Chapter Text
And they expect me to go to Chemistry class?
Fat chance.
…
I rest the back of my head against the bookshelf, arms crossed over my knees.
What the hell am I even supposed to do? I’m in an impossible situation. I mean, what the fuck is someone who apparently wasn’t even supposed to exist meant to do here? If this really is a book series, then maybe everything is going to be alright for Bella. She’s the protagonist, after all.
I just don’t want her to suffer.
And I do remember her crying a lot in the movies.
I lower my forehead onto my arms, still curled up in a fetal position.
And there go my hopes that I’m just crazy.
Now I’m crazy and in danger.
Maybe I'll just talk to Charlie. Tell him I hate it here. Transfer to some school in Seattle. Study online. Convince Bella to come with me.
Oh. Or I could get myself expelled.
Honestly, it’d be way cooler if I got expelled.
I mean, nobody here besides Bella knows who I am. Nobody knows my personality. I could invent a whole cool-kid persona. Fight the school bullies. Send someone to the hospital. I don’t know.
Riiinggg.
Even when the bell signaling the end of lunch rings, I don’t move.
This is the first step of my rebel life.
“Ditching on the first day. Maybe I am cool.”
Then again, who ditches school inside the library?
“Maybe,” a smooth voice says somewhere to my left.
It’s so sudden that my whole body jerks.
“AAAAGHHHHH—”
The scream dies the second I look up.
He’s there.
The blond boy from English.
He’s standing at the end of the aisle, half-shadowed by the shelf, so still it’s like he’s been carved into the corner and I just hadn’t noticed. One shoulder is resting against the metal, posture loose, almost casual.
Like he didn’t just scare the soul out of me.
We lock eyes.
And every scrap of control I’ve managed to gather back into myself is gone.
And something shifts.
His own surprise flashes across his face a beat too late, his eyes widening just slightly, like he’s the one who’s been startled now. Then, slowly, the expression changes. The tension leaves him in a visible wave. His shoulders loosen. His mouth softens. He looks almost... relieved.
Not relaxed in a normal way, either. More like someone has just turned off a noise that’s been blaring in his head for too long.
And he keeps looking at me.
Curious now.
Intent.
Like he’s trying to understand what just happened.
My heart gives one awful, crushing thud.
And then all at once, every bit of panic I had barely managed to drag under control comes crashing back into me.
It hits so hard it almost hurts.
My chest tightens. My pulse pounds. My thoughts scatter so fast I can barely hold onto one before the next one slams into it. The same cold certainty surges through me again, heavy and merciless:
I am going to die.
What the fuck. I am going to die.
He's going to kill me.
Vampire.
I can’t stop thinking. The word just keeps flashing through my head, bright and hysterical and impossible to shove away.
But he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t bare his teeth or narrow his eyes or do anything threatening at all.
He’s still just standing there, looking at me with the faintest smile, so soft and absent it almost doesn’t seem meant for me. More like he’s staring through me. Or at the wall behind me. Like I’m not even important enough to be dangerous.
That steadies me. A little.
Just enough for one reckless thought to rise above the panic.
I swallow, still staring right back at him.
Then, I slowly word out the phrase inside my head: ‘I know what you are.’
Nothing.
His expression doesn’t change.
So I try again, louder this time in my own head, like that would somehow make a difference.
‘You're a Vampire.’
Still nothing.
No reaction. No sudden movement. No sign at all that he’s heard me.
Some of the pressure in my chest eases.
Not much.
Just enough to breathe around it.
He can’t read my thoughts.
Okay.
Okay, that’s something.
I’m still terrified.
Still ready to bolt if he so much as twitches wrong.
But not completely drowning anymore.
His eyes stay locked on mine.
Then something shifts. He snaps his head left, the sudden movement prompts me to look too.
“Lunch’s over, kiddos.”
The old librarian is staring at us from the end of the aisle, peering over a pair of small oval glasses balanced low on her nose. She is tiny but terrifying, wrapped in a long brown cardigan that somehow makes her look even more severe. Her gray hair is pinned up in a loose, crooked bun, and her face is all sharp lines and disapproval. Her voice comes out low and rough, like gravel dragged over wood.
