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Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

Bella

There is a blissful moment just before we fall asleep where our mind is completely silent. Our thoughts fall away like the cinnamon shaded leaves in autumn; disappear like a dying wish that gets pushed through rapidly slowing lips.

Other times we're left with a heavy ring of smoke that eventually fades to the slightest wisps of consciousness, our lips curling up into the faintest of smiles before sleep pulls us under.

And sometimes we don't remember it at all, can't recall it happening, think and think, our frustration a cloying presence that adheres to our lips like glue as we question its authenticity.

Right now I long for that blissful moment; long for that something to pull the worries from my head. I want to tie my doubts together tightly, form knotted lengths of string, cast them out of the window and into the breeze without a return address.

I look down at the man beside me, at his peaceful form, his lips pressed together in his sleep: tempting and distracting as he breathes softly. I think back to an hour before and the message left on the answering machine, the one that let me know his parents are coming back tomorrow, a day earlier than planned.

I wish I hadn't ventured into the office, hadn't decided to check in with my dad before his shift at work, hadn't chosen to use the phone downstairs rather than my cell in the bedroom, so conscious not to wake Edward.

Denial infinitely tastes better.

I'd forgotten this wasn't our house, that we'd have to go back to the one I could no longer stand to live in, the one I'd left weeks previously and still hadn't been back to.

It's inevitably brought on a flurry of worries that have been buried beneath wandering fingers and breath-stealing kisses; beneath painful confessions and gaze-wielding fragments of silence.

I'm scared of backward steps that lead to bad decisions; scared of what they represent and who we are right now.

This bubble we've created is about to be popped with piercing stares and questions, questions, questions.

And I don't want to be here for any of them.

I lean across and press secret kisses to Edward's cheek, the kind you only give when you know the other person is sound asleep, heart-kept desires spurred on by the even rise and fall of a chest.

His lashes remain closed as I slip from the bed, careful not to wake him as my fingers trail across the still warm sheets.

I reach down for the sweater I'd discarded last night and pull it over my head, fingers swiftly untangling the hair from beneath the wool as I leave it to rest over one shoulder.

I need air, something other than four walls and the nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach that doesn't seem to want to leave.

My feet are as soundless as I can make them as I tread across the room to the double doors that lead outside, gaze drifting back to Edward just once before I turn the lock.

There is an unmistakeable chill in the air today, a slight breeze that caresses my skin with a pinch of teeth, biting along my bare legs as I step over the lip of the doorway onto the wooden steps that run down to the gravel.



I wrap my arms tighter around my middle, shivering just slightly as I bury my chin and hide my lips beneath the front of my sweater.

The clouds dominate the sky this morning, thick in cover and fluffy around the edges, like an old blanket that has retained its softness. I look up, up, up, blinking, and it makes no sense to me, this weightless appearance, because I swear I can feel their heaviness press down upon me, like hard-edged words and letters with red notices stamped across the front.

Some are a smoky pearl, others a stony promise, the overall picture one of dull tones that carry so much threat. I look away, knowing it's only a matter of time until the heavens open, and focus on the branches that sway.

The leaves that adhere to their sides rustle back and forth, making the kind of music that is more comforting than not, giving life to an otherwise still view.

It's like being stuck inside a motion picture with only part of the screen in working order. I'm left waiting for my cue, wondering why it hasn't arrived yet, questioning if it ever will.

Bright yellow daffodils that come back year after year catch my eye, standing out amongst all the grey, an offer of sunshine without the warmth, a simple desire that springs up from the ground instead of filling the sky.

It reminds me of springtimes spent in this very garden, with the very man who is asleep in the room behind me.

The smiles are different and the features are younger, but my feelings are exactly the same.

His kisses are exactly the same.

~CitP~

The weather is perfect today, a rarity that has to be taken advantage of, cradled within greedy palms that cherish. The air smells of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass, and I'm wearing my new sky blue shorts that I know are going to be covered in grass stains when I finally get up—when Edward finally goes back to mowing the lawn instead of kissing me. Not that I want him to. I hope his parents stay gone for the rest of the day so we can stay here for another few hours, simply kissing and touching and telling the other we should go while not making any attempt to move.

My eyes are closed, and I can feel the warmth of the sun from behind my lids, hear the buzz of insects that hover.

I can also feel the wet of Edward's tongue as he kisses the side of my neck.

One of those serene smiles grace my lips, the kind born from easy happiness, curling the outer corners of my mouth, my chest feeling light.

His hand finds my stomach, stroking my skin back and forth, from one hip to the other, testing the waters, checking to see if his hand being there is okay.

It's more than okay.

I can feel his breath, hard and harsh against my cheek as he shifts against me a little. He's lying on his side, partly over me, one of his legs pinning down both of mine as he gets closer still.

His lips hit the corner of my mouth and I turn my head towards him a little, wanting and waiting for his kiss as I pucker slightly.

It doesn't come and my cheeks warm further with a different kind of pink.

My lashes blink open; the sun is shielded by Edward's smiling face above mine. His smirk only gets bigger when he sees my eyes are no longer closed but focused on him instead.

He brushes his nose against mine. "Did you want something, Bella?" he asks, his voice low and light.

I grip the front of his t-shirt, trying to pull him down. "Stop teasing me," I say, holding back my smile as I pretend to be annoyed.

"Hmm, or what?" he grins, all provoking perfection.

I bite the inside of my cheek as I think. "I don't know yet, but you'll be sorry," I reply, smiling wide when he throws his head back and laughs, the sound making my chest ache in the best of ways.

His eyes show his happiness, squinting ever so slightly as he asks me, "Is that right?" and I nod.

"Yes," I say, lifting my head from the grass to kiss his chin, "that's right."

He retaliates by kissing my face all over, his kisses quick, lips pressing everywhere but my mouth as I try to wiggle away from him, giggling. Somehow we end up swapping positions, his back now to the ground as I straddle his hips, his hands cupping my jaw as he still refuses to give me the kiss I want.

I rock my hips, unable to help it when I feel him hard beneath me, his mouth pausing in its teasing as he groans deep and kind of strangled.

His hands drop to my waist, fingers sliding down, trying to slip under the hem of my shirt as he lifts his hips. I immediately slap them away. "No touching," I tell him, biting my lip.

