I tell myself not to get involved.

It never does any good, I should know this. But the train still hasn't arrived and I can still see him out of the corner of my eye, huddled up on one of the cold metal benches. I shouldn't get involved. Yet I can't help but want to reach out to those that are hurting; that's why Bella is still living in my house after six months, even though I know I'm nothing more than a rebound. I sigh. People have their own lives, their own support networks, their own pains. It's not my problem.

We're the only two left on the platform. It's late; there aren't many people left to go home at this time. I glance at him again. He's just a teenager in a thin grey hoodie and frayed jeans, shivering. He looks pale, unhealthily so. I don't think he's looked up once in all the time I've been here. It puts me ill at ease.

Someone else will help him. I picture a woman, his mother perhaps, wrapping him in a warm blanket and passing him some soup. I expect the image to comfort me, but instead I feel a familiar and horrible hot sensation inside, an anger in my blood. I can't stand by, leave it for someone else to try when I'm right here.

I'm sure I will regret this.

"Hey, kid, are you alright?"

He looks up at me and close up he looks worse; far too pale, and with a sheen of sweat on his forehead that seems to glisten under the platform lights.

"I'm not a kid," he says coolly.

Great, this is a great start.

"Are you alright?" I persist.

His dark brown eyes fix me in an unconcealed glare. "None of your business."

I pause. "No, it isn't."

I sigh, but I don't move. His expression changes a little at my apparent defeat, his brows coming together in confusion. I look out towards the empty train tracks instead. When he says nothing further I take a seat next to him. The blue metal bench is as cold as I feared. I keep my gaze fixed on the empty track.

"You look ill," I comment.

"I get ill a lot," he deadpans.

I think he's in his late teens, going from his appearance and voice. I'm glad he's not being actively hostile. I was a pretty hot-blooded teen not so very long ago. Perhaps I haven't changed that much, because I find myself saying,

"You're always this friendly, then?"

I'm glad I'm not looking at him when I say it, so I don't have to see his expression. Hurrying to cover my outburst I reach into my jacket for a small water bottle I still have on me, still three quarters full. I hold it out in his direction.

"Need a drink?"

There's a few seconds pause where I expect him to answer, but when I hear nothing I finally look at him. He's staring at the water bottle. I guess he is thirsty after all. But then his gaze flicks up at me, and he looks very pointedly back towards the rails.

"I don't mind," I say.

"I don't take drinks from just anyone."

Distrustful and unfriendly. Great. Still, I don't think I can blame him for it. He doesn't look like he's had it easy. I leave the bottle on the bench between us. About a second after I put it down, I hear a very distinctive gurgle. It's his stomach. Sounds like he's hungry, too.

"You going home for food?" I ask.

He glares at me again, and then shrugs. "Yeah, sure." A blatant lie.

I glance down at his trainers, dark blue and nearly worn through near the toes. They look pretty old.

"Yeah, sure," I echo.

"I'm not going anywhere with you. You smell like dog," he says.

"I own one," I explain, deliberately ignoring the insult. "And I was thinking of offering more of a vending machine snack." I nod in the direction of one of the ones further down the platform, stocked with chocolate bars and crisps.

I see him hesitate, and I know he's tempted.

"I'm not a leech, I don't need your food," he says at last, so disdainfully it almost outweighs the length of the pause before his reply. Almost.

This was a mistake. I know this was a mistake and I have no right to be angry. I am, though. I can feel my blood boiling and before I can stop myself I practically slap a hand onto his forehead. My intention is to confirm how ill he is by temperature and then accuse him of stubbornness or something, but at the contact I draw in a sharp breath instead, and my words evaporate. He gasps too, and it's no surprise – his forehead is like a fridge shelf under my hand, which must feel like a furnace to him by comparison. I withdraw my hand in an instant, briefly lost for words.

"Are you ill?" he asks accusingly, wide-eyed.

"No!" I don't know why I shout back. Either way, it is at that moment that we both become aware of the approaching train. The rush of air flaps my jacket outwards as it draws into the station, screeching a little as it draws to a halt. I stand up automatically, then look back at him. I search for words that will make him accept my help, but it seems too late. However, I catch him looking at me oddly. It's a long look, from head to toe and back, and I find myself unsettled by it.

