A full year passed the way Forks always marked time—quietly.
Seasons shifted without drama. Rain gave way to mist, mist to pale sun, and then back again. Honey & Hearth settled into its role as a constant, Charlie's routines smoothed into something shared, and Renee found that closeness no longer felt like something she had to measure.
It was simply there.
On the anniversary of her move into Charlie's house, Renee sat alone at the kitchen table long after dinner had been cleared away. A notebook lay open in front of her, its pages already half-filled with neat, careful handwriting.
She had not written a name.
But the heading was unmistakable.
Contingency Notes — Child A (Potential: Female)
Renee exhaled slowly.
This was not a thought she allowed lightly. She knew the future too well for that. She knew how Bella Swan's life would unfold—the danger, the obsession, the way love could become a trap if no one intervened early enough.
And she knew something else, too.
Timing mattered.
If she and Charlie had a child now, that child would be older when canon events began. More grounded. Less isolated. Less vulnerable to being swept into someone else's eternity without choice.
Renee's hand hovered over the page.
She did not write to control. She wrote to prepare.
---
That night, she told Charlie.
Not all at once. Not as a speech. Just the truth, laid gently between them as they sat on the couch, the house quiet and warm.
"I've been thinking about kids," she said.
Charlie blinked, then smiled slowly. "Okay."
She nodded, grateful. "I need to be honest about why. I know things about the future that make timing important. And there are risks I won't pretend aren't real."
He listened. He always did.
Renee explained what she could without dramatizing it—how some dangers weren't human, how certain people didn't age, how obsession could masquerade as love. She told him that having a child earlier meant stability later. More years to teach discernment. More years with both parents present and grounded.
Charlie leaned back, absorbing it.
"And the risks?" he asked quietly.
Renee met his eyes. "Fear. Attachment. The possibility of danger finding us anyway." She paused. "But those risks exist whether we act or not."
He reached for her hand. "And the benefits?"
She squeezed his fingers. "Choice. Preparation. A child who grows up knowing they're loved and protected."
Charlie was silent for a long moment.
Then he said, "I don't want to stumble into parenthood. If we do this…" He looked at her, steady. "I want it to be on purpose."
Renee smiled, something warm and resolute blooming in her chest. "Me too."
---
Later, alone in the spare room, Renee opened the system interface.
"Log decision," she said softly.
[FUTURE NARRATIVE NODE DETECTED]
[Potential Asset: HIGH
Designation: CHILD (UNBORN)
Risk Classification: ELEVATED]
She did not flinch.
"I'm not asking for guarantees," Renee said. "Just time. Information. Preparation."
The system paused—then responded.
[MISSION ACCEPTED]
[Prepare Before Creating
Reward Pending: +10,000 SC]
New subfolders appeared beneath the child designation. Developmental safeguards. Emotional resilience markers. Long-term camouflage considerations.
Renee closed the interface with a steady breath.
This was not destiny.
This was planning.
---
Renee and Charlie did not rush.
They talked. They adjusted routines. They reviewed finances and schedules. They agreed that if fear ever outweighed clarity, they would stop.
But when they finally chose to try, it was without hesitation.
Deliberate. Grounded. Mutual.
That night, Renee lay in bed beside Charlie, his arm draped loosely over her waist, and allowed herself to imagine—not the danger, not the canon—but a child laughing in the kitchen, growing up with the warmth of Honey & Hearth and the quiet strength of Forks.
For the first time, the future did not feel like something she had to fight.
It felt like something she was building.
[SYSTEM LOG]
[ASSET PREPARATION INITIATED]
[Emotional Foundation: STRONG
Narrative Volatility: MANAGEABLE]
Renee closed her eyes, one hand resting lightly over her abdomen, and let the rain carry her into sleep—aware, prepared, and choosing hope anyway.