Fanfiction Based On Characters From Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight Series

Rated M for Mature

The Sweater

By LolaShoes

Summary: Nine months ago Edward fled after an overwhelming first encounter with Bella. He
returned from his soul-searching in Denali resigned to keep himself from her to keep her safe.

Love from a distance looks a lot like dislike, it seems. But mix in a feisty Bella, a scavenger hunt,

and a Secret Santa gift exchange, and even the best laid plans sometimes fail. Rated M

~*~

Chapter One

BPOV

Edward Cullen.

Edward fucking Cullen.

I glance over at where he sits in front of me, to the spot in the room where my eyes instinctively

turn whenever I'm not consciously focusing on the blackboard. He is sitting straight in his chair as
usual, but gaping at his own Secret Santa assignment. He doesn't look too happy either.

He probably chose me.

I crumple the sliver of paper in my hand and chuck it into the trashcan before leaving the

classroom.

"You've got to be kidding me," I hiss under my breath.

"Who did you get?" Angela asks warily. She leans over to look at me more closely, cringing in

anticipation. Only Angela really knows how I feel about Edward. "Did you get... him?"

"Of course I did," I groan and hitch my backpack over my shoulder. "What's he doing joining this
year anyway? I thought you told me he never did these things."

She puts her arm around me and sighs. "He never has, I swear."

We move to our lockers and begin swapping out our Calculus books for Social Studies. Jessica glides

up behind us, grinning.

"Who did you guys pick?"

"Tyler," Angela shrugs, uninspired.

"Edward," I mumble, pulling a granola bar out of a box and shoving it into my backpack.

Jessica stares at me, mouth agape. "I didn't even think he did these things."

"That's what I said!" I yell enthusiastically in agreement just as Edward slips past us to move to his

own locker, murmuring something to himself as he passes. I lower my voice, "What happened to the
beautiful but tragically socially-inept Broodward we all love to ogle when we think he isn't

looking?" My eyes follow him to his locker and I quickly look away when he glances up at where we
are standing. "It's throwing me off having him become a joiner," I mumble.

Jessica's voice is low and awed, "What are you going to get him?"

"Dunno," I say. "Kind of hard to know what to get for the high school kid who wears designer

clothing and has three cars."

"I think he has more than that," Jessica offers helpfully. "I think he has, like, five."

I turn back to my locker and close it, scrambling the combination lock for several turns and taking a

deep breath.

"Oh, I totally know what you should get him," Jessica hisses, excited. She waits until both Angela and
I are looking at her, eyebrows raised. "A watch."

"A watch?" I ask, confused. "You're serious. You're suggesting I get him a watch."

"Not, like, a boring one. Like, a really nice watch."

I look at Angela and we nod slowly, turning to walk to our class.

~*~

I moved to Forks almost a year ago and have spent more time than I care to admit trying to

understand why Edward Cullen hates me.

I met him my first day in Junior year Biology class, during which he appeared to be dangerously
close to vomiting after I sat down. He disappeared for a few days and when he returned, he stared

at me for a moment in the cafeteria, clearly still troubled by something, but later in Biology, he still
didn't speak to me. He could have said something like, "Sorry I was such a psycho douchebag last

week. I'm Edward." Or even something simple like, "Hello. My name is Edward Cullen. I didn't get a

chance to introduce myself last week. You must be Bella Swan. "

But he didn't. He mostly continued to ignore me except when we absolutely had to speak as lab
partners. When he did speak to me then, I have to admit he was respectful and seemed even a little

unsure of himself.

As the months went on, it didn't seem to matter to my hormones, or girly notions of romance, that
he seemed to purposefully steer clear of me. I still let myself become completely infatuated with

him, even going so far as to ask Jake what he knew about the Cullens. Jake and Billy seemed to know

everything about everyone in Forks, and I figured I'd use any angle I could to de-puzzle the object of
my completely misplaced affection. When I asked Jake about the Cullens, however, he scowled and

huffed and then finally tried distracting me with some Quileute folklore about wolves and cold
skinned enemies.

Edward ignores most everyone at school, except his sister Alice, and as much as she seems to want

to talk to me, she doesn't out of respect for her brother. She'll give me small smiles and waves, but
invariably he glares at her and so I can't even befriend one of the nicest-seeming people in Forks

because she happens to be related to the surliest person in Forks. It is almost as if my mere
proximity causes him physical pain. I've sworn time and again that I would just ask him what I do

that offends him, but in the end I've never bothered.

The only time I ever saw Edward smile in my direction was the first time I wore a green sweater
Charlie bought for me when I moved to this deceptively cold place and had nothing to wear in the

winter. Only the smile he gave me wasn't a smile that invited conversation. It was a wry smirk that

communicated, The relative who knit you that Brady Bunch disaster must be in town visiting.

Ever since then, I wear the sweater at least once a week, even in the summer.

Asshat.

~*~

"I think for the big gift I'll give him a picture of me in the sweater," I say, yanking open the door to

my truck.

Angela giggles and climbs in next to me. "I think that's an excellent plan."

"I'll splurge on a silver frame that people get for their wedding pictures and put an eight-by-ten

picture of me, wearing the sweater and some brown cords."

"With your down parka and some of Charlie's boots," she snickers, leaning to pull something out of
her bag.

"Awesome," I nod, laughing. "I think he'll really like that."

"Mike suggested I get Tyler some porn." She sounds horrified.

I turn out of the parking lot and glance at her. "Why would he do that?"

"Exactly!" Her huff is accompanied by a crossing of her arms over her chest and I think that she
would make an adorable cartoon mouse.

"I mean, I can't be sure, but I would imagine Tyler already has plenty of porn," I laugh.

"Ew, Bella."

"What?" I ask, shrugging innocently. "I'm just saying, there are some guys that look like they know

their way around porn, and I would put Tyler in that category."

"And I'm just saying... ew," she mumbles, uncapping a pen.

"Now Ben on the other hand..." I smile, looking at her out of the corner of my eye. From what I

gather, Angela has been lusting after Ben since the beginning of time. She was just hoping some day
he would work up the nerve to talk to her. I don't hold out much hope for Ben manning up and

asking out Ang without some serious encouragement.

"Shut it, Swan," she laughs, holding up a hand. "Just stop right there. You're going to ruin the
fantasy."

Angela is quiet as she makes a list of available cars for carpooling to the Winter Formal in Port

Angeles the following weekend. In addition to all the other senior student events planned for our
last holiday together, the class has agreed that the dance will be date-free, with everyone going as a

group. Angela and I volunteered to organize transportation, simply thrilled to not be roped into

decorating the small dance hall. Finding seats in a car for everyone is far preferable to celebrating
the ridiculous cold all around us by hanging up snowflakes and cardboard cutouts of Santa and —

God forbid — anything sparkly.

My smile fades quickly as I drive, gnawing on my lip the entire trip back to my house. My thoughts
drift back to the Secret Santa gift exchange and how the final gifts will be given at the formal. I will

actually have to give Edward Cullen a gift in person in one week — at a formal dance.

I groan quietly, both thrilled and anxious.

Edward, in formal wear. Unf.

Of course I would join the gift pool the only year Edward ever joined. And of course I would choose
Edward's name.

The problem is, I already want to give him everything. I just want him to want it from me.

~*~

EPOV

Jessica Stanley.

Jessica... Stanley?

I stare at the paper, even more confused now why Alice had insisted I join in these mindless Winter
Week senior-bonding activities. I had assumed it was to push me into some sort of interaction with

Bella, but this scrap of paper tells me I have no idea what is really going on.

And then I hear her heartbeat increase and her quiet sigh behind me. Bella gets up and tosses the
scrap of paper into the waste bin as she leaves the room, telling Angela that she chose me. I can hear

the anxiety in her voice and it makes my entire body weak with regret. To her, I imagine there is
nothing worse than being faced with having to get a gift for me.

After I finally agreed to participate in the Secret Santa fiasco, Alice clapped her hands and began
singing Ave Maria in Latin while she purchased airline tickets. She absconded to Vancouver for a

two-week vacation with Jasper while I remain here, suffering without Alice through the first high
school activities I have ever joined.

Alice has been pressing me for months to talk to Bella. To tell her something — anything — about

how I feel, even to just smile at her or simply ask her to a movie. And every time the subject comes
up, I insist that it is better for Bella if she continues to believe I dislike her.

At first every time I was near her I feared I would devour her. No one had ever affected me this way,

had challenged my thirst so powerfully, and I spent weeks obsessed with the idea of tasting her. She
vexed me in every possibly way: she was silent to my mind, alluring in her demeanor and scent, and

continually putting herself near me, watching me.

Soon it became so much deeper than bloodlust. My days spent watching her interact with the world

around her with such calm and grace, and my nights spent telling her everything at her bedside,
transitioned my feelings from the desire to devour her into a deep, raw, aching love. No one had

ever affected me that way, either, and I became obsessed with the idea of protecting her, touching
her, talking to her, and loving her with abandon.

Now, every time I am near her I want to lean over and press my lips to her flushed cheek. I tell her

she is beautiful every day as I walk past her at her locker. I tell her I love her every night the
moment I am sure she is asleep.

I long to watch her reaction when I tell her these things while she is awake. For I suspect, from the

way she watches me at school and from our secret time together every night, that Bella might love
me too.

But instead of telling her how I feel, I am cold and withdrawn when she is awake near me,

convincing myself that it is better this way.

I am simply too terrified about the way this feeling takes any semblance of control, poise, and

reason from my mind to tell her how I feel. I fear I would break her if I tried to touch her. I fear she
may not love me if she knew what I am. I know she deserves better.

~*~

BPOV

I step gingerly into the nativity scene, peeking over Mary's shoulder.

"I don't think it's in the actual scene," Ben calls from farther down the lawn. "The clue seems to

suggest it's in front of Mary but on the grass?"

I sigh and move back, bumping into Mike who is laying the Joseph statue down and placing Mary on
top of him.

"Hot bible love," he snorts.

"That's disgusting," Jessica shivers next to me. "She, like, just had a baby, Mike."

"Well, it's not like those birth videos from health class where the woman is screaming and all torn
up," Tyler corrects, justifying sex between the new statue parents. "It's like Jesus was in her body

and then wasn't."

"I don't think that's how it happened, Ty," I mumble, stepping behind the manger. "I think you're
thinking about the conception part being immaculate."

He nods at me as if we were on the same page, but I can tell he has no idea what I am talking about.

The scrap of paper I expect to find for this ridiculous scavenger hunt isn't behind the manger,

either. I just want to finish this Senior Bonding nightmare and go home and read a book or stare at
the wall.

"You guys?" I call from behind the wooden stable. No one bothers looking up at me from their sex
games with the holy statues. "I'm going to go around to the back."

Only Ben nods. So, at least one person will know where I am if I get dragged into the woods by a

giant animal or some other monster.

From my trail hikes with Jake, I remember that there is a stained glass window at the back of the
church facing the woods, a large, colorful depiction of Mary holding Baby Jesus, and I suspect our

clue is there instead. I stumble over some firewood at the back door of the building before seeing
the piece of paper taped to a drain pipe underneath the window.

"Gah," I mutter, stepping in a pile of muddy snow and slipping.

"Are you alright?"

I don't even have to turn around to know who it is. I so rarely hear that voice — only ever in class
— but the way it affects me is almost like warm water down the back of a sore throat. Somehow I

am always soothed by the sound of him.

"I'm fine," I mumble, standing up and trying to not fall over again at the realization that he spoke. To
me.

I look up at him and he is staring intently at me. It is the first time we have ever been alone together

and in this moment I see something else in his expression; curiosity, maybe even sadness.

His eyes flicker down the length of my body and back up, taking in my outfit: jeans, boots, ugly
sweater layered heavily over two thermal shirts.

I smirk as his gaze lingers at my collarbone, no doubt appreciating the lovely green cowl neck

draped there.

"You're shivering," he murmurs, sounding disapproving. "Are you cold?"

I scowl slightly at his close inspection, feeling frumpy and self-conscious. I don't think I'm shivering

that much.

"A little," I say, perhaps too defensively. "I guess I should have worn my really gigantic boots and

my pink snow pants."

He doesn't rise to the bait and I admit I'm a little disappointed. I kind of want to have it out with
him.

Instead, he starts to take off his jacket, revealing a smooth gray sweater that looks like something I

might want to bury my face into and grope and smell for hours.

Or, you know, wear.

"You don't have to give me your jacket," I whisper, confused.

"But you're cold." His face is a surprisingly pretty mixture of discomfort and concern.

"But then you'll be cold." I'm fairly certain my face is the standard mixture of confusion and lust.

"I won't," he assures me with a soft smile. A smile. "I'm fine."

I feel my resolve to hate the boy I love start to dissolve. "How won't you be cold? It's thirty degrees

outside."

"I've been... running?" He asks me this as if I can help him figure out how he can stay warm in a
single layer. His brow furrows and damn it if he isn't adorable when he is confusing himself.

"Just keep it," I mumble, completely boggled at this most random of first conversations. "Besides,

why are you doing this senior bonding thing? It doesn't seem to be your style."

"Nor yours," he smirks.

"Touché," I mumble, crouching down to retrieve the scavenger hunt clue and hoping to hide my

scalding blush when I realize he knows anything about me, let alone something nuanced like how
little I care for these exercises. "Are you looking for this, too?"

"Yes," he whispers, almost... meaningfully?

I feel him closer behind me than I expected and shiver. Grass crunches behind me as he steps away.

I pick up four pieces of paper and take ours from the top: Team Flanders Killed My Puppy. I turn my

head and look over at him behind me. "What team are you?"

He reaches up and scratches his eyebrow, cringing. "Oh. Umm..."

I look down at the remaining three pieces of folded paper. Team Ninja, Team Flesh Wound and... I

begin laughing.

"Let me guess," I pick up the sheet from the bottom of the pile and wave it coyly at him. "Team
Edward?"

He takes it gingerly and I watch his cringe deepen. "I protested, I assure you."

I nod, laughing as I stand. "I might need to hear this story."

He looks off to the side and purses his lips in the way that makes me want to surround his mouth
with mine and just suck on it for a while.

"Apparently, it was... Lauren's way of celebrating my involvement." He shrugs and then looks back

at me. "I must admit, I thought we were all in agreement that it was ridiculous. Lauren appears to
have submitted it anyway."

I laugh harder at the image of Lauren blink-blinking flirtatiously at Edward and then later

submitting that team name as if it were a masterful move in the art of seduction. He smiles and,
dare I believe it, indulges in a quiet chuckle.

