Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight.

Bella

This morning, something is different. I'm warm, hugged within a caramel beam of skin-prickling sun, one that is meant just for me.

It surrounds me, caressing my flushed feeling skin, warming from the inside out, all liquid sunshine that trickles through my veins.

It's like relaxing days on the beach; sticky, hot fudge kisses and wandering fingers that tease and ignite.

The sheets aren't cold this morning, aren't bare: the bed dips, and there is soft music that disturbs my hair in the form of gentle exhales that don't belong to me.

I never want to stop hearing it, the sound and feeling tickling something inside of me that startles the best kind of hope, waking it up from its hazy daydream to the bright surrounding colours of the man behind me.

It's heart-stoppingly familiar, and better, and I don't ever want to leave—I don't ever want him to let me go.

I'm comfortably sleepy, drifting among the remnants of sleep on a cloudy wave, where memories tease and thrill, playing with my heart, drawing it out from its hiding place with promises that have the potential to burst.

It's then that full remembrance hits, a wrecking ball wrapped in pillow-soft bubbles that pop, turning me into dust; into glitter that is blown from the palm of a fairy as consciousness kisses my lids wide open.

And for the first time in months, when lashes flutter away the fog of sleep, I'm not alone.

The room is alive with early morning light and I'm suddenly scared to move, my lips pressing shut, trapping breaths that shake inside my chest as I release them quietly through my nose, afraid to make a sound, even a ghost of a whisper.

My gaze drifts, finding an arm around my waist, the very best kind of possessive weight that shackles me in more places than the flesh above my hip.

The bed covers are low on my thighs and I have to resist the urge to tug them back up and hide in forts made of soft, apple green cotton. But I carry on looking, gaze sweeping a little further, pausing at the curve of a hand.

I know those fingers, know that scar on the back of that palm, remember how it got there, how he fell first to stop me from hurting.

I trace the imperfection that speaks of perfect with my eyes, over and over, the little line of pink on pink.

I haven't been caught like that in a long time.

There have been grazed knees and bleeding hearts, stinging tears and smarting aches. But no soft landings: no tears swept away with the pad of a thumb; no lingering kisses to the forehead that brush and whisper and love.

No reassuring eyes that tell me everything is going to be okay.

And I think that's what I miss the most, that confidence, that unwavering safety net that spoke of a lie.

I look away, gaze fleeing like a frightened animal as I swallow against memories that build in my throat and pinch the space beneath my ribs like punishing fingertips.

And I'm not sure if he's awake, or if it's simply an unconscious movement made in sleep, but his arm suddenly shifts, palm warm against my skin as it slides to the opposite side of my waist.

The new position frays my nerves and ignites my desires, the fizz of a sparkler in an inky-black sky, so familiar, creating butterflies that flutter with an incessant intensity.

I warm and flush and burn; my fingers dig into the pillow beneath my head. I want to turn over and press my lips to the hollow of his throat, taste his salt, his skin, feel his pulse beneath my tongue. Make it beat faster, faster, faster.

Above all, make it mine.

Slowly, just in case he really is sleeping, I shift to my back, head turning to the side, facing his on the pillows—I'm met with my favourite shade of green, a dying wish before breaths fade.

I blink sleepily, watching him watch me, his sleep mussed hair and just-woken gaze tugging at strings that pluck my heart. It makes me think of wise words from a mother who has only ever wanted the best for her daughter:

'You can erase something from your mind, Bella. But the impact it leaves on your heart is harder to scratch out.'

This is going to be one of those moments; one that leaves tiny little footprints all over my being.

Eyes drifting just barely, I meet the clock behind his head, finding numbers that hastily hit that pause button.

It's well gone midday, and he's here... with me.

I feel another one of those maybe smiles tugging at the corner of my mouth. "You're not at work," I say quietly, stating the obvious as I feel that happiness bloom and bloom: it's a newborn flower I never want to wilt.

His gaze shifts briefly to the pillow beneath my head before focusing back on my face. "No," he says lowly, eyes piercing, gauging my reaction as he traps me like honey.

And I feel... so much, my emotions a tidal wave that crash over me, stealing my breath.

I can't remember the last time he took the day off work; the last time he wanted to spend time with just me.

He continues to stare. "You look surprised," he comments, his voice still thick with sleep.

I take a moment to answer. "I am," I say honestly, licking my lips, trying to bring moisture back into my mouth.

He licks his own in response, sliding his hand beneath his pillow. "I told you yesterday," he starts, breaking off as he clears his throat. "...I asked you if we could do something."

I bite the inside of my cheek—he did. But Edward has said a lot of things in the past; let me down time and time again.

I wasn't sure if this was going to be another one of those occurrences.

Thoughts shifting, I feel a brief stab of panic as I realise there's something I've forgotten, too wrapped up in green eyes and distanced warmth. "The bookstore... I need to phone them," I say.

"I already did," he replies before I can move, and the muscles in my arms literally ache, yearning to reach out and hold him.

"You did?" I ask, my voice tight with emotion.

