A/N: Hey. A lot has happened to me since i was last on here. My mother Ascended at the beginning of this year. Grief is ... untethering. I miss her so much..And what do we want when we're hurting?

Comfort.

Fanfic has always been a digital space of comfort for me. The joy i get from this place is truly a blessing. So thank you all for being here and contributing (whether by reading, BETA stuff, posting, Reviewing, etc). This site and my new first furry sun are the only things keeping me sane rn.

it has been a long time since I returned to the story so forgive me if things take a little bit of time to xome together.. actually scratch that hopefully my writing and the storyline) supersede what they used to be..

The bell above the door gave a cheerful jingle as Chief Swan stepped into the diner, the warm scent of coffee and grilled onions brushing up against the cool Seattle air still clinging to his coat.

He paused just past the threshold, steel-toed boots scuffing faintly against the worn tile, and scanned the place like it was second nature. His flannel shirt softened the usual edge of his uniform jacket, and his freshly shaven face made him look… lighter. Not younger, but like he'd recently laid something down.

Beaufort blinked up at the lights, secure in his grandfather's arm. His little fish-print onesie bunched at the knees as he wriggled and let out a high, happy squeal, grabbing at the collar of Charlie's jacket with sticky fingers.

From behind the counter, Sue Clearwater caught sight of them just as she was untying her apron. Her eyes widened a little—not in surprise, exactly, but like she hadn't quite expected him today. She smoothed a palm down the front of her chef's coat and slid the apron off, folding it with practiced ease.

Charlie raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. "You about to clock out, or do I get lucky?"

Sue let out a soft huff of a laugh. "Depends. You buying me lunch, Chief?"

"Only if you'll let me share it with you," he said, nodding to Beau, who was now gnawing thoughtfully on his own wrist. "The little guy's been talking about soup all morning."

Sue rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. Sue slid into the booth with a quiet sigh, her shoulders finally sinking as the weight of the shift began to melt off her. With one hand, she reached up and started pulling pins from her hair. The neat bun at the top of her head loosened slowly, and the braid coiled beneath it fell heavy down her back—long, dark, and deliberate.

Charlie's gaze lingered, softened. His eyes dropped to the end of the braid where a tie was knotted into the twine—faded and familiar.

"That's a beautiful way to honor Harry," he said, his voice low but clear.

Sue's eyes flicked up, surprised for just a second, and then softened. "He always loved weird ties," she murmured, and didn't pull away when Charlie reached across the table and gently took her hand in his. Their fingers laced like they had done this before—maybe in another life.

"I'm glad you're here," Charlie said quietly. "It's good… seeing you like this."

Before she could respond, the waitress approached.

Before more could be said, a bright voice chimed in from beside the booth.

"You three look like trouble."

They looked up to find Kimberly, notepad in hand, flashing a grin as warm as the sunlight streaming in through the back window.

Her locks—short, dark, budding, and beautifully arranged—framed her face like a halo, thick with texture and clearly Black in care, while her features leaned more Indian. One hoop and one delicate gold stud hung from her ears, mismatched with intention.

She wore a fitted jacket over her apron, embroidered with little designs—maybe henna-inspired, maybe just hers.

Charlie squinted at her name tag. "Kimberly, huh? new here?"

"New-ish. Took over this section a few weeks back. Seattle born, but I used to spend summers in Forks," she said. "It was cute. But let's be honest, the only real tourist stop in Forks is the Natives."

Sue barked out a laugh, sharp and amused. "You know, my kids still hang out down at the beach. You should swing by sometime. They'll show you around."

Kimberly winked. "Might take you up on that."

Sue glanced at the menu briefly. "I'll take the double patty burger, side salad, and a margarita. Heavy on the lime."

Charlie nodded. "Cream of wheat for the little guy, OJ on the side. And uh… gimme the Winner's Special."

Kimberly paused. "You fish?"

"Only when there's a photo involved," he said with a smirk.

Kimberly snorted. "Alright, Chief. Let's see if you've still got it."

She jotted the order and spun off with practiced ease. They watched her go.

"She's got style," sue murmured.

