Fanfiction Based On Characters From Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Series

Rated MA for Mature Adult.

Blueberries

&

Copper Wire

By Hmonster4

Summary: Sometimes what you see isn't always what you get. How does one get past a

chilly façade or a jaded heart to reveal the potential underneath? AU/AH. Complete

rework of the 2009 T rated novella

This is a rework of the T rated 2009 novella - changed pretty significantly and bumped

up a rating to M.

"Two Stellas and a club soda please."

Emmett didn't make eye contact with the tiny blonde bartender, delivering his order with the
detached efficiency that came from one too many nights out. He glanced up at the television

nestled in the corner, anywhere so that he could avoid the woman's gaze.

"Who's the poor schmo getting the club soda?" the girl asked. Her voice was just a bit too familiar

considering they weren't friends, friends with benefits, or anything else and never will be.

"Me. Work to do later," Emmett said. He dropped a ten dollar bill on the bar and turned away. The
routine was the same every time. He would order, she would flirt, and he would tune her out. Last
week the girl had gone so far as to try and slip him her phone number. He thought it was clear that

her interest wasn't reciprocated, but that message obviously hadn't sunk in.

It wasn't that the girl was unattractive. She was cute in a spunky sort of way, and was probably
good in the sack. Emmett could have easily gone there, and they probably would have had a few
weeks of fun. But then things would get complicated, because they always did. A little fun would
prompt her to ask for a date, or maybe even expect something more. He knew from past
experience that when a relationship started with a bang it always went out with a whimper, and
that was long after the sex was finished.

So he didn't respond, choosing instead to lean back against the bar and watch the crowd swirl
around him. It was busy for this early on a Wednesday night, and people moved about in small
packs, all smiles and hands lingering on hips or shoulders and air kisses. This was the human
equivalent of a mating dance, the drones hell bent on one thing - go forth, find pollen, and
perpetuate the strength of the hive. They danced and wriggled around each other, striving for the

attention and edification, oblivious to anything that might be transpiring outside their immediate
sphere of awareness.

They moved around Emmett, ignoring the tall man in the faded jeans and blazer because he was
obviously was not going to be part of their odd mating game. Emmett knew he stood out in the
crowd with his untucked, wrinkled oxford and a few days worth of scruff, and he liked that it set
him apart. He wasn't one of these people, nor did he pretend to be. It was only on closer scrutiny
that someone would notice the details – the sharp blue-green gaze that missed nothing, the
antique Rolex on his wrist (an heirloom passed down from grandfather to father to him), or the MIT
class ring on his right hand. In a number of ways, Emmett knew he was the personification of
everything these people aspired to, either for themselves or in the match they were desperate to
find, but he had no desire to put it out there because, honestly, none of it really mattered. He was
much more interested in what lie underneath, the actual substance as opposed to the trappings.
That is why he could so easily turn down the bartender. Easy sex was easy; it was what came after

that he found complicated.

So instead of mingling, Emmett maintained his usual perch at the bar, watching people talk at and
over each other. This was his role week after week, the loyal wingman standing watch over this

bizarre mating dance while his cousin, Jasper, pursued the girl.

Truth be told, Emmett had no interest in the dating buffet. He'd been there before, and had pretty
much tried everything there was being served up. No, at this point, he had zero interest in
pursuing or being pursued. He was content to stand back every week and watch the bizarre social
interactions that swirled around him. It gave him an excuse to keep an eye on the one person who
seemed so out of place in it all.

Rosalie Hale. The golden it-girl, who held herself back, watching with clear disdain as men tripped
over themselves to charm her down off her virtual throne. Every week, Emmett watched as the
nameless faces tired to be the one to break through her defenses. It was the sexual equivalent of
big game hunting, Rosalie's name the trophy that would be mounted on the wall and bragged over

for years to come.

Truth be told, he couldn't fault the men who tried and failed. It was impossible to look at Rosalie
Hale and not think about tapping that. She was this surreal mashup of beautiful and fragile and
arrogant and pure sex, a combination no red-blooded American male would be able to resist. Easily
5'8 without her ever present high heels, the woman radiated the cool confidence of a Hitchcock
blonde. Two weeks ago, she'd come walking into the bar wearing a pink dress and oversized
sunglasses, her hair pulled back, looking just like Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief. Serene,

gorgeous, and completely capable of cutting a man down to size with one single look.

It would have been easy to see her that way, a spoiled rich girl accustomed to getting what she
wanted, for she did little to debunk the outward impression. Emmett might have actually bought
into it, had it not been for that damn pink dress. Everywhere he looked, she was there, wrapped in
the color a little girl would wear. It made her even more visible in the sea of dark colors, and

Emmett found he couldn't look away.

That was when the mask slipped, and Rosalie, or Grace, as he'd sarcastically called her in his mind,
became Gracie. It was also the exact moment that Emmett went from casual observer to active
participant in the mad race to capture her attention. Had he not been watching, he would have
never caught her with her guard down. Emmett could have walked away, maybe indulging in a
gratuitous daydream before letting go. He would've eventually come up with a reason to stop

meeting Jasper week after week and gone on his way.

No harm, no foul.

But whatever he might have done flew right out the window the minute he caught her staring off in
space. People swirled around her, but Rosalie was alone, her expression one of abject sadness and
loneliness. In a sea of people, all wanting to either be her or with her, she was lost, and not a
single person appeared to care. It cut straight through him, exposing Emmett's greatest strength

and his biggest flaw - his uncontrollable need to make things better.

Even if it was for a woman he didn't even know.

And so, instead of making up an excuse to stop coming week after week, Emmett continued to act
as Jasper's wingman, always watching Rosalie Hale in the hopes that he might see that flicker
again. Maybe it would lead to an opening, a way for him to break through where others had failed.
The need was irrational, but he couldn't fight it anymore than he could change the rotation of the

earth or stop the sun from setting in the West.

It was simply who he was.

Tonight, she sat at her usual table, dressed entirely in blue - a slim skirt and little button up
sweater that reminded Emmett of the robin's eggs he'd find broken on the ground as a child. She
was nestled in a large, round booth, her chin propped on her hand, listening to her friends talk.
One of them must have posed a question, to which Rosalie nodded her response. It knocked a
strand of hair loose, which fell into her eyes. She stuck out her lower lip, huffing to blow the lock

away. The strand dropped back down into her eyes, but she didn't push it away.

"Yo, Em." Jasper slapped him on the shoulder as he crossed in front of his cousin, blocking

Emmett's line of sight. "Thanks for getting the first round."

"No prob, Slim." Emmett paused to take a sip of his club soda before continuing. "What's new in

your world?"

"Little of this, little of that," Jasper said. He surveyed the room, nodding hello to a few
acquaintances with the relaxed manner of a man comfortable in his own skin. While they were both
extroverts, Jasper had the enviable skill of being able to read and respond to people in a way that
always put them at ease, a talent Emmett had never quite been able to replicate. He was a master
at getting past the façade and finding the real person lurking beneath. Growing up together, they'd
been inseparable, Jasper the leader and Emmett the problem solver. As adults, they'd turned those
traits into viable, even successful professions, and yet they always came back together, the two

little boys who would rather dam up a creek than be cooped up indoors with their nose in a book.

"Listen, man, I need to ask you a favor." Jasper tipped his head to the side and scratched absently
at the base of his neck. For someone who didn't know him well, the gesture would mean nothing, a
simple action that probably wouldn't even register. But Emmett wasn't just anyone, and he

recognized the tick for what it was. Jasper wanted something.

"No blind dates, Slim. You can call for the infantry all you want. I'm not going to take another

bullet for the team."