Right now, it is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.
“Yes. Yes! I was just heading out—um, bye.”
I scramble to my feet so fast my legs almost give out under me. I catch myself on the edge of the metal shelf with a loud clatter, mutter a horrified apology to no one in particular, and hurry off before either of them can say anything else.
The second floor of the library feels even more confusing when I’m trying to escape it. The shelves stretch in neat rows that somehow still manage to feel like a maze, all narrow paths and dead ends and corners that look exactly the same. I turn too sharply, nearly shoulder-check a cart of books, then find the stairs and take them much too fast.
My foot slips on the second-to-last step.
I pitch forward with a tiny, strangled noise, windmilling for a second before I catch myself on the railing.
Very graceful. Very cool. Definitely mysterious.
I make it to the bottom without dying, which at this point counts as a victory.
As I shove through the library doors, I hear the librarian’s voice carry after me.
“No running!”
Oh, lady. You have no idea how much running I’m about to do.
I barely make it out of the building before a voice behind me cuts through the air.
“Wait.”
It isn’t loud, but there is something in it that makes my whole body stop before my brain even catches up.
I freeze on the walkway outside the library.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. I already know who it is.
“I apologize.”
That is... not what I expected.
The confusion is enough to make me look back.
He is standing a few feet away from me, the gray afternoon light softening the edges of him without making him look any less unreal. Up close, he is worse. Or better. Unfortunately. His hair is pale blond, almost honey-colored where the light catches it, and it falls in soft waves that look careless in the way only very attractive people can manage. His face is all fine lines and impossible symmetry, sharp but not harsh. Beautiful, really, in a way that makes looking directly at him feels simultaneously painful and like a reward.
And his eyes—
They are yellow.
Not the warm brown I saw before, but a clear strange gold, bright and calm and startlingly friendly. They do not look human. They should make him frightening.
Instead, somehow, it just makes him more beautiful.
Soft expression. The whole dangerous-but-gentle package. Amazing. Fantastic. Love that for me.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says.
That snaps me out of it, my body going rigid. Panic presses at the back of my throat, but it is not as crushing as before. I manage to pull in a breath, then another.
“’s nothing,” I mumble, already angling my body as if I might half turn and keep walking.
“My name is Jasper,” he says. “Jasper Hale.”
What the fuck did I do to deserve this?
I just stare at him for a second, mouth half open.
“Nice to meet you...?” I say weakly.
He keeps looking at me, patient and expectant.
“Oh. I’m Miranda... Swan.”
A small smile touches his face then, soft enough that it almost looks accidental.
“That’s a beautiful name, Miranda.”
My brain immediately stops being useful.
Because then the smile deepens, slow and effortless.
And this time, it reaches his eyes.
And that should be illegal, honestly. It changes his whole face, makes him look warmer, younger, less like something out of a nightmare and more like the kind of boy people write poetry about for embarrassing reasons.
This is black magic.
“Thanks... your name is pretty too.”
God.
I jerk my right thumb at a random building behind me.
“I need to get going…Don't wanna be late”
I do not, in fact, know which building I need to get going to.
He has the nerve to raise an eyebrow.
“I recall someone saying she’d ditch today.”
And how exactly am I supposed to answer that?
“I...” I just stand there, suddenly feeling twelve, scratching the back of my head with my right hand. “I was joking.”
“Hm.”
He does not look convinced.
The small smile on his lips never fully leaves, but it shifts, just slightly, like he is amused now. It strangely doesn't feel like mocking. Just... watching.
“Would you allow me to accompany you to your class?”
Is this guy for real?
My mouth falls open. My eyebrows scrunch together. I just stare at him, completely dumbfounded, and the silence that follows is so awkward it practically becomes its own living thing.
Were vampires this… friendly? I thought they wanted to be far from people.
But he does not seem bothered at all.
His posture stays easy, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, the other resting loosely by his side. The wind moves through the space between us, making my hair whip across my face and straight into my glasses. Perfect. I puff out an annoyed breath and the lenses cloud for a second, just enough to make everything blur.