I find myself enjoying Edward's company and wonder if, perhaps, he realizes I'm not Satan but
really just a badly dressed 18-year-old female who is completely in love with him.

In other words, just like every other female in this town.

"You might need to give in to that one and just ask her out," I tease, but even I can tell my voice is

tight. "The two of you might be made for each other." I smile at him so he knows I'm trying to be
funny but his horror-stricken expression tells me that the joke has landed too close to home

somehow.

Suddenly our easy banter is gone and his expression shifts from horrified to bewildered.

"I... I'm sorry," I mumble, shaking my head. "I was just kidding. Maybe you two are already working
that out and here I am making jokes—"

A strong gust of wind from the direction of the woods mercifully cuts off my babbling and I stumble
slightly backwards. He moves in a blur and catches me easily, keeping me from falling against the

side of the building. I shiver in the wind and pull my shoulders up against my neck as the wind
blows my hair across my face.

I'm not sure what to do next because he doesn't let go, but he looks almost insane.

His hands grip the sides of my arms tightly and his nostrils are flared.

After a moment, his face relaxes into a softer expression. My lack of experience with human males

combined with my almost year-long experience with Edward's disdain prevents me from guessing
what he can possibly be thinking.

Despite my complete inability to read him, his proximity and almost eerie stillness allow closer

inspection. Whether or not the guy hates me, my feelings for him are, I fear, completely beyond my

control. I want him more than I have ever wanted anything, and I'll be damned before I'd give up
this opportunity to really look at him.

His skin is flawless — how is he a senior in high school? I can see how his eyelashes are stuck

together slightly from the earlier snow. He doesn't blink once the entire time his eyes move over my

face, almost as if he is searching for something and doesn't want to miss it. I lick my lips out of
nervous habit, and I see his jaw clench and a small twitch next to his eye. His eyes are bright even in

the dark evening and they seem to glow somewhat, reflective almost like those of a cat or an owl
when hit with light in the dark. I can see his face more clearly than I have ever been able to, but I

can see no puffs of air escaping his lips in the cold weather.

Is he holding his breath? Why isn't he blinking?

In that moment I fully realize that, beyond his beauty and obvious brilliance, Edward Cullen is
different.

"This is ridiculous," he whispers cryptically, although he still doesn't let me go.

"I'm sorry," I say again, apologizing less to him for my minor stumble and more to myself because I

realize I will never get closer to him than this and I wonder if I should partly blame my own

stubborn desire that clothing should not matter to the man I think I might love.

Unfortunately, he glances down at my sweater and the familiar expression of exasperation returns
to his face.

"Bella, you really should wear something more."

He waits until I am standing steadily on my own, releases my arms with disgust almost as if the

fabric of the sweater has burned him, and walks away.

~*~

Chapter Two

EPOV

"Who'd you pick?" Emmett asks, dropping a game controller in my lap and sitting heavily next to

me on the sofa. I am still staring at the paper from class.

"Jessica." My voice is flat as I crumple the paper and toss it towards the trash bin in the corner.

"Stanley?" Emmett asks, cupping his hands in front of his chest, as if the universal sign for 'Jessica
Stanley' is contained within that gesture.

Universal sign language according to Emmett: Choking = hands to neck. Jessica Stanley = hands

cupping large breasts.

"Yes." I nod, sadly. "And Emmett, really."

"Her boobs are huge," he says defensively, as if that required any explanation.

I nod again. "They are." I run my hand over my face. "But that doesn't give me any clue what to get

her."

"Get her pasties," he grins, grabbing the remote to turn on the television.

"Pasties?" I look at him, completely lost. "Meat stuffed in... pastry?"

An image of a gold tassel hanging from a breast of a dancing female flits through Emmett's mind

and I feel myself cringing. "Oh," I say, shaking my head quickly. "No."

"What's the spending limit?" Rose asks, strolling into the living room and sitting down in the
four-inch space between Emmett and myself, requiring us to both move farther to the side.

"Thirty dollars," I say. "But that's just for the main gift. We give two little gifts next week, then a

present in person at the formal."

"You could get her a journal," Rose suggests. "Maybe a couple of girlie pens."

"A journal? To fill with her thoughts?" I ask, grinning.

"Good point," Rose concedes, laughing. "Or maybe just to fill with your names drawn together. Mr.

and Mrs. Edward Cullen. Jessica Cullen. Mrs. Jessica Cullen."

"Aggg," I groan, flicking the start button on my controller and feeling it vibrate in my hands to let
me know it's on.

"Do girls really do that?" Emmett shakes his head skeptically.

"What? Write their name with the name of the boy they love? Sure," she shrugs. "Since pen was put

to paper, I imagine."

I nod in agreement. "They really do, Em."

"Did you do that for me?" he asks Rose, grinning. "When you were waiting for me to change? Did

you write our names together?"

"Is my name Rosalie McCarty?" she looks at him innocently.

"No," he says, not yet having made the connection.

"Then there's your answer."

"Can we focus?" I ask, feeling like I'm on the verge of breaking into a whine. I honestly don't know
what Alice has seen and that might make me more insane than the simple exercise of buying

something for Jessica Stanley.

"Alice really is such a devious little minx, isn't she?" Rosalie asks instead of focusing, as she gazes

lovingly at her bright red nails. "I know she's up to something but damn it, she's missing the fun of
watching your torment." She closes her eyes and leans back against the couch. "You know, I'm

beginning to come around a bit. I think maybe you should tell Bella how you feel."

I look over at Rose, shocked.

She waves her hand, eyes still closed. "Don't get me wrong. You don't need to bring her here. I don't

need to meet her. I just think you might be a little more bearable if you weren't constantly morose
about how you know you're hurting her but it's better to hurt her feelings than kill her."

The way she says this makes me suspect I have said it more times than I've realized.

Emmett nods next to us as he and I begin a game. "Besides," he says quietly. "You've never loved

anyone before. You act like that's not significant."

I decide to not engage Rosalie or Emmett in the Edward-loves-the-human conversation yet again.
"Gift guidance, siblings," I remind them.

After a moment Emmett hums thoughtfully. "You're in a jam," he says, throwing a football with his

game controller. "Stanley is the worst person you could have picked."

Rosalie sighs, "Anything you get her will be misinterpreted."

"In the sense that anything you get her will translate into, 'Your hooters make me horny'." Emmett

adds, and seems to be enjoying this just a little too much for my preference.

"No jewelry," Rosalie murmurs. "Or lingerie."

"In what universe would I buy Jessica lingerie?" I gasp, hearing the whine escalate.

"In what universe would you buy lingerie?" Emmett asks calmly, and Rose reaches to give him a fist
bump.

"Touché," I mumble.

Rose sits up straighter, meaning business now. "No clothing. She'll think you've imagined her
putting it on."

"Or taking it off," Emmett snickers.

I shiver.

"Or music. Whatever it is will become the soundtrack of your future relationship."

"Or food. That says, 'eat'."

"Either that or 'you seem to like to eat'."

"Or chocolate. Girls see chocolate and think sex."

"Or coffee or tea. Girls see warm drinks and think cuddling after sex."

At some point I get up and leave the room mid-game. I'm fairly certain that they're still talking but I
realized several sentences back that they're no longer talking to me, they are just entertaining

themselves with the image of Jessica opening any of these things from me.

I drive to the grocery store and get her a gift card to Barnes and Noble off of a gift card rack, and a

few small Christmas tree ornaments for her smaller gifts just to be done with it as soon as possible.
She'll have to drive to Tacoma or Seattle to find a Barnes and Noble, but I count that among the

benefits of my solution.

~*~

The scavenger hunt exercise the next night is entirely unappealing and for the first time in my life I

find I am late to something because I can't seem to get out of my car in the Forks High parking lot.

I find myself speaking to Alice as if she can hear me. "Alice, I'm trying to let life happen to me," I

invoke her words from a week ago. "I'm trying to not resist happiness and learn to shine." I swallow
and stifle a laugh at her ridiculous words of encouragement. "But right now, I am having a hard time

trusting your vision because I just bought a gift for Jessica Stanley and am about to spend an entire
evening with Lauren Mallory."

My phone buzzes and I flip it open to see a text from Alice.

r u stalling? just go. you think too much.

When Mrs. Cope gives our team the first clue, the scavenger hunt exercise is also moot. I see

immediately from her where we are to go on all of the five steps and where we will end up: getting
free milkshakes at the diner.

I groan. Milkshakes.

Lauren's thoughts transition from excitement over getting started on our game to excitement over
being alone with me in her car, and I quickly suggest that they all go in Eric's car and I follow in the

Volvo in case I have to leave early to pick up Carlisle at the hospital. I ignore her tedious
disappointment and scrambling to figure out a different plan and walk out to my car to follow them

as they loop their way around town, trying to decipher the clue to the first location: the Newton
store parking lot.

Two hours in, at step three of five, and I am almost at my breaking point, ready to simply admit that

I am a mind-reading vampire and know where we are supposed to go. It will probably mean death
at the hands of the Volturi, but I am considering all options that will get me away from Lauren's

repeated attempts to hold my hand.

And then, at the church, my entire world sets right again. I smell her.

Their team has been so far ahead of us all night that I have not yet seen her on the hunt, but here

they seem to be struggling with the clue.

I see the moment when Bella registers that they are looking in the wrong place and tells her
distracted team that she's heading around back.

I don't know why, but I suspect that I need to go to her, that this moment is pivotal to Alice's plan,

and I have to keep trusting her that she only wants what is best for me. My own team is fumbling

with the paper and trying to unscramble the riddle. I mumble to Eric that I will go get this clue, that
I think I know where it is, and the rest of my team runs to join Bella's team in their efforts to get

baby Jesus a half-sibling.

~*~

Bella's feet crunch through the thin layer of ice and snow on the ground. She stumbles over some

firewood and I begin to call to her to tell her that there is mud under the leaves near her but, as is
usually the case with Bella, I resist. She steps in it and slips. I know I could have prevented her from

falling, either by speaking to her or catching her mid-fall, and I hate that I didn't, that I won't. I hate

that she may never know why I treat her with such distance.

Instead of coming to her aid, I simply ask her, "Are you alright?"

She grows rigid and I can smell the heat coming off of her after I speak.

"I'm fine." Her voice is quiet and almost ashamed.

She turns to face me and I want to tell her that she has nothing to be ashamed of. That she has only
ever been good and kind, and I do not deserve the admiration she gives me.

She is wearing the sweater I hate, the bulky green sweater that buries her beautiful form and has

come to represent all that she hides from me and all that I keep from her in turn: her thoughts, her
body, my love, my true nature. It comes up more frequently than any other item of clothing in her

wardrobe and so many nights I've been tempted to take it and burn it so that, at the very least, she

can never hide her curves from me ever again.

My eyes linger on her neck, on her pulse racing and how I miss its slow steady rhythm when we are
alone together at night, when she doesn't know I'm there, doesn't think to be nervous.

Will she ever be calm around me when she's awake? Would I ever let her?

She is smirking at me slightly, and I wonder if I'm gaping at her and have given my feelings away so

easily after all this time.

"You're shivering," I whisper, feeling unable to resist speaking to her. "Are you cold?"

She looks self-conscious at my inspection and I remember how little Bella likes such close attention.
Her voice is sharp when she answers. "A little. I guess I should have worn my really gigantic boots

and my pink snow pants."

This answer makes absolutely no sense to me, but I silently beg her to never wear something

shapeless like snow pants, no matter what the weather. Bella's legs are one of her finest attributes.

I offer her my coat and she looks confused. It's a heartbreaking expression because I know I am
confusing her with my inconsistent behavior. I realize, though, that just by coming to her tonight

I've committed to a new course of action. I've always known that once I speak to her, once I let her
warmth into my world, I can no longer keep her out. Of course she doesn't know this, but tonight is

a turning point for me. Alice must have seen this.

I find myself immensely relieved as we argue easily and without sharp lines over whether she will

take my jacket, because I see now that simply by being here, by letting myself interact with her,
someday I may be able to tell her that I love her. I hope it will happen when she no longer desires

me. It's better for her that way, but perhaps that is exactly what Alice wants for me: a simple relief
of the burden I feel that the one person I have ever loved feels at all poorly about herself because of

my actions. Perhaps I just need to be forgiven.

This revelation makes me smile as I assure her that I won't be cold. Her face when I smile is
devastating and beautiful. What a selfish beast I am, that I have enjoyed so many of her smiles

without reciprocating. If she feels for me even a fraction of what I feel for her, a smile would mean
the entire world to her.

"How won't you be cold? It's thirty degrees outside." She tucks her hair behind her ear and quirks

an eyebrow at me.

Right. Thirty degrees is cold. How won't I, indeed?

"I've been... running?" I turn my answer into a question and hope this ends her line of questioning.

"Just keep it," she says, stifling a grin. "Besides, why are you doing this senior bonding thing? It

doesn't seem to be your style."

It wouldn't be entirely appropriate for me to tell her that I am doing it because my psychic sister
suggested that I would need to participate in Winter Senior Week in order to live an existence with

any happiness, so instead I simply answer, "Nor yours."

She acknowledges my point as she crouches down to retrieve the clue and asks me if I am "looking
for this, too."

I stop breathing because the question combined with her now-familiar scent is almost too much for
me to bear. I know she means the clue taped to the drainpipe, and I know I shouldn't let my feelings

pour forward like this, but I can't help stepping towards her and whispering "yes", hoping she will
turn around and just let me hold her.

I've been looking for this for decades, Bella.

But she shivers and it reminds me all over again that she is human, fragile, and deserves better.

At the same time she pulls her team's clue from the top, I realize that she will be handing me ours. I

know the moment she sees our team name because she begins laughing. Although I would like to be
embarrassed, I am secretly delighted to hear this sound from her because she so rarely lets loose

and laughs with abandon.

"Let me guess," she fans the sheet at me flirtatiously. "Team Edward?"

I take the paper and cringe appropriately, loving the expression on her face. "I protested, I assure

you." This entire Winter Senior Week activity is so beyond ridiculous, I can't find it in me to care
that Lauren chose this team name.

"I might need to hear this story." She brushes off the knees of her jeans and looks at me expectantly.
The request and her sweet posture make me want to tell her a different story entirely, one where a

boy falls in love with a girl and they live a life of innocent exploration and growth together.

Unfortunately that is not my story.

So, I tell her the one she wants to hear, that Lauren wanted this team name because it allowed her
to give me attention I didn't need. I tell her how Lauren clearly submitted this team name even after

I felt we'd agreed on something else. The story is simple and trivial, but everything about this
moment with Bella is so easy, so comfortable and familiar. For me, the ease likely comes from the

fact that I speak to her every night. Perhaps her own apparent ease means that she somehow knows
that we have this connection, knows that our feelings are mutual?