"Whoa, dude, not like that," Jasper said hastily, his hands held up in reassurance. "And I swear I
didn't know that chick would go all Fatal Attraction on you. Come on, I'm trying to score some

brownie points here…"

Jasper glanced across the room to where Alice Brandon sat, her head inclined in Rosalie's direction.
Tiny but mighty, she'd managed to topple his cousin with a few well placed comments, packing a
punch that still had him down for the count months later. Leave it to Jasper to find the girl of his
dreams when he wasn't even looking.

"Fuck me, you are whipped," Emmett said with an exasperated sigh. "What do you want me to do,
and what's it worth to you?"

Jasper's gaze never left the table where Alice and Rosalie sat huddled together. Emmett found
himself looking in that direction too. There she was, surrounded by a group of women chattering
about who knows what, with that same faraway look on her face. She reminded him of a trapped

animal, her glazed apathy the only outward manifestation of any emotional distress.

As if feeling the weight of his gaze, Rosalie shook her head and blew that same lock of hair out her
eyes, then plastered on a smile. She leaned toward Alice, whispering something, her mouth hidden

behind her hand.

She was putting on a show, Emmett realized. The question was, for whom? And why?

"…and this guy has really been fucking with her. Things got a little out of hand last night, but she's
okay, at least physically. Anyway, Alice says this isn't the first time it's happened, so I thought you
could maybe you could teach her a thing or two. You know - how to throw and block punches, that

sort of thing."

Emmett shifted his attention back to Jasper, who was waiting for an answer. He'd heard enough to
realize this had nothing to do with blind dates or other romantic entanglements, and fished his

wallet, an old, battered brown no name piece of leather he'd purchased in college.

"Yeah, I can do that." He extracted a business card from behind a few dollar bills and dropped it on

the bar. "Pen?" he demanded, snapping his fingers together impatiently.

Jasper passed him the worn silver fountain pen, and Emmett bit the tip, pulling the cap off so he
could scribble the name of a gym, along with a date and time on the back of the card. "I do this,

and I get the first month of Seahawks home games this year."

"Fine with me, they're gonna suck," Jasper said. He extended his hand, palm up in a silent request

for his pen. "At least you'll get there on time."

It was an old routine, one well synchronized after years of use.

"Yeah, well, you're the writer. I was always late for dinner. I guess the right thing was passed
down to the right grandkid, eh?"

Emmett slid the card across the bar to Jasper and recapped the pen. He twirled it between his long
fingers, admiring the weight and balance of his grandfather's beloved old fountain pen. But before

he could slip it inside his jacket, Jasper snatched it away.

"Nice try, you big oaf."

"Yeah well, you owe me, asshole. Tomorrow, 6:30," Emmett said. "Tell your girl tennis shoes and
workout clothes, cause someone in the family is finally going to get her all sweaty."

"Dick," Jasper said, popping Emmett lightly in shoulder.

Emmett retaliated, smacking Jasper upside the head. "I'm out of here, you skinny bitch. I've got

some work to do. You good to get home?"

Jasper's body was already turning back to where Alice sat, his mind drifting back to her. "Yeah, I'm

covered," he said absently. "Good luck tomorrow. I owe you big."

"You always do, Slim. You always do."

The crowds parted for Emmett, men and women alike clearing a path, some watching in admiration
as he moved past. Ever since the growth spurt freshman year added a foot to his already
impressive frame, Emmett had captured the attention of others. At first it was solely based on size,
but over time, the attention evolved into something more. Emmett carried himself with an easy
grace, and his long stride and relaxed posture translating into a self assured swagger which made

other people pay attention and often admire.

Across the bar, Rosalie Hale watched him exit with a Mona Lisa smile on her face.

"Hey, are you okay?" Alice dropped a gentle elbow in Rosalie's ribs, reclaiming her attention.
They'd both been on edge for the last twenty four hours, Rosalie because of what happened, Alice
with worry for her friend. She hadn't wanted to come out tonight at all, but Alice had insisted,

believing it was better to be out with a group than home alone.

"Yeah, just tired," Rosalie answered absently. It was true. She was tired, both mentally and
physically. Her body ached, but she was too worn down and helpless to do anything about it. Every
morning, she put on her makeup, adding layer after layer like a mask before a performance. While
other people noticed the exterior, the breeding, the polish, and the good looks, Rosalie knew they

didn't see her, nor did they care what she felt.

Maybe that's why the tall man at the bar with the wavy dark hair intrigued her so much. At first, it
was his attitude, the devil-may-care posture and the casual clothes that made him stand out – a
wild, roguish upstart in a throng of over bred cultivation. The man, who she later learned was
called Emmett, held himself apart, comfortable being the individual in a sea of competition. Others
picked up on that, and gravitated to him based on the allure of that subtle strength. From her
perch, Rosalie watched as women approached him, batting their eyelashes in hopes of being the
one to finally catch him. It didn't surprise her that he always said no, for he simply seemed like
'that' type of man – not interested in easy or instant gratification. He watched the bar shift around
him with too much interest and awareness to give into the easy lay. No, what fascinated Rosalie
was how kind the man was when he did say no. He owed nothing to these women, and yet he
always had time for a smile, and when the women did turn away, they were clearly disappointed,

but never hurt.

"All set," Jasper said, slipping into the banquette next to Alice. Rosalie turned away, not wanting to
watch the way his arm slipped around Alice's shoulders or how she naturally leaned into that small
space created just for her. She fought off the jealousy, trying desperately to be happy for her
friend, who truly deserved happiness. But even with those reminders, the selfish, niggling thoughts
of 'why can't it be me,' gnawed at her insides, making her nauseous and cold in addition to bone

tired.

"No saying no," Alice said, refusing to let the subject die. "Especially after the stunt last night. We

knew you wouldn't do anything, so we did it for you."

Jasper pushed an ivory business card across the table, the printed side face down. In a heavy,

masculine hand, someone had written the name of the Seattle Athletic Club along with a time.

"Tomorrow, six," Jasper said. "No excuses. You need this help, Ro."

She placed an index finger on the card and slid it slowly across the table. When it reached the
edge, she gently pinched the heavy paper between her index finger and thumb and flipped it over.
The slow, extended process allowed her to bite her tongue, the urge to correct Jasper acrid on her
tongue. You are Rosalie, her mother had coached her as a child. Your name is too beautiful to be

bastardized into a nickname.

A long string of names was embossed on the card in dark type, and off set just below it, another

name, Emmett McCarty, followed by a string of letters she didn't understand.

"I don't need a lawyer, thank you very much," Rosalie said dismissively. "I told you, Royce was

embarrassed by the attention, he won't be back."

Jasper laughed and pulled Alice in a little bit closer. "Em's not a lawyer, he's an architect, and my
baby cousin, in age at least. He also has two very small sisters who can both knock me on my ass-

"

"Which isn't saying much," Alice interrupted sweetly.

"Thanks, babe, I'll remember that," Jasper said, his gaze still leveled on Rosalie. "Emmett'll show
you everything you need to know. Royce might not be back, but if you're ever in that situation

again, you'll know what to do."

Rosalie studied the card, a strange mixture of sensations churning in her chest, like flying and
falling and gasping all at once. She wanted to take control of her life, and she knew this was the
right way to do it. But wanting to take control was one thing, being taught how to do so was an

entirely different matter. Emmett McCarty was everything she was not, and Rosalie didn't know if
she could handle being in close proximity to someone who would view her with nothing but disdain.