He looks up at me, jaw tight as he smirks. "Are you teasing me, Bella?" he asks.

From my periphery, I see his fingers grip the blades of grass he has yet to mow, and I know that I'm getting to him. "Are you going to kiss me, Edward?" I retort, circling my hips again.

He grabs my hips and rolls me under him, swapping our positions once more. His hand cradles the back of my head and I think I'm finally going to get my way when we both simultaneously turn our heads at the sound of a car coming down the driveway.

He curses and quickly helps me to my feet, brushing off my back and butt as the car pulls to a stop in front of the house.

His parents step out on opposite sides, his father's voice loud as he shouts over to his son, hand a makeshift visor over his eyes. "That lawn isn't going to mow itself, Edward," he reminds him.

I hear Edward sigh from beside me and match his frustrations inside. "Yeah... thanks," he mutters sarcastically, too low for Carlisle to actually hear.

Esme smoothes out her pants and indicates to my legs with a wave of her finger... or rather my shorts. I think. "You should get home, Bella, before that stains," she says, her voice not unkind, just matter of fact.

I look down and sure enough, the grass has left green patches on my clothing.

I nod, feeling dejected as they both turn for the door, a sigh held in my chest as I go to swivel on my feet and head for my truck.

Edward is staring after his parents, annoyance painted all over his face, and I'm about to tell him 'bye' when he grabs my wrist and pulls me to him, his chest knocking into mine.

"What's—" my words are cut off by his mouth as he finally gives me my kiss, fingers tangling into my hair as I wrap my arms around his neck and rise up on tip-toes.

His lips are the good kind of hard that rivals the best kind of soft as he pulls back and touches his lips to mine gently, again and again.

"But your dad said—" I'm cut off once more.

"Screw what they said," he interrupts, tugging on the ends of my hair. "I want to kiss my girlfriend for a little longer," he smiles, pressing his lips back to mine.

His hands slip underneath my shirt and the lawn is forgotten for another five minutes.

~CitP~

My eyes stay glued to springtime yellow until a wisp of a breeze lifts my hair from the back of my neck, my gaze finally falling away like the first drift of snow come winter.

His parents' actions back then had been nothing. They simply wanted their son to learn responsibility. I can see that so clearly.

It's Edward that's different... his reactions that have changed. He questions nothing... fights for nothing. It's hard to discern what he does for himself; hard to know what he truly wants.

He's become the master of avoidance and the boy who no longer smiles.

And what scares me the most is that I can't see a way for the two to ever fit together.

He would take my hand freely, kiss me and kiss me, make time for us, always. But it's almost as if I've become that invisible person that you remember but can no longer see, a figment of an imagination that flutters in and out of your conscience.

And as I continue to stand here, my body feels like lead, grey, as I wonder just how many more moments like this we'll have.

Our days aren't perfect, but they're better than before, no longer indifferent passages of time that leave me feeling so alone, like cold winter nights trapped out in the dark.

There are sparks, feelings, truths laid bare with raw edges, and I don't want to lose them: even the ones that cut.

Sometimes all I can think about is leaving... together. But it's that, right there, that puts an abrupt stop to my wandering dreams before they've had chance to fully bloom. I know more than anything that here—Port Angeles, Forks—is home for Edward. So while my home may reside in the beat of his heart, I'm not sure it's the same for him. And that scares me, because I don't want to lose him. I never did. But then there's also that voice that asks the very question I don't want to answer: What about what you want, Bella? Are you not important, too?

It's that one that scares me most.

It's that one that has the potential to make me doubt.

It's that one that screams at me to run.

I turn away, bare legs frozen as I briefly rub them against one another before looking back up.

My cheeks warm and my chest feels lighter, a shiver of another kind kissing along my spine.

Edward is sitting up in bed, his back against the headboard as he simply watches me with sleep-mussed hair and alert eyes. I instantly wonder how long he's been awake, self-conscious as I tug the ends of my sweater further down my legs.

His eyes follow the movement as I step back inside and close the doors behind me, the soft click echoing in the otherwise silence of the room.

I think of his kisses and how his mouth felt on mine last night, the expression on his face as he gazed down at me—remember how his lips parted, just like they do now as he gets ready to speak.

My skin suddenly feels warm all over.

"I thought you'd left," he says, his voice still thick with sleep.

I take another step closer, eyeing my vacated place beside him for just a second. He licks his lips and I bite my bottom one in response. "And go where?" I question quietly.

He runs his palm along his jaw. "Work," he answers, clearing his throat. "I wasn't sure of the time."

My knee hits the mattress at the same time as both of my palms. I crawl onto the bed, close enough to touch without actually doing so, feeling his warmth through the cotton sheets. It's addictive, and maybe mine, and I can't stop staring at his lips or his fingers as he pushes his hair up from his forehead.

I take a deep breath and clasp my hands in my lap, unsure of what to do. His eyes flick to mine as he continues to tug on his hair, and I'm not sure he does either.

Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I say, "Your parents called earlier."

His gaze holds mine steady this time as his hands lower to the mattress. "You spoke to them?" he wonders, not blinking.

I shake my head. "No..." I respond slowly. "They left a message."

"What did it say?" he questions, brows furrowing.

I bite the inside of my cheek for a moment before telling him, "They're coming home tomorrow."

He doesn't say anything right away, just continues to stare, his breaths slightly louder, but still even. The tension is leaf-canopy thick; green and brown and overwhelming.

I want reassurance, anything other than this silence that coats my skin in a cloying layer of panic.

I'm too preoccupied to notice his hand move, but not enough that I don't feel his touch.

His finger sweeps across my bare knee, a thousand butterflies let loose inside my stomach, dipping and soaring and flutter, flutter, flutter.

My lips part as I watch him slide his whole palm over my skin, pausing just at the inside of my thigh, not high up like I want it, but frustratingly low to drive me crazy.

My pulse quickens as I touch my hand to his, hesitantly, almost as if I'll scare him away with my interference. He doesn't move and my exhale is one of slow and silent relief as I let it out from my chest.

Softly running the tips of my fingers over his knuckles, I let my lashes blink shut, telling myself over and over that this is enough.

But like all good things, they don't last, and the alarm on his phone sounds, a piercing ring that destroys the moment just as quickly as it began.

His jaw is tight when I open my eyes, his other hand reaching for his cell on the nightstand as he looks at the screen once before shutting it off.