I am surprised to find that the feeling positively thrills me. After all the time I have spent avoiding

Bella while awake, I am finding that I want more than anything to just tell her. Clearly the avoidance

pathway isn't working for either of us. It is certainly not dimming any feelings.

Just as I am thinking this, Bella smiles and murmurs, "You might need to give in to that one and just
ask her out. The two of you might be made for each other."

She smiles in a way that tries to be casual but I sense how even this idea wounds her. I am struck

with the realization all over again that Bella has no idea that I love her, and that the thought of
asking someone else is so beyond absurd that it almost doesn't compute.

She apologizes to me for her apparent joke but it only serves to make me feel worse. She suggests

perhaps she is overstepping her boundaries and that Lauren and I have already somehow made a
romantic arrangement.

I have done this to her, I have made her think she is alone in her admiration, and all this time I have

felt more for her than I imagined I could for anyone in a hundred lifetimes. I am suddenly horrified,

not with what I am and how wrong I am for her, but what I've kept from her when she deserves to
be loved by the one she wants. My behavior appalls me in hindsight.

A strong gust of wind knocks her backwards and without thinking this time I do go to her, and I

know now that I will always want to keep her from falling.

She stares at me, and I can see that she is really looking at my face. I want her to see. I want her to
see the adoration I have for her. I want her to sense that I know her face better than my own. I

wonder if I also want her to notice the differences there, to see why I can never be with her.

But mostly, because I'm selfish and greedy, I want to take this moment to look at her while she is
awake, to drink her in. Even though I have opened up myself to Bella tonight, I realize I may be too

late, have done too much damage already. I don't deserve her anymore than I did an hour ago.

I am sorry, my love. It is ridiculous for me to think that I can undo it all.

She apologizes again and I have to physically restrain myself from crushing her small form to my

chest. I look at her in her sweater and feel angry, almost burned by it. It's better that she hides from
me. Better that she wears as much as she possibly can when I'm near her. I don't deserve to see her,

have her, love her.

She's still shivering and I pray it's from the cold. "Bella, you really should wear something more," I

say, breaking my own heart for the 273rd consecutive day.

I make sure she can stand and then let go, because I was right all along and it was always the best
thing to do.

~*~

Chapter Three

BPOV

That was it: the final ugly-sweater-reference that broke the camel's back. I'm pacing in front of my

mirror, watching my face get redder and redder remembering the butterflies in my stomach turning
to pain and lizards and all things ugly and heavy when he released my arms behind the church and

told me to wear new clothes.

Seriously? How shallow can a person be?

Yes, you're gorgeous. And yes, I would totally let you feel me up if you even looked at me the right

way. Okay, or even the wrong way. But let's face it, Edward. You're an asshat.

I pull out an old knitting book of Grandma Swan's. I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for but I do
know that I have about five bins of Gran's yarn in the basement to work with and there are some

seriously ugly patterns in this book. A quick glimpse through the illustrated patterns and I am
disappointed to find that there are no hats shaped like asses. I'll have to do second best and knit

him this unbelievably, hideously ugly Reindeer sweater.

~*~

I don't exactly tell anyone about the sweater. I don't even tell Angela although I know she would
understand that I am doing this mostly because I hate myself for wanting him even after he's been

so cold to me. I don't tell her because I realize that there is something a little obsessively vindictive
about taking the time to knit a complicated cardigan sweater to make a point about shallow

consumerism to the boy you want and who thinks you dress like a complete frump.

I do realize this effort is completely indefensible, especially when I am working on it almost
constantly in my free time.

The problem with working on this gift for Edward, of course, is that it means I am thinking of him

constantly, too.

I am thinking about how I tried to talk to him one day in the hall and he cringed and walked away

when I was mid-sentence.

I am thinking about how I can feel his eyes on my back sometimes, but when I turn he looks away.

I am thinking about how I asked Alice to go to a movie with me once, but she seemed to already
know what I was going to say and politely turned me down before I could even finish asking.

I am thinking about his hands, and how they tap out the rhythm of Handel, and Chopin, and

Tchaikovsky, and all of the other composers I know he loves because I sometimes hear him
humming them in class.

But I am mostly thinking about the first day of school this year, when I wanted to turn over a new

leaf and I asked him if he wanted to join us at our table at lunch. He simply said, "I could never do
that."

The sweater is very bright red and very bright green. This makes me particularly excited since I

have only ever seen Edward wear muted browns, grays, black, and blues. From Gran's button box, I
choose some fancy snowman buttons for the front, and since I haven't paid for any of the supplies

I've needed so far, I think I might splurge and buy him a pair of plaid pajama pants from the Surplus

store to pair with the sweater.

The fabulous, festive, Mr. Rogers-on-an-acid-trip sweater.

Have I mentioned the reindeer?

~*~

I have to get two small gifts to get Edward for the "secret" part of the Secret Santa game. These I will

leave on his desk or slip onto his chair throughout the week when he isn't looking, so he won't

know they're from me. The big gift — the masterpiece sweater — I will give to him in person at the
formal dance. This is when we Secret Santas reveal who we are. More specifically, this is when I get

to watch Edward squirm and see if he can be gracious about an ugly gift when he can't even hide his
reaction to an ugly sweater that has nothing to do with him.

The problem is, when I go out to buy the smaller gifts for him, I want to get him equally as

smart-assed presents. I want the entire week to be a Week of Snark, but instead I find things that
truly say Edward to me. When I go out to buy a Jonas Brothers CD for him, I end up getting him

some beautiful blank sheet music paper on thick parchment, because I know he will love it. I've
seen him scribbling long lines of music notes on a blank page during class. I would give anything to

hear him play something he's written.

When I go to buy him a stress ball and a book on meditation — hint hint — I end up getting him a
beautiful fountain pen. It's deep red and heavy and something about it reminds me of his perfect

script and long fingers.

Each time I intend on getting him something ridiculous and end up getting him something

thoughtful instead, I come home and knit furiously, deciding to add red noses to every reindeer and
putting one of the snowman buttons on upside down because I know that shit will drive him crazy.

~*~

In the end, although we've coordinated the carpools seamlessly, I end up driving myself to the

winter formal in the truck because I slip on the driveway walking out to Tyler's van and get muddy

snow all along the back of my dress pants and silk blouse.

"Just go ahead without me," I mumble, frustrated because I know the only other option I have for
tonight is very short and very girly. "I'll drive myself in the truck."

The van pulls out of the driveway and I watch at it as it gets smaller and smaller driving down the

street. Upstairs, I stare at the dress for at least ten minutes, wondering if I can make it longer just by
wishing it so. Renee bought me this dress during one of my down-months when I first moved to

Forks and felt alone and undesirable. I never complained to her, but my sudden decrease in phone
calls and short, boring emails probably tipped her off. She sent this dress with a note that said

simply,

Someday you will have an occasion to wear this.
When you do, you will see your beauty

through the eyes of everyone around you, Bella.

Love, Mom.

The dress is deep blue and has a v-neck that looks like it reaches my belly button, but once I have
the dress secured in place, I realize it really only dips halfway down my cleavage and I'm fine as

long as I never bend over... or talk to anyone taller than 5'3" tonight.

Jesus Christ.

I stare at my chest for another ten minutes, willing it to fill out the dress justalittlemore but when I
realize the effort is futile, I give up, slip on the shoes I wore to Renee and Phil's wedding, grab

Edward's sweater wrapped in special Winnie the Pooh wrapping paper, throw on my parka, and
head out to the truck.

The drive is quiet and I forget how rural the area is because I so rarely drive to Port Angeles when

it's this dark. I blast whatever radio station I can get on my pathetic stereo and try to ignore the fact

that I left the house without checking to see if I also got mud in my hair when I fell in the driveway.

About twenty miles from my destination I hear a loud pop before the truck jerks hard to the right,
followed by a thump-thump-thump sound coming from my front tire. I pull to the side of the road

and climb out, leaving my headlights on so I can see and be seen.

My right front tire is flat. Not flat as in, "That was probably a slow leak", but flat as in "Bella Swan
ran over a strip of ACME nails put out by Wile E. Coyote and her tire exploded."

I bend at the waist and take a deep breath, steadying myself. And then I begin to laugh.

I laugh because I didn't bring my cell phone. I laugh because I don't have a spare tire in the truck

because I just recently put it on the back left wheel. I laugh because, even though I'm on a dark,
twisty road in the middle of a forest, part of me is relieved to not have to face Edward tonight and

give him the sweater. I don't have to see him unable to muster any semblance of courtesy as I

realize that my plan all along was destined only to hurt myself.

~*~

EPOV

After the way I left her at the church, I'm not sure what I'm expecting from my Secret Santa this
week. I half expect there to be neatly-wrapped razor blades sitting on my chair when I get to school

on Monday and am surprised to find instead a flat box wrapped in brown paper and secured with
twine. A note on the top says,

May this season and all others be filled with music.

~Santa

I feel my eyes close and my mouth form a tight line, disgusted with myself all over again; disgusted
with myself for treating her with such coldness but also for not being the man she deserves. It's

such a circular nightmare no matter where I come down on it:

My choice to stay away from her results in my own deprivation and her continued hurt feelings.

My choice to tell her how I feel risks my family being revealed for what we are, and requires me to

face the process of undoing all of the damage I've done between us.

I prove my initial choice to be the best every time I am near her because only someone with a cold
heart and no soul could stay this closed off to someone like Bella.

I put the package under my desk with my bag, determined to open it in the privacy of my own room.

At that moment, I hear Jessica squeal at the ornament I put on her desk. I close my eyes again and
lean my head on my arms, wishing it were still last night and I was sitting beside her bed as a

sleeping Bella asked me again to tell her 'why', and wishing I had an answer.

~*~

The blank sheet music parchment is beautiful. It is heavy weight with rich black ink. It is simple and
elegant, providing no distraction with headings or fibers running throughout the paper — only lines

and the empty canvas of white for my music.

That night I fill the pages with musical notation for Bella: melodies that have been in my head for
months now and I have never let out, melodies about the sweetness of love and the devastation of

heartbreak. Some of the pages of notes are tied together into something heavy and cold, collections
of chords that scratch at my ears and make me want to stop playing and simply weep over how I've

behaved. All of it is the confession of my last year and everything I've put myself and my love
through, simply so I can resist her.

I save the last several sheets for the piece that my fingers instinctively play when I am alone and
quiet. I realize it's time to give it the permanence of ink and acknowledge that it's here with me,

always. The melody is her name, her lips, her smile, the sound of her laugh. It is her quiet breath
while she sleeps and the way she sighs my name. The piece I compose is warm like the soft skin of

her stomach that is exposed to me when she stretches in her sleep and which makes me want to rub
my lips over her navel. The piece is my I love you to Bella.

The following day I whisper "Thank you" before I tell her she is beautiful as she stands at her locker.

She doesn't hear me, but her ears blush and I wonder if part of her knows how I feel. I find so much

joy in the prospect that I leave school early to compose several more pieces for her and sing them
all to her later that night.

~*~

On Wednesday there is another plainly wrapped present on my desk. Again, I wait until I am alone
to open it and find a deep red fountain pen nestled inside. I see so much of Bella in this gift I figure

she has to know now how I see her. The pen has the deep red of her lips and her blush. It makes me
think of the way the blood underneath her skin warms her. Her blood... what drew me to her in the

first place has since become but an afterthought; the deep crimson now simply represents her

mortality and everything more she can do with her life.

"You've been staring at that pen for an hour," Emmett notes, leaning against the doorway and
tinkering with a starter for one of Rose's old VW's.

"Yes," I acknowledge his observation with a nod, waiting for his point.

"Who picked you for Secret Santa? I forgot to ask." He looks up at me and I see Bella's face in his

thoughts. He simply wants me to say her name.

"Bella." I feel like my chest is suddenly too small for all of the words I have.

Emmett smiles. "There it is."

I sigh and close my eyes. I don't know what exactly he means because his mind fills with images of

his happiness with Rose, and everything I want for myself but will never have.

~*~

I have been informed that I can ride with Lauren Mallory to the formal, and since I know Bella is in

charge of the carpooling, I wonder if there isn't some small jab buried in that arrangement. I tell
Lauren at school on Friday that I will bring myself to the dance, but thank her for making her car

available.

Alice has put a new dark gray suit in my closet and I assume this is what I'm expected to wear

tonight. She calls to ensure that I am still going to go.

"No backing out?" she asks, too casually.

"Why would I back out?" I reply, feeling suspicious.

She sighs into the phone and covers it to whisper something to Jasper. When she comes back to the
conversation, she says "I have the best husband in the world."

"I know," I agree, smiling at her and wondering what brought this on.

"He may not be perfect for everyone, maybe even anyone else, but he is perfect for me."

I wait patiently to see where this is going. I register that Alice is giving me a pep talk, and it worries

me slightly about what is headed my way.

"But even so, sometimes it's hard for us. We haven't always had it easy."

Ah.

"I know, Alice," I say quietly. "You both work so hard to make it what it is."

I can hear her smile in her quiet exhale, hear her cheek against the phone as she nods. "We do,
Edward. I just want you to know that it's always worth it, even when it's hard. Anything that's

worth it takes effort, and also takes courage."

"Thanks, Alice." We hang up and I look at myself in the mirror, feeling nervous and shaken because I
realize that I have no idea what I'm getting into.

~*~

EPOV

I come around a sharp curve and hit the brakes when I see Bella standing in the middle of the

dangerous, dark, two-lane road. My reflexes are better than the cars ability to stop, and the brakes
let out a loud squeal. She is standing by her truck, doubled over and laughing.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" I ask, slamming the car door and shaking the entire frame in

the process.

She looks at me and only laughs harder. She is trying to shake her head and say something but she

can't.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demand, moving closer and guiding her away from the middle
of the road. If my heart still beat, it would have frozen solid at the thought of anyone other than a

vampire coming around that blind corner.

She points behind her and swallows, trying to catch her breath. "Flat... tire..."

I look at the tire in question and see that it is completely blown out. "Do you not have a cell phone?"
I have no idea why this situation is hysterical to her. This woman has no sense of self-preservation

and I am struggling to remain calm.

"I do," she says, wiping her eyes. "It's at home."

I still my reaction, taking a moment to speak next. "And your spare?"

"Right there," she points to the rear left tire and a giggle escapes again.