Jasper, ever the perceptive one, caught her hesitation and refused to let it knock her off course. He
dropped his head, forcing his way into Rosalie's line of sight. "Em's good people, I promise. I've

known the big oaf all my life, and he's never let me down. He'll take great care of you."

She stared at the card for a moment longer before slipping it into her purse. All of her life, people
had been telling her what to do, how to act, who to be. She'd been formed, constrained, controlled.

She'd never been taken care of.

"If he has your endorsement, Jasper, he's good enough for me," Rosalie said.

More like the other way around, should have been her answer.

o o o

The next evening, at six on the dot, Rosalie waited in a training studio at the Seattle Athletic Club.
The room stank of stale sweat and disinfectant, the two smells mixing together and making the

other worse.

The Athletic Club, as it was known locally, was nothing new to Rosalie. This was where her father
had played squash when she was little, and her brothers too, once they were old enough. Seattle's
elite came here to tone their bodies and be seen taking classes with some of the best trainers and
pros in the area. While she was familiar with the club, Rosalie had never actually made it past the
lobby before. She'd been raised by a mother who believed that athletics were not appropriate for

young ladies, and had been directed toward music and the arts instead.

If she was being honest, Rosalie would have to admit being here gave her a bit of a rush. She was
completely out of her element, clad in nothing more than a loose pair of yoga pants and a tank top,
something her mother would have been shocked to see. The simple rebellion, being somewhere
that had been so verboten growing up, made her fingers tingle, and gave her the confidence to
square her shoulders and hold her chin up just a little bit higher. This was something she was

doing on her own, and not because it was expected or demanded of her.

It was with that confidence that she stood with her hands behind her back, grasping the barre for
moral and literal support as she waited. The room was quiet, no music, just the ticking of a cheap
round clock that hung over the door, the hands mocking her as they spun in endless cycles.

At 6:10, Rosalie's shoulders sagged a bit, and her back pressed against the cool mirrored wall.

By 6:20, her index finger was tapping impatiently against the barre, frustration sapping the

rebellious high that had propelled her to this point.

By 6:25, Rosalie's resolve had completely crumbled, leaving her out of sorts and irritable. This was
a mistake, she told herself. Violence would perpetuate violence, and this was no way to deal with
her issues.

She didn't belong here.

It was as she bent to retrieve her bag that a t-shirt clad Emmett came rushing into the room, a
similar duffle bag draped over his shoulder, as well as heavy duty back pack. His eyes were hidden
behind a pair of black framed sunglasses, which tempered the boyish good looks which had
captured Rose's attention in the first place.

"I'm so sorry," Emmett said, dropping his bags on the floor. His cheeks were flushed, his dark hair,
just a shade too long to be stylish, tangled and windswept. "I had a call run over, and then

someone snagged me before I could get out of the office, and…"

He was talking so fast, dropping his gear and stuffing his glasses in his bag, that he didn't make
eye contact with Rosalie until his apology was half out. When he did finally turn to face her,
Emmett ground to a halt, his mouth still open to speak. That inaction pushed Rosalie over the
edge, her frustration clashing with the unbidden rush of attraction, the unwanted zing that came
from the one man who looked right through her. The collision of those two emotions, extreme and

confusing, forced Rosalie to react the only way she knew how.

"Save me the excuses," she said sharply. The words had their desired effect. Emmett clamped his
mouth closed. As he did, his jaw flexed, the small twitching muscle in his cheek betraying the way

he ground his teeth together.

"I don't know how you could need self defense lessons with a tongue like that," he said quietly.

His words, like hers, had their intended effect. A wave of guilt slammed down on Rosalie, knocking
the wind out of her. She wished there was a way to pull back the bitchy comment. It was very rare
that anyone outside of her family would put her in her place, but if anyone tried, they would
invariably rock her back on her heels. Rosalie could talk a good game, but in reality, she'd been
raised to be the obedient daughter, and would back down in the face of conflict. People might
consider her strong and willful, but in truth, it was only because they let her get away with it. Deep
down, Rosalie Hale was terrified of words. They were the weapon against which she had no

defense.

"I'm sorry," she said, taking a deep, gulping breath of air. This was Jasper's cousin, and he was

doing her a favor. He wasn't getting anything out of this, nor did he expect anything from her.

Well, other than to maybe be polite, that is.

Slowly, Rosalie extended her right hand, willing herself to cool down. "We've never met properly.

I'm Rosalie. Jasper swears by you, and promised I'd be in good hands, so thank you."

She waited, focusing on the slight indentation in his chin, praying that her hand didn't shake and
betray just how nervous she was. It was a trick someone taught her in college – if you don't want
to make eye contact, focus on a spot just below to give the illusion. It was safer for her; that way

she could avoid the curious stares, or in this case, the inevitable glaze of disappointment.

Emmett sucked his upper lip between his teeth, releasing it slowly along with a sigh.

"Let's try this again. Hi. I'm Emmett and I'm sorry I was late." He took her hand, his long fingers

wrapping gently around her palm.

Slowly, Rosalie raised her eyes. Emmett stared down at her, his expression guarded expression no

doubt matching hers. Aren't we a great pair, she thought ruefully.

"When Jasper asked me to do this, I thought you were Alice, I didn't realize…"

"Oh," she said. It came out as more of a squeak than a word.

"No, no, I'm sorry, I just…" he sighed again, releasing her hand. "Gimme a sec, 'kay?"

Emmett took a step back and closed his eyes, breathing deeply in through his nose. As he did, his
chest expanded, his shoulders lifting and squaring to bring him to his full height. When his lungs
reached their capacity, he held the breath for a second before exhaling slowly through his mouth.
Then he opened his eyes and smiled, genuinely this time. It allowed a dimple to form in his left
cheek, a lovely little divot shaped like a comma that threw the expression a bit off balance and

made him feel oddly real.

"Slim said you need to learn a few self defense moves." She frowned, and Emmett mirrored her,
his brows dipping together in confusion before he understood. "Slim is Jasper. I gave most people
nicknames, it's a quirk," he said, plowing forward without taking a breath. "If it's any reassurance,

I have two little sisters, who I call itty and bitty, by the way. I taught them how to take me down. I
figured if they can take me, they can take anyone."

Emmett swung his arms in front of his body, a motion Rosalie assumed was to loosen up his
muscles. It pulled the t-shirt tight across his shoulders, and there was a slight crackle. She didn't

know if it was the shirt seam straining under the pressure or his shoulder, cracking from exertion.

"I can show you how to break free if someone grabs you, how to throw someone, and make sure
you know how to throw a punch the right way," he smiled at her, that same little divot forming in

his left cheek. "Between that and your sharp tongue, you'll be golden."

Rosalie opened her mouth, drawing in a sharp breath, but Emmett held up a hand to stop her.

"Sorry, cheap shot." His eyes were wide, and Rosalie found herself resisting the urge to laugh. Up
close, there was something very childlike and innocent in his facial expressions, which did not fit
this huge man with his easy motions and confident nature, which did not make her think of

innocence at all.

"If, after all this, I can take you down," she said, her voice softer. "Then I think that would be an

accomplishment."

"Trust me," Emmett said as he stepped back, his arms still scissoring back and forth across his
chest, "You learn how to toss all two hundred and thirty five pounds of me, you'll be able to handle

anything."

He rolled his head to the side, and a loud crack filled the room.

"So what do you think you can take me, Gracie?" he paused for just a beat, then backpedaled,

"Sorry, Rosalie. Bad habit."

"It's okay," she said, smiling back at him. "Some people just like nicknames."

