I spotted a rabbit, its fur brownish-gray. It was nibbling on some dried grass near a fallen log. Renesmee's excitement rolled off her in a sweet wave, and I could see the flicker of her old self returning: eyes bright, cheeks flushed, mind dancing with curiosity.

She glanced at me, as if asking for permission to approach. I nodded, placing a finger to my lips in a gesture of silence. Carefully, we stepped closer. She moved in a way that was both clumsy and graceful—a three-year-old trying to mimic a vampire's stealth. She nearly tripped on a rock hidden beneath the snow, but caught herself with a soft gasp. The rabbit's head jerked up, ears twitching. Renesmee froze. For a few heartbeats, the rabbit stared straight at us, its nose quivering.

Then, in a burst of movement, it darted away. Renesmee let out a squeal of surprise and immediate delight. "Oh! Wait—no, come back!" She stumbled after it, her laughter ringing through the trees. I followed closely, my own heart lifting at the sound of her joy.

The rabbit led us on a merry chase. It dashed around tree trunks, over a small mound of snow, and Renesmee giggled as she tried to keep up, calling to the rabbit as if it might actually respond. She didn't intend to hurt it—she was far too tenderhearted for that—but the thrill of seeing an animal in the wild enthralled her. That bubble of childish wonder was precisely what I'd hoped to see today.

We pushed through the trees until the forest opened onto a small clearing. At one end, a frozen lake glinted under the winter light. The rabbit scampered right onto the ice, its claws scrabbling for traction. Renesmee slowed, uncertain. She stood at the edge where land met ice, scanning the rabbit's path. I stepped beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Careful," I warned. "The ice can be dangerous, especially with the weather warming just a bit. We shouldn't go too far out."

But she was already eyeing the rabbit as it hopped across the slick surface. A breathy laugh escaped her. "Look at it go!" she marveled, pointing at the little creature. Then, with that unshakeable curiosity, she took a step forward onto the ice.

"Renesmee—" I started, but she was too quick. She tottered after the rabbit, arms out for balance. A grin spread across her face, the shadow of yesterday's sadness momentarily forgotten in the thrill of the chase. My chest felt lighter at the sight, yet I remained vigilant. I disliked the potential hazards of the ice. We were quite far from the main house.

"Nessie, come back. It's not safe," I called gently, stepping forward. Even with my unnatural grace, I could sense the ice beneath my foot giving a slight crackle. The winter had been cold, but there was no telling how thick this section was—especially near the center. The rabbit, spooked by our presence, continued its scramble until it reached the far side of the lake. It paused there, ears flicking, as if taunting us. Nessie took another step, wobbled, and giggled. "Daddy, I can do it," she insisted.

An uneasy feeling crept over me. I moved closer, trying not to let my weight hit one spot too suddenly, but the ice shifted with a faint groan. "Nessie, that's enough," I said, voice firm. "We'll find the rabbit another day."

Disappointment flickered on her face. "But—"

A sudden, sharp crack cut through the air. My senses went on high alert. I saw a spiderweb of fractures split the ice beneath Renesmee's small boots, fanning out in a jagged ring around her. She let out a yelp, arms pinwheeling for balance. Without thinking, I lunged forward, but the moment I shifted my weight, another crack sounded like gunfire. The ice gave way beneath her with a sickening crunch. I saw her eyes widen in terror as she dropped through, vanishing into the black, frigid water.