"I'm going to go shower," I say, feeling the burn of his gaze on my face, my palm still covering his.

I look up and his fingers twitch against my thigh in response, the pressure of his touch strengthening slightly as I hold his attention.

His palm slides a little further and my own falls away, just wanting him, but then his hand is gone completely, and I'm left with nothing.

I swallow thickly and get to my feet, angry at myself as I feel my eyes burn with salt frustration, blinking quickly as I push the hair from my face.

I don't feel him behind me until he is, the back of his hand brushing the outside of my thigh as his mouth pauses at my ear. "Can I tell you a secret?" he murmurs, and I nod, leaning back into him, not trusting my own voice. His other hand steadies at my hip as he whispers, "I hate waking up to an empty bed." His breath is warm on the side of my neck, setting me alight in honey and bronze. "I didn't like that you weren't there this morning."

A shiver runs through my body, my eyes trained straight ahead as my vision blurs with tears. I love his admissions, so much, they pull and tug and feel great inside my chest, but they're not the ones I need to hear right now.

I feel his breaths pause against my cheek for just a moment, my own inhale held, unconsciously matching. A stalemate is formed, neither one of us moving until it gets to be too much. He leaves the room first and my heart pounds, his proximity still stuck to my skin long after he's gone.

I stand beneath the spray of the shower and close my eyes, letting the steam cloud my head instead of green eyes, teasing touches and this inexcusable fear that time is running out.

XXX

Work moves by in a blur. I remember greeting customers, can hear my own words inside my head, but I can't recall faces.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires of my car as I pull up the driveway, lost in grey before something silver catches my eye. I don't recognise the car, but the person behind it is unmistakable to me now.

My foot on the gas pulls back a bit, the car slowing as the other speeds past me like a bullet. My hands feel shaky, the beat of my heart accelerated as I immediately question what she was doing here.

The fact that Edward would be home doesn't even register with me until the engine has stopped running and I'm staring at his car next to mine. It's early... early for him, early for me, and the thoughts that instantly plague my mind steal my breath and pinch, pinch, pinch.

There have been too many coincidences, too many excuses. I feel my heart shatter inside my chest and don't know how I'm going to put all the pieces back together again if I walk inside that house and see what I think I will.

That nagging fear from this morning rears its ugly head as my heels feel wobbly beneath me. I press the car door shut, too hope-dashed to cry, handle turned robotically as I step inside the house that feels too quiet, a sickening silence that turns my stomach and draws the slightest hint of blood into my mouth as I bite against my bottom lip.

My shoes fall away before my feet hit the stairs, my body on autopilot, knowing the way as everything feels stark white and tight against my throat.

Bile rises and my limbs feel heavy, adrenaline spiked and fear stricken as I take the last step, hand pressing to the wall as everything threatens to crumble.

I feel my lips tremble and I'm trying to be so quiet when all I want to do is scream.

I'm panicking, putting thoughts inside my own head. I don't even know if he's here, despite the evidence of his car parked out front in the driveway.

Trying to calm down, I take a deep breath and look up... and what I see causes me to pause before I've even made it through the doorway, my feet refusing to move any further as shock freezes my blood to ice.

Time suspends and crystals drop, shattering at my feet as my head screams at me to run.

I was prepared for a particular scenario but am met with another one entirely... one I definitely hadn't anticipated.

Edward is standing beside the bed with one of his journals in his hands, forehead creased and knuckles white as he stares down at the leather bound collection of pages in his hands, his lashes flickering as I watch his eyes scan from side to side.

It's the same journal I've been reading from; the same journal that holds a small square of yellow sunshine covered in his scrawl.

The same journal he never gave me permission to touch, to read: to love and hate and keep in my heart forever.

It's a breach of privacy; his confessions now mine, too. It's wrong and right and I know without a doubt he's not going to forgive me.

His jaw is tense and his lips are pressed into a thin line. My heart pounds, breaths tight as I inhale through my nose.

He looks up, movement jerky, noticing me for the first time, and I was right—he's so, so angry. He's red and smoke and controlled features; the press of my lips as I hold my breath under his gaze.

I bite the inside of my cheek and fight the urge to turn away, exhaling slowly through my nose.

The bitterness and betrayal is all there, heavily present in his green as he continues to stare, the sound of his fingers as they crease the paper sailing to my ears like ships as they tighten their hold.

It tears at my nerves, words blurring together, confessions struck with a match that burns so bright. He is my fire, my burn, my resulting darkness: my candles blown out with a kiss of lips.

I used to wonder if things would have been different if we'd stayed in Seattle, or if we'd moved to New York like we'd originally planned. And lately, that what if? has resurfaced, shone to the surface in greens and golds.

"Did you read this?" he asks, his eyes fixed firmly on my face.

It's a conflicting feeling being trapped inside this lens, his attention, the green familiar as it wraps around my heart like a bush of thorns.

His voice isn't loud, isn't a shout, isn't a demand that makes bones jump and eyes press shut: no bark, no bite, no snap of teeth.

It's the quiet kind of angry that is so much worse.

I nod, my apology soft-light, airy bubbles filled with guilt. "I'm sorry," I say lamely.

It's useless, just a word, a falling feather that has lost its purpose, no longer utilised to fly, but to sink and sail and brush the ground—tangle with all the other fallen nothings.

His smile is bitter, hard as he rips his eyes from mine, head turning to the side as the muscles in his jaw tick. "You're sorry," he repeats, and I rub my hands over my face, because I'm not... not really. But I can't say that to him.

"These are private thoughts, Bella," he pushes out from between his teeth, still not looking at me.

I watch his chest expand, shirt becoming tighter against his skin, and take a deep breath of my own. "I know," I say, taking a hesitant step into the room. "I'm sorry."

I don't think he's listening, choosing to instead discard my apology with another question of his own.

"How much did you read?" he asks, and I swallow heavily, wondering if I should lie.

My tongue doesn't move and my voice is silent, buttoned up tight with padlocks made of guilt-chained plastic links.

I can see that his frustration is growing, quick like vines that run up and along the side of a house. It's at this point I know being dishonest with him will only make things worse.

Finding my voice, I say, "Almost all of that one..." giving him no doubt that that isn't the only journal I've looked through.

His eyes drift to the stack on the shelves, my own following as they focus on the other two that sit at an odd angle.