He nods, his head on the pillow, hair scratching against cotton: two soft and brief movements. "Yes." I hear his inhale and want to follow it. "I didn't want to wake you," he admits. "I know you've been tired... and you looked so peaceful." His voice quietens on that last bit, volume turned low.

I imagine my cheeks are rosy pink, and resist the urge to press the tips of my fingers to them to see if they're matching warm.

"What did you want to do?" I ask, teeth finding the inside of my lip.

He gets quiet again, just staring, and a shiver scurries down my spine, the tension thick and uncurling like a roll of ribbon.

The gap between us suddenly seems so small; the urge to close the distance a demanding beat of a drum. I want his arms back around me like last night, his chest under my cheek, his beat beneath my ear.

"I was thinking we could go out to eat. Get breakfast food for lunch," he answers.

I swallow heavily, feeling light and free, dandelion seeds blown with a purse of lips.

My fingers curl beneath my pillow and the smallest of smiles graces my mouth. "Okay," I agree, pushing the hair from my face as I look away.

His fingers are suddenly on my cheek, brushing wayward strands of hair gently from my skin, momentarily twirling a piece around his finger, stealing the breath from my lungs.

I raise my hand and get to trace the veins in his wrist for maybe five seconds before he leaves the bed without another word.

My arm lowers back to the mattress and I don't turn and speak as I hear the door open and close behind me; the scuff of wood against the carpet, the lone sound of my breath in the room.

It stings, his quick and silent departure, but this is going to take work. Our situation, however much I may want it to, is not going to change after one night: stars to the sun and back again.

Allowing myself ten seconds with eyes closed and breaths deep beneath ribs, I get up and head for the shower, determined not to dwell or let this put a fault in our step.

This crack, I walk around.

This crack, I pretend isn't even a crack at all.

XXX

When I get downstairs I find him standing with his back to me in the living room. He's in a pair of worn jeans and a long-sleeved, blue cotton t-shirt: no suit, no tamed hair, no crooked tie.

He looks like an Edward I recognise, an Edward I want to get to know again.

An Edward who will maybe let me.

And he must hear me, because he turns to the side, eyes finding mine as his fingers push through the front of his hair.

"You look nice," he comments, assessing me from head to toe, clearing his throat as his hands find purchase in the pockets of his jeans.

I take a deep breath, pulling at the ends of my sweater sleeves. "Thank you."

My voice feels unused, unpacked, unwanted. He nods and scratches his jaw.

"You ready to go?" he wonders, staring at me again in that way that makes me feel brand new.

His absorption is Christmas, first dates and child-like birthdays all rolled into one.

I take a step forward, nodding as he passes me my purse from the end of the sofa, his touch lingering, linking us together, an apology for earlier.

He's taking his own time, using his own methods, something I'm going to have to accept. And yet his attention to me this morning is years too late, heartbeat too quick and intensely too good.

I want to tell his fingers I missed them, want to ask him what took them so long. But I don't, even though the silence that adheres to my lips stings.

"Yeah, I'm ready," I say, looking away from our hands—I don't need to see when I can feel.

His fingers squeeze mine so tight, but just for a few seconds, a memory jolting to the surface as he lets go.

~CitP~

The room is so quiet, cold, the skin on my arms prickling as we sit and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Fingers tangle with mine; they fit so easy, so right, like connecting pieces of a puzzle. They try to reassure, try to tether like hastily knotted lengths of string, but the expressions staring back at us break through the wall we thought we'd built so tall, so strong.

Our love is not as impenetrable as we thought.

"You got married," his father repeats again, granite surrounded by icy blue, frostbite that covers the skin in a stinging layer of disapproval.

I can feel the tension in the room rising, dusky water that threatens to pull us both under, steal our breath, our words, close our lids.

I stay quiet, simply clutching the hand of the boy I love, answers frozen on the tip of my tongue like icebergs that have the potential to block, choke and flounder.

I'm not even sure it's a question; this isn't the first time he's said these words to us since finding out.

I'd been planning the words in my head the whole drive over, knowing our reception would cause chills and ignite fires.

I want to be someone Edward can rely on, and was determined not let my insecurities and trepidation close me off like the pages of a completed book.

We'd been hiding this for too long; finally ready to step out of the shadows into the light.

But my feet seem to still be stuck in darkness, in sticky tar that holds my shoes in place, in guilt-sickening cowardice and fear of nonacceptance.

Edward sighs beside me, his grip on my hand bordering on painful. It's weirdly comforting and I hold on so tight. "Yes," he says, his voice trying to remain strong in the face of adversity.

But underneath that stubble, underneath that sharp and defined jawline, he is just a boy; a boy who made me a promise, one that brought the happiest of smiles to my face while wiping the ones off his parents' faces as he, in turn, broke the promise he made them.

He put his love for me first, above and beyond the wants of the two people who brought him into this world, high in the clouds.

He spun me in circles and kissed me stupid.

And I gave him my heart and whispered for him to keep it safe.

White gold feels heavy on my hand as Esme continues to stare at the ring that glistens back in the light; a pinch, a punch, a what did you do?

Her expression leaves no space for doubt in my mind about how she really feels. I've taken her little boy, who is no longer so little, from her grasp.

