Chapter 7 – The Girl Who Runs

One Week Before School Starts – Late December 2004

The rain in Forks didn't fall — it rested. On rooftops, on shoulders, on the moss-covered trunks of endless pines. It softened the edges of the world, soaked into everything until it became part of your skin.

Kira Yue hated it.

And yet, she couldn't stop smiling.

The air here was wild. Rich. Every breath was filled with cedar, damp stone, and something older — something unspoken that made her stomach twist in that good way. Like standing too close to the edge of a cliff.

She jogged lightly down a narrow deer trail, boots crunching soft mud, breath steady, warm puffs rising into the morning chill.

Her aunt's voice echoed in her memory from earlier that week: "Try not to get lost out there, Kira. Forks isn't LA. It doesn't care if you've seen every trailhead on the West Coast."

She smirked to herself. I don't get lost. I explore.

They'd arrived six days ago — a quiet move from California that surprised even her. One month's notice. A new school. A new home. A new town that felt like it had never woken up from a long dream.

Her aunt, Meilin, had called it "a spiritual relocation," whatever that meant. She ran a small herbalist business online and wanted to be closer to "nature's resonance." Kira suspected it was code for burnout and needing a break from everyone.

Kira hadn't argued. She didn't have much to stay for in LA anyway — just enough foster homes and half-friends to know she'd never really belonged there.

Forks wasn't the kind of place she'd ever imagined living. But she wasn't the kind of girl who waited for things to make sense.

So she ran.

Every morning since they arrived, Kira woke before dawn, tied up her thick black hair, pulled on her hoodie, and sprinted into the woods before the town could remember she existed.

Running helped her feel. The quiet. The cold air. Her body's rhythm. Her heart. It made her forget — or remember — depending on the day.

And it led her places.

Today, it led her down a half-paved road that curved into dense forest and terminated at a tall iron gate. Beyond it: a house. No, not a house — a manor.

Kira slowed to a stop, chest rising and falling gently, eyes narrowing.

The property was set deep against a mossy ridge, flanked by thick trees on all sides. The architecture was strange — modern steel and glass, but softened by the land. It didn't sit on the forest. It belonged to it.

She followed the outer line of the fence silently, eyes scanning the wide yard, until she found an opening in the trees where the fence dipped lower.

A curved stone path.

And a garage.

She moved quietly through the underbrush, curiosity guiding her like a whisper, until she reached a small clearing where she crouched low between ferns. She could see in now.

Inside the open garage, someone was working.

A boy. Seventeen, maybe eighteen.

He had his back to her, crouched beside the open hood of a large vintage car — a Dodge Challenger, by the look of it. His hoodie was tied around his waist. His white undershirt clung faintly to the lines of his back, slightly damp, slightly dirty with oil and dust.

Black hair, tied loosely. Arms toned, not bulky — like someone who knew how to use tools, not pose with them.

Kira blinked, a flush of warmth crawling up her neck.

He moved like a machine. Not just practiced — precise. Every motion had intent. The kind of discipline that didn't come from school or friends, but from obsession.

She watched him lift a tool and adjust a part beneath the hood, his fingers moving in an almost mechanical rhythm. As if he understood the car in a language no one else spoke.

What kind of guy builds muscle cars in a mansion in the middle of Forks? she wondered, one brow arching.

Then, as if sensing her gaze, he turned.

Their eyes met through the garage window.

Kira's breath caught in her throat.

His face was striking — not in the usual "teen heartthrob" way. There was no arrogance. No performative edge. Just… intensity. His features were sharp, his gaze dark, unreadable. And beneath it all — something tired.

Not physically. Soul-tired. Haunted.

He didn't scowl. Didn't smirk. Didn't move.

He just looked at her.

Kira froze. Then slowly — very slowly — stood up from her crouch.

She considered waving. Saying something. "Hey, nice car." But the moment didn't ask for words.

Instead, she tilted her head — curious. Challenging.

His expression didn't change. But he blinked once. That was it.

And then he turned back to the engine.

Kira stood there for a moment longer, heart drumming a little faster than it should have. Then she turned and jogged back into the trees, pretending that she wasn't smiling.

Back home, her aunt was sipping tea on the back porch, a thick scarf wrapped around her neck and her small incense burner puffing faint streams of lavender.

"Run go well?" Meilin asked without looking.

Kira leaned against the railing, stretching one leg behind her. "I found something interesting."

"Oh?"

"A garage. And a guy."

Meilin raised a brow.

Kira shrugged. "He was cute. In a haunted, loner, possible-serial-killer way."

"Perfect," Meilin deadpanned. "Just your type."

Kira laughed and pulled her hoodie down over her head, letting her damp hair out to dry.

There was something about his eyes. Like he wasn't surprised to see her — just… noting it. And there was a stillness to him. Not calm, exactly. But contained. Like he was holding back something vast and heavy and didn't want the world to notice.

Dangerous, probably.

"But if I wanted safe," she thought, "I would've stayed in California."

That night, Kira lay in bed listening to the rain. Her window was cracked open, letting in the cool scent of pine and earth.

Her thoughts returned to the boy in the garage. She didn't even know his name. But something about him tugged at her attention like a thread caught on thorns.

Not just attraction. Something… familiar.

Like she was supposed to see him.

She closed her eyes and let the thought fade with the rhythm of the storm. 

"He's cute… and haunted-looking," she murmured to the dark. "That's dangerous."