I stare at her. She doesn't seem at all concerned about the fact that anyone else driving on this road

would have probably hit her. "Are you... how can..." I look around and take a deep breath, feeling the
familiar smell and taste of her fill my body. It calms me. "I'll call a tow truck," I say as evenly as

possible. "I can drive you to the dance and home afterwards, if you still need a ride."

Something about how I've said this causes her to stiffen, and for the first time since I've arrived I

realize that she is wearing her heavy down parka but there is nothing covering her legs. Her shoes
are black, and strap in a simple crisscross pattern across the top of her delicate feet. She is beautiful

and it overwhelms me to see her like this, but she must be freezing. I look away realizing that I've
been staring.

I have never seen Bella wear a dress and my mind explodes with how long her legs are. My next

reaction is a fiery jealousy; I have seen her legs almost every night, and no one else has. Tonight,
every senior male from Forks High will see Bella's legs.

"I can ride home with Tyler," she says quietly. "But, yes, if you could call a tow truck and take me to

Port Angeles, I would appreciate it."

I've ruined her amusement over the situation and have made her feel bad somehow. I swallow and

try to think of what to say as she walks to her truck to retrieve the gift that I know is for me. Instead
of speaking, I just open the passenger door for her before walking to my side and climbing in next to

her.

~*~

BPOV

"I'll call a tow truck," he says, looking like it is taking him considerable effort to calm down. Why is

he so angry? "I can drive you to the dance and home afterwards, if you still need a ride."

I watch him say this and see how hard it is for him to be near me. I hear his words and understand

the meaning embedded within them: look for another ride, and if you can't find one, I can drive you.

I grab his present from the truck and climb into his car. The heat isn't on although the car has been
running, and yet again I have no idea how he isn't freezing. He climbs in next to me and silently flips

the heater on and turns on my seat warmer before turning on his own, almost as an afterthought.

"You must be cold," he says, waving his fingers in front of the vent coming from the front of the
dashboard. "I'm sorry, it will only take a moment to warm up."

"Why aren't you cold?" I ask, staring at him. His breath isn't even showing in the cold car. Again, is

he even breathing?

"This jacket is quite warm," he says, referring to his suit coat that looks normal and pretty thin to

me. "I also went for a long run before leaving, so the cool air feels nice."

Cool?

"You do a lot of running," I mumble, remembering our conversation behind the church. Though,
looking at him, I can tell he's not lying. The guy is fit.

"Yes," is all he says in return.

I hold his gift on my lap and tap it with my fingers, knowing how nervous I must seem. I draw my
knees together and wish that my dress was longer. He glances at my legs pressed together and

turns up the heat.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "Is it warming up enough?"

How does he not know this?

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"It's fine," I reassure him. "I'll turn it up or down if I need to."

He seems satisfied with this answer and turns the music up on the stereo. I register that this means
he probably doesn't want to talk. He seems to be trying to move, and every movement he makes

feels forced somehow. We drive in completely awkward silence for several long minutes.

"When did you move to Forks?" I ask, even though I know the general answer. The music isn't

actually turned up that high, but my voice sounds really loud in the car.

"A few years ago," he says, glancing at me. "Freshman year."

"Do you like it here?" I turn towards him in my seat, challenging him to be civil.

"There are things about it I love," he says quietly and his tone surprises me. When he isn't speaking
to me, I am convinced that Edward is the biggest ass on the planet. But when he does speak to me, a

part of me feels like maybe I have him all wrong. I feel like I know him, I just don't know it yet.

"Like what?"

He smiles and it may be the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. It is a close-mouthed, slightly

lopsided grin and I hold my breath to keep from gasping.

"I find the high school quite tedious, and the culture of Forks leaves a lot to be desired," he smiles
wryly at this, "but there is something so beautiful here... I must admit it has me completely smitten.

It is beauty like nothing else."

I nod, agreeing, because I know what he means. Once I got over missing the desert and the warmth,
I did start to see how beautiful it is here: how lush, how dense, how alive. "There is something to be

said for how alive everything feels here."

He laughs then, and I remember how much that sound wrecked me at the church, how happy he
must be when he laughs because it sounds like it pushes through so much sadness and

over-analysis to be let out.

"Indeed," he whispers.

~*~

Chapter Four

BPOV

Edward takes my hand and helps me from his car. I feel a bit as though I am getting out of a carriage
made from a pumpkin from the way he hold my fingers and grasps my elbow to steady me. He

releases me when I am standing and nods slightly. "I'll go park. I'll find you inside."

I smile and turn to walk into the building, seeing Angela just inside at the refreshments table. I walk
towards her, unzipping my heavy coat and hanging it in the coat room on the way. Mike stops me on

my way to Angela, to ask why I'm so late. I explain briefly and move past him. She looks up and sees

me and then looks behind me to see Edward come into the hall.

"Did you come with Edward?" she asks, mouth agape.

"Yes, but it's not as exciting as you seem to think." I begin to explain what happened when Tyler
comes up and apologizes to me because I fell in my own driveway.

"It's not like it was the seismic activity from your van," I say, smirking at him. "I don't blame you for

the demise of my preferred outfit." He mumbles something and finally walks away. I look for
Edward briefly before turning back to Angela.

"So, how was it?" she asks conspiratorially.

"I don't think he wanted me touching his car, but he was nice enough." I shrug and pull the box for

him out from under my arm. I don't really want to tell Angela that I suspect Edward is just shy,

socially awkward, and complicated, and not the ass we've suspected. "Where do we put these?"

"Well, the way he was just staring at you when Tyler came over here, I'd say he certainly didn't
want you touching his car..." She winks at me and clicks her tongue.

I ask her to repeat this because it sounds like there in an insinuation there that I might like but she

just grins mischievously and pulls me towards the Christmas tree where the rest of the presents are
piled. Throughout the night, everyone will give their gifts to their chosen recipient. From what

Angela tells me, we can do it whenever we want. I'm not sure when I will give the sweater to
Edward, but I imagine it will be after I've given him more opportunities to earn it, because I'm not

entirely sure after the car ride here that my balance of hate is high enough in my love-hate ratio.

I chat with Ang for awhile as we watch our classmates dancing awkwardly yet enthusiastically like a
group of extras in a John Hughes movie. Mike asks me to dance several times but I imagine with our

combined grace, it would be a very dangerous thing to unleash on the dance floor. I have to admit

the one person I want to see is scarce. The only time I see Edward he is politely talking to Mr.
Banner near the refreshments table.

Mr. Banner passes us a few minutes later and I look up hoping to see Edward, but instead Eric

approaches us and actually glances at the punch glass in my hand before asking me with a wink if I
want some punch. He holds a glass out to me and I eye it suspiciously, hearing something drag

across the floor and snap behind me. I turn see what happened but all I see is a broken metal
folding chair and a few people looking at it, confused.

I turn back to Eric and smirk. "I'm fine with the identical punch in my hand."

"Has the entire population become completely impaired?" I ask Angela when Eric leaves, gesturing
to my glass. My eyes narrow and I look to where Eric has moved, standing next to Mike and

downing the punch he just offered me. "Wait. Was that punch spiked? Is he trying to get me drunk?"
I take a step towards him, convinced that my fist has a very important message for the spot on his

back just over his kidney, but Angela grabs my arm and pulls me back.

She laughs at me. "Bella, go easy on them."

"Them?" I ask, laughing. "I saw one Eric."

"And one Tyler apologizing for your klutziness, and one Mike repeatedly asking you to dance..." she
waves her hand in a slow circle forward as if I can see where she is going with this. "Someday you'll

get over Edward Cullen, and I bet they'd like to be there when you do."

I cringe, unaware that my feelings for Edward were so widely known. For some reason, the idea

that I would get over Edward, even if he is Broodward most of the time and clearly would never
return my feelings, makes me feel incredibly sad.

"When was the last time you wore a dress?" She touches the shoulder of my dress as if to remind

me what the noun means and then looks up at me.

"Um..." I say, grinning.

"Exactly," she says, gesturing to my legs. She leans in and whispers, "And when was the last time
you showed any cleavage?"

I look down to the front of my dress and pull it up slightly with my free hand, wincing. "Gah.

Cleavage? That's generous. And never."

She nods, satisfied that her point has been made.

~*~

The night feels like it drags and I see the presents slowly disappearing from under the tree. Jessica
hands me my gift from her — a surprisingly pretty soft blue scarf and I thank her, surprised at how

genuine and thoughtful the gift is, particularly since her two small gifts included a framed school
picture of her, and a pair of earrings when she may have noticed that I don't have pierced ears.

People around us squeal or laugh good-naturedly at the gifts they receive and suddenly I realize the
only box remaining is wrapped in Winnie the Pooh paper and belongs to Edward.

It will hurt his feelings. I gulp down the rest of my non-spiked punch and wonder if I can get away

with not giving it to him. But, he's hurt my feelings countless times. Besides, didn't he say he would
come find me inside? And of course he hasn't. Asshat.

I look around for Edward on the other side of the room behind Angela but he's nowhere to be seen.

Stretching on my toes and craning my neck to look into the dark corners of the dance floor, I hiss,

"Where did he go?"

Just then, Angela stiffens in front of me, wide-eyed.

"Would you dance with me, Bella?" I freeze and stare at Angela who I register is wide-eyed because
Edward is right behind me. His voice is soft and warm and the way he says my name is almost as if

he has practiced how to say it so that the cartilage in my legs dissolves and I almost fall over. He is
an ass, but a smooth, seductive, and really hot ass.

Ang smiles at him over my shoulder, and it almost seems genuine although I know as my best friend

she'd also like to face punch him, just once.

I turn to face him and his expression tightens when he sees me. I try to be subtle and glance down
to make sure a boob hasn't popped out of my dress.

"That's a brave request, my friend," I try to joke as I look back up at him, but my voice is shaking. "I
haven't danced since I was four."

He smiles and holds out his hand. "That's okay. I'll take care of you." He leads me to the floor and

looks down at his feet. "Hop on."

"What?" I ask though a laugh.

"Come on," he urges. "I told you I'd take care of you."

I chew my lip and then grin in acquiescence before climbing onto his feet. "Does this hurt?" I ask,
cringing. "These shoes are pointy."

"Not at all," he smiles, and pulls me close to him. His hand moves to my lower back and I hear him

inhale deeply. His hand feels cold through the fabric of my dress, and the skin on his neck feels

about as warm as the air around us. I am distracted from this thought when he starts to hum quietly
and I lean my head against his chest, feeling inexplicably soothed by the sound of his quiet singing.

For the second time tonight I wonder if I really do have him all wrong. As he slowly spins me

around the room, I see the box for him under the tree and feel my stomach tighten, wondering if
what I've done was not truly self-righteous and clever but actually malicious and unkind.

~*~

EPOV

On the one hand, it is captivating watching Bella in a setting like this. I never get the chance to see

her outside of school or her room, and I simply cannot get enough of the sight of her in the deep
blue dress. She is, quite simply, stunning. She is quietly confident, needs no attention, and I can

watch her from anywhere in the room as much as I want.

On the other hand, every boy in the room is watching her, too, and envisioning far too much of her
naked body for my preferences. First Tyler approaches her, then Mike — repeatedly. Finally Eric

brings her a drink that has brandy in it and I find myself watching with such intense fury that I

break the chair near my hand. I find I am giddy with anticipation when I see her small fist form a
tight ball and she begins to walk towards Eric, apparently intending to hit him.

In a way that is sweetly and purely Bella, she has no idea why she is getting so much attention until

Angela explains it to her. Only when I hear Angela say "Someday you'll get over Edward Cullen, and
I bet they'd like to be there when you do," do I register that it could happen some day.

That it will happen some day.

Do I want it to happen soon? Do I want her to get over me? I still am not sure that wanting me is the

best thing for Bella. But I know that soon I will need to at least tell her how I feel because I realize it
is something I can not bear to keep inside. I am not sure I will ever be able to ask her to be with me,

but more than anything I want her at least to know that she is the only person I have ever wanted.

I watch her a bit longer, seeing her look around and I hope that she is looking for me. It isn't a

simple process, getting up the nerve to ask a girl to dance after never having done so in my entire
undead existence, or deciding to put my paradoxically fragile heart on the line in such a way,

without knowing what she will say or even if I will be able to explain anything beyond my love for
her.

I give Jessica her gift card unceremoniously as I am working up the nerve to approach Bella. She

smiles like I've given her jewelry or lingerie after all and then hugs me. It is awkward because I
don't generally hug humans, and it is unpleasant because she is rather perfumed. I see Bella over

Jessica's shoulder and focus instead on the line of her neck, the smooth slope of her shoulder.

I am ready.

Her back is to me when I approach, and Angela gapes at me. Her mind fills with a hundred images of
Bella's shrunken posture and defeated expression after she has been rebuffed or ignored by me.

I ask Bella to dance and she freezes before turning slowly. Angela surrounds me with thoughts of
gratitude that I am here, anger that it has taken me so long, and a vague twinge of hope that Bella

tells me to go to hell.

But all I can process is the sight of Bella reacting to me: she is flushed and I can see her pulse
hammering below her collarbone. Her skin is almost irresistible to my fingers, her curves are

perfectly captured in the cut of the gown. I swallow my reaction to her pulse and try to hide how my
face reacts to her beauty. She glances down at her dress, unsure, and then back at me. Her smile

radiates; it completely warms me.

When I touch her she leans into me.

When I pull her up onto my feet she feels like nothing, like she is part of my body just meant to be
moved this way.

When I put my hand on her back she melts, resting her head on my chest. I find that I am humming
her song. It doesn't really go with whatever trendy drivel we are listening to, but it goes with us,

and she seems to feel it too.

"I love you," I whisper, but I know she doesn't hear me. I am simply practicing saying it to her when

she is awake. "I've loved you for so long."

~*~

BPOV

The difference in the vibe between us is everything I would have said I wanted, but it's still making

me slightly queasy because it feels so sudden. Maybe snow, and lights, and cheesy party decorations
are some sort of emotional trigger for Edward, or maybe he's swooning over my voluptuous

cleavage. Maybe he's been enjoying Eric's addition to the punch. Whatever it is he is doing it feels

almost decisive on his end. I can't decide if that's a good thing, or if it means he's just a horny high
school kid and I look like a pretty sure thing who hasn't also been incestuously dating solely within

my social circle since the eighth grade.

He leans down and whispers something but I can't hear what it is. When I look up at him his crazy
gold eyes flash darker and he looks down at my lips.

Holy shit! Edward is going to kiss me!