"Spunk too." Charlie murmured.

Charlie nodded slowly, his smile gentle, but there was a faraway look in his eyes. "She reminds me of Bella…"

He trailed off.

Sue turned toward him slightly, watching the weight settle over his face again—the flicker of grief. Charlie cleared his throat, eyes flicking to the baby now babbling to himself in the highchair.

"Sorry. She just would've… liked her. That's all."

He stopped. Just like that. As if the thought had turned too sharp halfway through.

Sue didn't say anything right away, just squeezed his hand. That was enough.

And then—

Beau squealed, loud and sharp, twisting in his highchair like he'd just spotted magic. His arms flailed toward the door with wild delight, fat legs kicking against the wood of the seat.

The bell jingled.

Jacob Black stepped through, shoulders relaxed and gait easy, but there was always something watchful in the way he moved.

His long hair was in a high sloppy man bun, but strands hung over his shoulders, wild and half-damp at the ends.

His Dickies overalls were tied around his waist, the straps knotted loosely above the hips of his worn work pants. A faded black T-shirt clung to his chest, slightly damp at the collar and stretched from wear.

He looked like he'd come straight from the shop—like he hadn't bothered to do anything but wash his hands before showing up.

Charlie let go of Sue's hand slowly, like he'd forgotten he was still holding it. Sue straightened, and a flicker of surprise crossed her face before easing into something warmer.

"Looks like the cavalry's here," she murmured, smiling as Beau squealed again, this time high-pitched and breathless.

Jacob didn't even hesitate—he walked straight to the back booth like he belonged there, like this was just another Thursday afternoon. Without missing a beat, he swooped Beau up, lifted him into the air like a flying fish, and then slid into the booth beside Sue with the baby perched easily on his hip.

Jacob grinned and swooped in without hesitation, lifting Beau high with a dramatic airplane swoosh.

"There's my pup!" he laughed, twirling the squealing toddler above his head before slipping into the booth beside Sue with practiced ease.

"How's Junior?" he asked Charlie, settling Beau on his lap like it was second nature.

Charlie shook his head, still smiling. "Loud. Happy. Yours, basically."

Sue laughed under her breath. "You're late."

"I had grease in my hair," Jacob said, tugging one of the tied-overall straps. "Still do."Jacob muttered, brushing a damp strand off his forehead.

Without thinking, Sue reached next to him im the shared booth seat & gently brushed her fingers along the side of his head, catching a loose braid near his temple. "It's good to see your mane returning again."

Jacob went still for a moment—not stiff, just… present. His voice dropped, soft and low. "Had to grow it back," he said. "Couldn't burn it. Not all of it."

Sue's eyes moved along the length of one of his braids. If you looked closely—closer than most people ever dared—you'd see the difference. Just near the base, a few strands of hair were slightly lighter, softer in texture, woven with care into his own.

She said nothing, but she knew.

Jacob didn't look at her. His thumb was stroking Beau's curls absently. "It's for her," he added after a moment. "Like you with Harry."

There was a beat of silence.

Charlie's eyes glistened, the edges damp with a quiet grief that never really left him. He blinked slowly, holding it back—but not all the way.

"I'd love to honor my Bells that way too," he said softly. The words felt tentative, like he wasn't sure if he had the right to say them aloud. "Maybe a little one. A rat tail or somethin'…"

Sue's smile returned gently. "A rat tail, huh?"

He huffed a little, sheepish.

She slid across the booth in one smooth movement, her knee bumping lightly against his under the table. Then, without a word, she reached up and combed her fingers through the back of his hair—slowly, almost thoughtfully, like she was tracing a future parting line.

"Might suit you," she murmured, her tone teasing but fond.

Charlie flushed pink, a quiet Swan blush rising to his cheeks.

"I do have a comb in my purse," she added as she stood, smoothing her shirt. "But lucky for you, I've got to use the ladies' room first."

She leaned down before stepping away, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck once more, a feather-light parting touch that lingered just a second too long to be casual.

Charlie stayed still, watching her go, ears tinged pink and heart doing something it hadn't in a while—warming.

