As a heads up, this is very light on the romance category, like almost canon-compliant levels, and functions on a personal headcanon that Rosalie has never bothered to learn Leah's name. I wrote it a while ago and am just now posting, so apologies if random details are wrong but I genuinely could not be assed to reread these when my thirteen year old self already did that like 5000 times (though if even one singular girl looked at another girl in this series with the faintest hint of attraction even just once maybe I'd have been willing to squeeze the time in lol.) Thanks for reading!


The girl's nose was wrinkled.

"I must smell cold to you," Rosalie said. It was just an idle comment — she didn't particularly care to talk. It was only that the others said it all the time. The icy stink burning through their sensitive noses, how it ached almost, dulled everything else.

The girl's eyebrows lowered, but she, like Rosalie, kept her eyes fixed on the proceedings before them, teeth and fur and glittering skin darting around each other in a fighting sequence that would have looked more like death than training to anyone who didn't know better. "No. You smell like trash."

Rosalie's eyes narrowed. "This perfume is four hundred dollars per ounce."

"Expensive trash."

Rosalie just sniffed and lifted her chin, still not looking over at her. Before them one of the wolves leapt, missed, rolled into a messy pile of fur and then boy and then quickly back to fur, yowling something obscene the entire time.

"What do I smell like?" the girl asked. Her voice was nearing a growl, throaty and threatening. Rosalie wondered if she woke up with it sounding like that, or if she had to practice in front of a mirror every morning. She was standing closer than Rosalie would really prefer, barely an arm's length away. "Like wet dog, right?"

Rosalie cast her a glance finally. She was indeed wet. Dark eyes were fixed out towards everyone, her hair slicked back against her neck, plastered glossy and flat. As Rosalie watched, a droplet ran down her skin, followed the sharp edge of her collarbone and disappeared beneath her tank top.

Rosalie blinked and looked away. "No. Like the woods."

The girl's weight shifted, her scent agitating and hovering in the air at the motion.

"Clean fur. The shower."

Rosalie turned her head, ostensibly because someone had been thrown out of the practice ring and was springing off a tree trunk to reenter, and caught the motion this time as the girl's posture lifted a little — though it was still challenging, like her shoulders and bare hands meant to carve a shape into the air before her. Rosalie decided that maybe she didn't have to practice that harshness after all. That in fact softness might be more difficult for her. "What type of conditioner do I use?" the girl tossed out.

Rosalie rolled her eyes. "Do I look like I know every brand? It's something with rosemary." She paused. Breathed in only because she needed air to speak, and not for any other reason. "And honey," she added after another moment.

"Right." Rosalie heard her lean the smallest bit closer, but refused to look to verify. "You know," the girl continued, softer now, "I'm pretty sure your perfume has pee in it."

"It absolutely does not."

"Really? It smells just like a dirty alley."

Rosalie glared out at the others. "Stop talking."

The girl scoffed but straightened, no longer close enough Rosalie was breathing in nothing but conditioner and forest and soft fur that smelled not unlike the puppy she'd had when she had still been human.

They stood together for another couple moments in silence. The girl had a habit of flexing her hands in and out of fists, which would have been annoying if it weren't something Emmett also did constantly.

Rosalie spoke eventually, though she didn't know why she bothered. "It's Hyraceum."

"What?"

"The smell. It's an element in perfumes."

"What's it made out of, sewer scum?"

Rosalie wrinkled her nose now too, still pointedly not looking in the girl's direction. "Petrified hyrax excrement."

"So yes."

"…Yes."

The girl snorted. "Four hundred dollars to smell like pee. So stupid. With all the money in the world, wouldn't you rather smell like fancy flowers?"

"Why do you care? I would smell terrible to you either way."

The girl's fingers left their fists and dangled flat. There was a small cut on one, healing already from what had clearly been quite a gash very recently. It had reopened with the girl's motion, and a hint of blood showed. Rosalie watched from the corner of her eye, almost fascinated to see blood she didn't find appealing. It had been nearly ninety years since she hadn't instantly wanted to strike just at the smell of it.

"Frost and flowers doesn't sound so bad," the girl said eventually, and there was the softness finally — so quiet a sentence a human might not have been able to hear it.

"Excuse me?" Rosalie asked.

But the girl just glared out away from her. Her hands were back to fists. The welled drop of blood was larger than the cut it had come from now, and when Rosalie blinked again the entire cut was gone.

The girl didn't look at her again, and so Rosalie didn't look at her either. They just stood together, close enough for their teeth to reach the other's throat in the slenderest moment, close enough their hands could brush, and Rosalie continued to needlessly breathe the scent she should hate, but didn't.