A/N: OK, I have some bad news. I'm going to be out of the country for two weeks in a region of the world where Internet service is not reliable. So this is your last chapter for at least three weeks. Sorry about that, but if you're really cheesed at me, feel free to leave a review and tell me! Thanks to those who have reviewed and those who've put One Face on alert. If you're following the story, don't be a lurker - speak up!

And all my American readers, remember that tomorrow is election day (how could you forget?). Voting isn't just a right or a privelege - it's our duty. So please vote!

Evelyn-Shaye and MunkeeRajah read this chapter for me too. I love them more than the words "election's over for another four years."

Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.

I see your face when I close my eyes.
Every feature, every emotion
Fills me with joy.

Your smile thrills me.
Eyes that see into my soul,
Cheeks that beam with the love we share.

A mouth that brings me to my knees,
A tongue that drives me wild.
Lips of silky skin,
Rich and full.

Words of love.
Whispered in your sensuous ears.

Breathing in your scent.
Tasting your skin.
Kissing every part,
Of your beautiful face.

Raymond A. Foss

OFYL/OFYL/OFYL

Chapter 4

Asshole Detective Masen reappears, completely obscuring my brief glimpse of caring Edward.

"Maybe we should go with 'Spy Girl,' " he snaps evilly. "Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to eavesdrop—not to mention stare? Or do you make a special exception to the rules of basic courtesy just for me?"

I flinch as if he's flicked my injured nose with those gorgeous musician's fingers. I reel at how quickly he's escalated our spat, attacking on the front lines of our fundamental conflict.

He knows that I stare at him and only him. Constantly. Every chance I get. I can't deny it, any more than I can stop it, even knowing that he dislikes it. Even knowing that it's a blatant tell that reveals to anyone who cares to look just how pathetically enamored of him I really am.

Shamed, I drop my eyes to my injured wrist. It's only the second time since I've met him that I've voluntarily looked away from his endlessly fascinating face. But not even remorse and embarrassment can keep my eyes from him for long, and I quickly look back up to see he's still glowering at me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper miserably.

I can't interpret the emotions that flicker through his emerald eyes at my apology. He says nothing in reply. Only stands and moves quickly into my galley kitchen.

The freezer door opens and I hear him rummaging around. The door slams and drawers slide open, then thunk shut. After a minute, he returns to the living room and presents me with a towel-wrapped lump of something cold. Taking it from him, I finger the lump. It appears to be a bag of frozen peas. I look at him quizzically.

He resumes his seat beside me on the couch and gestures toward my face.

"For your nose," he explains.

"Oh. Thanks."

Tentatively, I press the towel-wrapped frozen veggies to my face. For several seconds the intense cold actually hurts worse than the injury. But as the numbness creeps over my skin, the pain recedes.

He surprises me by lifting my injured hand and inspecting it again.

"This might be sprained," he observes quietly. "At the very least it's a bad bruise. I'd take you to the emergency room if it was safe."

His evergreen eyes find mine above the half-mask of frozen peas. I'm sure I'm a wretched sight.

"Maybe I should call Dr. Cullen," he muses.

Grandma Swan's mantle clock sits on a wall shelf nearby—I don't have a fireplace or a mantle for it. The antique face indicates that it's well past midnight. Carlisle and Esme are early risers, which means they've almost certainly been in bed for at least two hours already. I hate to disturb them, and I'm honestly mortified at the thought of having to explain how I managed to injure myself.

"No," I protest, shaking my head. "I don't want to call Carlisle this late. I'll be fine. The cold is already helping my nose, and if you could just get me an Ace bandage from the bathroom cabinet, I'll wrap my wrist. It will be just fine in the morning."

He considers for a moment, brows drawn down over his still-angry eyes. Finally ….

"Fine."

He heads to the bathroom to retrieve the bandage, and I hear him open the cabinet.

"Christ, Bella!" he calls. "You've got enough shit in here to patch up a combat battalion. What the hell do you need all these bandages for?"

My nose is now so numb and swollen I'm forced to breathe through my mouth, and my wrist is throbbing in painful concert with the racing metronome of my heart. And that foolish organ is skipping and soaring because he's just used my given name for the second time, without being asked and without thinking about it.

"Um … I fall down, like, a lot," I shout back, and the increased volume of my voice reverberates painfully behind my bashed nose. "I'm kind of … clumsy."

His answer is a non-committal "humph" as he returns to stand in front of me. He holds out the bandage and I reach to take it with my injured hand. When I realize that's not going to work, I perform an absurd little juggling act, trying to decide what to do with the frozen peas that are currently occupying my one good hand. I'm aware of how farcical I must appear, and my humiliation is all the worse for realizing he's probably never had such a ludicrous moment in his life.

