Disclaimer: All characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I hope I didn't let you down by doing this, but I decided to try an Edward Cullen POV. Please don't hesitate to tell me if I failed miserably in the attempt, I'm sure I did. I hope you enjoy this chapter and a billion thank you's for reading and reviewing this, favoriting and alerting. It means so much. Hope you enjoy this chapter.


ECPOV:

Clearly I heard wrong. Clearly I conjured this whole damned thing inside my head. I pull over and just in time I look in her direction to see the abashed expression on her face. I lean over and kiss those lips, like a thief stealing kisses from a poor, innocent meek little girl.

She said that she loves me.

I wanted so desperately for this to evolve into something more, but it would be wrong considering her father's rusty black cruiser is conspicuously parked in the driveway. I particularly don't enjoy the thought of having Chief Swan's handgun pressed against the nape of my neck for indecently assaulting his only daughter so I reluctantly pull away from her, starting the ignition.

"I'll see you tomorrow, love," I say weakly, shuddering at the unfavourable idea of not seeing her for a long and unbearable twelve hours until tomorrow morning at school.

I stomp on the accelerator; probably a little too harder than intended and my car goes flying forward around the bend, running bumpily over the asphalt. I push the button that lowers the automatic windows; feeling simultaneously alleviated as the breeze comes blowing in, always cold and biting, onto my face.

She said that she loves me.

All my concerns over Jacob Black and inappropriate pick-up lines, all of that, is now diminutive now that I know clearly where I stand with her. For some unfathomable reason, she loves me too...

I jostle the gear into park as I arrive at my house, purposefully taking the longest time imaginable to gather my cigarettes and backpack before climbing out of the car. My father, Carlisle, has already arrived home earlier than usual, his glistening black Mercedes parked in the exact spot my mother's car used to regularly be.

I glance behind me, checking the coast is clear, before strutting over to it, peering in through the tinted window of the passenger's side. He's obviously already inside with my mother, doing God knows what. I hold the sharp, pointy end of my key between my fingers and near my knuckles before jabbing it into the shiny veneer of his Mercedes, walking slowly as the key scrapes along the paint. I reach the end of the door and step back, taking an appreciative look at my handiwork.

The sharp point of the key has penetrated the surface of the paint, causing a long white scratch along the door. I immediately have a sudden pang of guilt over this. It was very irrational, but at the same time I found it very humorous. I could only imagine the forlorn expression on my father's face as he discovers someone has damaged his poor, beloved machine.

She said that she loves me.

I put my key into my pocket, quickly destroying any evidence as I enter the house. Through the long hallway I can hear the clatter of silverware in the kitchen and some low mumblings happening between my father and my mother. Our hallway is covered in framed photographs of some facade of a happy family that I didn't even know. I particularly despised the ones of me and my father, smiling and embracing each other over the mahogany piano in the dining room. It always brought back the unpleasant memories of when my father actually cared about what I was doing with my life.

I cautiously enter the kitchen, squinting my eyes in case I witnessed something remotely sickening. My mother is deeply engrossed in her baking, a tray of already cooked wholemeal muffins on the basin and cooling. The sickening part is the fact that my father has his head between the crook of my mother's neck, deeply immersed in pleasing her.

My mother, Esme's, long brown hair is pinned back into a rather severe-looking bun and she acknowledges me by nodding her head slowly, without looking away from my father, who resumes kissing and biting her neck passionately. Although it did disgust me, I had to confess it was a relief to see that they still held that same level of adoration toward each other after nearly fifteen years of marriage.

I clear my throat loudly, causing my parents to spring apart from each other. Carlisle regards me with a severe stare. "I didn't hear you come in, Edward," he says, looking down at his work shoes now while my mother ambles over toward me, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

"How is my dear son?" she asks, carefully air kissing my left cheek. She lingers, smiling warmly, running her thumb against my lip where the wound from Jacob's fist is poorly conspicuous. "Did you apologize to the poor boy?"