"Are you stupid?" Carlisle blurts, face stern, his hands white-clenched fists that sit on his knees; ruling crowns atop a throne.

I've never seen him like this; never seen him anything other than cool, calm and collected: a clean pressed suit and swept back hair.

My lids squeeze shut, a feeble attempt at trying to disappear, a game of hide-and-seek made of nightmares.

And here it comes.

Here it comes.

Volcano eruptions and fireworks that explode in the night sky: bang after bang after bang. But there is no excitement, no happiness; here shining eyes are made from bitter tears and loud voices pound against the little drums hidden inside our ears.

"Excuse me?" Edward pushes out, his anger a blinding beacon topped with flames, smoke filling the sky in warning. "No, I'm not stupid."

Carlisle's nostrils flare, filling his senses with breath tinged an incensed red. "You're a child!" he shouts. "And this," he indicates between the two of use with a finger that makes me feel so small; so wrong, wrong, wrong, "makes you stupid!" His eyes find mine and I want to look away. "Both of you."

I take a deep breath, thumb stroking skin beneath a finger ready to pull the trigger. But I'm too late, and that shot has already been fired—already has an intended target.

"Fuck you!" Edward roars, restraints let loose, green gloried gaze set straight on his father.

A shocked, heavy silence presses down on the top of my head, caging me in a box made of glass. Cracks immediately start to appear and I know it's only a matter of time before the whole thing shatters.

Startled expressions give way to loud breaths that quickly turn into rage. "Get out of my house!"

Carlisle's voice is cold, deadly: steel pointed traps and sickly poison. The sound makes me jump, the tenor of his words reverberating between my ribs, wrapping themselves around my bones like ivy.

Shivers attack my spine and I want to curl into warm chests and wish it all away.

All of this is so wrong.

Love isn't supposed to be this ugly, hateful thing. We aren't naive, we knew they'd be disappointed, but this is something we didn't anticipate.

Esme's hand grips the sleeve of his shirt, whispering for him to calm down, but it's no use; he's not hearing anything but the turbulent thoughts in his own head right now.

Fingers that tried to reassure, disappear as Edward gets to his feet, my hands squeezing together instead, palm to palm, a prayer that gets pressed between my knees.

"I thought you'd at least listen," he says, staring back at his parents, the stoic mask on his face slipping just a little.

He holds his hand out to me and I don't hesitate in taking it, his eyes briefly closing at my touch.

I want to say so much, but they need to calm down, have time to think it over, realise that this is something we both wanted; something we were both ready for.

They don't try to stop us as Edward leads me from the room. There are no departing threats. No assurances filled with anger or regret fired at our backs. Nothing but the sound of our shoes hitting the hardwood floor.

We both get into the car without a word, the engine roaring to life before I've even had time to put on my seat belt.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires, and we're only a short way up the driveway when Edward pulls over.

We're hidden beneath a canopy of trees, his hands tight around the steering wheel as his head droops forward.

"Hey," I say, immediately pulling myself from my seat as I climb over to him.

I hate seeing him so defeated like this. We're supposed to be happy... Carefree and young.

My hand rests on his shoulder until he leans back, allowing me to settle myself on his lap, legs either side of his. I wrap my arms tight around his shoulders as he buries his face in my neck, his hands instantly going beneath the back of my shirt.

"We don't need their blessing," he says, his mouth sucking softly at my skin before becoming more aggressive, kisses demanding at my lips.

He'll change his mind, I know he will, but it's okay. I don't push him away, don't tell him to slow down, I simply kiss him back with everything I have, until breathing requires we pull apart.

I allow him to take his comfort, knowing that one day, I'm going to need his, too.

~CitP~

"Is here all right?" Edward asks upon cutting the engine.

I look out the window at the white-fronted diner and nod, stepping out onto the pavement moments later.

He looks at me from over the roof of the car before closing his own door, a question buried somewhere in the furrow of his brows.

We walk to the entrance in silence, just like the car ride over. I'm a few steps behind, wanting to watch him from a slight distance—pick up on his body language and prepare myself for the day ahead.

He stands tall, hands in his pockets, hair colour more defined in the natural light. I tuck my own brown strands behind my ears as I walk, trying to remember the last time we did something like this; something that didn't involve work or his parents.

Or in some cases, even my own mom and dad.

And I can't.

He holds the door open for me, a small act that brings my eyes to his face in gratitude, my arm brushing against the sleeve of his t-shirt as I pass.

"Thank you," I say, just loud enough for him to hear before I turn away to step inside.

The smell of coffee and fried bacon immediately hits me upon entry, feet shuffling backwards a touch as a server walks past. Her hands are full with empty plates streaked with ketchup and syrup, a decorated display in blood red and angelic gold.

The diner is busy, the majority of tables full, the voices loud compared to the quiet of the car ride, sound proof bubble popped with a pinch of teeth.

The walls are lined in panels of wood, the seating a midnight blue, dark like sapphires that, in this case, are worn, scuffed and even torn in some places.