"Of for the love of all that's holy." He heaves an exasperated, put-upon sigh, unrolls the bandage with a snap and drops to his knees in front of me. "Give me your arm."

Obediently, I extend my injured wrist. When he touches my arm, the energy of his fingers pulsates through my flesh, and I feel pressure and heat in a much lower point on my body.

He begins wrapping the bandage, investing what seems to be a great deal of effort—and time—in achieving precisely the right balance of snugness and flexibility. Most people would watch his hands as he works, but of course, I'm studying his face. I don't even realize I'm doing it—and that he's annoyed by it—until he reprimands me sharply.

"Stop staring at me," he growls without looking up from his task.

Reluctantly, I drop my eyes to his hands, which have almost finished wrapping the bandage. "I'm sorry."

He works in silence for a few more moments, and when he's done, he smooths the bandage a last time. I think: Now he'll let go. He doesn't need to touch me anymore. He's going to stop touching me now.

I want to weep like a widow at the thought.

When I think I'm going to die from the sheer misery of losing this arousing—albeit clinical—contact, he surprises me again. Instead of releasing me and moving away, he continues to hold my hand between both of his, and he remains kneeling on the floor at my feet. He's still studying my bandage-wrapped wrist. When he speaks, I'm not only startled by his voice, but also by the tone of it—quiet, careful and questioning, but without anger or accusation.

"Why do you do that?"

Of course, I understand immediately what he's asking.

"I can't help it," I offer, apologetically. My explanation degenerates into verbal floundering. "It's just, that it's been so long since I—I mean I've never been able to—to remember a face. It's been a really long time and—I want this to mean something more, too. I mean, it is something more, and …."

I choke off my blather and force myself to collect my thoughts. He still hasn't looked up to meet my eyes, but I know this answer is important to him. If I can explain all this properly, maybe I can get him to look back at me and actually see me for once.

I gulp air into my lungs and try again. "You don't know how long I've waited for you."

At my declaration, his eyes flash up to meet mine. I'm encouraged by the absence of any hostility in his expression. In this moment, he seems open. Receptive. Before my courage evaporates, before I retreat into the isolationist cowardice that has been both my fortress and my prison since Charlie died, I plunge forward.

"I've been waiting eight years to see just one face that I could remember, that I could recognize. And now that I've found you, I just can't look away. I can't. Your face, it … you … it's become everything to me. It's like Kingsley says: 'God grant you find one face you loved ….' "

The words slip through my lips thoughtlessly, lightly, as if they are weightless and innocent. They are anything but, and we both realize this simultaneously. I gasp, and tears of horror and humiliation well up in my eyes, hazing my view of his astounded face.

"Do you mean—" he stutters. "Are you saying … that you think you're in love with me?"

I shouldn't have said it. I never meant to say it. Why did I say it? Take it back!

And again, my mouth moves independently of my will.

"Yes."

That single word rings with steady conviction that belies the hurricane of uncertainty and self-doubt that rages in my head. His eyes grow impossibly wider. He sucks in a shaking, ragged breath and for a moment I almost think he might join me in a good cry.

Suddenly, anger, hard and icy, sweeps over his face.

"No, you're not," he growls implacably. "You only think you are. It's just because of my fucking unforgettable face."

A distinct undercurrent of disgust flows into his voice. He explodes off the floor, backpedals a step, snatches up my discarded peas and thunders into the kitchen.

His reaction is confusing to say the least, especially since it's clear that his anger and disgust are turned inward and not directed at me. Still, my sense of self-preservation warns that I should keep my butt firmly parked on the couch and leave him alone to cool down. Or better yet, quietly retire to my room and relieve him of the imposition of my presence for the rest of the evening.

But part of me recognizes this moment for what it is: a pivot point. On one side, is the lonely, isolated Isabella I've been for the past eight years. On the other, is the free Bella I want to be, and that person can only exist with Edward's help.

Which way should I tip?

I climb to my feet—less quickly than I'd like because I am, after all, still a klutz—and march after him into the kitchen. He's waist deep in my refrigerator, muttering something that sounds like "no damned beer," and doing his best to ignore me. I wait.

Finally, when it's apparent that I'm not going away, he settles for a bottle of water, and slams the fridge door so hard it rattles the stemware I've stored on top of the fossilized appliance. I'm afraid the glasses will fall to the floor and shatter. I'm in serious danger of suffering the same fate.

"You're wrong, Edward," I venture, steadying myself against the small breakfast bar that constitutes one side of my miniscule galley kitchen. I wish it were so easy to steady my voice. "It's not because of your looks."

He wrenches the cap off the water and gulps several swallows before turning his glare on me. It's lethal. He's so angry, I actually find myself wishing he'd left his gun in the car, but of course it's still nestled in the shoulder holster he always wears.

