Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter.

And because I'm feeling nosy - how do you all take your coffee?

Thanks so much for reading.

VHL xx

Hey everyone! Again, thank you so much for all your reviews and alerts. I read and appreciate each and every one, and was surprised at the large amount of you that don't like to drink coffee. I thought it was a must in the US. ;)

For those that asked, I don't drink it either as caffeine dislikes me (omg what a hater). But I occasionally have the odd cup of decaf.

As always, thank you to my super duper beta Susan for being, well, amazing. And also big thanks to the lovely jedigirlsc for prereading.

Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. She doesn't, however, own flash with febreeze that I used today to clean my floors. If she did, I would be so jealous. As it is now, I'm really not. At all. Nope.

Bella

Early morning light pours through the bedroom window, soft rays warming my face as it rouses me from sleep like tender kisses to the eyelids. I squint against the change in brightness as I lie between soft sheets that are wrapped around another's body too, lying as still as I can to appreciate this moment a little longer.

I can feel him behind me, warming my skin just like the unexpected sun. I want to shuffle back and intensify it, feel his heat completely. Feel the fiery ache inside my chest dissolve with the contact... melt like ice.

He's quiet, keeping the secret of whether he's awake or still sleeping with him, no clues given in the form of stretching limbs or soft snoring. I twist and turn to face him, all the while wondering if I'll be met with open eyes or closed lids. He's awake—but he's on his back, staring at the ceiling.

In the end, I'm met with neither.

Saturday mornings used to be spent in the best of ways; skin against skin as he moved above me or under me with reverent curses and parted lips. I'd pull him to me so close, fingertips pressed into his back as I met him again and again with eager hips and urgent pleas of, 'don't stop' and repeats of, 'I love you'.

The way he'd gaze down at me with heated expressions—mixed with love and longing—would leave me all the more breathless and enraptured, my heart so full I'd been sure it would burst.

I would plead with silent words as trembles shook my body inside and out, clinging to him as he did the same. We'd lie together in the middle of the bed, our faces just far enough apart to be able to see the other clearly. My fingers would explore his jaw as his hand rested against my heart, feeling just what he did to me.

His expression would let me know he was feeling it just as much, leaving wonder behind in its wake.

~CitP~

"What are you thinking about?" I ask, feeling the texture of his stubble beneath my fingers.

He smiles, his lips turning up at one side. "You."

My cheeks bloom with the best kind of heat—summer days in a favourite summer dress. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he breathes, his palm still under my breast. He holds every string attached to it, master of it all.

I shift closer, my leg covering his under the sheets.

"What about me?" I pry, looking straight into his eyes.

His other hand finds the curve of my spine. "Oh, you know... how beautiful you are."

My blush deepens as I push at his chest. "Stop teasing me."

"I'm not," he says so seriously that it makes my smile fall, forgotten items dropped from loose holds. "I mean it."

I keep quiet, not knowing what to say to that. He looks to his palm that's still monitoring my heart beat, his gaze flickering to mine like the bright flame of a candle as he says his next words. "I think about how lucky I am... all the time."

My breath is shaky as I exhale. Is it supposed to be like this... so all consuming? Because right now I don't think I'm awake. It has to be a dream because things like this just don't happen to everyone.

I shake my head slightly on the pillow. "I'm the lucky one," I reply, my fingers moving to his lips, tracing their smoothness.

His lips pucker against them for the smallest of seconds, the atmosphere around us changing like the seasons—winter to spring and back again. "I'm going to marry you someday, you know," he states, his words holding so much promise, like rings on certain fingers.

I have to finally pull his hand from my skin—he can't be privy to everything I'm feeling; it's simply not fair. His touch doesn't leave though; it simply finds a new direction, a new place, finding my cheek, a gentle pressure for me to look at him. I grip his wrist, a lot tighter than I should—it's another tell tale sign that I want to keep locked away, just in case.

So many thoughts whiz through my head, dizzying like bright lights on a dark night, Ferris wheels going around and around again. We're too young, only just nineteen. We have school, and commitments. But then I look at the earnest expression on his face... and suddenly I don't care - more than anything I want him to ask me, because there would never be any doubt if those words left his mouth. No hesitation. He'd make me happier than I ever thought possible; so much happiness that I wouldn't know what to do with it.