My mother has been adamant on me making amends with Jacob Black after the whole fighting incident over my Bella. I'd rather suffer a long painful death than apologize to that mongrel. Without providing an answer, I hand my coat to Esme and she takes it from me, hanging it up on the coat rack by the front door.

Carlisle looks uncomfortable. "Didn't have a very good day," he says, assessing my dismal demeanour.

I silently mull over the events of today. My Bella had told me that she loves me, although I wasn't absolutely certain I believed her or not. It seemed irresponsible. Surely she didn't know what she was saying. I had to compose myself regardless, keep myself in check. It felt as if I had plunged from a great height, my stomach dropping out from my chest when she said those three words.

Any normal, decent human being would have told her that she was wrong, convince her that she could never love someone so monstrous. Instead, I found myself kissing those appetizing lips, savouring the sweet taste of her. And she had so eagerly responded, running her all too willing fingers through my hair.

I look at Carlisle. I wonder what he sees, what expression he reads on my face right now. Am I happy? Disappointed? Ecstatic? "Good is certainly an understatement considering the day I've had," I say at last.

Before I am able to hear his response, I make my way up the staircase and into my bedroom. I shut the door behind me, sliding my backpack off my shoulders and setting it directly in the middle of my bed. My room is, without a doubt, the untidiest room in the house. Esme has tried to sneak her way in from time to time, when she presumed I was out, drawing open my lace curtains and attempting to mask the cigarette smell. She didn't approve of my smoking, but I never exactly took her concerns into consideration.

I lay out on my leather sofa, stretching my legs, my hands clasped around my middle. This sofa was simply too comfortable. I almost liked it more than I liked sleeping in my own bed. I could only imagine how much more peaceful it would be if my Bella was lying right beside me. I imagined her sleeping, the flowing rhythm of her breathing, the way her chest rises and falls with every inhale and exhale. The way her dark hair flowed graciously below her shoulders, aligning the soft, lightness of her collarbone.

And I would hover over her, watching her being submerged into her dreams, every expression of worry crinkling her forehead and every smile brightening her beauty and smooth, pale skin. I would fulfil her darkest desires and protect her from any harm that crossed her.

I realize I've forgotten to lock the bedroom door and Carlisle comes bustling in, intruding me from my magnificent thoughts, his arms crossed. I sit up on the sofa, the springs squeaking. He doesn't look very happy at all. When I think about it, it's bizarre that Carlisle and I even share the same gene pool. We have nothing in common, except for the fact that I have a morbid fascination with watching him help patients undergo surgical operations at his work. He massages his eyes with his fingertips, scowling.

"Can I help you with anything, father?" I ask amiably, politely.

This question pushes him over the edge. He starts pacing back and forth around my room, then turns to face me directly. "Edward, did you have something to do with the scratch that is now on my car?"

I didn't prepare beforehand an excuse or explanation. I stare at Carlisle, trying to play the innocent victim card. "I don't know what you're talking about," I reply quietly, hopping off my sofa and delving through my backpack. It was a necessary distraction. I find my packet of cigarettes. My own personal choir is now singing hallelujah in my head and I can't contain a smile at the sound.

"It wasn't there before, Edward," Carlisle interrupts and the choir comes to an abrupt end. "I would have noticed it at the hospital; I would have reported it to the security guards."

"I don't know, Carlisle."

I knew how to make him leave me alone for good. I knew the lone word I had to say for him to leave me in peace and not question me further. It was a low blow and quite an inconsiderate one to make.

I force myself to look at him, to look into those understanding, gray eyes that I despise so much. "Elizabeth," I say emphatically and, with that name alone, his whole body stiffens underneath the layers of his clothing; an intended reaction.

He opens his mouth, daring to say some remark, perhaps even ground me for the rest of my existence, but at that moment I don't care. I ignore him, drawing open my window and looking out over the woods. I faintly hear his footsteps and then my door closes. Absolute, peaceful silence now.

She said that she loves me.