"Sure it is," he snarls. "It always is. That's all I am—to every woman I've ever known. Just an interesting face. A fucking exotic oddity. A trinket that they can show off to their friends."

I'm at a loss. I have no perception of whether or not he is, in fact, good-looking. I find him mesmerizing, but I honestly can't say if the rest of the world would consider him so.

His face is the only one I know, so I have no basis of comparison by which to judge if he's as appealing to others as he is to me. But if he is—and his words seem to imply that's what he believes—then why is that a bad thing? Why does it seem to cause him so much anger and hurt?

"It isn't anything more," he rants. "This …" He gestures contemptuously, flicking his fingers back and forth between us. His voice drips sarcasm. "… isn't anything more. You're just remembering a fucking pretty face."

I have no idea what to make of this abrupt and unexpected emotional detour he's taken. I can only assume that some shallow, soulless whore mishandled his heart so badly that she convinced him his face was the only reason any woman would ever want him. Yes, I find him beautiful and desirable and—most appealing of all—known. But my craving for him goes far beyond those truths. He's also strong and smart. I've seen his loyalty to his friends and his dedication to his job. And he's putting his life on the line to help bring Charlie's murderers to justice.

I need to find some way to make him understand that he's more to me.

I grab one of the high stools from the breakfast bar and drag it in front of the refrigerator. He watches suspiciously as I place one foot on the lowest rung and grasp the door handle with my good hand.

"What are you doing?" he demands, confused by this apparent segue from our confrontation.

I place my weight on the foot that's resting on the stool rung and swing the opposite knee up onto the seat, preparing to drag myself to kneeling atop the stool. It tips precariously backward before I shift my weight, successfully righting it with a loud clack on the floor.

"Getting something from the cabinet," I grunt laboriously.

"Jesus Christ! Get down from there," he commands, firmly grasping my arm and pulling me off the stool. "You'll fall again. Tell me what you want. I'll get it."

For a moment I debate my half-baked, ill-conceived plan. It probably stinks. He probably won't care. But it's all I've got.

"There's a shoebox on the top shelf. All the way in back. I need it."

Nimbly, he steps onto the stool, opens the cabinet … and finds that he has to stretch to reach the back of the shelf in question. "Shit Bella," he huffs. "Why would you put something way up here? I can barely reach it. How do you ever get your hands on it?"

I allow myself to savor his easy use of my name. Apparently, he hasn't yet realized I'm no longer "Miss Swan," or that he's allowing me to call him "Edward." That has to count for something. Doesn't it?

"I don't," I reply as he finally manhandles the shoebox out of the cabinet. He looks at the box in his hands and I can see the muscles in his broad shoulders stiffen beneath the cotton of his light blue dress shirt as he reads the word "Jake" written in Magic Marker on the top. "I haven't looked at this box in eight years."

He jumps down from the stool and offers the box to me. He holds it with the precise mixture of distaste and befuddlement that you would expect from a bachelor handling an extremely soiled and malodorous diaper. His eyes are hard and wary.

"What's in it?"

I accept the box and place it on the breakfast bar.

"Pictures." I lift the lid and begin removing manila envelopes from the box.

"Of?" he prompts in a tone that says he doesn't really want to know.

"My past. Faces that I'll never remember again. My dad. My mom." I find the envelope I've been hunting for and return the others to the box. I open the envelope and turn to him. "My ex."

Now his eyes are clearly saying he doesn't want to see this. Doesn't want to accompany me on this self-abusing stroll down memory lane.

"I don't need to see those," he says, finally verbalizing what his eyes have been shouting since he read the name on the box. Guilt is evident in his voice and eyes, and he's obviously remembering his conversation with Jasper from earlier in the evening.

I ignore his protest and empty the contents of the envelope on the counter. "Jake—he was my fiancé—took all these. He always loved photography when we were kids. It just seemed natural for him to go into it as a career when we grew up."

He presses his back to the refrigerator door, putting as much distance as possible between himself and what I hold in my hands. I sift through the photos until I find the one I think I'm looking for. I flip it over and read what Alice wrote on the back, words that confirm the picture is, indeed, our engagement portrait.

Of course, I don't recognize the small, painfully young and plain girl in the photograph, nor the tall, ruggedly handsome Native American boy who's cradling her left hand tenderly against his chest, his index finger just brushing the modest solitaire that encircles her ring finger. Still, even I can tell from the tenderness in his eyes and the worshipfulness in hers that they are deeply in love.

I turn back to Edward and offer the photo to him. He glares at it as if I'm trying to pass him a bag of dog feces. I think he may not take it, but after a moment he accepts it from me grudgingly. He scowls at the smiling faces in the image.