The marble beneath Bella's feet was cool, but her body burned with effort. Weighted gauntlets wrapped her forearms like iron vines, and the socks around her ankles pulsed with every calculated movement. Sweat pooled at her temples. Her breath was tight, controlled, metered.

Each motion was slow and deliberate—a kata, a meditation, a dance of violence dressed in discipline.

Across the training space, lounging like a war goddess in repose, Didymium reclined on a long chaise. Her red cloak draped across the velvet cushions like spilled wine. One hand held a bloodstained crystal goblet; the other gripped the forearm of a human man she drank from with idle, disinterested precision.

The metal strains of classic lyric metal echoed through the open-air courtyard—words in Latin, maybe, or just nonsense syllables arranged like ritual. The music didn't match the setting, but that made it worse. Better. Untouchable.

Bella pivoted into a side stance, her balance slightly off from the new swell of weight at her center. Her children shifted within her. She gritted her teeth, realigned her hips, and punched forward.

Didymium's eyes opened—not with surprise, but recognition.

He flinched like that once.

Her mind drifted—unbidden, but not unwelcome.

Edward is finishing off a nun—but he didn't feed like a mindless monster. He seduced her. Made her want to give herself. It's part of his sickness during the rogue years: not just drinking from them, but enthralling them first. He takes too long. He makes it intimate. That's his way of punishing himself.

He's in a different form—not the Edward we know. Maybe darker hair. A crueler mouth. Older features. Still beautiful, but wrong.

He steps back from her drained body, lips red, eyes bright, shirt open. He's whispering apologies to the corpse even as he buttons up.

"You knew what I was," he murmurs. "And you came anyway."

And then—

Didymium claps. Once. Slowly.

Her voice comes from the darkened apse behind the altar.

"Touching," she says, her voice a blend of velvet and venom. "You even gave her a kiss goodbye."

Edward whirls around—but doesn't posture. He knows she's old. Powerful. Dangerous.

"Who are you?"

Didymium steps forward. Her body is adorned but feral—red cloak over something ancient and ceremonial, like Roman war priestess meets high vampire court. Her eyes glow, not from hunger, but from awareness.

"A sibling to monsters. A rival to gods."

"That wasn't an answer."

"It was a better one than you deserved."

They circle each other like twin wolves, eyes locked.

She sees through him—not the face he's wearing, not the pretty lie he wrapped himself in, but the true shape of him. The incubus. The empty boy who wants to be feared and adored in the same breath.

"You're not a vampire," she says, smiling without warmth. "Not fully. No wonder you crave girls who already want to die."

Edward flinches.

She does not make noise—he feels her. The pressure drop. The air thinning. The instinctive awareness of a peer.

"It's rare," she says, stepping into the candlelight, "to see one of your kind in the wild anymore."

Edward turns, warily.

"My kind?"

"You're no mere vampire."

"I can smell the glamour. The mimicry. You feed on want, not just blood."

She moves like smoke—not hostile, but too powerful to ignore. His instincts split: fight, flee, or fuck.

Edward steps toward her, not out of courage, but need.

His voice is dark silk.

"And what do you want from me?"

"To remember," she says. "To understand what it was like before you all forgot what you were."

That interests him. Deeply. Too deeply. It touches something ancient and aching inside him—something that even Carlisle never acknowledged.

He steps close, testing her. The smile he gives is dangerous.

"You came here alone?"

"You think I need an escort?"

"No," he whispers. "But you might want one."

And then—it begins.

He touches her. Not like prey. Like challenge. Like someone trying to make her flinch.

He brushes her jaw. Slides a hand along her throat. Whispers something in a dead language into her skin.

She doesn't stop him.

She leans in, eyes open, watching every muscle move.

He tries to seduce her the way he does mortals—eyes glowing, voice like honey mixed with ash. His form flickers, subtly—his hair darkens, his skin shifts, his height adjusts slightly. All meant to appeal to her preferences.

She watches. Plays along. Even lets him press her to the broken altar.

And when his mouth brushes her collarbone—

"Do you want me?" he murmurs.

She smiles.

"No," she says. "But I see why they all do."