Emmett ducked his head for a moment, his eyes hidden from sight as his dark hair fell down across
his brow. The dimple was still there, though, a little check mark of approval that gave her the

confidence to speak up.

"You don't have to call me Rosalie, if you don't want to. It's just that everyone always has."

"Maybe everyone doesn't see you the way I do," Emmett said. He glanced up at her, his eyes so
wide that she could see flecks of gold around his irises. Most men, when making eye contact with
her, would only hold her gaze for a moment before either looking away completely, or dropping
their eyes further south. Emmett didn't, and it was just enough for Rosalie to understand why
those women in the bar had been so drawn to him. He didn't look at her, or through her, or past

her.

He saw her.

"Maybe they don't," she said, her smile back at him genuine.

o o o

"Come on, Gracie, hit me harder! I hardly felt that," Emmett chided her. This was their third
workout, and he'd been moving her slowly through the basics - how to break free when held from
behind, the best places to immobilize someone, even how to head-butt without hurting herself.

They'd had a little fun with that one, laughing when she accidentally caught Emmett in the
eyebrow. He'd teased, her, promising to tell everyone a girl kicked his ass. The smile he received in

return had been more than payment for the laugh.

Rosalie'd been a quick study, following Emmett's lead, which surprised him. He'd expected more
attitude or even a little bit of whining, but after their first blow up, Rosalie Hale had channeled her

impressive bark into more productive venues, including giving him one hell of a shiner.

Tonight, they were working on the basics of a punch. Emmett had Rosalie lined up in front of a
heavy bag, and was focused on pushing her feet wider and turning her hips so that she could
approach the bag the proper way. Neither of them commented on how she allowed him to move
her around, silently giving him her trust. Emmett was careful to keep his movements quick and
efficient, withdrawing as soon as he had her in place. The last thing he wanted her to think was

that he was one of those guys.

You have to put your body behind it," he said, standing directly behind her. "You're doing
everything with your arm. That isn't going to hurt anyone but you. It's like this-" He bent his arm

parallel to hers and wrapped his hand around her fist. "Let me move, you just follow."

He pulled Rosalie back, forcing her to adjust to his stance. Once he was confident she was stable,
Emmett shot his arm forward, forcing his body against hers so that Rosalie had to adjust her
weight. The heavy bag swung backward violently as they hit it.

She gasped in delight, but Emmett didn't leave her any time to celebrate.

"Push forward with your body, driving your fist forward from your shoulder," he said, throwing
another punch. This time she followed his motion without having to be pushed, adjusting her
weight easily. The bag swung backward again. "There you go. The power comes from your core,
not your arm."

Emmett didn't realize until Rosalie moved again that he'd wrapped his other arm around her waist,
his hand pressed flat against her stomach to keep her on balance. She didn't need the support, if
anything it was doing her a disservice as she tried to learn on her own. Emmett released her and

quickly turned away, flustered and frustrated by his inability to keep his head in the game.

Being close to her like was a slow torture. After the shock of it being her instead of Alice had worn
off, Emmett had gone with it, expecting her mystique to die with regular interaction. If anything,
the allure had grown stronger, and he was no closer to solving the riddle of Rosalie Hale than he
was breaking free of his attraction to her. The one line he couldn't cross, at least not while helping

her like this.

Using a water break as a cover, Emmett moved to the far side of the room, putting as much space
as possible between them. The need for distance became more common as Rosalie's confidence

grew, leaving him increasingly on edge and agitated.

"So tell me about the guy screwing with you," he said, picking the one topic that would force
distance between them. Rosalie had plunked down on the mat in the middle of the room, her head
bowed as she tightened the laces on one of her pristine running shoes. "Who was he?"

"No one," she said, just a little too fast to be believable. "Well, no one that mattered."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes," she said, her chin jutting out to reinforce her point. "My family thought he mattered, and I
listened, even though I thought he was a jerk. In the end, guess what? I was right, they were

wrong, but they'll never admit to that."

"Kinda harsh, aren't you?" Emmett took another sip of water. "Family's supposed to love

unconditionally and all that."

"Maybe yours," Rosalie said, extending her hand. Emmett screwed the top back on and tossed it in

her direction. She bobbled it a few times before gaining control. "Thank you."

He waited quietly while she drank, wondering how she'd gotten to get to this point. Sure, she was
beautiful, but when she let herself be, Rosalie was smart and funny and wickedly sarcastic too.
Who had beaten the life out of her, and made her want to hide that spark? Emmett couldn't get

enough of it, and he hated knowing someone had tried to quash it.

Rosalie swiped at her mouth and then twisted the cap back on bottle. Instead of tossing it back to
Emmett, she stood and walked across the room, dropping it in his lap as she proceeded to the

barre.

"My family had everything planned out for me," she said, staring at herself in the mirror. With one
fluid motion, she extended her leg to the side, so that the toe of her shoe could rest on the barre
like a ballerina. In a long, graceful motion, she lifted her arms over her head, and then slowly
dropped her torso slowly, dipping low enough to touch her toes. "They sent me to the best schools,
introduced me to the right people…they all but picked my job, and of course, they expect me to
date the right men. No," she paused, turning her head to the side. She was parallel with her leg,
her check resting against her knee. There was that same world weary expression on full display,
only this time, she was letting it through. "They insist I marry the right man. That's why I'm here.

Their idea of the right man likes to rough up women to make him feel bigger."

Rosalie straightened up slowly, her arms rising graceful over her head, She released a long, slow
breath and then dropped her hand to her forehead. "When I was little, my mom used to tell me not
to frown, that I'd get wrinkles from it. Who tells a kid that?" She tipped her head back, and
Emmett could see the muscles in her throat working. He wondered if she was trying not to cry.
"And as an adult, I use that pretty face and charm she's so proud of to talk rich people into
donating their money to help needy kids. I let them make me into a pretty little package with a

nice satin bow, when that's the last thing I want to be."

Overhead, the fluorescent lights hummed, a low, static hiss that filled the space between the ticks
of the cheap round clock that hung on the wall. Its hands constantly sweeping closer and closer to

the time when this would all be over, and they would both go back to their respective lives.

"Come on, pretty boy," she said, turning her back to him. Emmett could still see her reflection in
profile, a knot forming in his chest as Rosalie swiped at her eyes. "You're supposed to teach me

how to kick a little ass. You can't very well do that when you're sitting on yours."

He wanted to tease her, to play up the fact that she called him pretty, and make her laugh like he
knew she could. But it wasn't the right time or place. Rosalie Hale was wrestling with her own
demons, and for some strange reason, she trusted Emmett enough to take them on in his
presence, even if it was just to acknowledge they existed. Somehow, not saying anything at all

seemed like the best way to respect the truth she'd just shared.

Later that night, after they'd said their goodbyes, Emmett sat in his condo, blueprints spread out
across the kitchen counter. Mixed in amongst the sheaves of paper were historic photos of an
abandoned hospital, an old Georgian Revival building with a beautiful doomed roof. The building,
closed in the 80's, had fallen into disrepair as scavengers and vagrants gutted the once glorious
space. Copper wire, fixtures, and anything else of value had been ripped out, leaving nothing but
chaos and destruction. Even in the middle of all that ruin, there was a stately beauty, something

that cried out for preservation, for rescue.

In a way, the building wasn't all that different from Rosalie Hale. She was devastatingly beautiful,
but someone had done a number to her insides. The foundation and façade were strong but the
guts had been ripped out, making her doubt everything that she could be. Instead of looking inside
to find her natural strength, she looked outward for edification. She was surrounded by people who
used her to get what they wanted, or molded her to be what they needed. No wonder she came
across so cold. The façade wasn't real, it was simply a defense mechanism, a way to keep herself

emotionally detached while holding others at arm's length. It was purely for protection.