"Bet you'd offer me a place to stay for the night too, wouldn't you?" he asks softly.

"I'm not a pervert!" I blurt out as the train doors open, and I cast up a silent prayer that no one heard that. His sudden change in manner has thrown me off; I'm not sure what he's fishing for. I step onto the train. I should just find a seat and move on. I count to ten. I look back.

The teen is standing, and stumbles a little as he begins to walk towards the train. What? What is he doing? His gaze and his movements are determined, but clearly effortful. He's almost there when the doors start to close. He stumbles again. I move without thinking. Before I know it, I've grabbed his arm and pulled him in.

He sags instantly against the partition beside him, and then slides down onto the floor. I crouch beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

"Hey. Hey."

He half-lifts his head, and holds the water bottle – the one I had totally forgotten about – back towards me. I take it from him and unscrew the cap before pushing the bottle back into his hands and directing it towards his lips. He doesn't resist. With a speed that surprises me he drinks it entirely, finishing it just as the train begins moving. Had he done all that just to return the bottle to me? I hadn't even noticed he was carrying it.

"It's been a hot day," he mumbles, as if in explanation. With one limp hand he pushes the hood back off his face. His hair is like earwax in colour and shine; whether for illness or lack of washing I'm not sure. "A hot day…Why am I cold?" he asks the empty air.

The day had been a boiling one. Perhaps I might have considered heat exhaustion for his state, but it was evening already. Wouldn't he have recovered by now? I look at my now-empty water bottle, and ponder if he needs more. Either way it looks like he's out of energy to fight me. I sit down beside him on the floor of the train. The sounds of the train are soothing, just the gentlest of motions and rhythmic noises as we progress. It's too dark outside the windows to see the surrounding countryside as we leave the station behind. I look back over at the teen.

"I'm Jacob," I introduce myself.

He sighs, and shuffles into a more upright position. "I'm Edward," he answers.

A few minutes pass in silence. I wonder what he's planning; if he expects me to take him back to my house now. He's shivering a little less now that he's inside the train. He looks exhausted.

"If you're going to do it, do it whilst I'm awake," he says suddenly, in the direction of the carpet.

"What?"

"You know what," he whispers, tilting his head towards me. His eyes are old. "Just promise me that. At least that."

My heart pounds. I can't imagine what he could be saying, what he could be implying. I shake my head slowly, my eyes wide. I'm trying to deny his assumption, but he seems to think I'm denying his request.

"Promise me," he repeats, his voice like ice. His dark eyes seem to stare right into me, demanding my attention.

I can't deny what I suspect. Hadn't I blurted out the very thing that confirmed I knew his suspicions before I even got on this train? But to accept this, to promise this… A simmering anger tenses my stomach, but I don't want to make an argument of it. Not here, not now. I want to help him. I nod curtly.

"I promise."

We don't speak again. He leans back against the partition, and sleeps fitfully for the rest of the journey.

Only a handful of others get out at my stop, all girls. It looked like they were coming back from an eventful night out. I watch the group walk past whilst I stand in the open doorway of the carriage, conflicted. But there is only really one option now. I tap Edward on the shoulder. In a second he is awake; he had probably not been sleeping properly anyway. I don't know what to say for a moment.

"This is my stop," I say eventually.

He nods, stands, and steps out of the carriage. As if it's that simple. Together we walk out of the small station and through the carpark beyond. There's only two cars in it, looking as out of place as forgotten puzzle pieces.

"It's just twenty minutes from here."

He doesn't say anything. It seems like he's withdrawn into himself. I try to focus on other things. There's a few main roads to cross before we're on the road home, roads relatively empty compared to their daytime rush. The road to my house has a broad pavement, curving upwards on a hill. A series of semi-detached houses give way to more generic terraced ones, and I stop outside number 48. The gate's hinge has broken and the garden is overgrown. It hadn't bothered me until now. The outside lamp senses our motion and lights up as I reach for my key. I run through how I will explain his presence to Bella. I look at my watch. 1am. She'll probably already be asleep.

I open the door and step into the hallway. He steps in behind me, and I turn on the hallway light and close the door behind us. It's not much to see; a beige carpet, an umbrella stand, some coat hooks on the wall. I don't know why I have an umbrella stand but no shoe rack. I don't know why I've never thought about this before. It's lovely and warm though. The central heating, at least, is perfect.