Meanwhile, the same wind gets to him and somehow makes the situation worse.
It lifts the pale strands of his hair just enough to make them look softer, more tousled, like he has stepped out of some expensive black-and-white perfume ad designed specifically to ruin my life. His face stays calm, his yellow eyes steady and bright.
And that expression on him—
“May I know your next class?” he asks.
I sigh through my nose, because apparently this is my life now.
“Chemistry.”
He nods once, like that settles something for him.
“A lady shouldn’t wander lost on her own.”
Lady? The hell?
He says it so smoothly, so seriously, that for half a second I can’t tell whether he’s joking. But then there’s the faintest flicker in his eyes, something warm and entertained, and I realize he probably is.
Or maybe I just hope he is, because otherwise I might combust on the spot.
“What?” is all my brain manages.
And then he has the nerve to chuckle.
It sounds beautiful.
“Let me accompany you to your class.”
I blink at him. “You really don’t need to.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
He bows lightly and gestures with his right hand, courteous as anything. “This way.”
His arm stays there between us, flexed slightly, waiting. He is infinitely patient about it, which somehow makes it worse. I just stare at it, feeling a strange, exhausted kind of resignation settle over me.
Is he offering me his arm?
He wants us to link arms? He literally wants to guide me somewhere? What the fuck?
Well. There goes the brand-new item on my wish list: touching a supernatural being.
I visibly hesitate, but in the end, I slip my arm through his.
At least no one is here to witness this. Classes have already started, probably five minutes ago by now.
Even through the denim jacket, I feel it immediately.
Cold. Cold in a way that makes no sense with the current weather. Coming from his skin and sinking straight through fabric. And beneath the jacket, his arm feels hard—solid with muscle, unmoving, almost too still. But when I touch him, there is the slightest twitch in his arm, a brief tightening of muscle like the contact surprises him too.
Great.
Wonderful.
I decide very quickly that I should look literally anywhere else except at our linked arms.
So I do.
I stare at the gray sky, the cracked pavement, the ugly school landscaping, the side of the building, my own shoes—anything.
But he doesn’t start walking.
Confused, I look up.
He’s watching me.
His yellow eyes are fixed on my face, his own expression unreadable. Not cold or amused. Just intent, like he’s studying me with quiet concentration.
Then I glance down.
Oh.
Oh God. My face is definitely red now.
I got his intentions completely wrong. I thought he was being some kind of old-fashioned gentleman—he certainly sounds like one—but no, he was literally just waiting for me to move.
“Sorry!” I blurt, horrified, and immediately try to untangle us.
But before I can pull away, his hand comes up lightly around my forearm, stopping the motion without any real force.
“Shall we go?”
His voice is smooth and calm, like nothing about this is strange.
My face is on fire.
We finally start walking, and I am acutely aware of every step. The wind keeps blowing my hair into my face and across my glasses. I probably look like a complete mess.
His face stays composed, that small smile still hovering at the corners of his mouth, subtle enough that I can’t tell whether he’s entertained or just... content.
Like this—walking me to class, arm in arm—is the most normal thing in the world.
I try very hard not to think about that.
Or about his arm.
Or about the fact that I am currently attached to a hot vampire.
I distantly hear him saying something.
“Sorry?” I answer automatically.
His gaze flicks to me. “Forks. Are you liking it here?”
Oh. Great, small talk.
I clear my throat and force my thoughts away from our arms and how close we are, which is impossible, because unfortunately they are still connected.
“I got here yesterday,” I say. “So I don’t think I can judge much yet.”
That much is true.
“But... it seems fine so far.”
That part is a lie.
I am, in fact, under a great deal of stress here, thank you very much, Mr. Vampire.
He hums softly, like he knows I’m not saying everything.
“My family and I moved here two years ago,” he says after a moment. “We adapted well.”
That gets my attention.
Your family. The terrifyingly gorgeous people I want to hide from. The ones who move like a choreographed nightmare.