Deep down, Emmett doubted that was how she wanted to live. Those early glimpses at the bar, the
glazed, absent stare, had allowed him to see a different side of Rosalie Hale. She was chaffing,
trying to break free of the restraints placed on her by others. It was clear to him that Rosalie

wanted to find her place in the world, to figure out who she was and what she could be. She simply
didn't know how.

It frustrated Emmett, who prided himself on his ability to solve problems for others. As the oldest
child of four, and the second born of more than thirty cousins, he'd spent his life clearing the way
for others. It was in his nature to fix things, to find the cause and help find the resolution whatever

issue might be troubling others.

Sure, he was teaching her how to physically defend and stand up for herself, which would help
boost her self esteem, but in the end, it would be her decisions and actions that would make the
difference. She'd reach a point where she would stand on her own, and when she did have that

confidence, she would most likely move on.

Leaving Emmett behind, helpless to anything but watch her go.

o o o

Rosalie gently pressed on the stem of her wine glass, exerting just enough pressure to rotate it
slowly in front of her. Around her buzzed conversations about meaningless things: dates, clothes,
who was fighting with whom, or what to do this weekend. They were the things she'd thrived on,

the things she was brought up to know, but for once, Rosalie didn't care.

She'd been here for an hour and a half, and with each passing minute, she'd grown more detached,

her eyes focused on that spot at the bar where he usually stood.

It was empty now.

In the four weeks that Emmett had been giving her self defense lessons, he'd only come to happy
hour once. It had been the Wednesday immediately following their first session, and the bar had
been abnormally crowded and loud. Rosalie had wanted to shake everyone off, to go talk to him or
make him laugh, but every time she'd gotten close, someone had stepped in her way, wanting

something that she was incapable of refusing – her attention.

When she'd finally broken free from the crowd, she'd found Emmett engaged in conversation with a
pretty blonde girl, who'd pressed her hand possessively against his arm. When Emmett didn't pull
away, Rosalie quickly turned back to her friends, shocked and dismayed by that shot fire up her

spine.

It wasn't until she had reclaimed her seat at the banquette that she realized what it was.

Jealousy. It burnt through her body, worse than any embarrassment or humiliation ever suffered at
the hands of her parents, because it had been completely innocent. There had been no
commitment made to her, no promise of anything beyond maybe a simple friendship. Emmett
owed her nothing. That didn't quench the fire that had threatened to consume her alive.

"Why are you so quiet?"

Rosalie glanced up from her wine. Alice stared down at her, eyes wide and too perceptive. Of all
the people she knew, Alice Brandon was the most genuine and honest friend she'd ever known,
and Rosalie believed that Alice could be someone that she could trust, she just needed to take the
first step.

"Just a lot on my mind," she said. "Where's your boyfriend?"

"He had to work late," Alice said, scooting closer. "Where's your crush?"

"I wish I - " Rosalie started. She wished she what? She didn't have a crush? She knew where he

was? That Was with him? All of the above? "- knew what you were talking about."

Her denial did nothing to distract Alice, who was like a bloodhound on a scent.

"Look, Rosalie, I know we haven't known each other all that long, but I do think of you as a friend.
And with friends, well, I don't believe in bullshitting." Alice drummed her finger on the table for a
few beats, "What the hell makes you happy?"

"I'm sorry, I don't understand?"

Alice waved her hand around the room, taking in the mob of bodies, all shifting jockeying for
position. "We come here every week, and there are people all over you, yet you hardly ever smile.
You go on dates, but they never turn into anything serious. You have dinner with your family on
Sunday nights, but you never talk about them. What brings you joy? What makes you laugh?"

Rosalie frowned, considering her friend's question. What did make her laugh? Old slapstick movies
were a given, but what else? She searched her memory, sure she could find other, better

examples. In the end all she found were things.

"There's a blueberry bush out behind the center," Rosalie said, her voice wistful and far away. "It
grows wild, and right now it's loaded down with berries. A few of the kids went out yesterday and
picked them clean. I went into the kitchen to get some water after lunch, and there were bowls and

buckets everywhere, loaded down with thousands of berries."

She hesitated, recalling the cluster of boys sitting on the floor by the refrigerator, their faces lit up,

lips stained a dark, purple-blue.

"Someone bought cans of whipped cream, and the kids were all sprawled out on the floor, doing
blueberry whippets. They'd pop a handful of berries in their mouth and then tip their heads back
and shoot the cream directly in their mouths like a chaser. They were laughing and talking like

normal kids. When you think about the lives they've lead, is nothing short of amazing."

Rosalie pressed her hand to her mouth, covering a smile. "They talked me into doing one. It was

the best dessert I've ever had."

Alice nodded, her grey eyes full of wisdom and understanding. There was no recrimination, no

laughter or disdain. "What are your blueberries, Rosalie?" she asked quietly.

It wasn't a rhetorical question.

On the drive home, Rosalie thought more about her odd conversation with Alice. When had she last
been truly happy? The moments that did come to mind were shallow, reflected glories. The way her
mother went on over her picture in the paper with so and so, or the way her father raved about the
way her job at the foundation was great PR for the bank. It was never about her, and she'd never
done a thing about it. She'd been on autopilot, letting other people make decisions, and take her
where they wanted to go.

Everyone but…him.

I'm going to tell everyone a girl kicked my ass. He'd been so earnest when he'd said it, no malice,
no angle. Emmett probably had too, and wouldn't have cared if people laughed at him, because

he'd been proud of her. Not for what she did for him, but what she'd done for herself.

Rosalie slapped a hand over her mouth, holding back a sound that was half laugh, half gasp.

There was only one place where she'd every truly been herself, and had trusted that the person on
the receiving end was honest and true. He didn't use the weaknesses she willingly let him see, and
displayed glimpses of his own insecurity to show here that it would be alright. It'd been there all
along, she'd simply hadn't known how to stop and see it. Reaching across the seat, Rosalie dug in
her bag, fishing around until she found her cell phone. His number was in there, she'd programmed

in weeks ago, but had been too scared to call.

"'lo?" He was disoriented, voice raspy with sleep. Rosalie smiled, Emmett, his hair disheveled and
matted on one side, a pillow creasing on his cheek.

"I waited for you," Rosalie said, not identifying herself. "I waited and you didn't show up."

There was a noise on the other end of the phone, things shifting in the background as Emmett

adjusted something unseen. "Gracie? But it's…"

"It's Wednesday, and you weren't there. That's not cool Emmett. I have a surprise for you, and it

won't keep."

There was a protracted silence, which ate at Rosalie's confidence. Maybe this wasn't the right

thing. What if he didn't feel the same way? Maybe it would be better to hang up and –

"You can drop it off," Emmett said, his voice clearer. He rattled off an address that was just a few

miles from her office. "I'm just here working, so it's no big deal."

He hadn't been working, he'd been asleep, but Rosalie loved that he didn't let her know that. It

nudged her forward, the small bloom of hope in her chest enough to keep her moving.

"I'll be there in ten," she said, disconnecting before Emmett could say anything more.