I suddenly feel Edward behind me, mouth close to my ear, breath warm. "Do you want to sit at the counter or get a booth?" he asks, the tips of his hair brushing against my skin as he lingers.

I resist the urge to turn and face him, conscious of the room full of people I don't know—resist the urge to bring his lips closer to my skin, feel them whisper across my cheeks, soft like sun-smoked feathers.

Eyes wandering around the room, noting the different couples as they smile and share stories, reminding me of us from years before, I tell him, 'booth' and follow behind as he directs us to one near the window.

It isn't necessarily private, the best place to talk, but at this point, I'm just glad we're here at all, together and trying to fix these broken pieces of ourselves.

His eyes slide to mine as he takes a seat; green, bright and distracting in the afternoon sun, all reflective bottle-top glass buried in the sand.

"Is this okay?" he asks, pushing a menu across the table until it bumps my fingers lightly.

I nod, pulling it closer until I can see the words printed beneath plastic. "It's fine," I answer, feeling nervous and excited, content and familiar.

Within seconds, a server is upon us, ready to take our order, empty coffee pot set down on the table with a light scratch of glass.

I look up, her face young and sweet: innocent pretty with pink bubblegum lips.

She isn't looking at me though... No. Her attention is focused solely on Edward; on the hand that moves through his hair, on the tongue that sweeps against his bottom lip, his eyes down as he studies the menu in front of him.

Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I watch him carefully, waiting for his gaze to lift, for him to notice we're not alone.

He eventually looks up, his focus shifting from me, to the girl beside us, and back again, movement slow and confused.

"Do you not know what you want?" he questions, brows furrowing above his eyes.

Yes, but do you?

The girl turns to look at me, almost as if she's noticing me for the first time, a mirage that has appeared in the sun soaked desert. Her eyes dip to the ring on my finger and the smile that was curving her mouth dims just a little, pen poised above the small notepad that is cradled in the palm of her hand.

"I'll take a black coffee and the waffles, please," I say, ready for her to leave.

She's making this uncomfortable... or maybe I'm doing that myself with my own insecurities.

She scribbles my order down, turning back to Edward with a mega-watt smile that squeezes at my heart.

He sucks in his cheeks a little as he continues to look back at me, his own food order spilling from his lips a few moments later, mouth not as distracting as the look in his eyes.

"I'll have the pancakes with a side of bacon. Thanks," he tells her without a glance.

She takes her time writing this down before telling us our food will be out shortly.

"You didn't want pancakes?" he asks once she's out of earshot—I almost always get pancakes.

I shake my head no. "I wanted a change," I respond, remembering Jasper's words to me that day in the store.

I look out the window, at the cars that pass on the street and the screaming child in its stroller that has dropped its stuffed bear on the ground. The mother hasn't noticed as she continues to talk to the woman beside her, my fingers twitching beneath the table as I resist the urge to knock on the glass and get her attention. It's distressing to watch the little girl cry and cry, her small hands reaching out from the sides of her stroller, trying to reach something she's too small to touch.

Eventually the mother crouches in front of her little darling, wiping tear stained cheeks and handing back cuddly warmth. I realise my attempts at garnering her attention would have been useless, because love is louder, a scream that shatters glass, the cut of the night sky, the lightening bolt that glows an electric golden-yellow, the thunder that follows with its deep tenor rumble.

Just loud, loud, loud.

Love draws me back to the man I came here with, and as my gaze rests on his face, I've caught him unaware.

His eyes scan me from the waist up, stripping me bare with just one look; no hands or fumbling fingers, just honest intensity that tugs and tugs and tugs.

I don't want to move or breathe, I just want to watch him watch me, but the moment is ripped away by a pair of pretty shoes and a new spritz of perfume.

My food is set down in front of me and the girl smiles, cheeks turning blossom pink as she focuses back on Edward, wonder bright in her eyes like the stars.

She's young, and I know the feeling all too well, jealousy and ire bubbling under my skin like dark, burning sugar.

It's bitter and sweet, heartache and laughter clutching at one another with piercing claws that come away ruby red.

I should be used to this by now, used to the wanting gazes from strangers—it never gets easier though. Whispers and spotlight attention follow him around, a constant shadow that blazes, and when I'm trying to balance, trying to regain my footing with something that used to be so stable, it's hard not to be affected.

I don't want us to fall again.

I turn back to him, catching his eyes just as they flit to her face. They linger and this time it's my turn to look away from him.

From the both of them.

She sets his cup down in front of him, her nails a baby blue against the white porcelain as she steadies it by the handle.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asks, straightening back up again, her voice matching her face, all sweet innocence that tempts.

I wait for Edward to speak, but nothing follows, content to let the chatter of those around us dominate in sound.

He must indicate somehow though, as after a few more painful seconds where my heart beats in my ears, she tells us an okay and leaves us alone, her voice just as cheerful when she pauses a few tables down.

I reach for a spoon, the silence tense, neither one of us attempting to break it as I empty a packet of sugar into my coffee and stir, dissolve, wash the words away in muddy water. It's so easy to pretend this isn't our fault... mine; easy to place the blame on a character that don't exist outside of this diner, a storybook hastily glued together with scraps of paper and a wrinkled lunch receipt stained with coffee.