A thousand thoughts rise in my throat all at once, and somehow all I say is, “That’s good.”
He glances at me, and that faint smile deepens just a little.
We reach yet another building that looks exactly like all the others, red bricks and square and aggressively unhelpful.
At the door, he smoothly unlinks our arms and reaches ahead to pull it open for me.
I murmur, “Thanks,” expecting him to stop there and finally give me the rest of the directions.
He doesn’t.
He steps inside with me and, as if this is all perfectly normal, offers me his arm again.
I stare at it for half a second.
Then, because apparently I have already committed to this, I just take it.
We walk until we reach the middle of the corridor, my supposed classroom only a few steps away.
But Jasper suddenly stops.
He clears his throat, just enough to catch my attention.
“I know how exhausting it is to be in a new place,” he says quietly. “It can be... a little too much.”
What is he talking about now?
My scrunched brows lift in sudden embarrassment, and I drop my gaze, trying to preserve what little dignity I have left.
He saw it. Of course he saw it.
He saw it. Of course he saw it.
He was literally there, all cool beans beside me while I was having a full breakdown. He saw me curled up in a fetal position in the library, being completely melodramatic and cursing his kind.
Fuuuuck.
When I don’t say anything, he continues.
“I apologize. That comment was inappropriate.”
“No,” I interject quickly. “I am having a stressful day. Like you said—new place.”
I gesture vaguely around us.
Then I look up at him and manage a small smile, hoping this one looks more grateful than awkward. He doesn’t seem to be mocking me, and everything he’s done so far has been kind. I don’t need to be an ass about it.
“But thanks for the help, Jasper. Don’t worry. I’m feeling much better now.”
He looks at me for a moment, thoughtful and unreadable.
I can’t help feeling like he’s searching my face, studying my eyes, trying to assess whether I’m telling the truth or not. As if he’s genuinely worried about someone he only just met.
When he finally reaches whatever conclusion he’s looking for, he gives a small, approving nod.
“That one is our class.” He points to the door with his chin.
“Our?”
He moves so quickly I barely register what’s happening. One second our arms are linked, and the next he is shifting us both forward, his hand sliding down to catch mine and guide me lightly toward the door.
What.
He doesn’t give me time to process it before we’re already there.
At least he lets go of my hand before knocking.
I stare at the spot where his fingers were for half a second too long, then look up at him. He looks back at me with a calm, reassuring expression, like there is absolutely nothing strange about any of this, like he always escorts panicking girls to Chemistry after finding them having a breakdown in the library.
After a muffled, “Come in,” from inside, he opens the door and steps aside, waiting for me to enter first.
Of course he does.
I walk in and instantly feel every pair of eyes in the room swing toward me.
Heat rushes up my neck so fast it almost hurts. Oh God.
And then Jasper steps in behind me, and like magic, the attention shifts to him.
Of course it does.
“And who may you be?” the teacher asks, peering at us over the rims of his glasses. Then recognition flickers across his face. “Oh. Mr. Hale. This is a first.”
Jasper doesn’t miss a beat.
“I apologize, Mr. Molina. It’s Miss Swan’s first day, and she got lost on campus. I helped her find her way here.”
He gestures toward me with practiced ease.
That surely is not going to work.
Mr. Molina looks at me, then at Jasper, then back at me again.
“Very well, Mr. Hale. I’ll let it slide for now.” Mr. Molina gives a small nod, then turns to me. “Miss Swan, I’ll tolerate it since it’s your first day. I trust this won’t happen again.”
As I quickly shake my head, he gestures vaguely toward the classroom.
“You two may sit. Class had started some time ago, so ask your classmates for the notes afterward.”
What? That 's it?
No lecture? No suspicious squint?
I just blink at him.
“Thank you,” Jasper says smoothly. At least one of us knows how to function.
I mumble something that is hopefully also interpreted “thank you” and follow him farther into the room, acutely aware of the eyes still flicking my way. My face feels hot enough to fry an egg. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, on the desks, on literally anything that is not a human being.
Which is why it takes me a second to realize where we’re sitting.
There is only one empty table left.