The old elaborate mansion was lit up as she pulled up in front; the upstairs windows casting a
warm and inviting glow across the lawn. Rosalie tried to be quiet, punching in her key code and
unlocking the entry to the foundation offices. The residents would all be upstairs, doing their
homework or getting ready for bed. Fifteen elementary and junior high school aged kids lived in
this building, all undergoing extensive therapy as they dealt with the personal demons forced on
them by adults. Rosalie worked here as a development officer, convincing her parent's affluent
friends to dig deep in their wallets and give to a good cause. It was the type of job she'd been
raised for, and one she thrived at. It wasn't the glitzy benefits and other social events peppering
her calendar that made the job so rewarding. It was the interactions with the kids, and the
knowledge that, when they mainstreamed back into society, she had helped them get there. To the
people here, she mattered. Not who she was related to or what she looked like, but what she
actually did. Just like those blueberry bushes, Rosalie realized that she could bring a small ration of
joy and hope to others. Like a child with their first bite of chocolate, she was greedy, hungry for

more, and too driven by need to fear the repercussions of chasing it down.

A single light had been left on in the kitchen, a collection of bowls and pots stacked upside down
next to the sink dry. Inside the industrial sized refrigerator, Rosalie found what she was looking for
- dozens of gallon sized Ziploc bags filled to the brim with dark blueberries. She grabbed the

closest one and hurried back to her car, scared and excited and anxious to see what came next.

A few miles away, Emmett waited impatiently. He'd dozed off on the couch, and had been startled
awake by Rosalie's call. He had no clue what to expect, and tried not to glance at the clock,
knowing the time would make him consider potential ulterior motives, ones he didn't want to

consider at this time of the night.

When he opened the door to her, Rosalie thrust a huge bag full of blueberries in his hand, her face
alight like he'd never seen it before. She was triumphant, smiling she'd won the lottery or knew the
answers to all of life's problems. Before Emmett could ask her what gives, she grabbed his free
hand and tugged him to her, careful not to crush her fragile gift.

He'd been on the receiving end of unexpected kisses before, but never anything like this. Most had
happened in a bar, when a woman, typically propelled by liquid courage, grabbed his tie or
swooped in out of nowhere, all lips and slobber and probing tongue. She would grab at his arm or

his ass, and try her best to clean his tonsils. Emmett knew how to handle situations like that.

This? Well, this was entirely different.

When Rosalie kissed him, he didn't taste any alcohol, and even if he had, he probably wouldn't
have turned her away. Emmett had spent the last four weeks watching Rosalie Hale coming out of
her shell, his appreciation and interest growing stronger every day. He'd wanted to do this for as
long as he could recall, even before she'd let down her guard and allowed him in. When she had
finally opened up, he'd forced those desired back, convincing himself that it was a recipe for
disaster, and would undermine everything she needed at the moment. He'd wanted to help her,

and in doing so, he'd assumed that anything he might have wanted should be pushed to the side.

He'd obviously been wrong.

There were no words, no conversation, just hands and mouths moving of their own accord. Rosalie
raked her fingers through his hair, her nails scratching against his scalp, and it shattered the weak
dam of resolve Emmett had built. He dropped the bag of blueberries on the floor and grabbed hold
of her hips. She didn't resist, her other arm snaking around his shoulders, helping him lift her up to
press against the door. Any thought of being noble or being the good guy was gone. He wanted to

touch her, to show her, to prove that there was something here that words couldn't express.

Deep in the back of his mind, a warning bell was going off, reminding him that this was wrong, but
Emmett didn't listen. He was too caught up, raising his arms so Rosalie could tug his shirt off. Her
fingers, so cold from holding the bag of blueberries, slid down his back to slip under the waistband

of his basketball shorts.

"You go there, and I'm not going to be able to stop," Emmett warned, his voice low and gruff. He
didn't want to stop; he needed this, needed her. It didn't matter where. Against the door, on the
couch, in his bed. Four weeks of watching, of wanting, of waiting, and she was finally here. He

couldn't go back if he tried.

"Don't then," she said, her teeth rough against the soft skin of his shoulder. "Stop holding back. I

already kicked your ass once, didn't I?"

He knew this was probably wrong, that Rosalie was fragile and had her own issues to confront. It
broke his own self imposed rules of rushing straight into bed, for they had no foundation to build

from, but at this point, he would willingly follow her to hell if it bought them more time.

Somehow, he managed to get them back to his bedroom, bumping into the coffee table and
flipping over a dining room chair in his haste to get there. They left behind a path of destruction,
but neither carried, their focus fixed on the destination and not the bottle of spilt beer or
abandoned bag of blueberries discarded on the floor.

His bedroom was a mess, the sheets rumpled, comforter slipping off onto the floor, but Rosalie
didn't seem to notice. The minute he dropped her on the bed, she was striping off her shirt, her
hips raised to help Emmett peel the jeans off her incredibly long legs. As soon as her hands were
free, she was tugging at his shorts again, her mouth incredibly hot against his chest. He fumbled
hastily for the nightstand, hoping that somewhere in the recesses of the drawer was something
that would allow them to keep going, but deep down he knew it didn't matter. If she told him she

didn't care, he wouldn't either, consequences be damned.

Ultimately, it didn't matter. There was lone foil packet wedged in the back corner of the drawer,
and they both fumbled with it, desperate actions filling the space left open by the absence of
words. The minute it was on, Rosalie's arms were wrapped tight around him, her fingers digging
into his lower back as her legs tangled with his. She was strong and demanding, her hips rising up

to meet his so fast and so furious that Emmett wasn't sure who initiated what.

With one arm still wrapped tightly around his body and a hand clamped in his hair, Rosalie held
tight to Emmett as they moved together. Whether intentionally or accidental, she'd pressed her
cheek against his jaw, her lips just a few inches from his ear so Emmett could hear every sound
she made. There were a few half-muttered words, garbled and hard to understand. She might have
sworn once or twice, Emmett wasn't really sure, and wasn't particularly capable of paying attention
either. Maybe he was the one swearing, which could have been entirely likely too. Thinking,

listening, it had all flown out the door when she stepped in, replaced by instinct and action.

When their breathing slowed, Rosalie loosened her grip to rub the base of his neck. Then she
kissed him where his shoulder met his neck. They stayed like that for a few minutes, both quiet.
Emmett didn't want to move or talk, afraid of ending whatever this was. He wished he had Jasper's
ability to read people, and to say the right thing, because he was desperate not to screw this up

now.

"That was nice," Rosalie said, her breath tickling his neck. "Although I'm glad you thought of

something, because I…"

Emmett shifted his weight, moving gently onto his side. She followed him, refusing, or so he

hoped, to give up skin to skin contact.

"I want to stay here, but I can't," she said. "I have to work tomorrow, and I can't very well go in

looking freshly fucked."

A small sound, which he hoped came off as a laugh, rumbled through Emmett's chest. It was
probably the best way to describe what they'd done, but it also seemed wrong coming from her. He

just couldn't say why.

Rosalie pressed her cheek against his chest, and Emmett closed his eyes, trying to relax. Soon, the

first hooks of sleep begin to slip into him, tugging him down into another world.

"Stay here 'til I'm out," he mumbled, kissing the top of her head. "That way I can pretend you're

still here, even when you're not."

Minutes later, the world around him faded, and Emmett was fast asleep.

o o o

Home alone in her apartment, Rosalie tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. Her bed was too
big, her mind to active, and her body alive. The muscles in her back and legs ached in a delicious,
hedonistic sort of way that made her want to call in sick and then rush back to Emmett's condo,
arms loaded down with food. She'd make him stay in bed all day and feed him blueberries, and

they would maintain this high.

It was something she'd never felt before.