I have the sudden urge to sweep forward and take the remaining books in my hands before he can snatch them away, desperate and wanting to know what else resides hidden amongst the pages, curiosity bubbling away like toffee-red lava.

I take another few steps forward, feet light against the carpet as I turn my attention back to him. The muscles in his jaw pulse as his free palm scrubs at his face, his frustration flames that illuminate the space around him.

My heart hammers and I'm terrified I've ruined the progress we've been making. It may be minimal to some, but it's huge to our own eyes. "I'm sorry I invaded your privacy," I start, his hands brushing up past his forehead into his hair, "but you don't have to hide these thoughts from me," I say, wanting to reach out and touch his blazing furnace of frustration, try and tame the flames down to a low ember. "I want to know what you're thinking... even if it'll hurt me. I want to know."

His eyes snap to mine, flash like lightning—I've said the wrong thing. "I don't want you to know!" he shouts, that quiet lost as his temper frays like loose cotton. He looks panicked and guilty and so angry. The sight of it makes my heart squeeze, punishing fingers that inflict, inflict, inflict.

I can see he's more worried now, worried at what I might have read. His eyes flit from the two journals on their sides back to my face, his concentration pulling at his brows as he no doubt tries to remember what lies inside each separate one.

He watches me carefully, eyes assessing. "Do you secretly hate me now?" he wonders, and my muscles lock in surprise.

Some part of me instantly questions if I should... wonders exactly what else is hidden amongst those pages for him to even ask me that.

"Do you want me to?" I ask him, trying to gauge his reaction as I will myself not to look away under the intensity of his gaze.

His chest expands with his breath. "No."

I take a shaky one of my own as his hand finds his pocket, worry pinching at my throat. "But should I?" I question, not sure if I want the truth now that we're discussing it.

I feel restless, like I want to shift my arms and run my hands through my hair, over and over.

Edward doesn't answer me right away, just stares, and fear prickles my skin, his silence little droplets of pointed ice that sting.

"I don't know," he finally replies slowly, his voice echoing along with the pound of my heart.

It's his turn to gauge my reaction now, lashes dropping up and down with his inspection.

What feels like a thousand scenarios rush through my head at the speed of light, my legs feeling shaky as none of them are good.

"Give me an example," I say, torn, both wanting to stay right where I am, and flee, feet weighted to the ground with wings spread so wide.

His jaw clenches. He says nothing. I try again.

"Will I forgive you?" I push, push, push, feeling the burn of tears at the back of my eyes. I blink quickly, refusing them an exit as I push the heel of my palms to my lids. I lick my lips. "Is any of it... is it about another girl?"

Kate's presence here only minutes before, suddenly resurfaces, her name, her face, the fact she had been here at all having slipped from my mind, like a coin through the hole of a pocket upon finding Edward clutching my favourite little secret within tight fists.

His face is screwed up when I remove my hands, his anger back, luminescent like the stars at night. "No," he says between his teeth.

"Tell me something else then," I say, my words coming out sounding strangled as I try to get a grip on my warring emotions. "Why is it that the one person I don't want to see you with, is always around right now?"

He looks so good, so arrogant; so cool and calm and collected. I want to ruffle his feathers and tear the truths straight from his chest.

"And which person might that be?" he asks me, playing stupid. But I'm not in the mood for games; trophies and congratulatory plaques have no place here.

I stare him down. "Why was she here, Edward?" I'm trying to make my voice strong despite the weakness I feel inside. The scales are tipping and I don't know which way I'll fall.

"Why does Jasper keep ringing your phone, sending you messages?" he counters.

I swallow against the lump in my throat. "How do you know it's him that's phoning?" I question right back.

"Because he kindly reminded me of the fact the day before yesterday while he was here," he answers, eyes sweeping up and down my form. I shiver all over. "I don't think he took his eyes from you once."

I shake my head. "Jasper is a friend," I say, emphasising the last word slowly.

He doesn't even blink. "If that's true, then so is Kate," he replies evenly, an almost bitter smile coating his mouth. My chest hurts—he's my stubborn-hearted pain giver.

Red, red, red.

"I don't almost kiss my friends," I snap, aching at his admissions. It was only yesterday she was just a girl.

He's feeding me lies after lies and I don't like the way they taste.

"Why was she here?" I say, watching as he stands there all serene blue and twisted black. My chest rises. "Why was she here!" I repeat. "Are you fucking her?"

My voice is loud this time, strong, heart thump, thump, thumping as I refuse to back down and give in.

The smile slips from his face and the journal that he's kept gripped in his hand this whole time gets hurled against the far wall, paper rustling through the air as it sails across the room, masts high above the deck.

"She was here to collect your dress!" he shouts, nostrils flaring. "She wasn't here to see me. I wasn't fucking her."

"What about all the other times?" I question. "Was she just here to collect a dress then, too?" I reply sarcastically, throat thick with tears I won't let fall. I'm being childish, passive aggressive, but this need to find out what she is to him is long overdue.

He glances down at the purse still attached my arm, and suddenly he's all movement. He closes the gap between us, and before I even know what he's intending to do, he has the strap pulled from my possession and is tipping the contents onto the chair behind me.

Anger bubbles inside of me as I try to pull it back; as I try to stop him from invading my privacy like I did him, hypocrisy rapidly flowing through my veins in little red and white cells.

"Stop it," I press, wrapping my fingers around his wrist as he reaches for my phone, but it doesn't deter him.

He plucks it from the pile quickly, swapping it over to his other hand, out of my reach.

I still don't let go, and his head turns, his green studying my features—in any other situation it would be like summer rain kissing my face.

He's close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin, feel the burn of his gaze everywhere. He licks his lips and my own part in response, goose bumps a shivery reminder, silvery willow branches that ignite a reaction.

"It would be so easy to open your messages, read what's inside this piece of shit," he says harshly. "You wouldn't be able to do anything to stop me."

I look between his eyes, get lost in the dark, and I know what he's doing. He's out to prove a point, put a tick next to that box.

"Why don't you do it then?" I suggest, loosening my grip just a little, refusing to play the part I know he wants me to. "I've got nothing to hide," I tell him confidently.

I'm calling his bluff, trying to extinguish the flames before they have the chance to spread any further.