This is the moment when I am yanked from my own swoon, because I will be damned if I let myself

be that girl who lets the guy play hot and cold. I have seen this happen so many times and am
always embarrassed for that girl who thinks that something special happened at the dance, thinking

that this night is different only to run into the cad on Monday and have him be the same asshat he
always is, and the only person who should have known better is me.

I pull away from him and move with purpose to the Christmas tree, pulling his lone gift out from
underneath. He has followed me, confused, and then looks at the box in my hands before meeting

my eyes.

"I loved the gifts you've given me already," he murmurs, not yet taking the box.

Of course you did, I want to say. While you were busy scowling and brooding, I was watching you. I
was paying attention.

I shake the box at him as I mumble, "I'm glad. I thought you would be hard to buy for but... you

weren't."

This makes him swallow and look really guilty but I don't have time to wonder what that's about
because he takes the box from my hands. This sweater is an important reminder that the girl in

front of him, the girl wearing the cleavage-baring dress and the fuck-me heels, is the same girl he

seems to love to hate. I brace myself for the moment when he goes back to seeing me for what I
really am: ordinary, frumpy, and certainly not worth his time.

He opens the gift and while he does it, he looks really self-conscious which makes me kind of happy.

I find that I like watching Edward Cullen open a present wrapped in Winnie the Pooh paper, it just
seems like mixing oil and vinegar and seeing how these two completely different mediums blend

together.

He pulls the sweater out and looks not horrified, not disgusted but... curious? I watch his entire

thought process unfold and realize that the only jerk in this moment is me because here he is trying
to have a reasonable reaction to a bright red and green sweater with reindeer and snowmen. The

sweater is technically well-made. The stitching is even and tight, the reindeer are clearly reindeer,
and with the exception of the upside-down snowman button, everything is as it should be according

to the pattern. It's just really ugly.

"I made it," I mumble. To be honest, I'm not sure which is worse: making this sweater or buying this
sweater.

His eyes fly to mine when I say this and he seems to lean down slightly to smell it. "You... made this

for me?"

I nod. "I know it's insanely hideous, but..." I sigh and shrug. "Merry Christmas."

This didn't go at all how I expected.

~*~

EPOV

I will admit that I am completely perplexed by the gift. Bella's style isn't generally this outrageous.
Sure, there are a few articles in her wardrobe that I wouldn't mind getting rid of, and I'm sure Alice

would relish getting her hands on Bella for a full make-over, but this sweater is almost a caricature
of the worst thing she's ever worn.

The fact that she took the time to make it is what gives me pause. If she had purchased it, I might
suspect she was completely toying with me, but this took time I can tell. It occurs to me that maybe

holiday sweaters like this are traditional amongst her family. Perhaps it's something they do, and
she is giving me something meaningful to her.

"Merry Christmas," she mumbles and looks at the floor.

"Thank you, Bella," I say quietly. I am afraid I won't wear this sweater. Not because of how it looks,

but because I don't ever want it to stop smelling like her. "It's amazing that you took the time to do
this for me."

She looks back up at me and her expression is heartbroken. She looks around the room, lost, and

then back at me. Her smile is forced and almost apologetic. "Will you dance me around the floor
again?" she asks me, and she suddenly seems so much more fragile than even before.

I smile at her and look down at my feet, gesturing for her to climb on.

~*~

I worry that my reaction to her gift isn't what she had hoped, and I struggle to find ways to make

her smile for the rest of the night. Finally, when it is only ten o'clock and the crowd seems to just be
getting started, she looks positively exhausted and I ask if she would like me to take her home.

"You don't have to do that." She looks directly at me when she says this and I come close to telling

her that I want to be the only one to drive her home, ever.

Instead, I hold out my hand and smile. "I'd rather leave here with you than alone, and I think I'm
done here."

She chews her lip, seeming on the verge of asking me a question. I wish so much just for tonight that

I could know what she is thinking. Finally, she walks to the coatroom, grabs her coat, and nods to
me.

She is quiet the entire drive, but I can feel her watching me. I know my error in not having the car

heated when I found her on the road earlier, but I find myself completely dependent on Alice for
avoiding those types of mishaps, and she seems to be willing to let me sink or swim on my own this

time. I also know that Bella felt my skin when we danced. I simply hope it doesn't scare her away
before I can tell her that I have feelings for her and relieve her of the uncertainty I've given her all

this time. It makes me both relieved and heartbroken to imagine telling her how I feel, and then

urging her to trust me that we could never be together.

"Bella, I would very much like to spend some time with you," I say and she startles slightly at my
voice in the quiet car. "Perhaps you would like to go for a small hike on Sunday with me?"

She is quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands in her lap. Finally, she says, "Okay."

It is the only thing she says the remainder of the drive until she thanks me for the ride and climbs

from my car.

I park at home and return to Bella's as soon as I can, sensing that something is not right. When I
reach her window, I hear her crying, trying to muffle the sound in her pillow to not wake Charlie. I

want nothing more than to go to her and comfort her. I want to know what I've done, and how to fix
this and everything else I've done to hurt her before now.

Instead, I return home to where Rosalie has towed Bella's truck and change her tire. I resolve to get
her a gift tomorrow, one will tell her that I see her, I understand her, I love everything about her —

even the quirks.

~*~

Chapter Five

BPOV

My tire is fixed on Saturday morning when I walk outside. I assume it was towed back here late last
night, and I have to smile at how thoroughly Jake takes care of this damn truck. The entire day

Saturday passes in a blur and all I can think about is Edward and his face last night as he opened the
gift, the way my stomach plummeted with his sweet reaction. I have never felt so low as I did when

I saw his genuine expression of gratitude. I don't understand him at all.

I am also thinking about his hands on my back, his breath in my hair, and how I'm pretty sure he

would have kissed me if I'd let him.

I am so confused.

We meet on Sunday at a regional park outside of the town limit and, after I park my truck in the lot

up the road a ways, I find Edward waiting for me at the trail head, leaning against a rock.

He is holding a wrapped box and his eyes light up when I approach him.

"Bella," is all he says.

"Hi." I tuck my hair behind my ear because that is what I do when I have nothing else to do with my
hands.

"Thanks for meeting me." He stares at me intently, and it doesn't feel like he's looking at me for the

first time; it feels like he's so comfortable with my features that he doesn't even need to search my

face to know what I'm thinking.

"Sure." I stare at him, feeling the number of questions I have for him begin to overwhelm me.

"How is your weekend so far?" he asks and I wrinkle my brow, trying to figure out how to answer
without telling him that I have been obsessing about Friday night and wanting to apologize. I still

don't know why he's acted the way he has, but I do know I am the only one responsible for my
behavior.

"Mellow," I say, nodding slightly. "My truck was back in the morning, so I just did some Christmas

shopping for my Mom yesterday."

He smiles at this and it suddenly occurs to me that since he had my truck towed, he was probably
the one to fix the tire, not Jake. "Did you fix my tire?"

"Yes." He says this as if he doesn't really want to admit it.

"Why?" I am not sure why I ask this but I still don't understand where this change in him is coming
from.

"Because your tire was blown out." His tone suggests that there is a connection between these two

things, and that he is somehow responsible for ensuring that my truck has a tire.

"Thank you. Edward... I..." I feel my apology forming and want to make sure to get it out right away.

He interrupts me gently, seeming to want to save me from my own awkwardness. I would like to
tell him that it's futile because awkwardness is a trait expressed by every cell in my body, but he is

holding the box out for me and smiling that sweet smile that makes my bones disappear.

"I know that I didn't choose your name for the Secret Santa gift exchange," he says quietly. "But it

really touched me that you took the time to make a gift for me. I wanted to get you something in the
same spirit, to let you know I appreciated the fun and festive sweater you made."

I take the box tentatively and peel the thick silver paper from the box — this paper is much more

Edward than the Winnie the Pooh in Santa hats. I wonder if he is amused with how incongruous his

wrapping paper looks in my hands. The box underneath says Urban Outfitters so I know he got it in
Portland. Since he's thanking me for a gift I gave him Friday night, I can only imagine he bought this

yesterday. I sincerely hope he also went there for a very worthwhile excursion because I can't feel
any lower having given him that crappy sweater now.

I open it and stare down at another sweater, folded neatly and surrounded by red and green tissue

paper.

The sweater is cream with large red mittens... over the chest. The mittens literally look like hands
holding onto breasts. I gape at it for a moment before pulling it out of the box and holding it in front

of me, between us. It isn't necessarily ugly, just comical. I look up at him, expecting a wry smile that
would communicate 'Touché, Miss Swan', and I have to admit that if he did that, I might have to jump

him on the spot. Instead, I am greeted with a look of earnest curiosity.

"Is it... is it okay?" he asks, nodding at the sweater. "I hope it's the right size. I got you a small. I

thought it was a different, kind of fun holiday sweater? It reminds me of a hug."

I nod and slip off my jacket to pull on the cardigan. It is only then that I notice that the mittens
aren't just a pattern in the design, they are actual pockets shaped like mittens over the chest. I pull

one open and look at it, quizzically.

"Right," he says, pointing to the pocket. He suddenly starts to look a little confused. "It's, um, a
functional pocket. To keep your hands warm."

Is he serious with this?

I smirk at him. "I don't get it. Can you show me what you mean?"

He kind of sputters and blinks and I laugh quietly as he gestures to his own chest, acting out how

one would slide hands into pockets over their breasts.

"Ohhhh," I say nodding and slipping my hands over my chest and squeezing playfully. "Like this?"

I am met with more sputtering and blinking as he realizes what it looks like when I actually have

my hands in the pockets, groping myself. He genuinely looks like he did not understand the gag gift
aspect of this sweater.

This is when I register that he is either completely clueless or completely fucking with me.

"Are you mocking me with this?" I demand, yanking my hands from the pockets and tugging at the

hem of the sweater. "Did you ask me here just to gain the upper hand again? Are you that much of
an ass?"

"Upper...? What?" He looks bewildered and then his eyes narrow. "Were you mocking me with the

reindeer sweater?"

"No!" I shout, then amend it to a quiet, "Not exactly. I don't know, Edward!"

He says slowly, "You knitted me a sweater in a week to prove a point?"

I expect him to be angry that I did something so unbelievably bratty, but instead he almost seems
mortified and guilty. I feel everything spilling out then and probably couldn't stop it even if I

wanted to.

"You've hated me since the day we met and I have no idea why. You're always scowling at me for
what I wear and you seem to particularly dislike my green sweater. A sweater!" He looks horrified

and heartbroken, but I can't seem to halt the torrent. "Good God, Edward, it's so comically snobby
and judgmental of you to be such an ass about what I choose to wear when it's obvious I mean

nothing to you. I mean, why do you care if I have an ugly grandma sweater from Sears that I wear all
the time? What is it to you? I'll start to wear it every day if you'll get that message through your

head. You treat me like I'm not even worth acknowledging unless it's to make me feel bad about
something — about asking you to join us at lunch or what I choose to put on in the morning. It's

absurd!"

Strangely, none of this contains any of the apology I'd worked so hard to formulate on the drive

here. And yet, I feel so much better simply having opened up my heart and let it spill out onto the
ground.

He stares at me and closes his eyes after a moment. "Bella," he says quietly, seeming to register that

I'm not just upset about the rejection of my clothing, but the constant rejection of me. "I'm so sorry."

I stand and wait for him to say something else, but he doesn't. I turn and walk back towards my
truck.

~*~

EPOV

She is right. It is absurd. The entire situation is absurd. We have both put so much symbolism and

angst into an article of clothing and I understand now what she did. She is also right about the other
piece. I do hate that sweater, but I hate it because she can do better, because it does nothing for her,

because she is hidden when she wears it, because it is heavy, and tired, and beneath her.

Because the sweater is me.

All I can do is apologize. I want to explain everything else without sounding like a psychopath, but I
take too long trying to find words I don't have yet, and she turns on her heel and leaves.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don't need Alice to remind me that it's hard sometimes and it

takes courage. I get it now. I know that I can't let Bella leave because I only ever feel any true light

when I am with her. This is the only chance I will have with her, and I want to take it. I still don't
know what I'm going to say, but I follow her, catching her easily.

I hold her arm as loosely as I can given how frantic I feel, but she still winces slightly. When she fully

turns to me, I understand that she's wincing because she's crying and she knows I can see her tears,
not because I've hurt her arm. I am the last person on the planet she wants to see her feeling

vulnerable right now.

"Don't go," I say quietly, begging. "Just hear me out."

"I just want to know what I did," she says, sniffling. "I hate that you're the one person I want to be

close to and I'm the one person you can't be far enough away from."

Her words completely shatter me because they are so raw and honest, and this is exactly who I've
always known Bella to be. She is not playing any games, not anymore.

"I want to be closer to you than I've ever wanted to be to anyone," I admit, releasing her arm and

hoping she doesn't walk away. She seems frozen in front of me, her face confused and red from her
earlier outburst. I swallow and shake my head. "It doesn't make sense, I know, and I wish I could tell

you everything. I just... I fear that I'm not right for you, Bella, and it kills me that I can't be with you."

Understandably, she looks at me like I'm either a little or a lot crazy.

"That makes no sense, you're right." She wipes her nose and stares at me, eyebrows raised

expectantly.

I sigh and reach down to take her hand. She is shocked; probably both at the gesture as well as the
fact that my hand is only as warm as the air around us, which is to say, not warm at all. "Bella."

She looks up at me.

"I hate the sweater because it swallows you. I hate the sweater because you can hide in it and there

is nothing of you that can be seen. You are already unattainable and the sweater just reminds me of
that. But I love that you wore it because you didn't want to be judged by your clothing. I love that

you wore it more often just to make a point to me." I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her skin for
the first time ever. My eyes roll closed and I inhale deeply, taking her in.

I exhale then, letting out so much anxiety and tension and fear of what it would do to me to feel her

skin on my mouth. It doesn't set me off on a murderous rampage or a lust-filled haze. Kissing her

just feels right.

"But Bella, you don't need to make that point to me. I have wanted you since the first day we met.
Please trust me when I say that I have never wanted anything so much in my life. Even so, I am not

like you, Bella, and I am not good for you. I act the way I do because I think it is better in the long
run."

I don't know what I expect her to say to me after this, but what she does say leaves me speechless:

"I don't care what you are, I always wanted you anyway."

It isn't that she admits that she wants me; I've known this since the first night she spoke my name
in her sleep. What shocks me is that she doesn't say 'I don't care who you are.' She says, 'I don't care

what you are.' It's a subtle difference that is intentional, and it gives me a small shot of warmth to
think that Alice may not have been finding a way for me to simply relieve a burden, she may have

been leading me to the one person who I love and who loves me exactly how I am.