His hands are in his hair, his frustration evident as his fingers pull harshly at the roots. "What's wrong?" he asks, looking at me with those green eyes that could haunt the dead.

I bite the inside of my cheek, head shaking, speech a mystery I have yet to solve.

I feel ridiculous, a child, but my thoughts don't stop. They spin in pretty dresses, and stumble in shoes too big, refusing to be ignored.

He reaches for his coffee, lips pursed against the edge of his cup as he speaks, gaze directed out of the window. "You're lying." He states this so simply, seeing through my pretences.

And he's right—I am.

Taking a deep breath, I give voice to exactly what I'm feeling. "Sometimes I feel I'm not good enough for you," I say quietly, insecurities laid bare with a whisper. They settle between us, hover like mist, a veil that shrouds my face and renders my mouth useless.

His eyes are dark, open, and my pulse races, throat feeling tight as the impact of my words settle inside my stomach.

They twist like keys in rusty locks, the taste bitter, salt and blood.

I remember his admission on a night that ended with a burning kiss; that ended with a smile on my face that wasn't altogether full.

I remember my question: What about Kate? Are you not attracted to her?

And his even more so, a red and angry mark that brands the skin over my heart: I've thought about it... how easy it would be.

His voice pushes against my thoughts, fists through glass and howling screams. "Why would you think that?" he asks.

My response is instant, the memory still fresh, dew sticking to the tips of green blades in the early morning light. "Why do you think?"

He sighs, his words a low and harsh exhale. "Jesus fucking Christ."

It's pain and grit and enough.

"She was pretty," I say, referring to the waitress, but meaning someone else. I'm goading him, looking up through lashes that want to close, that want to block out painful reminders of past occurrences.

His hands move to the back of his neck before dropping down to the table, his sigh one of aggravation.

I should stop this, I know I should, but I don't look away, and neither does he, his expression unyielding.

It is bright intensity; it's like looking into the sun. And as I try not to blink against its brightness, there is fight here, which is so much better than indifference, even if they both still hurt.

"I didn't notice," he replies smoothly.

And now it's his turn to lie. "No?"

He doesn't even blink, surety in the form of still lashes. "No," he answers.

It's not about this girl, not really. It's about another girl who has hair and eyes the same colour as mine. Another girl he's admitted to finding attractive; another girl who likes that he does.

It's about the girl who has brought a smile to his face and laughter to his lips when I couldn't.

He chews slowly, his jaw still tense. Swallowing, he wonders, "Have I really screwed you up that much, Bella?" My fork pauses midway to my mouth, surprise zipping through my veins like the first caffeine hit of the day. He hasn't finished though. "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do here. Am I not allowed to look at another woman if they ask me a question?" He rubs his palm down the side of his face.

"Of course you are," I say, dropping my fork to my plate, appetite vanishing with just four words.

His voice is low against the other voices around us. "Then why are we even discussing this?" he asks me.

"Because I can't stop thinking about another woman's hands on your face," I tell him, my answer quick and sharp, enticed out of its shell with a sugarcoated lie.

He's abruptly quiet, and I feel abruptly angry and stupid. He licks his lips, attention diverted elsewhere. "It was nothing."

"You're giving me excuses," I say, wanting to reach across the table and put my hand atop his, dig my nails into the gaps between his knuckles. "Don't, Edward... please."

I watch his Adam's apple bob in his throat; watch the muscles in his jaw tick, a restless electricity emanating from his skin. He scratches his arm, eyes flicking to mine, his agitation, his unease, brewing like rapidly filling storm clouds.

"She's not important," he repeats, and I feel something plummet inside of me, because he's dismissing how I'm feeling.

Knee bouncing under the table, a rock in my stomach, I say, "But it's important to me."

He's back to unblinking, his lips parting. "Well, it shouldn't be," he responds. "Because she's just a girl."

A girl is never just a girl to a boy.

His words hang in the air, a dream-catcher that seizes the light, trapping his unshared thoughts inside its numerous feathers.

I pick apart the waffle on my plate, not eating, watching him do the same with his pancakes until my coffee turns cold.

He pays the bill and the car ride home is just as quiet as the one there.

He switches the TV on when we arrive back, sitting beside me on the sofa instead of the chair opposite, but at a distance, a reminder he's not quite ready for anything more at that moment.

His eyes stay trained ahead, mine on him until my lids fall shut, tired of waiting for something I'm not sure is even coming.

XXX

When I wake this time, the room is dark. The warmth, however, is still here, even if it is a little further away.

I can't remember moving, stretching out my legs, tucking feet under a jean clad thigh; can't remember the TV getting switched off in favour of complete silence. I do remember what this feels like though, falling asleep with him near, touching him somehow, even in the smallest of ways.

Light-filled remembrance fills my chest, floating like a feather, making me smile in darkness that hides the small up-curl of my lips, a secret keeper that stays on standby as the hours pass.

"Did I wake you?"