Unfortunately, real life had its own demands, which meant there would be no camping out in
Emmett's massive bed, his glorious dark curls slipping through her fingers as he made her body
sing. Instead, she used him as motivation, flying through her morning preparations and throwing
clothes into her workout bag. They had their usual session at the Athletic Club tonight, and
afterwards she'd tell him everything. How he gave her the confidence to see what was missing, and
that she couldn't stand the thought of facing the world without him there to cheer her on. Maybe
they would get coffee or go for a walk, something completely different. There would be no bars, no
clubs, no well known restaurants. Just something quiet where they could sit down and talk and be

who they really were.

Her morning was packed full of meetings, and then there was a donor lunch at one of the private
clubs downtown, keeping her on the move. Rosalie was aware of how people were looking at her,
and deep down she had to wonder just exactly how she appeared to them today. Did they notice
her smile and think she looked happy? Were they impressed by her new found poise? The old
Rosalie would have cared about their scrutiny and perception, but not now. She moved through her
day, letting them wonder what she was up to, or speculate about who gave her the inevitable glow.
For the first time in as long as she could recall, Rosalie didn't care what anyone thought…well,

anyone what him, and it she couldn't wait to tell Emmett that.

Throughout the day, little thoughts or ideas came to her. Snippets about her life or questions she
wanted to ask him. She wanted to know everything about Emmett, and even went as far as jotting
down notes in a small black leather notebook she carried with her. Tonight, she would ask, and he

would laugh, and pull her into his lap, answering all her questions and kissing her until she couldn't
breathe.

"What are you smiling about, Princess?"

Rosalie dropped her pen, her hand flattening over the page to protect it from prying eyes. "Hi,
Daddy," she fumbled, her heart racing. Her father stood in the doorway, his all too aware gaze
sweeping over her, missing nothing. "Just thinking of something."

"Or someone, more likely," Jack Hale said, moving easily across Rosalie's small office. He sat down
in one of the guest chairs and scooped a small paper weight off her desk. It was a small square
with an angel embedded in the top left corner, a thank you gift from one of the children who'd
passed through this very house. She wanted to tell him to put it down, to stop touching her things,
but her father would simply shoot and continue on like she'd never spoken. "I had dinner with Roy
King last night. I heard that things aren't going well. You aren't giving his son a hard time are

you?"

Her father raised his eyebrows, but didn't stop long enough for Rosalie to respond.

"Rosalie, you know the Kings are a good family. I've worked with Royce Junior before. He's a smart

kid with a lot of potential-"

"Daddy-"

"Who's apparently taking it pretty hard that you won't call him back." Jack Hale was not going to
stop, plowing right over his daughter to get to his point. "Your mother and I are going to meet the
Kings for drinks tonight, and I think you should join us. It'll give you a chance to get to know the

Kings and see how wonderful they are."

"Daddy, please, I already have plans-"

"Reschedule them," Jack said dismissively. He placed the paper weight back on her desk, upside
down. He didn't understand the importance of the angel being on top. "I'm sure it's nothing

important."

Rosalie stared at the paperweight, her cheeks burning. Her father didn't care that he had put the
paperweight back, upside down, just like he didn't care that he was turning his daughter's plans
upside down. It didn't matter to him what she wanted or who she was interested in. In Jack Hale's

mind, anything outside his sphere of influence or preference didn't matter. Even his own daughter.

"No," she said. It wasn't stated rudely, or in a harsh manner, but that didn't seem to matter. Jack
Hale's eyebrows dipped down into a dangerous scowl, reminding Rosalie of petulant child. Instead
of being scared, like she might have been once upon a time, Rosalie had to fight the urge to laugh
it her father's clear attempt at manipulation. She was a grown woman, capable of making her own
decisions. She didn't need his approval, nor did she have to give in to his preference. "I'm sorry,
Daddy. I have other plans. And for the record, Royce King, Jr. is a spoiled brat and a drunk who

treats women like garbage."

"Princess…" Jack said. He readjusted his features, trying to create the air of a parent whose only
concern was his daughter's happiness. It didn't mollify Rosalie at all. "Whatever misunderstanding

you two had-"

"Pushing me up against a wall is no misunderstanding, Daddy. Squeezing my arm so hard enough
to leave fingerprint sized bruises isn't either. I kneed that sonofabitch in the nuts -" Rosalie fought
the urge to laugh when her father's eyebrows shot up again, wondering if her mother nagged him

about the risk of wrinkles too. "And I'd do it again. No one should be treated that way."

She stood, pushing her chair back away from her desk, trying to remember how in the hell this
man had ever intimidated her. For years, she'd given into their brow beating and coercion, and for

once, she was not going to back down.

"I have plans tonight. You'll have to pass on my apologies to the Kings. I happen to have
something much better to do."

Rosalie clasped her hands in front of her body, which hummed with adrenaline. She prayed her
body didn't betray her, and that her father couldn't see how badly her hands shook, or the damp

sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

"I'm disappointed," Jack Hale finally said. He stood, brushing a piece of non-existent lint off his suit

jacket. "I'm sure your mother will have something to say about this."

"She always does, Daddy. She always does."

Rosalie stayed, locked in place, until well after he was gone. When she couldn't take it any longer,
she sat down on the edge of her chair, and hid her face in her hands, waiting for tears or panic to
set in, but they didn't. Instead, she pressed the heel of her palm pressed hard against her mouth
and let out a long scream of frustration. Then another. Only after she had regained control did she
allow herself to go to the bathroom and splash water on her face. It would wash away most of her

makeup, but she didn't care. It felt good to shake off the rules.

When she returned to her office, she was shocked to see that it was 6:45. Emmett would be at the

gym, waiting for her. She was late.

o o o

When Emmett woke up, he was alone. His bed smelled like Rosalie and sex, and his condo in oddly
perfect order. Nothing on the floor, no knocked over beer bottle or chair turned on its side. Were it
not for the smells in his bed and a huge bag of blueberries tucked safely in the refrigerator,

Emmett would have thought it were all one hell of a dream.

Without a way to ground himself, Emmett had to spend the day in his head, wondering what the
hell last night was. A college roommate had once said 'if it calls late and is coming from a bar, it's a

booty call.' Was that what he'd been, a way to itch a scratch, and if so, what would happen next?

As the day drug by, Emmett became increasingly irritable. By five, he couldn't take it anymore,
shutting down his laptop and heading for the Athletic Club, trying to figure out how in the hell he

was going to bring up last night, and trying not to worry about what came next.

Each session, for four weeks, he'd watched Rosalie's confidence grow. It amazed him, how
something as simple as standing up to others could give a person the strength to face other

demons, but with Rosalie, he'd watched it firsthand.

The changes had been very slow and very small, but they were undeniable. She'd allowed him to
call her Gracie, a stupid slip early on. She smiled, laughed, and had started pushing back a bit.
With each tentative step, her confidence grew, and Emmett watched her take flight with both
admiration and sadness. He knew that she needed to come into her own, but he also knew that,

when she did, Rosalie might not need (or want) him anymore.

Piece by piece, she'd slowly been putting herself back together, restoring the wiring and the pipes
others had stripped away. When she was done, the world would be hers. She deserved that, and

Emmett knew it was wrong of him to stand in the way.

But then she'd shown up last night, bringing him the ridiculous bag of blueberries and breaking
down the laughable excuse he called reserve, seducing him with her laughter and demand for

more, a demand he'd willingly given into, and would again if given the chance.

Full of energy, he hit the treadmill, alternating between a run and a sprint, using the exertion to try
and force the images of Rosalie from his mind. Her cheeks flushed, tugging his hair to direct him

where she wanted. That was his Gracie, confident and strong, not a timid, lost soul.