"And if I say 'no'?" I ask, because I simply have to and not because I ever would.

His eyes hold mine, heavy weights in place in the most fantastic colour imaginable. At least to me.

His Adam's apple bobs with his heavy swallow. "Then I'd try that much harder so that next time you'd have to say yes," he says confidently.

"And your parents?" I whisper. He has to know they would never allow it.

His breath holds and I look harder and really see... suddenly not so confident, but definitely determined. "They're not important."

Now it's my turn to swallow the lump in my throat. I pull his face to mine, leaving no room... no doubt.

"Well then," I say with a clear of my throat, "thanks for letting me know. I'll be ready when you ask me."

I'm playing now, trying to lighten the mood.

"And your answer," he asks, brushing his nose against mine.

I hold back my smile. "I'm not telling you that. It would spoil the surprise."

His eyes narrow. "You hate surprises."

"Only when they happen to me," I reply, playfully pulling back when he tries to kiss me... distract me.

He smirks, his hand moving down to my ass as he presses his hardness against the place that wants him most.

"Surprises like this?" He questions, the amusement evident in the tone of his voice—music to my ears.

I laugh and hide behind my hands, suddenly embarrassed. I shake my head.

"Good," he sighs, pressing his lips to mine.

He rolls us over so his body fully covers my own, pushing himself into me with the heavy weight of promise still drifting around us like the thickest of storm clouds.

~CitP~

He still stares at the ceiling as if it holds the secrets to our problems, small squares of paper falling down to his skin like petals from a dying flower, words in the boldest of colours pushing their way inside his mind.

It doesn't make me realise how much we've drifted apart—I already know that—it just intensifies it. I've been dull brass and unpolished silver, waiting to become bright once more... silver stars that captivate.

If you close yourself off for long enough, you can push so many thoughts to the back of the mind. The same thoughts that make you want to scream. The same thoughts that make you want to fall to your knees as racking sobs attack the body; the same thoughts that leave you angry and disgusted.

None of them exist if you extract yourself from the situation and simply go on pretending that everything is fine... which is exactly what I've been doing.

"Do you have plans today?" I eventually ask. The silence has been suffocating—I want to breathe deep and clear and eradicate it, even for only a little while.

He finally looks my way, his eyes cloudy, as if he really has been lost this whole time.

"I'm not sure yet," he replies, a small furrow to his brows.

So you have plans... you just don't know if you want to share them with me? Is that it?

I nod, memories coming to the surface once more like debris skimming water. "Do you remember that weekend we spent in Seattle at Christmastime completely snowed in?"

I freeze, ice seeping through my veins...

I hadn't meant to vocalise anything. And especially not here, now, in this bed where he is close enough to touch.

His expression makes me want to take the words back, lock them away in chests with numerous locks, and climb the ladder that leads to the attic where they will be left to gather dust.

His gaze falters for the briefest of moments, but it's enough, I see it. "I think..." he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Yeah."

His tone lets me know he doesn't want to talk about this. He's not in control of the conversation; he doesn't know what I'm thinking or where I could take it. He doesn't like to go back... or if he does, just not with me. It makes me want to push him, find out more; find out exactly what he's thinking, right this second, because anything has got to be better than this right here.

But then maybe he's just done and too much of a coward to tell me to my face.

I swallow down my nerves and decide to press those buttons that used to get him to talk—they know my fingers so well. "We had fun... spent the day watching movies, eating ice cream despite the cold," I breathe. I feel stupid that I can't think of anything else to say that won't sound accusing, because we don't do any of that now. We don't have fun.

He's back to looking at me, but this time I sense anger, like he knows what I'm doing and resents me for it.

I try again.

"I have work this morning, but after..."

I stop.

There is no after.

My words trail off as the furrow in his brow becomes deeper. His eyes tear themselves from mine, refusing to look back. "I'm going to go shower."

This time I know he's had enough. He leaves the bed feeling cold and empty, sheet corners thrown my way.