However, the word 'wanted' echoes in my ear and I am not sure if that is exactly what I want to

hear, or the one alteration in word tense that could spell my undoing.

~*~

BPOV

I've spent almost an entire year pining for the person in front of me. I have wanted him in every
way imaginable: talking to me on a blanket by the river, laughing with me on a road trip, tangled

with me in my sheets, quiet next to me in study hall.

He is telling me that he has wanted me, too. It's strange, really. Although I know it will break my
heart, right now I can see that I might need to let Edward Cullen go. How could someone who says

he wants me let me believe — no, lead me to believe — that he couldn't stand to be near me?

I've always known Edward was different than anyone at Forks High. Hell, he's different than anyone

anywhere and that's partly what I think I love about him. I've never cared what made him different,
only that he is who he is. I know our backgrounds are worlds apart. I know he's adopted and there

is something about him that tells me his past hasn't always been easy. I know he has skeletons in
his closet, but I've never cared how damaged or different he is. He might be more complex than

someone like me, but if he truly cares for me, wouldn't he at least let me decide for myself that he
isn't good for me?

Right now, I need to think. Something is gnawing at the back of my consciousness but I can't access

it. I feel like I know what will unravel all of this for me, but it's taking too much time to connect
those synapses and in this moment. I just need to breathe.

"I have to go," I whisper.

~*~

I feel like I've cried more this weekend than I have in months and it makes me feel weak and

frustrated and also kind of relieved. Now that I'm alone in my truck, heading I-don't-know-where, it
feels good to cry and just let out some of the chaos surrounding this situation. How did it get so

dramatic?

I have no idea what this all means, but something I've always suspected — that Edward is

unattainable for a reason, that I let myself love him because I know there is more beneath the
surface — swirls through my thoughts and I try to grasp what he means when he says that he's not

good for me. I wipe at my face and it almost does no good because once I admit that it feels good to
cry, my body turns on the water works and I just have to ride it out. It's cold and my heater isn't

working fast enough and I'm breathing so hard that I'm fogging up everything around me as my
eyes are completely awash in tears.

A curve comes up too fast and I'm late to steer into it and I correct more than I need to. I've hit black

ice.

The truck is heavy but when it slides, it feels like it weighs nothing.

I see the lone tree at the edge of the embankment and feel like I have so long to think about this
stretch of road and how much I hate driving it. I know how many people die here. Lake Crescent

stretches alongside me and I know how deep it is. Such a small guardrail protects drivers. I feel a

strange sense of pride that the rail might be no match for my truck. I am headed for the tree and

that might be better, but I look at the speedometer and realize that I'm sliding across the road and I
was going 50 miles per hour.

I want to close my eyes but I'm strangely fascinated trying to predict the trajectory of the truck to

see how I'm going to die: impact or drowning?

I don't know why I say it, but it just feels right: "I love you, Edward."

Edward is there. He is in front of the tree near the railing and my truck hits him and he moves so
fast I'm not sure what I saw. I am back in the lane with a loud thud and my truck has stilled. The

engine clicks a few times and then silence screams around me.

But Edward is still there, leaning against the hood of my truck.

I look at the metal under his hands and it is beyond misshapen, hissing, and steaming. Edward is

watching me. He is not blinking. He is not breathing heavily. He is not shaking.

He is not dead.

I am in the car and them I am not, and time moves backwards and I am back to pulling the door
handle and climbing out again. How can he move so fast when I can only move slowly? I put one

foot down on the road and it feels like it might be comical to watch because I know how slow I must
seem to him now.

I think the lake is in my ears or I am in the lake. It sounds like water all around me but I'm not

scared because his voice is underwater, with me. Something wet is running into my eye.

I don't know which way to go, but I think I need to go back to the park, to find the real Edward and
tell him that I died, but that I think I heard something once that will help me know what he was

trying to tell me.

Something that will help me know.

I have to find Edward so I can tell him that I always knew.

I look down at my feet on the pavement and they seem to be too far behind me. A few more

stumbling steps and I know I will meet the asphalt with my face.

I don't, though. I am inches from it but then I am in his arms.

I am inches from the wall of the church, but then I am facing him and he is watching me like his
world is falling apart because he finally touched me and he can't go back now.

He is so fast. He still isn't blinking. He is breathing now though, and I think he is breathing me. But

he always does that, how did I not realize?

"Shh, Bella. I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you." He whispers continually in my ear and

when I register that I might not be dead, I feel myself start to shake violently. He is pressing
something to my forehead and I realize I'm bleeding. I'm trying to move my hands to cover my face

because this is all too much, but I can't find my hands.

"Bella, darling, shhh..." he murmurs, holding me closer.

At first I am a mess of nerves, physiologically unable to comprehend what I've just seen. My veins

have too many things running through them, and it is causing my legs to give out. I believe that my
brain has shut down all but the most basic functions.

Just breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

His words come to me again and again. "I have you. I'm with you. I have you, my love, I'm here."

It's taking me hours to calm down, or minutes. In any case, he's in no hurry to let me go and his

hand is holding something to my head and his lips are against my cheek, kissing away the tears that
I can't seem to feel.

Finally, I feel my limbs returning to their place on my body, feel each of my fingers stretch and then
move at the end of my arms. I can feel my toes in my shoes. I can feel the tag of the sweater against

the bottom of my sleeve. I can feel the gash on my forehead.

"I've got you. I'm here. Bella, I won't let anything happen to you."

His mouth is against my cheek but it's close enough to my lips that I taste him when I suck in a
jagged breath and sob.

"You're here with me. I'm holding you and you are okay. You are here with me."

He moves closer to my lips, hoping perhaps that if I swallow his words I will stop shaking.

He whispers, "I love you."

His mouth moves closer still and I feel his lips brush once, softly against mine. "You are so
beautiful."

These words slow my limbs and I can finally move my hands so that they hover at the sides of his

face. I watch the contrast between my fingers and his face: I am shaking and he is so still.

I love you. You're so beautiful.

Strangely, these words don't sound new. They are soft like the worn pages of an old book and sound
like something I've heard in this voice hundreds of times. They are spoken almost as a familiar

comfort, a mantra.

"Tell me," I say and my teeth snap because they are chattering so hard.

"I'll try." He leans in and inhales into my hair. "I'm not human. But I would rather die again every

day than lose you."

I don't feel any shock from the truth. It is not startling or sharp. It feels like the settling of a blanket
over a bed. It brings so many things together and I wrap my arms around his neck as I begin to cry.

It's the only thing that explains it all away and somewhere in my mind I hear Jake's voice and I
realize I've heard this story before, a long time ago.

~*~

Chapter Six

BPOV

Edward's story isn't an easy one to hear, but neither is the content unexpected. I have always

considered myself to be more a cynic than a mystic, but somehow finding out that Edward is a
vampire, that he only drinks from animals, that he is quite tortured by his existence, and that he is

more afraid of hurting me than anything else in this universe just makes perfect sense.

He tells me what it means that I am his singer, and that it became so much more than being about
my blood. I look back on all of our interactions to date and I can see how his distance was never

disinterested, it was forced and painful for him. Washed with the benefit of what I know, in

hindsight his demeanor is so tortured it makes me feel awful for him. I tell him that I wish he hadn't
put himself through it, but he reminds me that he might have needed that time to adjust, to let his

love for me grow enough that he could be confident he wouldn't hurt me.

I want to meet the rest of his family, and when I do I am almost tackled by Alice, embraced for a
long quiet moment by Esme and Carlisle, given a gentle noogie by Emmett, and generally avoided

by Jasper and Rosalie, each for different, albeit understandable, reasons. I love the Cullens instantly
and am surprised to feel that they already know everything about me.

All of the pent up longing Edward and I experienced comes tumbling out at night over the next

couple of months when we're alone together in my room. I know even he can't work up the strength
to feel guilty that I'm getting no sleep. He needs this night time interaction maybe more than I do,

having watched me sleep for so long and having engaged in entirely one-sided conversations in this
bedroom for almost a year.

Edward admits everything else to me during these nights of whispering in my bed: that he began
watching me sleep on March 2nd of last year — over 11 months ago — and that he heard me say his

name in my sleep and could not stay away after that.

It occurs to me that I should probably have some feminist notion of outrage that he had been
creepily sneaking in my bedroom and watching me, but something about how pure it all sounds

when he finally tells me everything kind of diffuses any indignant reaction I might have.

I will admit though, that when he first tells me that he watched me sleep my first instinct is to get
up, walk to the nearest beach, and hide my head in the coarse sand. I know what humans do in our

sleep. We snore and drool and scratch ourselves without any regard to decorum and we pass gas. I
can't even think about this last likely horror — what are the chances, after all, that I went an entire

year without passing gas in my sleep? — so I focus on the second most mortifying possibility.

"Edward?"

"Mmm?" he answers, nuzzling my hair. He does this a lot. I like it a lot.

"You say I had a lot of the dreams of the audible moaning variety?" I feel my entire face explode but
after what he's been through with me while I slept, and the fact that he still seems to be enjoying

smelling my hair, means I'm just going to have to get over being embarrassed with him.

"I think my exact words were that I knew you wanted me too, because you clearly dreamt of me."

"Oh," I say, feeling pretty relieved. "So no moaning then?"

"Oh, there was often moaning," he chuckles quietly and runs his nose along my jaw. The way he
smells me... I'm not kidding when I say that this is sexier than anything I've ever imagined.

But I've heard what he said about the moaning and feel a slight wave of bile threaten to rise. "But I

never touched myself while you were here...?" It is a leading question and probably not admissible

but I need it to become truth so much I think it might just happen.

He pauses for a moment and in that pause my entire ego walks up to the gallows, climbs up on the
stool, cuddles up to the noose, and...

"Not in your sleep, darling. Though... if before..." He seems to need to clear his throat every other

word and I wish he would just get through it because it is dawning on me what he is saying. I can't
quite process it until he gives me all the words. I need all the words on the scale in order to know

the weight of my humiliation. "If you started touching yourself while I waited for you to fall asleep,
well certainly I wouldn't linger if you were otherwise engaged," he murmurs.

My ego wobbles and then steps off the stool.

My ego jerks a few times mid-air, then is dead.

I try to process this image, of me "thinking of Edward" alone and his realizing what I was doing and
giving me privacy until I rolled over and slept. I won't lie. It happened (a lot). Knowing him as I do

I'm sure he loved knowing that I thought of him at all, let alone like that, and then probably flogged
himself for being such a pervert for enjoying it so much. But, of the two of us, it's still most

mortifying to be me in this scenario.

I shake my head, wincing with my eyes closed. "Tell me something embarrassing. Something good."
I wheeze dramatically but it's only somewhat faked. "Quickly, love, I don't have much time left..."

He laughs quietly in my ear. "Something more embarrassing than I virtually stalked you for a year..."

"Virtually?"

He ignores this. "...and watched you sleep, telling you all my hopes and dreams?"

"That's not embarrassing, it's kind of supernaturally romantic and sweet," I sigh, covering my face.

"You don't think it's romantic and sweet that you would think of me every time you mas-"

"Don't say that word," I yelp, covering his mouth with my hand. "Just. Don't."

He is already laughing quietly behind my fingers and kisses them before I lower my hand to see him

smiling.

"I want to say every word to you. Even the embarrassing ones."

"Not that one," I say, shaking my head. "Or labia. Don't say that either."

He laughs and the sound is tickling and warm in my ears.

"Besides," I grumble, "how would you know I was thinking of you if you gave me privacy?" I narrow
my eyes at him in realization. I only ever said anything out loud when I was getting there. "Did you

hear how I'd say your name while I...? Oh my God, you pervert! Wouldn't you have to be nearby to
hear me get to…the end?"

His eyes grow wide and I imagine how much I'd enjoy writing the word 'busted' on his forehead.

"Does being caught in this white lie count as an embarrassing admission?" he asks, trying to distract
me with his lips on my jaw.

"No." I am trying to conjure images of puppies and flowers so that I don't scramble to remember

every single audible orgasm of my past year.

He laughs again and pulls me into my favorite hug where he curls up into me in a solid but perfectly
molded cuddle.

"Alice said you'd be good for me in every way, and I have to agree. You make everything fit. You

make me feel light." He kisses my earlobe and his next words are spoken in a low whisper. "You are
my whole world, Bella."

I scowl because I feel like I should, and not so much because I'm really embarrassed anymore. After
all, he essentially said exactly what my heart was trying to tap out in rhythm.

~*~

Although we are taking the physical side of our relationship slowly, we are otherwise entirely
naked for each other in our confessions and fears and longing and happiness. I wonder how I didn't

even have a tiny inkling that this existed between us, now that it's out in the open and kind of this
raging, magnetic, probably-irritating-to-everyone-around-us obsessive love.

Something so massive surely had some sort of aura. Am I so dense?

Clearly Edward wonders the same thing because one night, while I'm drawing scribbles on his arm
with a Sharpie just because I will never get over how he just wipes it off, he faux-casually asks me,

"Did you really believe I hated you?"

I know my boyfriend well enough by now to know that he feels terrible that he let me think he
disliked me for so long. I also know that the man frets more than a girl over word selection and so I

don't want to make one false choice in this sand trap he has set before me. I finish my spiral

masterpiece on his forearm and then look up at his quiet, tense face.

"Hate is a strong word, Teflon," I say, smearing the ink on his arm with the tip of my finger before
remembering that I am not Teflon and now have a black finger. "But yeah. I thought you found

me..." I feel the familiar shame and defeat pass through me while I'm trying to find the right word.
"Exasperating. Beneath you."

"How could you not have felt even a little of this?" he asks, moving closer to me. He lifts my chin and

kisses me once, softly.

I realize that it actually really upsets him that our epic love didn't somehow shatter a few
misconceptions I had just because it was so meant to be and obvious.

"Something clearly kept me from moving on," I begin, and he smiles a bit, relieved. I try to continue

to keep his mood light. "Maybe some subconscious part of me knew that you were a lovesick

vampire and not really a brooding asshat?"

"Yes, love." His fingers run over my cheek and he sighs, remaining serious. "But you always saw the
distance, never the longing."

"Edward, I like who I am," I say carefully. "But it easily made sense to me that you..." I gesture down

his entire body and back up to his face and sex hair, "might have a different type than..." I gesture to
myself, "this."