His eyes dip to my mouth before rising back up, locking me in place. "No, you wouldn't," he answers tightly, swallowing. "You keep everything in here instead," he adds, lifting his hand to my head, brushing the back of his pointer finger across my temple as my own fingers slide down his forearm, arm falling back to my side.

"Ask me," I tell him, trying to prove my own point now as his touch lingers. "Ask me whatever you want, and I'll tell you."

He looks long and hard, thinking, choosing his words carefully. "Do you love me, Bella?" he finally wonders.

Disbelief is the pause in my breathing and the widening of my eyes as my lashes become stock still. My pulse races, and I'm instantly wary, shocked, suspicious. I don't trust his motives when he looks at me like this.

His fingers trace down the side of my neck, his eyes following their movement as his lips part. My words are stuck in my throat, a crisscross of garbled netting blocking their exit.

The pads of his fingers pause at the base of my throat, in the dip, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is beating now, feel the yes to his question humming against his skin.

"What about the attention Jasper gives you, do you love that?" he continues, staring at my skin, not looking up this time. I'm not sure what he's afraid of seeing though—all he'll find are pleading eyes, hope-sick and always his.

I take a deep breath and swallow quickly, two, three times. "He's my friend," I tell him weakly, his pointer finger lifting in a light tap, such a small movement that sends shockwaves through my whole entire body.

I watch his lids blink, momentary dark shadows that flee. "I think you like it because you know it gets to me," he adds.

A bitter laugh leaves my mouth. "Right, because everything is about you," I say, pushing his hand away ineffectually.

I don't want to admit it, but I think what resonates most about that statement, what settles into my bones, is that it's true.

To me, almost everything is about Edward.

It suddenly gets to be too much and I step away completely, putting distance between us. He watches me carefully, a snake that could strike at any moment. He throws my phone behind him on the chair, forgotten as he delivers his next question. "Has he touched you?" he asks.

I press my teeth together and shake my head, looking away to the side as I fold my arms across my chest. "No," I say quietly, harshly, upset that he'd think I'd allow something like that.

"Do you want him to?" he pressures, not missing a beat, pushing and pushing.

"No," I say again, dropping my arms as I remind him of something I think he's forgotten; something he shrugs off every time I bring it up. "I know how much it hurts to witness even the most innocent of touches." I flick my eyes to his, accusing, trapping him this time. "I would never do that to you."

He regards me slowly. "But I would?"

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, looking up, blinking quickly. "You already have."

I can feel him watching me, but I don't meet his eyes. Not yet. Not until I know he's not going to excuse himself, over and over.

"You're wrong," I hear him tell me, but I shake my head, because I'm not. I know what I saw.

"It hurts me so much to see her anywhere near you," I confess, lowering my head again as I stare into the space between us. "Just seeing her leave this house, I don't think you realise what went through my head..." I lick my lips "... what tore through my chest."

I listen to his heavy intake of breath and rub my left arm with my right hand, holding onto myself as I try to stay strong under the weight of my insecurities when it comes to this woman.

"Bella... " he starts and stops, his words trailing off; a blur of scenery through glass.

"If this is going to be another excuse, just... don't. I don't want to hear it," I say, swallowing thickly as my eyes rise to his. His hair is in disarray and his top button is undone; his lips are a tight line and the expression alive in his green prickles my skin.

He is the perfect picture of the frustration I feel.

He takes a step forward, trying to eradicate the distance I've put between us, his gaze a dark shackle chained around my ankles. "I couldn't give a fuck about Kate," he says. My heart stutters inside my chest, his voice low, and they're the words I want to hear, they just don't seem to have the same effect I thought they would.

I'm not sure I believe him.

It's this house, the surrounding towns, our life here. I no longer recognise what's ours and what isn't; truth and lies and bullets to the heart.

A cold shiver trickles up my spine as my thoughts from this morning creep back into my bloodstream, a river of blue and red that makes me either brave or stupid.

Maybe a purple swirl of both.

"Tell me what you want, Bella," he murmurs, trying to shift the spotlight off him to me.

It's an encouragement I know he's not going to want the real answer to.

There's a lump in my throat, one that gets bigger and bigger the longer I say nothing, and my chest feels so tight, tight, tight as I take in his features, the expression that lingers in his eyes bringing words to the tip of my tongue.

They suddenly don't want to be stopped, fully alert after having been locked away for so long, the sleep wiped from the corners of their eyes, slumber pulled back like a veil.

The key has been turned and the resulting light that slivers through the gap is too pretty to ignore.

"I don't want to stay here anymore," I exhale. "I can't do it."

My words fly out, escape on an exhale with wings spread. I don't realise how much I mean them until I watch them soar so, so high.

His stare is unwavering, my admission hanging between us like the swinging pendulum of a clock as we both watch and wait: tick, tick, tick.

This is not something he anticipated, and I can see the wheels turning, fear looking for an escape, a rewind button.

"We have a house, Bella," he says carefully, his speech slow as his eyes continue to search, a well worn map outlined across my cheeks, pinpointed with pupils I remember. "This was only ever temporary... it's not a permanent thing."

My lashes blink shut, head shaking, heart cracking.

He's not getting it.

"I know all this," I reply quietly, testing out my voice as I open my eyes and look back at him. "I mean I can't stay here in Port Angeles... here in Forks." I pull in a deep breath, ribs expanding as I try for courage. "I don't want to live here anymore."

My mouth feels dry, and he's so quiet, lips pressed shut as my words sink in, a poison to the bloodstream that strips his tongue bare of his reply.

My pulse races, my heart thundering so loud, and it feels like my whole body is shaking as I gaze into his torn and tormented green. It tugs and tugs, the sight instantly making me want to take the words back despite my own wants, snatch them away with a desperate intensity that results in my fingers twitching at my sides.

I hadn't been prepared for this, the heavily conflicted half of my heart screaming at me to stop.

But I'm not sure I can now that I've started.

I don't want to do this to him, force him to make this choice. I should be able to stay here and make him happy. But I know I have to make myself happy in order to do that, and I just can't see that happening when the same obstacles will continue to block our path; will continue to knock us back a step, over and over.

I'm so incredibly tired of living this half life that is dictated by the presence of others, of factors that will continue to be an issue even if we both try our hardest to overcome them. They will always be present: weekdays, weekends, birthdays and the hours in between; in the shared glances across the table, the avoidance when our heads hit the pillows, in the lies that will cling to our backs and follow us around like shadows.

