Ghost of Ourselves (Twilight X Reader)

Chapter 7: Man In The Woods

"Is that what this is? Understanding?"

His red eyes seem to glow in the late afternoon light. "I understand more than you might think, chérie. About reinventing oneself. About finding beauty in unexpected places." He looks at me then with an expression I can't quite read. "About meeting someone who makes you question everything you thought you knew about yourself."

The light begins to shift, painting the clearing in amber and as the sun sinks toward the horizon. A cool breeze rustles through the wildflowers between us, carrying the first hint of evening chill. I sit up, suddenly aware of how much time has passed.

"I should probably head back," I say reluctantly, gathering my journal. "My aunt will worry."

Laurent nods, something flickering behind those strange red eyes. "Yes, you shouldn't be in these woods after dark. There are... things that hunt here."

"Things like you?" I laugh. The question slips out before I can stop it.

He goes still-impossibly, unnaturally still. "You are remarkably perceptive," he says finally. "And remarkably unafraid."

"Should I be?"

"Yes." He stands in one fluid motion, offering me his hand. I notice he's wearing a ring too-something ancient-looking, with a dark stone. "But I find myself hoping you won't be."

[Laurent's POV]
Her hand slides into mine, warm and trusting. The burn in my throat is still there, but it's overshadowed by something else now-a different kind of hunger, perhaps. A desire to protect rather than destroy. Her pulse beats steady and strong under her skin, yet for the first time in centuries, the sound brings comfort rather than thirst.

[Protagonist's POV]
His hand is ice-cold, but I barely register it as he helps me up. Standing this close, I can see flecks of darker red in his eyes, like garnets catching light. He releases my hand quickly, stepping back into the lengthening shadows.

"Will I see you again?" I ask, shouldering my bag.

"You shouldn't want to," he replies, but there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Mysterious strangers in the woods are not suitable companions for young poets."

"I think I'll be the judge of that." I pause at the edge of the clearing. "Same place next weekend?"

He makes that thunder-laugh sound again. "You are either very brave or very foolish, chérie."

"Maybe both." I grin. "But you'll be here?"

He's quiet for a long moment, those impossible eyes studying me. "Perhaps," he says finally. "If only to ensure no other mysterious strangers find you alone in the woods."

"I'll bring more poetry," I promise.

"And I'll bring some recommendations of my own. Your education in French literature seems woefully incomplete."

The way he says it makes me laugh-like it's a personal offense that I haven't read Baudelaire in the original French. But there's something else in his tone too, a kind of wonder, as if he's surprising himself with these plans, these normal conversations.

"Au revoir, then," I say, probably butchering the pronunciation.

His smile widens slightly. "Your French needs work too, ma chérie. Au revoir."

The walk home feels dreamlike, the forest around me somehow different than it was this morning. The trees seem to hold more secrets, the shadows more possibilities. As I near the edge of the woods, I look back, half-expecting to see red eyes watching from the darkness. But there's only the gentle movement of leaves in the evening breeze, and the lingering feeling that my life in Forks just got even more complicated.