He closes the door with a soft click, and oh how I wish he'd slam it... show me something other than this face he walks around with all the time, day after day.

I grasp the cotton in my hands, fists weakly forming, wishing I could go after him. But I can't.

I don't have the strength.

I sit and turn page after page, my eyes taking in words that so many keep close to their heart, treasures found in simple ink.

The store is empty apart from an elderly gentleman who moves slowly from one aisle to the next, his hand trailing the spines of the books, feeling the different textures beneath his fingertips, the leather old and wrinkled just like his skin.

He has yet to make a purchase, just keeps treading along, his walking cane dragging against the floorboards as he goes.

He's either disappointed at what he finds lining the shelves, or he's remembering titles that have had a part to play in his life.

I pause in my reading and start to wonder what he feels when he looks in the mirror every day, seeing the changes in his face; the drooping skin and paler eyes—the white locks of his hair that were once a different shade, richer in colour.

Does he have regrets and sorrows? Would he go back and change anything... anything at all?

The years have passed by in long stages for him; he must be well over seventy.

I place a bookmark between the pages of the book I'm reading as I smile sadly; I hope he's lived a full life.

And while my years are only yet still small, I already want to go back to past times and change them—not all of them, only certain parts: the parts where things start to fall apart, pages pulled from ourbook and torn.

I want to be happy, and really mean it when someone asks me if I'm okay, smile so big and free that it hurts my cheeks—feel the ache long after that smile has gone, simply to remember it was once there.

There are so many things I long to plan and learn: see the world and not be afraid to explore it, experience the warmth of the bluest ocean on my skin, try the finest foods, meet the smartest people the world has to offer. I want to feel the sun on my cheeks and the wind in my hair, hear the sounds of my shoes as they scuff along the tarmac and concrete of foreign cities.

I want to be able to meet the eyes of others in the street around me and not smile because I feel I have to... but feel like it's okay to not always be polite to those I don't know—that I don't have to follow what is right.

For once, I want to do what I want and bear no consequences, even if they start just as small as something like that.

And more than anything, I want to want these things enough to actually go ahead with them, and no longer hide in my shell.

I want to break free and live and remember that new and young excitement I used to feel when Edward would look and me and smile; feel the blush that struck my cheeks, bloomed with happiness and embarrassment... electric bliss.

I want to hear his playful words and teasing touches that started as more friend than anything else – and be wherever he is; be the reason that he suddenly seems to be around so much—turning up at the same lunch table as me and stopping by for camping equipment that he won't use while I work my shift at Newton's.

I want him to touch my face and whisper things that hold so much but accomplish nothing; crooked smiles and messy hair.

He did it all so often, and I loved them every single time, longed for them, even.

And those instances, while leaving me desperate for more and more and more, were what started all of this.

The heels of my palms find my eyes.

I want it all again.

I'm pulled from my inner musings as the bell above the door jingles, happy voices joining the already cheerful ring of metal against metal.

The three faces are immediately recognisable, one causing deeper emotions than the other two.

Rosalie and her friend from the party—the one in red—are smiling and laughing as they relay something to Jasper who follows behind them.

A sudden emotion surges, spreading like wildfire.

I don't want them here in my own little piece of the world.

Jasper's gaze travels around the shop for a few seconds before it meets mine, his lips turning up into a smile, resulting in my own stare to change course and focus on something that isn't them.

His smile is genuine, and I know I should smile back, but I'm weirdly nervous, but not really because of him. Or maybe just a little. I don't know him. I've met him once, that's all. Yes, he was nice. Yes, he shared bits of his work and such. But I can have that mindless chatter with customers all the time.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, resigned—I feel guilty that I didn't smile back. He kept me company last night when no one else did; the guilt floods my system to a higher level.

I quickly go about tidying papers and receipts, finding anything that will keep my attention so I won't be tempted to take those nagging glances that my mind keeps telling me to make, back and forth like a twisted spring.

My discomfort is mainly due to my surprise at seeing Rosalie here—she's never stopped by before. She doesn't exactly look like the sort of woman who scours used book stores in the hope of finding that longed for piece of text that has been incessantly plaguing her mind. But then, I know better than anyone that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. After all, I don't really know her either.

