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Over that week, Nate and Charlie shared more than a few cups of coffee in the sheriff's quiet kitchen. The conversations, awkward at first, began to feel natural. Charlie wasn't exactly a natural conversationalist, but he felt comfortable with Nate. Perhaps because the boy didn't have the personality of a normal teenager. Perhaps because they shared that silence known only to those who have lost too much.
Nate liked talking to Charlie. There was something about him—that gentle awkwardness, that sincere attempt to care without knowing how—that reminded him of his father. Not physically, of course, but in essence. In the way stoic men try to love without knowing if they're doing it right. And while Nate wasn't one for seeking out father figures, something about Charlie generated respect and warmth.
It was on Friday when, after leaving the dishes to dry, Charlie told him.
"Bella's coming tomorrow." He said it in a lower voice than usual, as if he was afraid the sentence would have consequences.
Nate paused for a second, looked at him calmly, and understood. Charlie wasn't ready. Not for a teenage daughter, not for a new life, not for someone who'd probably only seen him at Christmas or on short vacations for years. Two strangers bound by blood. Nate knew it clearly: Charlie was going to have trouble connecting with her. And he suspected Bella would too.
"It's going to be okay," Nate said, matter-of-factly. "Just try not to look so... Charlie."
Charlie gave a dry laugh.
—It's a little late for that.
"If I see her at school, I'll make sure she's not alone," Nate added, his tone casual but genuine.
Charlie looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. An emotion that pooled in his eyes, though he couldn't express it.
—Thank you. But don't push yourself too hard. Bella is strong. She always has been.
Nate nodded. Not out of politeness, but out of understanding. That kind of strength... I know it. The kind that comes not from choice, but from necessity. From embracing the silence and learning to walk with it.
Monday morning brought a thick fog that huddled the low rooftops of Forks. Nate woke up before everyone else. He dressed in dark sweats, put on a black raincoat, and went for a run.
The damp roads echoed back to him. His feet pounding the asphalt, his breathing steady, the steam of his breath dissipating in the cold air. For the first time since his parents' deaths, he felt something resembling control again. Not the kind he'd felt before, not like the disciplined swimmer or fighter in the DC clubs, but a more basic one: He could move. He could choose. He could breathe.
The only thing I regretted was not having a pool nearby or a gym with a good punching bag. Forks didn't offer that kind of distraction. Everything was smaller. Slower.
When he returned, his grandmother was waiting for him in the kitchen. She held a steaming cup of tea in her hands and wore a warm smile.
"You woke up early," he said softly. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, I needed to... move around a bit," he replied as he took off his soaked raincoat.
She looked at him closely. It was the gaze of a woman who had seen many men in her life break down in silence.
"Don't worry about anything today," she said, hugging him for a brief moment. "Just be yourself."
Nate didn't respond, but that hug was more than enough.
He showered, dressed in dark jeans and a white T-shirt. He grabbed the keys to his Mustang. The sound of the engine was a nostalgic roar. As if his father were still there, accompanying him.
He drove to school with the window slightly ajar, letting the cold air keep him awake. As he pulled into the parking lot, he knew immediately he wouldn't go unnoticed.
The Mustang attracted attention. Not only because of its pristine condition but because no one his age drove something so symbolic. When he got out of the car, he felt their gazes fixed on his back.
A group of girls chatting next to a pickup truck stopped when they saw him. One of them—tall, with brown hair in a braid—blushed visibly. Another mumbled something under her breath and looked down. Nate noticed them, of course. Closed posture, avoided eye contact, nervous laughter. Interest. But not the kind I'm interested in returning.
It is not vanity, he thought as he walked. It's just... emotional fatigue. Everything feels a little hollow lately.
They didn't approach him. Not out of shyness. But because his gaze deterred them.
He knew his expression wasn't exactly friendly. Since the tragedy, his eyes had become denser, his countenance more impenetrable. It was the kind of look that made people hesitate to approach him. It wasn't arrogance; it was a reflection of the weight he carried.
He crossed his arms as he leaned one shoulder against his car. He looked around at the others. A red-haired boy was animatedly arguing with a blonde, another group was laughing at something on their phones. Teenage dynamics that seemed distant, alien. For Nate, it was all like watching a documentary.
Typical closed-group interactions. Implicit hierarchies. The funny guy, the popular one, the social satellite...I'd seen it before, in different cities, in different languages. Nothing new. Just different names, different masks.
And then he saw her.
The old red pickup truck rattled into the parking lot. He recognized the vehicle immediately: he'd seen it parked in front of Charlie's house more than once.
Pretty.
She clumsily got out of the vehicle, tripping over the door as she tried to get out. Nate raised an eyebrow in quiet curiosity. Limited body coordination. Unused to the surroundings. Not comfortable with her body... or with being watched.
He studied her for a moment. Dark hair, pale skin, simple clothes. And on her face, a silent discomfort. As if she wished to be invisible. Defensive. Reserved.
Too still for her age. Withdrawn posture. Slow pace. She carries the weight of someone who has had to make herself small many times so the world wouldn't notice her. Or hurt her.
Nate saw Charlie in her. Not in her physical appearance, but in that social awkwardness, in that melancholic air that seemed to hang around her shoulders.
Before he could get closer, a thin, enthusiastic boy stepped forward.
—Hi! You must be the new girl, right? I'm Eric. I can show you where the classes are if you want...
Nate stopped. He watched. He saw Bella's smile barely visible, her expression strained. Eric was kind, but he spoke too fast.
He's overwhelming her. He means well, but he doesn't understand the space she needs. That smile isn't comfortable; it's a learned response.
But it wasn't his time. Later, he thought. He didn't want to overwhelm her.
With calm steps, he walked toward the entrance of the main building. He passed a couple of students who followed him with their eyes, but he didn't say anything. When he reached the door marked "Administration," he opened it and entered.