They worked in silence for a while after Jessica and Angela left. The rain outside had picked up, a soft, steady rhythm against the library windows. Aiden had finally filled an entire page, his scrawl uneven but driven. Rosalie, for her part, had been typing steadily, pausing only to occasionally stare off into the distance like she was mining something deep inside herself.
Rosalie closed her laptop with a soft click and looked up. "Fini." (Finished)
Aiden leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. "Me too."
Rosalie arched a brow. "En anglais ? Tu viens de perdre." (In English? You've just lost.)
He blinked, then groaned. "Dammit."
A smug smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Tu étais si proche." (You were so close.)
Aiden rubbed the back of his neck, grinning despite himself. "Fine. You win."
She folded her arms, satisfied. "Chalk the win to one."
He chuckled, then leaned forward, expression softening. "So... you're not from around here, right?"
She tilted her head. "Rochester, New York."
"Big change from Forks."
Rosalie glanced toward the window, eyes thoughtful. "Yeah. Smaller. Quieter. Wetter. People here are... slower."
"You mean dumber?" he teased.
"No." She gave a slow blink. "Just not in a rush to prove something."
Aiden nodded. "That actually sounds kind of nice."
She looked back at him. "What about you?"
"Chicago," he said. "Or, it used to be."
Her expression didn't change, but something in her posture eased—like she understood more than she let on.
"It wasn't a great place for me," he continued. "Loud. Unforgiving. You either learn fast or get eaten alive."
Rosalie's gaze lingered on him. "And here?"
He paused. "Too quiet, sometimes. But... I'm starting to get used to it."
She nodded once, slowly. "That's good."
Another silence—this one felt earned, like a breath after a sprint.
Then Aiden reached for his notebook. "You want to trade poems? You can tell me how terrible I butchered the French language."
Rosalie smirked. "Only if you can handle brutal honesty."
"I think I can take it." He grinned. "As long as you don't switch back to French mid-insult."
She lifted a brow. "Je ne promets rien."
And for once, Aiden didn't mind.
20 minutes later…
They gathered their things in silence, the low murmur of other students filling the air again. Aiden slung his backpack over one shoulder, shaking the cramp out of his hand.
Rosalie stood smoothly, tucking her laptop under one arm. She turned to him just as they reached the library doors.
"You walking?" she asked, tone neutral.
Aiden checked his phone and frowned at the screen.
Steve: "Hey kid, something came up. Can't get you today. Sorry."
He sighed. "Looks like I am now."
Rosalie's eyes flicked to the steady drizzle outside, her expression unreadable. "How far?"
"Two miles." He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Not too bad, just wet and annoying."
There was a pause before she said, "Come on."
Aiden raised an eyebrow. "Come on… where?"
"To my car. I'll give you a ride."
He blinked. "You drive?"
Rosalie didn't answer. She just kept walking.
Outside, the rain had picked up again, a cold mist settling over the parking lot. Rosalie led him past the rows of average cars and trucks until they reached the sleek, unmistakable shine of a cherry-red BMW convertible, drops of water beading on its waxed surface like it had just rolled off a showroom floor.
Aiden stopped and stared. "This yours?"
She glanced back, keys in hand. "No, I just like standing next to expensive things I don't own."
He chuckled under his breath. "Right."
They got in—her side with quiet grace, his with a soaked thud. The inside smelled faintly of leather and cold rain.
Just before she started the engine, she looked over at him. "Give me your number."
Aiden frowned. "Why?"
Rosalie's tone didn't waver. "In case we need to edit something. For the poem."
"You already have your half memorized."
"I like being prepared," she said simply. "Humor me."
He read it off slowly, watching as she typed it into her sleek, fingerprintless phone. She didn't offer hers in return.
"Just mine?" he asked.
Her lips curved—barely. "If I give you mine, you might use it."
He narrowed his eyes at her, smirking. "You say that like it's a threat."
She turned the key, the engine purring to life. "For me? Maybe."
They pulled out onto the street, rain slicking the road as they drove in silence. Her fingers rested lightly on the wheel, her posture relaxed but precise. He kept stealing glances at her, calm, composed, totally unreadable.
Eventually, he said, "So, you've giving everyone a ride home, or just me?"
Rosalie didn't look at him. "Don't push your luck, Aiden."
But the corners of her mouth lifted, and this time, he knew she didn't me
They worked in silence for a while after Jessica and Angela left. Outside, the rain had picked up, tapping steadily against the library windows in a rhythmic lull. Aiden had finally filled a whole page—his handwriting a mess, but his thoughts poured out fast and unfiltered. Across from him, Rosalie typed steadily, only pausing now and then to stare off like she was digging through some memory buried deep inside her.