"That him?" His words are clipped, and they resonate with a low rumble of anger.

"Yes. At least, that's what Alice tells me," I explain. "She captioned all these for me, so that I'd always know who was in the photos, even if I can't recognize them."

His gaze flees the photograph in his hand and locks with mine. His sensual lips part slightly, and tiny lines form at the corners of his stricken eyes. I can tell the full reality of my condition—and all the losses that I've suffered because of it—has just slapped him across the face.

I sort through more photos, flipping them over to read the back, looking for another picture of Jake. I find three, pull them out and pass them to Edward. Again, he's less than thrilled to accept them, but take them he does. He studies each one with an expression that I imagine mirrors the distaste he would display for the mugshot of a serial flasher.

"You can see from those photos that Jake is an exceptionally handsome guy," I state, my voice neutral and bland.

I don't remember Jacob's face anymore, but I do recall that I once thought it perfect. His attractiveness is a fact that brings me neither pride, nor pain, and I only speak of it now because I'm leading up to a point that I hope Edward will get.

He flinches at my bald statement, as if I've flicked my fingers in front of his eyes just to taunt him. I'm not sure what to make of his reaction, but he's not walking away. Not telling me to go to hell. So I press on, taking the photos from his hands. I slip them back in the envelope, return it to the box and close the lid before turning back to Edward, who is still watching me silently. Warily.

"Jacob was my best friend for my whole life, my first lover and the man I intended to spend the rest of my life with. He was kind and handsome, funny and sweet, and I adored him."

I feel like I've opened a vein and I'm just waiting for him to lap up the crimson life force as it oozes out of me.

"And none of that made any difference at all. When my father's killers were done with me, I couldn't tell Jake's handsome face from anyone else's, and he left me because of that. So I think it's safe to say that the fact that you're 'pretty,' as you put it, has no bearing on my ability to remember you."

I'm not good with faces, and for all the hours I've spent studying his, I still can't decipher his expression now. Is it pity? Apathy? Revulsion? I don't know. I cross my arms over my chest in an effort to keep myself from flying apart.

"I'm telling you this and showing you this because I want you to understand that there are three things I know for certain."

I breathe deeply to fortify myself for what I'm about to say. The kitchen is so small, and he's standing so close, that all I can smell is his aftershave.

"First, you are a beautiful human being, Edward, inside and out. Second, there is no part of me that doesn't hunger for you. Third, I know what love is because I've experienced it, and I am unconditionally, irrevocably in love with you."

Whatever reaction I'd hoped for, whatever repercussions I'd feared, it wasn't this. He is as still and silent as a statue. In the glare of the overhead fluorescents, his skin is inhumanly pale and his eyes are so dark they almost appear black. He doesn't speak. Doesn't move.

Once, during senior year of high school, Jake and I went cliff diving on the reservation where he'd grown up. I can't recall what his face looked like as we prepared to make that leap, but the memory of how I felt standing on that precipice seconds before jumping—that remains as sharp and frightening as the edge of a fine razor. I'm feeling that helpless fear again, watching Edward watch me. There's nothing for it but to press on.

"It's not just your face that I recognize, it's you."

Verbalizing that truth creates a shift in my awareness that is tectonic. Suddenly, everything that was horribly confused is now clear, and I know—at least I think I know—exactly what to say to him.

"I recognize your soul, Edward. I see you."

His breath hitches, and he gives his head a slight, confused shake.

"And every time I see you, I want you. I don't have the strength to stay away from you anymore."

Now, at last, he is seeing at me. He is looking at me, and the truth is clearly written on his beautiful face. Jasper was right: Edward fears me. Terror clouds his verdant eyes, like frost shadowing a lush, rich carpet of grass.

He's drawing short, unproductive pants and I'm worried that he's moving rapidly toward hyperventilation.

"Breathe, Edward," I admonish him.

He grasps the seat of the stool that still sits in front of the refrigerator, and cautiously lowers himself onto it, like an old man negotiating an obstacle course without a walker. His long legs flop akimbo, his knees and hands tremble. Parting his delectable lips, he moistens them unconsciously with his pink tongue.

"Bella, I … I can't do this," he rasps. "I don't know what you want from me. You're my witness. I can't … we can't …"

He stalls. I wait. Finally, as if he's just remembered that he needs to breathe, he heaves a gasp of air that must be swelling his lungs to the point of pain. He holds it just long enough for the ringing in my ears to crescendo before exhaling in a pained whisper:

"What do you want from me?"

With a boldness the pre-Edward Bella could never have claimed, I step forward between his splayed knees, grasp his lightly sweating face between my hands and press my lips to his quivering mouth.