"Fuck," he said, his breath coming in labored gasps. She wasn't his, and he needed to stop thinking
that way. Everyone else treated her like a possession, if he started doing it, he wouldn't be any
better. He continued to run, and with each mile, his mood sank, pulling him down further into a

dark, turbulent storm of emotions, worrying about what might come.

At six on the nose, he was in the small working room, waiting for her. He paced, he spared with

the heavy bag, doing everything he could to pass the time.

As the minutes ticked by, Emmett's agitation continued to grow. He knew that this would all come

to an end someday, but each time she'd shown up, he'd been able to push it off for one more day.

"You did what you promised to do, jackass," he said, taking another shot at the heavy bag. "She

can take care of herself. She doesn't need you to fight your battles."

Just because it was true didn't' mean he wanted to believe it. This was his fault. He'd wanted to

save her, he just hadn't expected to actually care.

At 6:30 he gave up, returning to the locker room to change. He would go back to the office and
lose himself in work, shutting out any thoughts of Rosalie Hale or what he might have hoped would
come out of tonight. He was still sweaty from his run, but Emmett didn't care. His dress shirt was
already rumpled, and there wouldn't be anyone there to see him anyway. He rolled the sleeves up
and shoved his tie in his bag, for once not caring if it was ruined rubbing up against his running

shoes.

The small studio was still empty, the heavy bag hanging motionless in the corner. Rosalie had
learned how to throw a punch here, to defend herself both physically and mentally. That was all

he'd committed to, Emmett reminded himself, nothing more.

He dropped his bag and walked slowly toward the heavy bag, loss and resignation pressing down
on him like a lead weight. Once close enough, Emmett's fist shot out, crashing into the bag and
sending it swinging violently backwards into the wall. He slammed his bare knuckles into the hard
leather over and over again, his class ring cutting into tender skin and drawing blood, but that
didn't stop Emmett. He continued to pound on the bag, the pain that rocketed through his arms

and shoulders doing nothing to stem the sense of lose that threatened to consume him.

"Someone told me once that the power comes from your core. You swing with your arm, you're

just going to hurt yourseIf."

Emmett's hands flew up, catching the heavy bag as it swung wildly back in his direction. It
slammed into his body, rocking him back three steps, forcing Emmett to realize just how out of
control his punches had been. His hands ached, his shoulder screamed in protest. It hadn't made

anything better.

"I didn't think you were coming," he said. In the mirror, he watched Rosalie lean against the door
frame, her arms crossing over her chest. She wore that same pink sundress, the one that had set

this whole thing in motion, and her cheeks were flushed.

Emmett wanted to tell her she was beautiful, but what would it accomplish? She'd heard it from
others, and she considered the words meaningless. What could he say to the woman who had lived

her life expecting compliments to come with conditions and requests to be thinly veiled demands?

"Why are you wearing a suit?' she asked. When Emmett didn't answer, she pushed off the
doorframe walking across the mat on tip toe so she wouldn't poke holes in the synthetic fabric. "I
don't think I've ever seen you dressed professionally before. It's nice."

Emmett continued to hold onto the heavy bag, at a loss for what to say. There was something
softer about her, an openness in her expression that was new. Rosalie tiptoed awkwardly across

the room, too stubborn to take off her heels, staring directly into his eyes.

She never looked away.

When she was close enough, she wrapped her fingers gently around Emmett's wrist, prying his arm
free. Gingerly, she elevated his hand, examining his knuckles, which were red and chaffed from his
assault on the heavy bag. The skin around his class ring was swollen and bloody, and there was a

chunk of skin gouged out of his pinky finger.

"You hurt yourself," she said.

"I'm fine."

"No you're not. You're bleeding."

"Gracie, I'm fine."

Emmett cringed, cursing himself. She wasn't Gracie, she was Rose. She wasn't his.

She ran her fingers lightly over the skin above his knuckles, her touch tentative, twisting a knife in
Emmett's chest. He didn't want this to be over, but he didn't know how to ask Rosalie for that. He
didn't know what she wanted from him, and he had no clue how to ask something from her, when

that's all everyone else did was want.

Maybe that was the difference. Other people wanted, but Emmett needed. In all his life, there had

only been want, up until now.

"You need to get some ice on this," she said, pressing gently at what should have been an
indentation between his first and second knuckle. It hurt like hell, and would probably turn to

bruises tomorrow. "It's swelling pretty badly."

"I'll put some ice on it when I get back to the office," Emmett said, pulling his hand free.

Rosalie looked up sharply, the bloom of color fading from her cheeks. "You're leaving?"

"You weren't here. There wasn't a whole lot of reason to stay."

It was meant as a simple statement. She hadn't shown up on time. Instead, it came out sounding

like an accusation. In a way, it probably was.

"It's okay, Rosalie. I don't expect anything," he said quickly. It was a half truth, but Emmett wasn't
sure what else to say. He couldn't ambush her. That wouldn't make him any different from any of

the others.

He tried to step back, turning away from her, but Rosalie would have none of it, matching every
step he took with one of her own. At some point, she must have realized Emmett wasn't going to
stop and she grabbed the back of his shirt, jerking so hard he was surprised a button didn't pop

free.

"Stop running away from me," she demanded, pulling him backward. "Don't make me chase you,

'cause running in heels is a bitch."

Emmett turned around, ready to tell her that he wasn't the one running away, but the words died
in his throat. She threw her free arm around his shoulder, her fingers slipping back into the hair at
the nape of his neck, just like she had the night before. Her face wedged into the soft spot at the

base of his neck, her words muffled.

"You're my blueberries," she said quietly. "Don't leave. I just got here."

It took Emmett a few seconds to understand what she meant. He struggled, trying to think of
something that would make sense, but in the end, he could only think of one thing. It probably

made about as much sense as her saying he was a blueberry, but it was all he had.

"I had a prof in college who was a big eco nut," Emmett said, his check resting against the side of
Rosalie's head. "He challenged us to generate electricity without traditional batteries or any sort of
manufactured power. I ended up mashing up a ton of blueberries to create a solar cell. I wired it
up to a flashlight bulb using copper wire. Managed to make it run for a few minutes. It cost a

fortune, and my fingers were blue for a week, but I did it."

What Emmett didn't say was that the only reason the whole experiment worked was because of the
copper wire, and the natural photosynthesis that occurred during the process. Blueberries could
generate natural energy all day, but without the conductive power of the copper wire, the

experiment never would've worked.

Maybe that was what had with them, he thought. This was all some weird fluke of nature, which
could only happen when Rosalie was ready. A few months ago, there would have been no copper
wire to conduct the electricity that only he could generate. It was no guarantee of what would
come, but it was the nudge that Emmett needed.

"So what are you doing tonight?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound as ridiculous as he felt.

"Going home with you," Rosalie pulled back to look up at him, holding his gaze. Weeks ago she

couldn't do that. "Do you know what a whippet is?"

o o o

Emmett hadn't known what a whippet was, so they stopped on the way to buy a can of pressurized
whipped cream. Rosalie sat on the counter in his kitchen, popping blueberries in his mouth and
following it with pressurized shots of cream. She told him about her father, and about her
conversation with Alice. In turn, he told her about the hospital renovation, and how a beautiful old
building was being lovingly restored, step by step.

They laughed and they talked. They kissed with mouthfuls of whipped cream, and both called work
to say they wouldn't be in the next day.

They gave in to want and need, and accepted the fact that the two, when mixed together, created
the sort of electricity they were helpless to resist. They made love, or at least something close to it
in Rosalie's mind, on Emmett's couch, and then they talked some more. They watched movies

together, an old baseball hat of Emmett's clamped securely on Rosalie's head.

And they were happy.

- The End -