He grumbles and it's pretty cute but before he can reassure me that I am the most splendid creature

he's ever seen, I add, "Besides, if I convinced myself that we were made for each other even in the
face of all evidence suggesting you wanted nothing to do with me, I would have been exactly like all

the other girls you've ever met. Maybe it says more that I didn't automatically assume no meant yes
and instead simply let myself feel my end of it and let you feel yours."

He seems to like this answer. A lot. I intended to go back to arm doodling but he rolls me over and
climbs on top of me for the first time ever, holding his weight up with his forearms.

That night the careful, but continual kisses he gives me in bed and the duration of his Bella Smelling

session against my neck and hair are the closest we've come to full on making out and I'm pretty
happy that my just being honest with him seems to be his greatest turn on.

~*~

At lunch, Angela asks me if Edward and I are having sex. I almost nod because he and I have

recently started talking about it with such frankness and transparency that I realize we are being
more intimate than we would be if we simply ripped off our clothes and got our virgin faces painted

for the big game.

He's detailed his fears, his desires, and also how much those two things are warring inside him. I've
listened and tried to be sympathetic but the truth is I have no real understanding of how strong he

is other than he can stop a truck with his hand, and he hunts large mammals without coming back
to me all blood-splattered. How all of that translates into potential vagina-damage points I cannot

begin to estimate.

I don't push. I realize I don't know enough to have any clue how to proceed and have taken to

working things out in my morning shower while he figures it all out. I believe him when he admits
that he's willing to try some things before marriage and assures me that he's putting the lube

company execs into bigger jets just imagining it (those may be my words, not his). From our
unavoidable contact during nighttime cuddles, I also know the pace of our physical exploration is

not a matter of his ability or arousal.

The truth is, though I am loathe to tell him because I know how he almost can't resist the burden of
guilt, that more than anything I just want him to try: to try to touch me, to try to trust himself and

me.

I don't bother trying to downplay my love for him, even after only two months, because I trust him. I
tell him I love him every time the words stretch so wide in my chest that they have to burst out.

He is equally expressive. He has spent so much time soliloquizing in the dark with me that his
amazement and wonder that I know now what he is and am still here with him translates into

almost unintelligible murmuring into my hair whenever it overwhelms him.

But Edward is so slow to physical intimacy that I suspect I will need to ask him for what I want. It
may be manipulative because I know he doesn't want to deny me anything, but just the thought of

how this chemistry will translate into a physical relationship makes me need to push him a little.

It also makes me hot, shivering, non-verbal, and kind of giggly, so I try to avoid fantasizing when I
can. Which is never.

Back in the moment with Angela I swallow, furrow my brow, and shake my head after almost

nodding and she looks at me skeptically and a little sympathetically that I might not know the
answer to this basic question.

Before she can pick up her carrot and bagel as props for demonstration, I hold up my hand. "No," I
say out loud. "Not yet."

"But there is hope for nakedness in your future?" she presses earnestly and I laugh because Angela

can only be nosy with me and she's become quite skilled, if not a little ridiculous in her word
selection.

"Jesus, I hope so," I sigh. "How can I be so close to that," I point at Edward in the cafeteria line and

sigh again, a little dreamily and a lot inappropriately, "and not want to just...
mmmmmmmmffffpppph and nnnnnggggg... you know?"

Angela nods enthusiastically; sighing alongside me, chin in hand.

Edward turns and gapes at me before smiling wickedly.

Fuck. Vamp ears. Forgot about those.

~*~

Chapter Seven

BPOV

We haven't really ever been on a date, but on Valentine's day, Edward wants to take me to dinner.

"Is it symbolic of something? Like, a boyfriend has to take his girlfriend to a restaurant on
Valentine's day in order to be legit?" I hate to have to remind him that he doesn't eat people food.

"Are you hungry?" he asks, opening the car door for me.

"Yes," I admit.

"Then why are you complaining that I'm taking you to dinner on a holiday, albeit a completely
fabricated one?"

He shuts the door, effectively muffling my protest that I wasn't complaining. When he climbs into

the driver's seat he leans over and kisses me. "I just want to be your boyfriend tonight." He lowers
his voice and smiles a little. "I want to do boyfriend things. Is that okay?"

I'm not sure what that means, and how it's different from his being my Edward, but something feels

charged and exciting and I feel the tension of anticipation in my stomach when he says 'boyfriend
things'.

Dinner is sweet and quiet. We get a booth in the back and Edward practices spinning pasta on my

fork to feed me a few bites.

"Do I get to watch you eat?" I ask, knowing that my eyes are teasing though the question is genuine.

"No," he smiles back at me and dabs at my mouth with a napkin. "You don't."

After dinner, we walk down the sidewalk towards the theater but he slows before we get to the

ticket counter. "Bella, do you want to see a movie tonight?"

I look up at him because this is his night to plan and I'm not sure why he's asking me this now.
When our eyes meet, I see something new there. We both know Charlie isn't home tonight; he's

working the over-night shift. I understand that Edward wants to try. He wants to try boyfriend
things.

"No," I whisper. "Let's just go home."

The drive is quiet and he holds my hand on my thigh. He plays a CD of music he has composed for
me and I don't need any other sound around me.

We walk upstairs and I tilt my head to the bathroom, silently communicating my need to have a

human moment. He nods, slipping into my room and I close the door behind me. I stare at myself in
the mirror — flushed and happy. I brush my teeth and hair, and then wash my face and head back

to the bedroom.

He is reading something and I can hear him inhale when I walk in the room. I love how I can see him

relax when I'm close to him.

Unfortunately, I am suddenly a mess of nerves.

I clear my throat and look around. "Does toothpaste smell remotely better than pasta? Or even
morning breath?"

He looks up at me from his spot next to the bookshelf, and furrows his brow as if to say 'Woman,

what are you getting on about now?'

"I'm genuinely curious," I say, holding up my hands. "Is toothpaste even remotely appealing?"

He shrugs at me and is starting to look amused so I continue. "In some ways I think morning breath
might be the most appealing, because it's the most... animal." I raise my eyebrows and nod, a silent

gesture asking him if I'm on to something.

"Bella." His eyebrow quirks and he puts the book down, stepping towards me.

My heart begins positively thundering. "I'm serious about this you know. Wouldn't you rather I

taste like morning beast than spearmint?"

"Bella." His expression softens and he watches my lips as I lick them.

I know I'm nervous. I'm nervous and babbling because something is very different in this room
tonight and I'm suddenly terrified that he has a hundred years of expectation and I have zero

experience.

"I love you," he says. He knows that will calm me down, and it does.

I swallow and nod, holding onto his gaze almost as I would a life preserver. "I love you, too."

I look at the way he is watching me and I can tell he's waiting for me to initiate our exploration. My

voice comes out quieter and almost hoarse. "Edward? Are we going to touch each other tonight?"

He watches me for a moment before he steps closer and runs his hands down my arms to my hands
and tangles his fingers gently with mine. "I'd like to." He looks down at our hands before meeting

my eyes again. "If you still want that?" There is no sarcasm or teasing in his voice and I love him all
the more for understanding why I'm suddenly scared now that he's really offering.

I try to say "Okay" but it only comes out as air and I cough a little.

"I need you to show me how to touch you," he says, leaning to kiss my neck just below my jaw. "I

need you to help me."

"Where?" I ask, wanting to know where he felt was a safe place for us to start. Something about his

own hesitation and vulnerability gives me strength and I squeeze his fingers, remembering that this
is new for both of us.

"Wherever you want me to touch you, I need to feel how. I'm afraid it will be different than holding

your hand or kissing you. I'm afraid I will lose myself and become too rough."

I run my hands over his face and into his hair, pulling his head to mine. Instead of our usual soft,

chaste kiss, I open my mouth and let my tongue run over his lip. He lets out a quiet breath at this
new sensation and steps closer, pressing against me. After a few minutes, I step back and look up at

him. He looks patient and slightly anxious so I put my own hands at my waist and move them up
over my ribs, up my sides and to my breasts. I cup my breasts over my shirt and he watches the way

the fabric moves under my fingers. His hands follow the path mine took, starting at my waist and
moving up, perfectly mimicking the amount of pressure against my skin. His hands reach my

breasts and his eyes close and his head drops and he sighs my name.

I need to feel his skin on mine; the feeling of him through my clothing is at once overwhelming and
not nearly enough.

I drop my hands and finger the hem of my shirt, waiting until his eyes open and he lets me know it's

okay with a small nod. I tug the shirt underneath his hands and pull it over my head. Edward fingers

the strap of my bra gently, watching as I reach back to unclasp it. His eyes transition from
anticipation to ravenous at the sight of my bare breasts.

He drops his hands and they twitch lightly at his sides as he whispers for me to help him, "And

again?"

I move my hands again from my waist up and over my ribs, showing him both what pressure to use
as well as how I want him to explore me, to take possession. I pinch my nipples and squeeze my

breasts. I scratch lightly down my ribs and swirl my hands over my stomach, showing him how my
skin responds to everything. He is taking deep breaths and his eyes are darker than I've ever seen

them as he watches my hands on my skin.

He steps forward, watching his fingers ghost up my sides and hover over the side of my breasts,
where my own hands have stilled. His fingers hover millimeters above mine.

I feel my body almost heaving with how hard I am breathing. I just want him to move his hands
onto me but I know he's steadying himself so instead I watch his face, his concentration, his

excitement. It occurs to me now that, although he has seen me in pajamas — sometimes even just a
t-shirt and underwear — he has never seen me without a shirt on.

"Bella." His voice is barely there, begging me to help him.

I take his hands and slide them up over my breasts. His hands remain still, unsure. I reach up to kiss

him and whisper, "Let me press. You just feel."

I show him how much pressure to use with his palm when he's holding me. I take his finger and
thumb and show him how to pinch, how to scratch lightly, how I want to be squeezed.

"Okay?" I ask.

He looks up from his hands on me to meet my eyes, then nods and gently pushes my hands away. I
wrap them around his neck and pull him closer.

His fingers move into a smooth, fluid action, then, starting over at my waist. He is learning every

shape of my torso, and although his hands initially follow the same path and use the same pressure

as mine, there is nothing of my familiar touch in the sensation. It feels as though we are standing
over a street vent, and the entire floor vibrates underneath me when only his hands touch me like

this and I can't predict what he's going to do. I step closer but he steps away. Even so, his hands
remain on my ribs, framing my breasts, hovering on the moment before his fingers gently cup me

without my guidance.

When he does, it's too much: his soft, reverent touch is too much, and his expression of wonder is
too much, and he moans my name when he feels me in his hands and the sound is just too, too

much. So I move to him again and still he moves back but this time his back presses against the wall
and I wonder if that wasn't his intention all along, to be pinned, almost held captive, given at least

the illusion of physical restraint.

I press against him and kiss him hard; if he wants the illusion of submitting to me I will give it to
him if it means he will never stop touching me like this.

We lose ourselves in his exploration of my skin, whispering and touching. He asks for, "More..." and
I don't know if it's what he means but I find myself pulling down my pants and panties in the same

movement as his fingers stroke and press at my nipples and his lips move up and down the column
of my throat. I push my underwear the rest of the way off with my foot and grab his hand from my

breast, dragging it down my stomach and between my legs.

He looks absolutely wild, and maybe I should be a little scared, but I'm not. Something about the
way his hands are so tentative, so willing to let me show him how to do everything reassures me

that he will never hurt me, no matter how keyed up we both are. He looks down and watches me
touch myself, learning from my movements. I gasp slightly when my hand feels just how slick I am,

having no idea how wet it could be down there. When my fingers slide up and over my clit, his hand
begins ghosting mine, and I moan and hear myself begging him to touch me.

His fingers slip over and between mine and we're moving together and I'm showing him what feels

good. His voice is rough and his words are unintelligible but his touch his gentle and conscious. His

fingers push mine aside and I let my hand rest over his, feeling the movements of his fingers
through the back of his hand, through their tips where they rub small circles over me, slowly,

rhythmically.

His touch still feels like it carries a small current. It may be the cold or it may be something larger
about his effect on me, but it's amazing and I feel my legs shaking slightly because they're spread

and I'm standing on my toes as I'm basically trying to climb him.

In some ways, it's harder to do this with him instead of just thinking about him because I can't shut
down. I can't stop watching him and feeling his hand doing this and listening for sounds that tell me

he's enjoying doing this to me.

It finally occurs to me that I'm completely naked and yet he's still wearing everything from our
night out, even his blazer. I am so worked up and needing so much to let his fingers do this to me, to

feel how hungry he's always been for me, that I find myself growling in frustration that I can't seem

to turn off my brain that it's Edward doing this, that he wants me after all, and always has. I watch
his hand with mine almost as if it's not really happening, and —

"Christ," he groans quietly. "Stop thinking, Bella. Just feel me."

I look up to see him watching me and completely seeing me, seeming to understand exactly what is
going on in my head.

Does he already know me so well?

His lips brush over mine, softly reassuring and already so familiar. "I love you. I have wanted this

for so long." I nod when he says this, his voice quietly soothing. "Show me how to help you get lost
in this. I want you to be completely lost in me."

Apparently he does.

"I still can't believe you want me," I explain into a kiss.

"I do," he answers softly. "I always have." He lets our eyes lock for a moment before he says, "I've

wasted so much time."

I nod when he says this because it's true, but I understand now why he did.

"You're still dressed," I continue quietly. "I'm embarrassed... I feel like I'm mauling you. I feel pushy,

like I'm moving faster than you wanted..." I take a deep breath and when I release it it's shaky from
excitement and nerves and how much I love him already. I whisper, "I feel so naked, Edward."

I say this knowing how silly it sounds because I am, literally, naked. But his eyes soften in

understanding and I know he knows what I'm saying.

With a flash of movement he removes his jacket and sweater, and I reach out to touch his skin as he
pulls me back to him. His chest is smooth and he's not overly broad but every line is there, defined,

for only me to discover.

"I know what you mean," he admits in a whisper. He pulls my hand with his back down my body

and between my legs. "We're not moving too fast. Just help me."

"You're perfect," I assure him.

He breathes against my ear, "Every day I've thought about touching you. I need to feel you, to give
you pleasure. Bella, I'm just nervous. Show me."

And with those words, he truly is naked, too. The realization pulls a quiet moan from me and I hear

him gasp at the sound.

Suddenly, I am flipped and my back is against the wall and he is leaning into me. He reaches with
one hand and cups the back of my knee gently before hitching it over his hip, opening me to him

and to my own hand. I find his other hand already there, fingers slick from me, waiting and wanting
me to lead him again. I press my fingertips against my clit and whisper to him, "I want to feel what

it's like to have you inside."