One.
And it is for two people.
Of course it is.
I stop for half a beat in the aisle, staring at the two empty chairs like they personally offended me. Jasper, apparently immune to humiliation and human suffering, simply pulls out one of the chairs for me with that same easy calm.
I sit.
Because what else am I going to do? Scream?
He takes the seat beside me.
This whole scenario has to be some kind of cosmic joke.
I pull out my notebook mostly for the sake of looking normal. The room smells faintly of chalk and metal and something chemical I can’t identify. The board is already full of words and symbols I don’t absorb at all. My pen hovers uselessly over the paper before I finally write the only thing I am actually capable of processing:
Inorganic Chemistry
And then nothing else.
Beside me, Jasper does not take notes.
He just sits there, looking toward the teacher with perfect focus, hands still, posture relaxed. He looks like he belongs in a painting of some dutiful nineteenth-century student, except much prettier and significantly more dangerous.
I sneak a glance at him.
Then another.
It is honestly confusing.
Because yes, I know what he is. Or at least I know enough. I know he is dangerous. I know I should be afraid. I am afraid.
And yet.
He has been nothing but courteous to me.
Not just polite. Courteous. Gentlemanly in a way that feels almost old-fashioned, like he stepped out of some other era and never fully adjusted. The way he speaks gives it away too. His vocabulary, his little mannerisms, the calm formality of him. Even when he jokes, it sounds deliberate, measured and strangely refined.
How old is he?
I mean really old, obviously, if this is what I think it is. But how old-old? One hundred?
The thought should make me panic again.
Instead, weirdly, it relieves me.
Because if there is one vampire I apparently have to be near — two classes together, lucky me — then I am deeply relieved it is Jasper.
That he's not as sharp and cold as broken glass as I thought all of them would be.
Jasper.
The one with soft yellow eyes who apologizes for helping, opens doors, and escorts me to class like we’re in some Jane Austen novel written on fentanyl.
I huff, pull off my glasses, and rub a hand down my face.
I need a wake-up call. This is getting ridiculous.
I am so weak to pretty things. Maybe that's why vampires are so good looking. I nod at myself while scratching my imaginary beard.
But... maybe that could be useful.
I mean. Jasper.
I could befriend him.
The thought comes so suddenly I almost laugh.
Befriend the vampire. Great plan.
But still.
If he likes me even a little, maybe he could help me. Protect me and Bella. Maybe from the others, maybe from whatever else is lurking around in this insane universe. He knows a lot more than I do.
But then again, I’m not supposed to know anything. Not about him. Not about his kind.
So what am I supposed to say?
Hey, Jas. My guy. My brother in Christ. I feel like we’re friends now, right? Besties, even. Quick question — purely theoretical — if one of your freakish relatives decides I am a threat and, I don't know, attacks me — would you, like, step in? Hypothetically, of course. No pressure to answer now. I can offer emotional support, unwavering loyalty and friendship bracelets.
If I say something like this, I’ll probably need to find another vampire to protect me from him.
And the only vampires around here are him and his family.
Sigh. Was I ever meant to win?
I lower my head in defeat.
What a mastermind.
What an incredible strategist I am.
At this rate the only thing I'll accomplish is getting myself killed.
I stare menacingly at my notebook, where Inorganic Chemistry sits alone on the page, probably mocking me as well.
A few minutes pass. Or maybe ten. Time has gone weird.
I steal another glance at Jasper.
He is still looking at the teacher, expression composed, not writing anything, not fidgeting, not doing any of the little human things people do when they’re bored in class.
It’s strange and hypnotizing… So I let my gaze linger a second too long.
And this time, he turns his head.
His eyes meet mine, and there is the faintest smile on his face, subtle and knowing, one brow lifting in silent question.
Then, very deliberately, his gaze drops to my notebook.
Oh, absolutely not.
I close it a little too loudly, which, of course, makes the teacher glance my way. I immediately open it again like that somehow fixes anything.
I snap my gaze back to the front. I’ll be damned if I look at him again.
My ears burn.
That's not fair.
Not fair at all.