I'm terrified of those cracks, of those false smiles that lead to stony silence and ignore, ignore, ignore.

"Our life is here, Bella," he interrupts, and I smile sadly, the pain present in the curl.

"Yours is," I answer him honestly. "But mine isn't." I run my fingers over my wedding ring. "The only thing here that's stopping me is you," I whisper.

He doesn't like this, his eyes pulling away, truths snatched away from me cruelly. "What about all the memories?" he wonders. "Not everything is bad here, Bella."

His head turns, gaze back as his palm finds my cheek. The contact is a spark to my skin, unexpected and full of promises I know are going to hurt me.

"I remember the first time I kissed you," he murmurs, a hushed secret that belongs to us alone. "Right here in this room."

His thumb brushes my bottom lip and he's making this so hard, so impossible.

He takes that extra step forward, his chest brushing mine as his lips find my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "I remember what it felt like to be inside you for the first time, the noises you made, the grip of your fingers in my hair," he exhales slowly. "You felt so good... you drove me crazy."

His palm cups the right side of my neck as he kisses the left, the space just beneath my ear given his teeth and tongue; his desperation.

I know what he's doing. He's breaking apart inside, trying to fix this with memories he knows mean so much to me.

His mouth moves to my lips, just for a second, taking me off guard as he slides his tongue to mine, his moan making my skin tingle.

The memories hurt, linger like a new burn, but he's not purposely being cruel, I know this. He's just panicking, trying to change the course of my admission, push the words back inside my mouth with a kiss.

It still hurts though.

Especially with his next attempt.

"I told you I loved you for the first time right here," he says hoarsely, my eyes squeezing shut at the bittersweet reminder. "Right where we're standing."

His hands move to my hips, fingers grasping tightly, pushing into my skin as my shirt lifts a little. "You didn't say it back," he continues, the light layer of stubble on his chin scratching my jaw as he drags his lips back to the corner of my mouth. "But it didn't matter, because I loved you enough for us both."

This is where I shatter, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt as my breaths become shallow. My vision blurs and his lips are damp and cold as he presses them to the same place as before.

"These four walls mean nothing," I say quietly, trying to hold back my tears as his mouth presses harder, his determination tearing me up inside. "The memories are here," I say, sliding my palm over his heart, feeling it beat so fast, crying out softly when his teeth press into my skin, punishing me. "We don't need anything else."

He pulls back just enough to focus on my face clearly, his eyes a dark vise around my heart. He's hurting, and I'm doing that to him, but we can't continue like this. We can't carry on this fucked up cycle where we punish one another time and time again, intentional or otherwise.

"Don't do this, Bella," he pleads, and I reach up, fingertips sweeping his temples as I try my hardest to ignore him.

"They're here, too," I continue, undeterred as his hand slides up my skin, over the side of my ribs as he tries to pull me closer again.

My fingers find his brows, his gaze trapped in mine. "Are you telling me you'll forget them?" I question, shivering, trying to hold on. "Because I won't," I tell him earnestly. "I won't ever forget the impact you've had on my life, Edward Cullen. Even if you want to."

His lips part and his lashes glisten, and I know I'm being unfair, but he is, too.

"You promised me forever," I say so quietly, the tears finally setting themselves free as I feel them fall down my cheeks in pain filled little drops. "And I want you to pick me, love me, but I can't beg," I say, watching him blink quickly, my voice a cracked and broken whisper. "So please don't make me beg... please."

His eyes are wet and his jaw is tight, his mouth now closed as he gazes back at me, the expression on his face breaking me apart piece by singular piece.

"I love you so much," I tell him, grasping his face between my palms as he shudders, "and I'm sorry for doing this, I'm so, so sorry," I cry, hating myself more than just a little. "But I can't live like this anymore. I don't know how... I don't think I can do it."

He tries to pull his face away, too much, too much, too much, and a sob builds in my chest, the sound getting stuck in my throat as his hands slide to my stomach and back to my sides, trying to touch my skin everywhere.

"You have to decide what you want," I say in a strangled whisper, tears coating my cheeks. My hands fall to the front of his chest, lashes fluttering as his thumb brushes the underside of my breast, his fingers moving higher.

"Stop it," he growls, his voice cracking. But I have to make him understand, explain, even if I'm not sure how much more my heart can take.

"I'm not doing this to hurt you," I say, my breath getting caught in my throat, his hands strong around my legs as he picks me up and presses my back against the wall.

His fingers curl around my thighs tightly, his lips at my ear. "I said stop," he chokes out, his shoulders shaking.

My eyes fill as I look up at the ceiling, tears spilling out from the outer corners as my heart bleeds. "I have to think of me, too," I say, voice splintering.

My whole body feels like it's breaking, defences shattering down around us like glass. I shiver, crying softly, continuously, as he shifts us, his forehead now resting against mine.

"I want to move to the city, go back to school, have us stop being so reliant on each other," I say, nose brushing against his as his breath washes over my lips. "I don't want to be trapped inside this shell we've built around ourselves. It's not healthy; not right."

My fingers find the corners of his eyes, tips coming away wet, the feel of his pain hate, hate, hate against my skin. "But you have to think of you, too," I tell him, his palms shifting higher, holding me closer, the very thought that he may not want me enough an ache that won't leave until he tells me otherwise. "If this is something you don't want anymore, it's okay," I push out, feeling my heart break. "It will be okay."

His eyes are squeezed shut as I kiss his chin gently, and I don't believe my own words, but I have to say them.

I can't not.

I push the hair from his forehead, let my fingers linger on his face, and I couldn't do that to him, not speak those words, even if every selfish bone in my body wants me to take them back.

I love him too much... so much that I'd let him go if he asked me to, regardless of how I would feel afterward. How much it would hurt.

Because that's what you do for the ones you love. You set them free, even if it keeps you flat to the ground, knees torn open, staring at all those cracks in the pavement.

You just hope that at some point, they come back.

And that they don't leave you waiting too long.

The tips of his fingers dig into my thighs, eyes now open, gaze dark and wild. My heart races, my blood boiling, fires lit from within.

"You're the only one who's ever been able to really hurt me," he confesses, eyes shining, lips swollen and red. "And you're doing it again now." He eyes search. "Just stop... stop doing it."