"I, uh…I have some instant noodles. I'll… go heat them up." I point towards the kitchen, uselessly, before hanging up my jacket. It's small in the kitchen, and none of the utensils, pots, or plates ever seem to match. I don't notice the mismatch by myself, but now I have a guest it bothers me. Still, the walls are a bright, cheery yellow, made warmer when I turn the light on. I reach for the nearest cabinet and grab some chicken and mushroom instant noodles, then put the kettle on to boil. All of this time Edward doesn't say a word.

"Are you still cold?" I ask, making conversation.

"I'm always cold," he answers dully, looking around the little space with disinterest. He's not shivering, though.

The kettle rattles and clicks to a halt, and I pour the boiling water into the pot and hunt for a fork whilst the water does its work. Edward looks strangely calm. I think about what he said on the train, then push the thought away again. The noodles are ready soon. I find a fork and pass him the pot. He takes it silently and begins eating. I decide to boil the kettle again for something to do; some coffee, at least.

"Where's your dog?" Edward asks after a moment.

I wondered what else had felt missing. I sigh. "She's probably sleeping in Bella's room again." I'd told her not to spoil her; so much for that.

"Bella?"

"My…" I hesitate. I want to say girlfriend, but something in his gaze stops me. As if he can read my mind. "Housemate," I finish.

The kettle clicks again and I pour myself an instant coffee. I change the topic back again. "My dog Nessie is old and practically deaf now, but she's very friendly," I tell him. She's also strangely picky with her friends, for a dog. She's friendly to everyone, of course, but the distinction between who she likes and who she really likes has always been pretty clear-cut to me. I wonder which category the teen in front of me would fall into.

"I don't like dogs," he says.

I guess that decides it. Edward finishes his noodles pretty quickly, and then passes me the empty pot.

"Do you love her?" he asks suddenly.

I jump a little internally. "Who?"

"Bella."

I look down at my coffee for a long moment. I'm almost wishing we were back to the first awkward silence. I search for something else to say, and as I search his expression for either an answer or a way out I see his hair again.

"You can use my shower, if you like. It's upstairs, the door straight ahead."

He nods, and I try not to show my relief that he didn't keep asking.

"I think there's a spare towel up on the stair rail on the landing."

"Sure." He turns and leaves the kitchen. I exhale quietly.

As I wash up the few items we've used I ponder his question. Do I love Bella? I picture her long, straight brown hair and gentle smile, her shyness, her kindness. I believe I do. I sigh. For better or worse.

I eat biscuits whilst I hear the shower going upstairs, and think about where Edward could sleep, or if he would even want to sleep here. I've finished the entire biscuit pack – ginger nuts – without coming to a conclusion just before I hear Edward coming back downstairs.

The first thing I notice as he steps back into the kitchen is this: He's only wearing the towel.

He's fitter than I had pictured in that baggy hoodie, perhaps even strong-looking in a lean way. He has muscles in the sense one might from being hardened and resilient, rather than the result of leisure activity or vanity. His skin is pale and smooth save for a few small scars. I think he could be considered attractive even, with a strong jawline and hair that – now washed, is a pleasant bronze colour. However, to me, he still looks a bit ill. His eyes speak of a need for rest, but the expression he wears is determined and closed off.

"Do you need to borrow some –" I begin.

"We can do it now," he interrupts smoothly, closing the door behind him.

"Uh…What?"

"I'm clean." There's a hint of bitterness to his voice.

My mind does a violent jump-start. Woah, back up. "No." I hold my hands up firmly in a 'stop' motion but he walks forward as if I'd said nothing. If anything, he looks more disgusted by my rejection.

"I don't want to owe you anything. I would rather just do it now."

I can't make the right words come fast enough. "You don't owe me anything – please stop," I try to reassure him. Finally he hesitates, the slightest flicker of doubt crossing his face. Then it smoothes over again. He reaches for the edge of the towel.

"Don't worry, I'll be quiet," he says softly. There's the slightest hint of a smile at one side of his mouth as he untucks the corner of the towel from his waist.

I didn't want to offend or embarrass him, but it seems I have to play my last card. "I'm not –"

That's when the kitchen door opens, and Bella walks in.