Bella swan

The cruiser rumbles to a stop in front of a weathered two-story house, its white paint peeling under Forks' relentless damp, the kind of gray-green haze that clings to everything here. The boy peers out the window, black eyes catching on a red truck parked in the driveway—rusty, boxy, a splash of color against the muted street. His bare chest presses against the blanket Charlie gave him, scars glinting faintly as he shifts in the backseat, battered tan jeans stiff with forest grime. Charlie kills the engine, glancing over his shoulder. "That's my daughter's," he says, nodding at the truck. "Picked it up cheap off Billy Black—thought it'd help her settle in."

The boy tilts his head, black fingernails—a bit unnaturally sharp—curling against the blanket as something clicks—truck, vehicle, a word he knows, a concept he grasps, though he can't say why. Houses, too—walls, roofs, shelter—flicker in his mind like shadows behind a shattered pane, clear yet useless, no memories to anchor them. He speaks, voice rough but steady. "For driving. Is Hers." Charlie nods, a faint smile tugging his lips. "Yeah. She's sixteen—been here a week, came up from Arizona. Bella. She's… adjusting. We're not real close, me and her, but we're figuring it out." The boy nods back, black eyes steady, processing—daughter, family, pieces of a world he recognizes but can't claim.

Charlie steps out, boots crunching on gravel, and opens the boy's door. "C'mon, let's get you inside." The boy slides out, blanket slipping as he stands, bare feet sinking into the cool, earth—a stark contrast to the forest's jagged bite. The house looms, quiet and still, its windows glowing faintly against the overcast sky, a peace he doesn't know how to trust. He follows Charlie up the creaky porch steps, fingers brushing the railing, the sharpness of his nails catching faintly—a human hand, yet not quite. The softness of it all presses against him—no snarls, no blood, just the hum of a heater buzzing through the walls.

Inside, the kitchen smells of coffee and something warm—stew, maybe—simmering on the stove. Bella Swan stands by the counter, sixteen and lanky, her dark hair pulled back, pale skin catching the dim light. She turns, a spoon in hand, and freezes as the boy steps in—a beautiful wild face, shirtless, scarred, black eyes glinting under long jet black matted hair, and standing at around 5'4. Her brows knit, voice soft but startled. "Uh—Dad? Who's this?" Charlie sets his keys on the table, clearing his throat, hands on his hips like he's briefing a deputy. "Found him out in the woods. No name, no folks— he's been living rough. He's staying with us for now, 'til we sort it out."

Bella blinks, glancing from Charlie to the boy, her spoon hovering. "Oh. Okay. That's… wow." An awkward beat lingers, the stew bubbling faintly behind her. She shifts, trying again, voice hesitant. "So, um… what's your name?" The boy meets her gaze, black eyes steady, his reply clipped but clear. "I don't have one." Silence stretches, thick and heavy, Bella's mouth parting slightly as she fumbles for a response. "Oh. Right. That's… different."

Charlie steps in, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, it's a long story. Alright, kid, why don't I show you your room? Follow me upstairs." The boy hesitates, fingers flexing once, sharp nails glinting faintly, then nods, the blanket trailing as he trails Charlie to the narrow staircase. Each step creaks under his bare feet, the wood smooth and alien—no roots, no moss, just a stillness that presses against his chest. He glances back at Bella, her wide eyes tracking him, and feels the weight of this place—so calm, so wrong after the forest's chaos.

Upstairs, Charlie pushes open a door to a small room—plain walls, a single bed with a faded quilt, a window overlooking the misty street. "This'll be yours," he says, crossing to a dresser and pulling out a stack of clothes—jeans, a flannel shirt, socks, all a bit big. "Old stuff of mine, but it'll do 'til we get you something proper." He sets them on the bed, turning to the boy. "Why don't you shower and change? I'll show you the bathroom you can use. When you're done, head downstairs—we'll have a talk about what's next." The boy stares at the clothes, black eyes tracing the fabric, a faint rumble softening in his throat. "Shower… clean?" he asks, voice low but sharp, testing the word. Charlie nods. "Yeah. Hot water, soap—better than a lake. C'mon."

Charlie leads him down the hall to a cramped bathroom—white tiles, a shower stall, a towel on the rack. "Take your time," he says, stepping back. "Holler if you need anything." The boy nods, stepping in, the door clicking shut behind him. Alone, he lets the blanket drop, staring at the mirror—scars crisscross his lean frame, black eyes stark against pale skin, sharp nails glinting as he flexes his hands—a human stranger in this soft, quiet cage. The forest's hum is gone, replaced by the drip of a faucet, and his fingers tremble as he turns the knob. Hot water spills over him, strange and soothing, washing away grime he didn't know he carried. He stands there, steam curling, feeling the peace seep in—unfamiliar, fragile, a world he doesn't fit but can't escape.

Downstairs, Charlie waits, the clink of a spoon against a bowl echoing from the kitchen as Bella stirs the stew, her voice drifting up, soft but edged with unease. "He's… weird, Dad. But okay, I guess." Charlie grunts, a faint chuckle in it, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. "Yeah, well, Forks is full of weird. He'll fit right in." He pauses, scratching his jaw, then lowers his voice, steady but firm. "Listen, Bells, I need to fill you in a bit more. Found him out in the woods—all alone, scarred up, no name. He's been living like some kinda wild animal for years, fending for himself after… something bad. Parents gone, memory shot. He's tough, but he's just a kid—fourteen, like you were not long ago. He needs more than a roof—he needs someone looking out for him."

Bella's spoon slows, her dark eyes flicking up to meet his, brows knitting as she processes it. "Out in the woods? Like… how? That's—" She trails off, swallowing, her voice dropping to a mumble. "That's a lot, Dad." Charlie nods, hands shifting to his hips, his protective edge sharpening. "Yeah, it is. Me and the guys ran into him chasing that woman's killer—we thought he might be trouble at first, but he's not. Just lost. I brought him here 'cause he's got nowhere else, and I couldn't leave him out there. Look, I know it's sudden, but… I'm asking you to help me out here. Keep an eye on him, maybe we can show him what normal looks like. Show him we care. Hell, maybe even get him into school with you—give him a shot at something better."

Bella blinks, her grip tightening on the spoon, a flush creeping up her neck as she stares at the stew. "School? With me? Dad, I—I just got here myself, and he's… I mean, he doesn't even have a name." Her words stumble, awkward and unsure, the weight of it sinking in—some wild boy dropped into her already shaky new life. Charlie sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, voice softening but insistent. "I get it, it's weird as hell. But you're good with people, Bells, even if you don't think so. He's not dangerous—just outta place. Give him a chance, alright? For me?" She hesitates, biting her lip, then nods faintly, barely audible. "Okay. I'll… try. But it's still weird." Charlie offers a small, grateful smile. "Fair enough. Thanks, kid."

Upstairs, the boy steps out of the bathroom, damp hair slicked back, the oversized flannel hanging loose on his frame, jeans cuffed at the ankles. The faint murmur of voices drifts up—Charlie's low rumble, Bella's softer replies—mingling with the creak of the floorboards under his bare feet. He pauses at the top of the stairs, black eyes glinting in the dim hall light, sharp fingernails brushing the banister—a human shape still shadowed by the wild. The house's quiet hum wraps around him, unfamiliar and heavy, and he descends, each step deliberate, entering the kitchen where Charlie and Bella wait. Charlie looks up from the counter, nodding. "Better. Sit down, kid. Let's talk about what happens now." Bella glances over, her spoon stilled, dark eyes flickering with a mix of curiosity and unease, the stew's steam curling between them like a fragile truce.