These words make him moan loudly for the first time tonight, the first time ever. I reach up with my

other hand and pull his head down to mine, kissing him.

Yes, this is what we were missing: the feel of his breath coming out in bursts into my mouth, the

sighs and moans and small grunts given to me through a kiss.

"I need you," I whisper, and he lets out a small sound, almost like a whimper into my mouth. I am
even shocked by the words and how they came out without my even realizing that I had to say

them. I've told him I love him before, whispered to him directly almost from the first moment he
held me after he saved my life. But telling him I need him somehow feels more naked and honest.

It's bigger than love in some ways, more of an admission that without him I couldn't be the same
again.

"I'm yours," he whispers back. It's all he needs to say.

My hand moves faster and at first he is just feeling how my pace increases but soon I feel his finger

circling my entrance and slowly pressing inside. He starts talking and saying my name and I sense
that his hips are shifting forward and back against me. I drop my hand from his neck and run my

hand over the front of his pants, holding him. Just holding him as he rocks into me, as his finger

circles just inside me. My hand on my clit moves faster and I ask him to push inside me more, please
just a little more. Please more please more please more.

His mouth covers mine to swallow my cries and to stifle his own, mindful of the neighbors because I

know I am being that loud. I can feel his fingers inside me when I sense the liberating warmth about
to explode in my body and I become something primal and fluid. All I can think is, Edward Cullen,

my Edward, is making me come.

~*~

EPOV

My eyes are drinking her in, and all I can feel is how she responds to me: sighs and moans, whispers
for me to touch her and goose bumps along the skin of her arms. Her nipples are softer than even

the smooth surrounding skin and lighter in color. I will admit that I spent hours gazing at her
breasts underneath her clothing over the months I've spent in this room, imagining what I would do

if I could ever touch her. Because of this, the anticipation is almost too great, and I immediately
forget how to move with caution, mindful of her delicate skin. Anything I might have been holding

at the moment she removed her bra would have been pulverized in my hand from my excitement at
the prospect of touching her.

When I ask her to show me how to do it again, she doesn't hesitate even for an instant, moving our

hands over her naked skin with such ease and practice that a new layer of arousal intensifies what
she already does to me: I understand by watching her that Bella has discovered what feels good,

and isn't afraid to ask me for it.

I whisper that I want more, because although it is greedy, I can't help but feel like we can do more

to her body tonight, and I need to. It is all I can do to keep from shredding her clothes and I am
grateful when she unceremoniously pushes her pants and underwear down her narrow hips and

kicks them to the side before grabbing my hand and pulling it between her legs.

So many nights I have spent in this room, watching her breathe, hearing her whisper in her sleep,
letting my eyes feast on whatever skin she would unintentionally show me. Although I've never

touched her like this, seeing her naked with my hands all over her somehow just feels familiar, feels

fated.

She shows me where to touch her and how, and I'm so focused on every reaction and the scent of
her — God, how it annihilates me — that I realize I'm moaning loudly when our fingers slip around

each other messy and hungry on her slick skin. I realize how wet she is; through the thoughts of
others, as well as my clinical understanding of the female body, of course I know that this happens.

But to feel it, on Bella, for me, brings me a feeling beyond euphoria.

I am so stunned by lust and my desire to please her that my own body ceases to exist and I just
want her to take, take more, take everything.

She is first moaning and whimpering, and then pulls at my hair with her free hand. The whimper

turns into a frustrated growl and I suddenly realize that she's over-thinking all of this. She's new to
this, too, and while I am lost in the sounds, smell, and feel of her body, I sense that she is starting to

feel hyperaware of what we are doing and that she is completely naked while I remain clothed.

She doesn't want to feel that she is in this alone.

I remove my jacket and sweater and flip her back to the wall, unable to keep from taking over now

that I know how she feels under my fingers. Bella holds her breath just as she realizes she about to
come.

I, however, do not.

The smell of Bella's body preparing to orgasm is beyond description; it is heady, soft, deeply her,

and riles me deliciously. I press her completely against the wall and she tells me she wants me
inside of her.

At this moment, there is nothing I want more in the world than to feel her from the inside.

I let her show me how she moves over herself, what she likes. Her kisses are getting hungrier and it
delights me; it makes me feel almost drugged how much I need her. Almost as if she is reading my

mind she tells me she needs me and the way she says it is so raw, it's beyond any admission she has
ever made because I know what she is telling me. She is telling me that she's not the same anymore.

She is telling me that she can't be without us.

"I'm yours," I tell her, because it is simple truth.

But she is mine, too, and that means all of her. I want to feel everything. I circle her entrance gently
with one finger and slide it partway into her, wanting to preserve her innocence as much as

possible. Her body is hot and soft and it doesn't feel like anything I've ever touched before.

Her skin flushes and she squeezes my finger unconsciously, reacting to my touch. She begs for more
and her breath deliciously burns my lips and cheeks, coming out in hard pants. I feel her hand move

down my body and wrap around me through my slacks; her touch is warm and soft and she gasps

quietly when she feels me for the first time in her hand.

Her fingertips tap rhythmically against the heel of my hand as she strokes herself and I can't begin
to describe what a vision she is before me. I rock against her, needy but relieved to find that even

when she touches me I can be entirely focused on her.

"Deeper," she begs me. "Please more. Edward, please more. Please more. Please more, Edward,

please..."

I have heard her say my name hundreds of times, sometimes as she has touched herself, and
sometimes as she dreams, perhaps, of being touched just like this by me. But nothing, nothing in the

world compares to the feeling of hearing it when she's awake, when my fingers are touching her in
the most intimate way a woman can be touched by her lover, when I am fulfilling all of my promises

to her in her sleep that I would try, someday, to be that lover for her.

I watch her face as I slide a second fingertip inside of her and she cries out, tightening impossibly
around my fingers and then spasms, finally, breathing hot into my mouth as I cover her lips to

engulf the sound that now belongs only to me.

~*~

The room hums with the new quiet after the sounds of her orgasm die down against my lips and I
pull my fingers from her, dragging them along her flesh and to her hip to help steady her when she

puts her leg down from around my waist.

"Oh, wow," she breathes, and for the first time she moves her hand over me, no longer simply
palming me through my slacks. "I feel...uhh..." she smiles into a kiss and looks up at me. "I always

knew your fingers would turn out to be magic."

I feel my lip curl in a smile. "You are easily the most sensual thing I have ever seen." And she is: her

hair is rumpled and her eyes are hooded, telling me she wants much more tonight.

She slips her hand up to my stomach and rubs my skin softly, teasing my navel with her fingernails.

"I loved hearing you say my name," I murmur into her neck.

"Haven't you heard me say it before when I come?" She is teasing me; I can hear the smile in her
voice.

I nod and growl, "It's different when I hear you coming and feel you coming while you say my

name."

She gasps when I say this and I consider myself the winner of that round of teasing.

"Edward?" Her fingers move the button from its loop on my pants and begin to tug at my zipper.

"Slowly," I remind her.

Her pace slows but does not halt. "What do you say when you're about to come?"

I smile at the simple question and tell her in a whisper that in all of my orgasms alone, not once

have I said anything.

"Never my name?" Her voice is not hurt, it is simply coy and playful as her hands tug at my pants. I

push them down my hips, reeling with what is happening. Can I let her do this? Is my control
sufficient after all this time?

"No, love. I didn't dare give myself that honor."

I haven't thought about Bella's blood in so long. When she menstruates even now I am less affected

and don't even find that I need to stay away from her room at night. What I have been resisting all
this time is what she has given to me tonight: her lust and her body.

She reaches up on her toes and braces her hands against my chest as she kisses me. Suddenly, I feel

the thundering of her heart reverberating through my chest wall, filling me. It is a heady sensation
and I feel a long dormant, but familiar urge sweep through me.

One small hand drops lower and pushes under the waistband of my boxers. It wraps, so hot, so

unbelievably hot, around my erection and now I know something is wrong; I feel her pulse there,

too, through her hand and I don't just want her hands on my body and her mouth on mine. I want to
consume her.

My flash of concern begins to shift into excitement, as my body is alive for the first time in decades.

Her pulse moves through me, connecting my chest to where I am hard for her and then her pulse is

in my head filling my mouth and wetting my tongue and I feel something I haven't felt in so long:
true thirst. It doesn't matter anymore that it is Bella. In fact it is perfect it is Bella, because I've

always known she was meant to be mine.

I savor it; there is no rush. I let her pulse take over my body and begin breathing her in and feeling
how she can become part of me if I simply let the idea into my head. It seems so easy, so easy, and I

notice that her hand slips from my erection but it doesn't matter because the moment has become
about claiming her in a different way. I don't care about a single other thing in the world anymore

but the anticipation of how she will feel flowing into my mouth.

"Edward."

Hot, wet, and viscous. Bella. Everything I've ever wanted and resisted for so long.

"Edward."

So much venom, I don't ever remember the rush of so much venom into my mouth. It is intoxicating.

Her hand moves from my chest and to my face and I smell her love for me, I smell her lust and her

arousal and it pulls me back sharply, almost painfully.

"Baby, look at me."

I look up at her face as I swallow a mouthful of venom.

"Stop."

She whispers this but I hear it as though she has screamed. I freeze and realize that my lips are

parted near her throat and my hands have her pinned to the wall as she pushes uselessly on my

chest. She will be bruised. I am hurting her.

I was about to —

I am against her dresser, horrified.

She stands at the other end of the room, still naked, still leaning against the wall. Her chest is
heaving with the effort to catch her breath and I can see her shaking.

"No," I moan. "Oh God, Bella..."

She shakes her head but doesn't walk towards me.

"Bella, oh..." I put my hands over my face and choke on a sob. My mouth has never been so dry as it

is all of a sudden.

"It was too much. I'm sorry, Edward. It was too much." Her voice is quiet and calm.

She blames herself.

I want to flee, to get as far away from her as I can, but my pants are around my ankles and the

remainder of my clothes is near her feet. I don't even trust myself to go near her to retrieve them.

I look at the window and then back at my clothes.

"Don't go," she whispers. "Please don't go. Nothing happened."

She walks to me and I want to tell her to stop but at the same time she is the only thing I need right
now, grounding me and telling me that she's okay. She stops in front of me and we look at each

other for a long moment, and it is us.

I reach out to her, smelling only her need for me, not the blood I've worked so hard to ignore. I feel

her hands slip around my neck. They feel familiar there, and her lips press into mine.

"I'm so sorry," I gasp into the kiss. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against hers. "Bella, I..."

"We have to work up to that," she says quietly, leaning back to look at me. "Was it my hand on
your...?"

I shake my head, knowing what she means. "It was your hand on my chest. It was the way your

pulse took over. My lust turned into... something else."

She nods and kisses me again. "Do you want to be with me like this?" She isn't just asking about this
moment, she is asking something larger and I can see that in her eyes.

"More than I want anything."

"Then let's start over," she says, taking my hand. She seems neither shaken nor surprised by what
just happened. She seems to have accepted the reality of our situation better than I have, and I let

her lead me to her bed, let her push me down onto her mattress. I look up at her, waiting. She runs

her fingers through my hair and smiles softly down at me. "Let's spend the whole night starting
over."

~*~

We are slow to touch each other at first and instead we talk through everything that has happened
so far tonight. She liked it when I fed her at dinner, and later when I asked her for help and trusted

her. She describes how my touch feels and how holding me in her hand pushed her over the edge
into her climax. I like seeing how comfortable and sensual she is with her body and how she says

my name as if it is instinct now. I tell her how the smell of her keeps me focused and how I think her

taste would do the same.

Finally she pulls me closer to her, encouraging me with her eyes. She pulls my hand between her
legs again, somehow knowing that I need to be reminded that I am gentle and careful and aware.

My lips cover hers and her tongue runs over my mouth, tasting me as I mimic what her own hand

showed me earlier.

She comes from only my touch this time, and it is magnificent to feel my fingers doing this to her
and to see how relaxed she is with me this time. Afterward, I hold her for a couple of hours because

I need to.

When she touches me, we start with my face, because I am familiar with her hands there. We work
up to the feeling of her bare hands on my naked chest. It takes awhile but this time I expect her

pulse to take over and it doesn't surprise me when I start to feel uneasy. I simply tell her.

She puts her mouth to my chest next, and it's easier because she puts her fingers against my lips as

she kisses my skin. Her fingers still smell and taste like her, and it's true that it grounds me to what
we are doing, what I need right now instead of what my instinct makes me want.

"Bella, I need..." My words fall away because her mouth on me is the only thing I can feel, and I hope

she knows what I mean. Having always been alone, I simply touch myself when I need to find
release. Now we are going on hours of intimate touching and intimate words and I am almost

frantic with desire for her.

"Touch yourself," she whispers, looking up at me from where her lips rest on my abdomen.
"Combine the feeling of my mouth on your chest with the feeling of being touched like that. One

new sensation at a time."

I don't know how she knows how to do this, but I am bolstered beyond description when I see how

right this is and how much I trust her to guide us through our physical exploration. This is as far as
we get tonight and for many nights to come, but it is perfect. When I am close, I tell her and she puts

her hand above mine and I say her name as I come against her fingers.

~*~

BPOV

I probably only get two hours of sleep but when I wake up, I feel more energized than I ever have. I

climb out of bed to wash my face and freshen up and when I return, Edward is still in my bed, still
naked, still calm.

"You could've slept in, you know," he reminds me, lifting the blanket as I climb in. "It's Saturday."

"I don't want to sleep. I'll sleep when I'm sleepy."

"Always so logical," he murmurs and his hand moves down my side to my hip before moving up

again and over my breast. He slides his fingers over my stomach and down to my thigh, up again
over my nipple and to my collarbone, feeling and memorizing every line and swell of my torso.

I swear I hear him whisper, "Mine."

"Bella," he says, grinning into a kiss.

"Mmm...?" Whatever he says next I hope it doesn't result in anything that moves his hands off of my
body.

"You have a beautiful body."

"Thank you," I smile, looking up at him.

His brow wrinkles in mock seriousness. "But about your green sweater..."

I try to keep my expression neutral as I prepare my bitchsplosion lecture on the topic if he decides

to tell me not to wear it again. Boyfriend with magic fingers or not, he will get an earful and then see
that sweater every day if he so much as hints that I should dress differently.

"Yes?"

He leans to kiss me and his hand moves to cover my breast. "I'd like you to wear it every day from
now on."

I laugh. "You'd what?"

He nods, still serious. "Nobody gets to know this body but me."

I laugh and shake my head but let him kiss me anyway.

Possessive asshat.

~*~

The End

~*~