I jump, not expecting the sound of his voice even though I knew he was there. I could feel him. I wiggle my toes just once before pulling my legs back, drawing them to my chest as I sit up straighter, eyes gradually adjusting to the muted light of the room.

"I don't know," I answer, clearing my throat, trying to think. "I don't think so. I mean, I didn't hear anything."

I hear his fingers scratch over his stubble, my skin prickling in response. "Okay."

Silence settles over us again and it feels like I've slept for days and not hours, my limbs all comfortably rested.

I'm not sure what the time is, but know it's late enough for heads to find pillows and lashes to flutter shut. I rest my chin on my folded arms and my heartbeat picks up when Edward shifts to the edge of the sofa.

I don't want him to go, my insides crying out for him to stay exactly where he is; for him to get closer and closer and closer.

My eyes are wide in the dark, body still, the room filled with tension-crackling silence, like little fireflies at late night summer festivals.

His voice comes again, these words even more surprising than the first.

"When I first met you... I had no idea how important you would become to me."

My mouth snaps shut, breaths stolen, locked up tight. His head turns to face me, his eyes so dark, dark, dark in the room, like liquid onyx, captivatingly dangerous.

"Or maybe I did," he continues, the sounds of his breathing my anchor. "It scared me how fast I wanted to get to know you, become your friend."

I feel like little choking sobs are going to escape my mouth at any second, his words the best kind of gift, painful and raw while still being that perfect one for me.

"Sometimes I want to be that young again," he tells me, keeping me trapped.

Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I ask, "Why?"

"Because it means it's okay not to care."

He's not meaning this to hurt me... the look in his eyes that accompanies his words aren't hate or hard, indifferent or empty. He's soft brushstrokes, painting my skin in honest white, letting me see a little more of his hurt, too.

"You asked me once if I was happy..." he says, words trailing off like a dying breeze as he waits for me to remember.

I think back, scramble through the thoughts in my head, try to determine the ones that have passed through my lips and the ones that haven't, my determination blink-quick.

I remember the startling picture of a new family behind panes of glass, the rain that stuck to my face, the moon highlighting cheekbones I used to kiss over and over.

His answer: No.

A distant memory echoes, hazy around a painted tongue, slowly forming like the lazy tick of a clock as the seconds pass.

"I remember," I say eventually, meeting his eyes.

He pulls in a breath, deep and deep, the bottomless curvature of a wishing well. "Are you happy, Bella?" he wonders. "And I don't mean just with us. Take the us out of the equation."

My head shakes in refusal, a no, no, no. "That's impossible," I tell him.

It's like informing a plant it can't have water; like veins without blood, a heart without its reason to carry on ticking.

He frowns, lips pursing ever so slightly with the movement. "It's not," he persists, almost seeming desperate, as if he's trying to force himself to believe the words, too.

"It is," I push, gales that force you to take a step back. "I feel like I don't know who I am without you."

It's the truth, and I feel weak, a bird with one wing broken, feathers drooping a pathetic shade of beige. But I don't budge. I'm trying to be honest, test the water with a timid dip of toes.

He's angry, storm clouds brewing behind his eyes. "Don't say that," he warns, the look in his eye a stark contrast to his words, electric yellow against still-sky blue.

He's seeing red, truths that fly and hover like the persistent honey bee craving nectar.

"Why?" I ask, unable to stop myself despite the warning signs ahead.

His hands scrub the sides of his face. "Because I can't handle that kind of guilt, Bella," he groans. "That kind of responsibility is fucking terrifying, and that's a problem."

I'm a problem?

"Do you never feel the same way?" I ask.

And I can tell this is the question he didn't want me to get to; didn't want me to ask.

But he doesn't avoid, doesn't run.

His expression forces the air from my lungs, replacing it with a red-tinged light.

"Sometimes I do," he tells me, his voice low, his tone honest. "Sometimes I feel I'll go crazy if I don't speak to you... or have you near me."

My heart pounds crazily, his truths stripping me bare; a once colourful painting washed the palest shade of beige. I feel the sudden need to move, to run, but his eyes keep me in place, refusing to let me flee.

I don't understand it—don't understand myself. This is what I've been wanting to hear, to pull from his head... his heart. All day.

I want to become the pages of his journal and learn his secrets... be that someone he shares them with.

And yet it's also something I'm unexpectedly afraid of, like crossing bridges I've admired from afar for so long, only to realise I'm so high up.

I think he knows, too, but he's not shutting himself off from me this time.

He leans forward, a small shift that results in his knee brushing against mine, setting me on fire, paper to flame, bleeding words that melt onto our skin.

And I'm sure that's it, that he'll pull away, read the fear in my eyes and ignore the wanting of my racing pulse.

But he doesn't.

His palm finds my cheek, his touch soft, a distant memory that prickles the skin, his tongue speaking words that make my eyes burn and my lips tremble.

"The urge to reach out and touch you is so strong sometimes... it's almost as if my limbs aren't my own," he murmurs, his voice a grit-like need that is impossible to ignore, sand that scratches along the back of my throat.