And as for her friend, I can't help but feel that jealousy all over again as I remember her attention towards my husband, even if it wasn't anything more than being polite. I don't know her, yet a big part of me naturally wants to.

I hadn't thought much about her after returning home last night, that forgotten piece in an unfinished puzzle, but now I can't seem to stop.

Did Edward know her before last night? How long will she be staying in town? And more importantly: Will he be seeing her again?

If she's staying for Rosalie's wedding, then I have no doubt that their paths will cross again. I shouldn't be worried, Edward would never... but I am. The doubt creeps in, a darkness spreading, smothering like oil.

I force myself to stop, knowing this will do nothing but drive me crazy and instead make my way to the elderly gentleman who was here first, asking if he needs any help. He doesn't, but gives me a smile, that in this instance, I return easily.

"Bella?" And there is that hand on my arm again, just like the first time we met. The warmth is nice.

"Jasper... hi, nice to see you again," I say, peeking behind him as I do so. "Did you need some help finding something?"

He shakes his head with a soft upturn of lips. "No, I just wanted to say 'hello'."

That blush returns, just like it did last night. It's ridiculous and I have to move back behind my counter, put a distance between me and the rest of them.

"I'm surprised to see you here," I voice as he leans against the wooden top, watching me.

"Rose has been showing Kate around town," he replies.

And suddenly the girl has a name.

"She practically dragged Rose in here," he laughs. "She shares your passion for books, it seems."

I don't add that it appears she shares my passion for certain other things as well.

"That's good," I nod, my eyes once again drifting as the two women approach.

"I forgot you worked here, Isabella," is the first thing that comes from Rosalie Hale's mouth. It's strange... I don't think I've ever mentioned where I work to her before, mainly because she's never asked.

"Yeah, here I am," I say, forcing a smile.

Her blue eyes assess me for longer than I like; she does this every time we unintentionally cross paths. I'm unsure of her, can't get a clear read. She's either very straight forward or she hides an awful lot—one extreme or the other. But then Emmett adores her, and I know it's unlikely he would fall for someone who was ugly on the inside, despite their beauty on the outside. He's just not like that.

"It's a great store—I could spend hours in here." The girl—Kate—is talking to me, bright eyes and shiny hair. She really is very pretty.

And I'm sure Edward thought so too.

"Thanks, I like it," I say politely.

Rosalie seems to find herself, and makes the introduction. "God, I'm sorry. Isabella, Kate.

"Kate, this is Isabella, Edward's wife."

Her smile wanes just a little, like a light bulb just before it blows. "Lovely to meet you."

I find myself saying the right words too, even though I don't feel the truth behind them. "You too."

A throat is cleared. "You should come with us to lunch," Jasper interrupts, my own voice instantly dying in my throat. "You have breaks, right?"

The invitation has left me feeling awkward as I struggle to find the right words. I look at the other two, who simply smile and nod back at me.

Their silence says everything.

I'm probably reading too much into it, but still, I'm going to lie.

"Yeah, but not for another hour or so yet," I answer, checking my watch for good measure. "Maybe next time."

His expression gets serious. "I'll hold you too that," he replies, holding my gaze for a beat too long.

I simply nod and take the books from Kate's hold, her nails still bright red—I have to quickly look away from them as I remember the way they wrapped around arms that didn't belong to them.

The three of them leave shortly afterwards, the relief instantaneous as I slump into my seat. There is no one left here but me, and for the first time today, the silence is a comfort, caressing like gentle hands and love filled words whispered against skin.

I'm so tired, the hurt of this morning still lingering. But the need to get some fresh air is too strong.

My movements are quick despite my fatigue as I grab my coat and lock up the store behind me, my eagerness to sit on my favourite bench and look out onto my favourite view pushing me, steady wheels along a track.

I hurry along, my hood getting blown from my head as the wind picks up and bites at my skin, tendrils of hair weaving in front of my vision again and again, willow branches wild in the breeze.

I carry on.

I don't care enough to pull it back.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 658