Eventually, with a quiet click, she shut her laptop and looked up.
"C'est bon."
(Finished.)
Aiden leaned back, arms stretching over his head. "Me too."
She raised an eyebrow, amused. "En anglais ? T'as cramé."
(In English? You blew it.)
He blinked, then groaned. "Dammit…"
Rosalie smirked, her tone playfully smug. "T'étais à ça, sérieux."
(You were this close, seriously.)
Aiden rubbed the back of his neck, but he was smiling now.
"OK, t'as gagné."
(Fine, you win.)
She folded her arms, fully satisfied. "Allez, un point pour moi."
(Alright, one point for me.)
He chuckled, then leaned forward a bit, more curious than competitive now.
"So... you're not from around here, right?"
She tilted her head just slightly.
"Rochester, New York."
"Big change from Forks.
Rosalie glanced toward the rain-streaked window, eyes flickering with thought.
"Yeah. Smaller. Quieter. Wetter. People here are... slower."
"You mean dumber?" he asked, half-grinning.
"No." She blinked once, slow. "Just not trying so hard to impress everyone."
Aiden nodded. "Honestly? That kinda sounds nice."
She looked back at him. "And you?"
"Chicago," he said. "Well, used to be."
Her face didn't shift much, but something relaxed in her shoulders, just a little. Like she got it.
"It wasn't great for me," he went on. "Loud. Rough. You either learn fast or get crushed."
Rosalie kept her gaze on him. "And here?"
He thought for a moment. "Too quiet sometimes. But... I'm getting used to it."
She nodded slowly. "That's good."
A new silence settled between them—one that didn't feel heavy, just earned.
Then Aiden reached for his notebook and lifted it a little.
"You wanna trade poems? You can tell me how badly I wrecked the French language."
Rosalie smirked, not missing a beat. "Only if you can take it."
"I think I can handle it," he said with a grin. "As long as you don't switch back to French in the middle of roasting me."
She lifted one brow, smirk sharpening. "J'te promets rien."
"No promises."
And for once, Aiden didn't mind.
20 minutes later…
They gathered their things in silence, the low murmur of other students filling the air again. Aiden slung his backpack over one shoulder, shaking the cramp out of his hand.
Rosalie stood smoothly, tucking her laptop under one arm. She turned to him just as they reached the library doors.
"You walking?" she asked, tone neutral.
Aiden checked his phone and frowned at the screen.
Steve: "Hey kid, something came up. Can't get you today. Sorry."
He sighed. "Looks like I am now."
Rosalie's eyes flicked to the steady drizzle outside, her expression unreadable. "How far?"
"Two miles." He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Not too bad, just wet and annoying."
There was a pause before she said, "Come on."
Aiden raised an eyebrow. "Come on… where?"
"To my car. I'll give you a ride."
He blinked. "You drive?"
Rosalie didn't answer. She just kept walking.
Outside, the rain had picked up again, a cold mist settling over the parking lot. Rosalie led him past the rows of average cars and trucks until they reached the sleek, unmistakable shine of a cherry-red BMW convertible, drops of water beading on its waxed surface like it had just rolled off a showroom floor.
Aiden stopped and stared. "This yours?"
She glanced back, keys in hand. "No, I just like standing next to expensive things I don't own."
He chuckled under his breath. "Right."
They got in—her side with quiet grace, his with a soaked thud. The inside smelled faintly of leather and cold rain.
Just before she started the engine, she looked over at him. "Give me your number."
Aiden frowned. "Why?"
Rosalie's tone didn't waver. "In case we need to edit something. For the poem."
"You already have your half memorized."
"I like being prepared," she said simply. "Humor me."
He read it off slowly, watching as she typed it into her sleek, fingerprintless phone. She didn't offer hers in return.
"Just mine?" he asked.
Her lips curved—barely. "If I give you mine, you might actually use it."
He narrowed his eyes at her, smirking. "You say that like it's a threat."
She turned the key, the engine purring to life. "For me? Maybe."
They pulled out onto the street, rain slicking the road as they drove in silence. Her fingers rested lightly on the wheel, her posture relaxed but precise. He kept stealing glances at her, calm, composed, totally unreadable.
Eventually, he said, "So, you're giving everyone a rides home, or just me?"
Rosalie didn't look at him. "Don't push your luck, Aiden."
But the corners of her mouth lifted, and this time, he knew she didn't mean it.
an it.