My hands squeeze into fists on my lap as his fingers slide past my temple into my hair, gripping, but not hurting. "You dominate my thoughts, so much so, I can't concentrate on anything else." He takes a deep breath, chest expanding. "It terrifies me, Bella," he admits, ensnaring me in honest green.

I swallow thickly, trying to rein, trying to calm. "You think it isn't the same for me?" I ask looking back at him, sitting on my hands to stop them from touching things that I'm not sure are fully mine.

My confidence is hiding amongst shadows, in a cold room where hearts race.

His lips part, fingers loosening. "I don't know," he replies, eyes searching my face, brows furrowed. "I don't know."

My throat tightens, and my vision blurs, and I wish I knew what he was looking for, because I'd give it to him so fast, heartbeat quick and pure.

"Then that's a problem," I whisper, feeling the ache inside my chest, a hollow longing desperate to be filled. "Because I do. I feel all those things. So much."

He carries on looking, tracing pathways that hold hidden letters only visible to him. His fingers move to my face, and his touch is sure, breaking me apart, piece by puzzle piece. And the whole time I'm screaming inside, begging him to see me, hoping he remembers the way, the words, the way I held him at night; the way I kissed him hello and good morning with smiling lips and touches that adored.

"Is that it?" I ask, the silence in between truths suffocating, like hands over mouths and fingers that shush.

He pauses here, and the expression on his face immediately makes me want to take the words back.

"No," he answers slowly.

"What else is there?" I question, apprehension a river of ice in my veins.

He takes a deep breath. "Sometimes I think I resent you for it... for making me feel that way."

A ringing shoots through my ears, deafened by the fire of a gun.

"But I'd rather be with you than not," he continues, assures, softens. "Even if that makes me selfish, makes us stupid... makes us the worst versions of ourselves sometimes."

My stomach lurches, his admission hard to hear. "It makes us the best, too," I remind him.

He swallows thickly, pulling away slowly. "I know."

The silence that follows, kisses my cheeks rather than bites at my skin, and I'm suddenly so tired again.

His gaze drifts to the door and I don't want him to go where I can't follow: I want to sleep beside him just like last night.

Gathering all my courage, I get to my feet and hold it to my chest in my very own jar of hope.

He watches me stand, my balance shaky under his attention as I hold my hand out to him, a wordless plea, fear of his refusal a block of ice that keeps my feet weighted to the ground.

This is what we do. He tells me a secret and I keep it, show him my own without words.

He stares at me for the longest moment, arms on his knees, head tilted down ever so slightly, eyes solely on me.

My hand shakes, offer wavering like the first fall of leaves in autumn as they tremble before sailing through the air. And for those few fearful seconds, I'm scared he's going to leave me standing here all alone.

He wets his lips and my heart is in my throat as he stands, as he pauses in front of me, as he takes my hand and brushes his parted lips over the top of my head.

He's not kissing, but it doesn't matter.

He's simply touching, remembering... burning me alive.

There are five perfect seconds in the dark before he leads me from the room, hand clutched tightly in his, my fingers refusing to let go.

He hesitates on the stairs, shoulders rising with his breath before pulling us in the direction of his old room. I feel my pulse quicken, my skin warm all over, remembering past nights spent curled up in his arms.

The door opens, the room just as dark as the rest of the house. My nerves take over, singing inside my veins, all fear and heart and love.

I remember a prom dress on the carpet and tears inside the closet, first I love yous and ink scrawled memories.

I look at his cotton-covered back, heart a runaway train, and wonder what he sees.

His hand leaves mine, fingers going to the fly of his jeans as he begins to take them off to sleep, head down, focused on his metal-loud movements. I don't know where to look, my own hands shaking, nervous as I copy him, the air cold on my bare legs.

I quickly strip off my sweater, leaving me in just my tank and underwear, bed covers pulled back as I crawl onto the mattress. He's changed his t-shirt, short sleeves instead of long, his arms distracting as he climbs in beside me.

I'm awkward, all sleepy desire, the heat from his body driving me crazy inside, embers lit a glow-bright orange. I want to turn, just like last night, close my eyes against his chest with his fingers buried in my hair.

I can hear the tick of the clock and the sound of our too loud breaths and unable to take it, stand it, my body turns, seeking the person that knows it best.

Slowly, his head turns on the pillow, his gaze my sizzling flare in an inky sky and the reason for the shiver than runs along my skin, all moon lit rivers that consume.

His movements are careful as he moves to lean over me, my back flat to the mattress, his arms either side of mine, caging me in.

I watch as his eyes glance between mine and my mouth, his lips parting as he brings his face closer. And I think I'll stop breathing, combust, the physical ache of his proximity wanting to tear itself from my chest, a bird as it flees from the bars of its too small cage.

Lips drag down my temple, my thighs squeezing together beneath the covers as one of his hands finds my hip.

He does this over and over, my fingers digging into sheets, legs bending, knees higher, his touch gentle but firm.

His lips change course, flutter across my cheeks, feather light kisses that rival those of sweeping butterfly wings.

I swallow hard, eyes pressing shut. "I'm sorry," I whisper, unable to keep quiet.

I expel my regrets out like smoke, watch them curl behind my eyes.