His words force their way into my heart with sharp edges that streak my insides scarlet. "You stop," I tear, his pain and anger seeping into my blood. "You stop."

He looks long and hard, breaths loud between us, and then we're moving, his open mouth on mine, pressure hard as his palm slides to the back of my head, keeping me in place, keeping me his.

It hurts, more so in my heart, in my beat, tears falling from the corners of my eyes as I press back, fingers digging into his cheeks.

My body trembles as his fingers weave into the back of my hair, handful grasped and pulled as he tilts my mouth over his before pulling apart to lower us to the bed.

He's take, take, take, and hurt, hurt, hurt, a soft whimper trapped between us as I realise what this is.

What I hope it's not.

The look on his face making it all too real. And I don't want to lose him. I want to keep him locked up tight in my heart-shaped box and never let him go.

His teeth nip at my neck, a reminder that he's still here, the feel of his tongue a brief reprieve as he tastes my skin, his movements fast, his fingers insistent as they pull at the waistband of my jeans, button open and metal pulled.

My hands grip his hair so tight I incite a groan from his throat, his tongue warm and soft as he pushes it into my mouth with an insistence that scares me, his kiss tasting of desperation as air hisses through his nose.

His skin is hot, his lips painting my skin in fire, denim tugged down my legs with sure hands, cool air kissing and tingling.

It's almost unbearable, this feeling of pain, of anticipation, but it's too good to stop, too good to pull away—to ignore.

His palms run up my bare legs as he presses his body against mine, his tongue stroking my lip before sucking it into his mouth harshly as I draw him closer, arms wrapping tightly around his neck.

He pants against my open mouth as he pushes my legs apart, lips teasing mine still, breath painting my tongue, fingertips stinging brushstrokes to my skin as he slides my shirt up my stomach, his need increasing the speed of his movements.

I put my hands over his, helping him pull the cotton over my head, my fingers instantly tearing at the buttons of his shirt as I sit up, his teeth tugging and tongue sucking at my neck.

"Take these off," I say quickly, pulling his jeans open, sliding my hand inside as he captures my mouth harshly in a groan, almost painfully as he makes quick work of the remainder of his clothing.

I reach behind me, unclasping my bra as he rips the straps down my arms, the feel of his hands on my skin as he squeezes my breasts and rubs his thumbs over my nipples sending shockwaves that tear my heart apart.

His pupils are dilated, eyes dark, my granite ache. I lift my hips from the bed as he glides my underwear off, my legs capturing his hand, knees pressing shut as his fingers tease between my thighs.

I shift against them and he kisses over both knees quickly before sliding his other hand between my legs, making room for his body as he hovers above me.

And the expression on his face right at this moment, it feels like I'll stop breathing. I want to taste it, never forget it; claws inside my chest as the despair and pure, crazy need reflects back at me through a dark and cracked mirror.

"You tell me you love me," he pushes out, swallowing heavily as the backs of his fingers brush along my cheek, his jaw tense, his eyes filled with a pain I recognise. "And yet you want to leave," he finishes, grasping my chin tightly.

I want to shake off his hold as I dig my nails into the top of his arms, blinking back tears. "I want to leave here... not you," I say desperately, voice ragged. "There's a difference. It's different."

"But I'm here," he says, breaking, his movements hurried again as he shifts against me, hips snapping forward, my eyes wanting to flutter shut at the best, best, best, his hard against my soft.

I grasp his face in my hands, the tip of his nose brushing mine. "Stop twisting it," I whimper, trailing my fingers down his skin. "I love you," I say, making my voice as strong as I can. "I love you, I love you," I repeat, tears streaming down my face as I feel that incessant tug inside my chest.

He makes a strangled noise and pulls his eyes from my face, his hand moving between us as he pauses for just a second, gaze flickering back to mine and away again as he barely pushes himself inside.

His lips part, his breath loud and heavy against my palm as he stills, a low groan following as he pulls back and rocks forward, going a little further.

I shiver, lashes half blinking, not having felt this in so long, like snowflakes drifting to my skin before melting.

He moves slowly, carefully, driving me crazy as I urge him to go faster, lifting my hips.

He's doing it on purpose, watching me with half lidded eyes as he nips at my wrist.

My breath is lost, stolen by the expression on his face, ashes that smoulder, a blazing trail of fire-licked-green igniting the most basic instincts.

I wrap my legs around him, forcing him deeper, getting a reaction as he pins both of my hands above my head, his breath hot on my lips.

I watch as his eyes dip to my mouth, my chest rising and falling in quick succession, my heart feeling so close to the surface, pressing against bone, trying to get closer to him, ready for whatever he gives.

And he finally snaps, lips pressing back to mine as he begins to move again. His palm finds my breast as he forces his tongue between my lips, his kisses anything but soft as he eases back out.

I pinch his bottom lip between my teeth, and his pace increases, his rhythm punishing as I meet him over and over, my back arching off the bed as he presses against the back of my thighs, pushing my legs wider, bringing my knees higher.

These sounds are leaving my mouth, his mouth taking them, stealing them straight from me as his forearms form a cage around my head, hips driving forward.

We push and pull, fight for control, his eyes a challenge, the pain buried inside the green a constant reminder.

He abruptly stops moving, easing out of me with a groan. He holds me by the waist, bringing me with him, and my breath is loud, matching his, nails scratching his chest as he pulls me onto his lap instead, pushing back inside me as he waits and waits, his palms immediately touching me though, sliding up my sides, brushing down my stomach, setting me alight.

He leaves fiery goose bumps in his wake, my pulse feeling too fast, like it can't catch up to the beat of my heart, like it won't ever catch up.

It's the same thing but it feels different, like I can't breathe.

Like nothing will ever calm.

The tides won't turn and the storm still rages, the waves pulling me under, over and over again, choking on salt tears that burn.

He sighs quick, quick, heavy in my ear as his arms wrap around my waist, hands sliding over my skin, anchoring over my shoulders as he pulls me down harder, hips thrusting up, my lips parting with a whimper.

My lashes feel thick, clumped together with sticky tears and smudging black as I squeeze my chest to his, the feeling of his skin against mine something I never not want to know. His teeth press into my shoulder as he rocks into me, my hands tightening in his hair in response.

