This is just a little one shot. I will probably extend at some point, maybe a lemon... But for now...

I thought of this while walking my dog. It was a little fantasy/daydream, and, for once, I decided to do something constructive with it, instead of keeping it in my head.

I hope you like it. Please R&R.

BPOV

I didn't even look up at the light tap on the door. I knew who it was, and I knew he'd let himself in in about three seconds time.

I tried to wipe the tears from my cheeks, but it was useless. More kept coming. I knew my eyes would be puffy and red; I'd been crying for the best part of an hour now, with no sign of the tears stopping, or even pausing for the briefest second, in the near future. I tried to even out my breathing, but the air hitched in my throat; when I exhaled, it was shaky and ragged.

As predicted, the door swung open cautiously, and Edward stepped in, shutting it behind him. Since I purposely had my back to the door, he couldn't see my face, which bought me a few precious seconds.

"Hey, Bells. Not going back tonight?" he asked, casually, as he came towards me. I couldn't see him, but I could hear his shoes squeaking on the cheap linoleum. I could have had wood, or even carpeting, but I didn't see the point. I only come in here on my occasional breaks (the ones when I'm not reviewing the script, chatting with castmates—mainly Edward or Angela—or smoking) and nights like tonight. We didn't finish shooting until gone two am, and I had to be back in hair and make-up by five thirty. The thirty minute drive to my hotel just wasn't worth it.

I knew my voice would betray me, so I just shook my head.

He came up behind me, but I didn't turn my head. I remained curled up on the couch, staring resolutely ahead. "Me, either," he commented. "I guess we're the only ones, aside from Carlisle."

Carlisle, our director, never went back to his hotel, it seemed. Even if we had the gift of twelve or so hours off—all of which, for me, were spent either eating or catching up on some much-needed sleep.

I think he liked the privacy. The quiet.

I wish I had that luxury. I got screaming fans and paparazzi everywhere I went. Just because I knew what I was letting myself in for didn't mean I liked it.

Edward came around the couch, going to sit on the other end. I knew the exact moment he saw my face. All the air left his lungs in a whoosh and he froze, his eyes fixed on me.

"Bella, what the fuck?"

But he knew. I knew he knew. He didn't have to ask. His eyes flicked to my Blackberry, which was still clutched in my right hand, then back to my face.

"Oh God, Bells..."

The pain in his voice caused another ragged breath to hitch in my throat, coming out as a broken sob.

He sank down, sitting on the other end of the couch, facing me with a pained and worried expression. "What can I do? I'll do anything. Anything to make you happy again."

EPOV

I walked towards Bella's trailer after everyone else had gone back to their respective hotels. I didn't see the point, personally. Most of us—including me, Alice, Seth, Emmett and Angela, but excluding Bella, Emily, and Leah—didn't wrap for the day until nearly three am, and I knew Alice, Angela, and Emmett, at the very least, had to be in hair and make-up at the same time as Bella and I: half-past-five.

There really was no point, but it was their call, I guess.

I wondered what Bella and I would do tonight, if she wasn't already asleep. I doubted it. No matter how tired she was, she'd stay up that little bit longer to talk to me, or to hear me play a few songs for her on my guitar, before eventually bidding me good night and getting some much-needed sleep.

Not that I didn't need the sleep, but she would always come first. What Bella wanted, Bella got. Without question or discussion. It was automatic; I couldn't tell her no.

I knocked, but she didn't answer. That didn't bother me; it was rare that she would answer. She was always listening to her iPod, earphones in and music cranked up as loud as I could go. By now, she kind of just expected me to let myself in, but I always knocked first, even if she couldn't hear me. The only time I hadn't knocked, she had been butt-naked, and dancing around to Pour Some Sugar On Me. I would never make that mistake again.

Not that I didn't enjoy the view. I did. A lot. It's a memory that replays in my mind, over and over, every time I shut my eyes. And even sometimes when I don't. So, no, it wasn't that I didn't enjoy the view.

It was that...she wasn't mine.

There. I said it.

She wasn't mine, and it was hell having to see her—the girl I wanted so badly it hurt—so very naked, and know that I couldn't do a damn thing. I couldn't tell her how beautiful she was, or how much I wanted her. I couldn't hold her, or touch her, or love her like I wanted to.

I had to smother those feelings, and continue being her best friend. I could do that, just so long as I didn't have to see her naked. Or see her with her boyfriend. He was nice enough, and Bella loved him, but it was really a bit much to ask of my self-control.

I took a deep breath to clear my head, then stepped inside. Bella was sitting on her beat-up, midnight blue sofa with her back to me.

No iPod. No headphones.

Was she asleep?

"Hey, Bells. Not going back tonight?" I asked, casually, as I walked toward her. I flinched a little at the sound of my Adidas on the linoleum—an annoying, tapping squeak. I have cheap carpeting in my trailer, but I understood her reasoning behind choosing standard linoleum. I only used my trailer on my occasional breaks (the ones when I'm not reviewing the script, chatting with Bella, or smoking), and the odd night when Bella came to me, instead of the other way around. I guess, since Bella used her trailer about as much, she decided the carpeting wasn't worth it.

She didn't speak, or turn to look at me. She just shook her head.

Was she mad at me? No, I didn't think so. Bella wasn't the silent type. If I had pissed her off, I would know about it.

Something had to be wrong. Was it her dad? Her mum? One of her brothers, maybe? I didn't know her family well, but I had met them enough times to know that they were Bella's life. Her dad was her hero, her mum was...well, everything a mum should be, and her brothers—Jasper, Quil and Embry—were her best friends.

I walked closer, until I was almost right behind her. She didn't move an inch. "Me, either," I commented, struggling desperately to keep my voice light, casual. "I guess we're the only ones, aside from Carlisle."

Carlisle, our director, never went back to the hotel, it seemed. The only time he ever did was if his wife, Esme, visited. She was sweet, and everyone liked having her around, but her jobs—freelance interior designer and full-time teacher—were time-consuming, and she was lucky if she got a weekend off, much less a week or two, unlike Emmett's wife, Rosalie. As a model, she could visit pretty much whenever she liked. Unfortunately, she was your stereotypical model—blond, bitchy, snobby, and a very fussy eater. Oh, and did I mention she hated rain, clouds, wind, and the cold? That's all it ever is during the Canadian autumn. Welcome to reality, sweetheart.

I figured she either wasn't going to tell me at all, or was going to wait until I asked, so I went to sit down by her feet on the other end of the sofa. Then I saw her face. All the air left my lungs in a whoosh and I froze, my eyes unable to leaver her face, and the heartbroken expression there.

"Bella, what the fuck?"

But I knew. I didn't have to ask. My eyes flicked down to to the Blackberry, which she was clutching like a life preserver, then back to her face.

"Oh God, Bells..."

A ragged breath hitched in her throat, coming out as a broken sob. That did it for me. I couldn't take it. I sank down, sitting on the other end of the couch, and faced her with what I am sure was a pained and worried expression. I couldn't lie around her: every emotion showed clear as day on my face, no matter how hard I tried to hide it. "What can I do? I'll do anything. Anything to make you happy again."