Then she flips him—fast, cruel, graceful. A blur. One moment he's in control, the next he's on his knees, her hand around his throat.

She lets him feel the power gap.

"Older than both your self-loathing and your jawline," she replied, smiling.

He chuckled. "Who are you really?"

She didn't answer.

He was close enough to touch. His glamour shifted—his hair darker, his height adjusted, his skin warmed, just slightly. His beauty rewrote itself with every breath.

His fingers found her jaw, slow. Testing. "I could ruin you."

"You couldn't reach me. You have teeth, little devil. But no crown."

Then she releases him. Not as punishment—but as invitation.

You seduce mortals because you're afraid of equals."

"I'm not afraid of you," he hissed.

"No," she said. "But you'll dream of me. For centuries."

She kissed his forehead—not tenderly, but like a benediction.

"Come find me when you're tired of pretending you're the worst thing in the dark."

and vanished.

Bella stumbled, breath ragged, and blinked as if she'd fallen out of someone else's dream.

Didymium was still watching her—but now with a small, unreadable curve to her mouth.

"Again," she said softly. "And this time… don't flinch."

Bella moved.

A small motorboat whined up to the dock, dragging with it the scent of sweat, bleach, and canned fruit.

The human cleaning crew began to disembark—five of them. Talking shit in half-English, hauling bags of supplies. All local. All temporary.

Didymium rose from her chaise and spoke, her voice a silken blade.

"Help her… and die."

The workers froze.

"You may clean. You may earn your wages. But you are guests on my island. Do not speak to her without permission. Do not linger."

A few of them looked toward Bella, wide-eyed.

Bella didn't meet their gaze. Her heart stuttered at the my again. It echoed in her ribcage.

They curse in Spanish and Portuguese. Someone jumps to the sand too fast and lands awkwardly. It's mundane. Normal.

Bella watches.

Didymium does not.

One worker stays on the boat a beat too long. Hooded. Still. Not sweating.

They step forward. Boots hit the dock. Quiet. Controlled.

They remove the cap.

Hair spills out. Blonde.

A ring glints—a Roman signet.

Rosalie Hale.

She looks up. Her eyes are black with travel and allegiance.

Bella doesn't breathe.

Didymium lifts the bloodbag's wrist to her lips again and murmurs, almost amused—

"Let the devout come home."

Rosalie's hood fell.

Blonde hair spilled free, shorter than Bella remembered, but no less luminous. Her eyes—black, not from hunger but from distance—locked instantly on Bella.

And then dropped.

To her stomach.

Not a flicker of shock. No gasp. No greeting. Just the widening of her gaze, a beat of stillness, and then—

A smile.

Slow. Reverent. Possessive.

Like the sight was holy.

"So it's true," Rosalie murmured, stepping fully onto the stone courtyard.

She moved closer without waiting for permission. Didymium didn't stop her.

"Bella," she said. Not a question. A confirmation. A claiming.

Bella stood rooted to the marble. Her breath had gone shallow. Her arms ached from training, her muscles still trembled. But Rosalie—Rosalie looked at her like she was the last fire in a world gone cold.

"I came as soon as I heard," Rosalie said, softer now. Her voice was gentler than Bella remembered, but still carried that steel thread underneath. "You're carrying them. You're carrying them."

She looked like she wanted to reach out and touch her. Maybe even kneel.

Bella flinched.

Rosalie stopped. Her head tilted, as if reassessing.

"I won't hurt you," she said. "I would never hurt a mother."

Her gaze returned to Bella's stomach, and her smile shifted—warmer now. "You have no idea what it means that they exist, do you?"

Didymium didn't speak. She watched. Smiling faintly. Drinking deeply from her silence.

Rosalie stepped closer again, this time with slower grace, her voice lower, reverent:

"I thought I would never see it. Not in my lifetime. Not in anyone's. But you… You made the impossible real."

Bella finally found her voice, though it came out rough. "Did you come for me?"

Rosalie's eyes flicked up—finally meeting hers.

"No," she said honestly. "I came for them."

She took a breath she didn't need.

"But if you're willing… I'll stay for you too."