His stubble scratches my skin as he pays attention to my neck, my throat, a bittersweet punishment I'd take over and over.

"For what?" he asks quietly, chilling my skin, all glittering frost as his teeth form over my collarbone.

Everything.

I've played my part, aced my scenes with flying colours, confetti raining down from the sky: blue and yellow and red and black; tears and smiles and heart and despair.

He doesn't ask me to elaborate, give voice to the flashing side-reel behind closed lids, his soft kiss to my chin a momentary pass.

"Open your eyes," he appeals.

His voice is a whisper, a want, a white hot plea. His breath warms my cheek and I burn along with him, scattering like flaming ash.

I do as he says, ready to fall and soar, feel the wind in my hair and the flutter against my lashes, the hammering in my chest going up another notch as I meet his gaze, his lids lazy, half closed.

All mine.

My hands are shaking, my heart crazy, no longer a graveyard, but a place where passion grows, carmine streaked paper templates in the shape of opened mouths ready to take and taste: swallow whole.

His face is the boy I remember, the man I still love, the look in his eyes splintering me in so many ways.

He is smiling lips in the rain, wedding bands on fingers and whispered assurances against muscle that beats.

It's suddenly hard to breathe.

My breaths come too fast, thundering like trembles that shake the earth, shaking the trees and startling what resides in half shadow, wings flapping, beating quick, fast, quick.

And calm and slow down are lost, carried away with a sigh in the dark, blindfolded and spun in circles before being thrown up, up, up.

I reach out to touch his face, outline his lips with the tips of my fingers, his nostrils flaring as he tries to steady his own breath. But it's too late, and not enough, this little piece of comfort too blinding, silver-white like the stars.

It's my way of telling him I'm his, that I want his mouth, his kisses, his tongue and heart and even the pain, too. Because when he looks at me like this, these fleeting moments, they eclipse the tears that dry all on their own.

My fingers move, trace the fuzz of his brows, his exhale hitting my pulse point just before I feel his lips at my wrist.

This time I'm the one trying to steady, a breathy whine leaving my mouth as he sucks the skin softly.

He likes this noise, wrapping the sound up in safe hands, his body shifting higher, pressing lightly against mine.

I can feel my pulse racing, a wish upon a star, his face hovering so close above mine. He bends his head, closer and closer, my lips parting, breath stuck in my throat.

I feel shaky, like I want to cry, or talk, my hands sliding to the backs of his arms as his palm cradles my face.

I'm expecting his mouth, but am met with something else instead. His tongue brushes the outside of my lips and my stomach dips, shock and want overwhelming, a veil of purple satin sheen.

Inhale, exhale, tremble, over and over.

He does it again, moving to my bottom lip, the silence ringing in my ears, the moment making my muscles tense and squeeze.

Fingers tease beneath the hem of my tank and my heart skips a beat, like pebbles skimming over the surface of water, a rippling effect that travels over my skin.

My breath seems so loud, fingers nervous with want and need as they weave themselves into his hair, holding him close, close, closer. His nose brushes against the side of my face, and my cheeks burn, my blood boiling hot, heart pumped and so alive, beating just for him, ready for more.

He doesn't stop, his lips finally back, above mine, glistening temptation as he wets both.

My hands slide to his shoulders and I watch lashes close in the dark before my own fall shut, fully distracted.

I can feel this kiss all through my body, a low hum that hovers just above my skin, silencing the thoughts in my head with a flip of a switch; with a pair of lips that make me want to cry.

His mouth is gentle at first, teasing, light kisses that come and go, anticipation a gift of dark pink softness. I wrap my arms tight around his neck and lift my head, angle my mouth just right, lips pressing harder.

He responds, pushing me back to the pillows, a low moan sounding from the base of my throat.

He shifts, body weight full, the best kind of breathless as he rocks his hips, seeking comfort and so much more. The bed springs whine, and my legs tighten, squeeze around the top of his thighs, trying to keep him right there.

My heartbeat is somewhere else tonight, below hips and between parted thighs, insistent like his tongue as it pushes into my mouth.

He takes and tastes; his teeth tug, I want him to do it harder.

I pull him closer, his groan low and gritty in my ear as he slides his hand to the curve of my ass, fingers digging into my flesh.

I'm lost, hips circling up and up. He's so hard between my legs, his face pressed into my neck, leaving purple stained kisses, his tongue warm and wet.

I grip his sides tightly, trying to urge him forward—urge for things I know we're not ready for. I feel so hot, so uncomfortably good, his skin against my lips addictive.

He leans back, looking at my face, his torso warm against mine, his hips slowing and slowing, when all I can think is faster, faster.

I'm breathless as his hands cup my face lightly, brushing the hair from my skin, the look in his eyes a flicker in the dark, in my heart, in the sound that keens inside my throat, an almost sob for so many things.

He touches me softly, his kisses lazy, his voice my favourite confession. "I'm sorry, too," he whispers.

I nod, eyes burning, arms tight around his neck, shuddering as I hold on.

And not just to him, but to this marriage, to his words and the expression on his face as he looks at me.

To this feeling right now.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 650