He's my crazy, my smiles, the bloom on my cheeks; my tears, my pain, my broken-hearted boy.

He's the beat inside my chest and the ache between my thighs, pink, pink, pink as he slides his tongue along my arm.

He's my grey clouds, the sound of rain against the glass, the thunder that follows.

He's my summer, my blue skies, warmth and sun and blushing cheeks.

My yellow.

I bring my fingers to his lips, trace their softness, look down into his eyes.

He swallows thickly as he watches me, and I lean forward, feel his groan as his hands curl around my flesh, pulling me harder against him.

"I can't remember the last time you told me you loved me... just outright," I breathe, words tight and strangled, his jaw tensing at my words, eyes watering as my fingers dig into his neck. "I've forgotten what it sounds like, what it feels like," I push out, my admission holding a desperation that pinches. "Tell me... Tell me," I whisper.

My breath hits his lips, his eyes my light in the dark as I will him to say it.

But he won't... I know he won't. Not like this. Not now.

His movements get faster, a punishment that is only hurting himself.

"I told you every day," he pants, lips parting in a groan as he slides further inside me again.

And I know, I know he did.

Those words were the favourite part of my day.

I lower my hand from his mouth, press it over his heart, my touch stronger and stronger.

"I'm asking you now," I choke out, my nipples brushing against his chest.

My heart thumps erratically, a distant hum that forms a layer of burning ice over my skin.

"Then don't do this," he growls, eyes almost frantic as he watches himself disappear inside of me. "I've been trying so hard..." the muscles in his neck strain as he leans his head back, mouth snapping shut, grunt held as my hands form fists in his hair.

And suddenly I want to tell him it doesn't matter, because he's telling me now... just not with words that paint my skin in silver and gold.

My nails scratch over his beat and I know. That expression on his face is something my heart would recognise anywhere, even if it is breaking.

It's sketched into the space beneath my eyelids, has its own special compartment underneath my ribs, inside, crazy, crazy, crazy.

And I want to smile, victorious, but there's no winner here; no space for its appearance in two hearts that are cracking wide open.

"Does this hurt?" he croaks, fingertip trailing down my breast to the skin beneath. "Is it hurting as much as mine?" he asks of my pumping red muscle.

I bite the inside of my cheek, eyes watering as, just for a second, I hate him. I hate him so much.

"You did that," he says quietly, spiteful, a single tear running out from his right eye.

I watch its descent, blinking quickly as another one soon follows. And I can't take it—I can't, I can't, I can't.

My lips are swollen and my chest hurts and he could take it all away. All of it. With just three little words that hold the weight of a thousand.

Choose me, my lips say as they kiss the side of his jaw, sidestepping the pain in his eyes as I bite the skin that prickles. Choose this, us. Make us more important, please, please, please.

It's startling, the realisation that comes with the silence, his refusal.

"Does it make you feel in control, make you feel like a man?" I push out, wanting those eight letters.

His eyes meet mine, tight around the edges. He's showing me too much, scared. "You like me broken and begging you to say it," I say, watching for his reaction. "That way you always have something over me. Something to keep me here, isn't it?"

His bitter, humourless laugh turns into a cry as I shift down hard onto him, pushing him further into the mattress.

"Does it make you feel better?" I whisper brokenly, sliding my hand down his chest, circling my hips.

He doesn't answer me, but he doesn't need to. I already know the answer is no. We're both already hurting too much to begin with... there's no escaping an already bruising kind of pain. Not to just go into another; not when the first one has yet to fully bloom and heal.

I'm shaking, gasping, eyes sore, aching everywhere. His finger brushes between my legs and I hold my breath for a beat before exhaling slowly, teeth finding my lip as he does it again.

His skin is so warm, the back of his neck damp with sweat as I curl my fingers around, holding on tight.

"Just show me," I whisper, a plea trapped within a breathless want, "just show me." And he shudders, his lips brushing mine every time I shift up and circle back down.

His arms wrap around me, crushing me to him as he presses his face to my chest.

His tongue runs along the curve of my right breast and my lips part, his hand squeezing the left as his teeth bite at my skin.

He's murmuring words against my skin, too low for me to make out. His voice cracks, his expression tormented as he gazes back up at me.

My eyes want to close at what's there, and I'm sinking, his palm sliding along the outside of my thigh, not able to get close enough, breathing a painful necessity as I capture his lip between my teeth, pulling him with me.

He hisses, lids hooded, eyes dark, not leaving as I move above him. He leans backwards, changing our position, his back mostly flat to the bed as he keeps me in place with his hands, hips pushing up and up, loud, guttural noises tearing from his throat.

I don't like that he's not looking at me, my nails digging into the back of his hands as his hips jerk harder at the contact, a whimper keening in my throat as everything feels too good, too wrong, too slow.

I'm trembling, burning, white hot desire as he grabs my waist, fingers digging into my flesh as he moves me how he wants, as he straightens his back, sitting back up, bringing his face just below mine.

I kiss him softly, something he doesn't want right now, mouth torn away abruptly, leaving me with nothing but a hollow ache. But he must think better of it, like the feel of my mouth against his, my lips recaptured again only a blink-quick second later. This time, however, it's different than before, the pressure more intense, discomfort instead of love.

My body thrums, skin prickling in its own version of tears, his rejection a repetitive wound I'll carry on taking. I wonder if he can see what he's doing to me, his eyes on my face as I tremble. He doesn't look away from what's there, so maybe he can't... or maybe that's exactly why his perusal continues. My fingertips drag firmly down his stomach in response.

He wants to be in control—it's the gentle, gentle that always hurts the most. But he can't dictate something like that. Pain occurs whether we want it to or not. Whether we're ready for its overwhelming essence or never fading scar.

Whether we can handle its weight and carry it with us, like pockets laden with stones.

I close my eyes, cutting myself off from his scrutiny as his fingers rub firm little circles against my second heartbeat, the one that aches between my thighs.

I move faster, pushing against his fingers, lips parting and back arching, wound up so tight, before I fall, fall, fall.

My noises are swallowed up by his mouth as he curls his free hand into my hair, pushing my face almost painfully into his as he shifts up harder, movements erratic, the muscles in his legs and the ones beneath my palms tensing as he finally stills, letting go.

He shudders, and I can taste his groan against my tongue, feel him so deep inside


Date: 2015-12-18; view: 659


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