Epilogue.

"Hey," Rose greets me when I walk up to her table near the back of the bar. As I'm hugging her, she says, "Sorry."

"For what?" I ask, but the answer is clear from the outrageous noise—I refuse to call it singing—and Rose's grimace. I look behind me and sure enough, I know the girl standing on stage, screeching that "turn around" song into the microphone. She's hot—well, pretty, but she's got a great rack, which makes her hot—and she's absolutely blitzed out of her mind.

Later on, after we've—she's—been kicked out of the bar, we slowly walk home because Bella keeps stumbling everywhere and tripping Rosalie, who has put her arm around her shoulders. At one point, Bella reaches over and taps me on the shoulder.

"Yes, Bella?" I ask, amused. Let no one say this girl isn't entertaining.

"You're very handsome," she tells me. She raises her eyebrows and nods seriously, saying, "No, really you are," as if I argued with her, even though I haven't said a word.

I smile, and we hold each other's gazes for a second. There's something there, that little spark in her eyes that gets me a little heated, and I can't help but wonder what her lips would look like after I kissed her. What they would look like doing other things, too.

I think she's attracted to me, too—I mean, she did just call me handsome. I've only met her once before, and she was sober and not nearly as brazen, though still quite fun. And Rose would probably kill me, but I could take it. My eyes rove over Bella's nice ass and those fantastic breasts, and yeah, I think it'd be worth a scolding from Rose.

I'm about to flirt back when she says, "Rose, you are, too. Not handsome. Pretty. Not pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Even your nostrils are pretty."

Rose and I share a look and chuckle over her head. Bella is so, so drunk.

"Thanks, B," Rose says.

Bella proceeds to tell Rose how much men suck—to which Rose mouths 'break up' to me, which explains the drunkenness. And then, to my utter astonishment and delight, she asks Rose if she'll "go les" with her if neither of them finds a man by 2008.

"Why 2008?" Rose asks.

She shrugs. "2008, it's so even. You add the 2 and the 8 and it's ten and then there's the zeroes!" she says, like that explains everything and then proceeds to trip, nearly falling to the ground before I grab her.

"Alright," I say, torn between laughing and sighing. We've walked two blocks in the last ten minutes, and I need to piss. This has got to speed up. "Bella, can you get on my back? I'll piggy-back you home."

She grins and nods enthusiastically—despite her drunkenness, or maybe because of it, it's cute as fuck— and I move to stand in front of her, crouching down so she doesn't have to jump as high. It takes three tries, but she finally jumps high enough. I latch my hands onto her thighs, then give a little jump-boost so she's sitting higher on my back, which makes her squeal.

We walk home at a normal pace, then a little faster when she wraps her legs around my waist—which would be kind of sexy, especially when she whispers, "You really are handsome"— except that it's totally pushing on my bladder.

"Bella," my sister drawls. "Stop flirting with Edward."

Instead of being embarrassed, she scoffs. "As if I would do that, Rose. He's your brother. I don't even know him."

It's true; other than being my sister's roommate and friend, she's just some girl who I thought I had a drunken moment with.

Who knew that she would become you?

—|—

You tug on a lock of my hair—which is difficult because of how short it is—then roughly turn my head to the side to you can inspect. Then you do the same for the other side.

"It's too short, right?" I complain. "I asked the barber to buzz on a three, but he must have done a two—maybe even a one."

You're still curiously inspecting my head as you say, "I have no idea what that means."

"When the barber buzzes your hair, the settings are for how close cropped it is. One is the shortest—"

"I really don't care," you say, standing up and leaning over me so you can see the top of my head. I'm about to protest, but it puts my face in the direct line of your cleavage, so I just… enjoy for a few moments. "It makes your head look smaller," you observe as you sit back down.

"Right?" Fuck, I knew it. I look like a moron. "And it makes my chin look huge. Like I'm fucking Jay Leno."

"You're fucking Jay Leno? What does Tanya have to say about that?" you tease, which makes me laugh.

"You know what I mean," I say. "It looks terrible."

You roll your eyes. "You're such a woman. It'll grow back in a few weeks; and even if it doesn't, you look fine."

I smirk. "Do I look handsome?" I drawl a little on the word.

You give me a blank look. "Why are you asking me like that?"

"Because you once called me handsome."

"I did?"

"Yup, way back when you were in college." I don't want to clarify that it was the night you broke up with your boyfriend.

"Was I drunk?" you ask, and you're joking but laugh when I confirm that yes, you were. "Well, hold on to that memory because it's not happening again," you say, and I chuckle.

"Where is everyone?"

You look around the coffee shop exaggeratedly. "Not here."

"Thanks, genius. I just meant, do you know what everyone is up to? What are Rose and Em doing?"

You shrug. "Each other?"

I groan. "That was unnecessary."

"You're right, I'm sorry," you say.

"Make it up to me."

You narrow your eyes. "How?"

"Go with Jasper to that documentary on Tuesday in my place."

You snort. "The one about dust bunnies? No way."

I crack up. "It's about the Dust Bowl."

"Whatever. Still not going."

"Alright, then tell me I'm handsome. Your choice."

You roll your eyes about three times, sighing exasperatedly before mumbling, "Edward, you're handsome." The tone you say it in makes you sound like you're admitting something incredibly painful.

Tanya comes over later that night. I like her a lot. We're in that place right between casual and serious, and I don't really know which way it will go, but she's a fun girl.

She likes the haircut.

"Really?" I ask skeptically. I want to say the thing about my chin, but I just can't tell her. It'd be too weird.

She nods. "I really do like it. It's so clean cut. It makes you look so... handsome!"

She doesn't get why I start laughing.

—|—

Something is up, and I can't tell from the way you're mumbling whether it's good or bad. I really, really need it to be good. You and I—we don't do bad, and lately, just when I feel like I'm finally getting a hold of you, you twist or turn, and I'm left grasping at air.

I feel like this is one of those moments so, sounding a little more frustrated than I mean to, I admonish you. I realize this and soften my tone as I ask again, "What did you do?"

You inhale deeply and say, "I told Angela and Carmen you were my boyfriend."

That… I was not expecting. I tease you a bit and then tease you more, because you make it so easy and so fun, but all I can think is that you're mine. Finally.

And the 'finally' is totally unwarranted, because it's been like ten days since I figured out I even wanted you, but still. I think even just one day of wanting you is enough and even every day of having you won't be enough.

It fucking kills me that we're finally together and you're three thousand miles away. But you don't let me dwell on it, chattering on about dumbass things like rules and Snuggies and breaking up—which, what the fuck, way to be a killjoy.

Then you ask me to stay your best friend.

I have this ridiculous thought right then; I can't quite believe I even think it, and I freak myself out a bit—a lot—and whatever I say back makes you smile at me in a way that only makes me think it more before I frantically push the thought away. And I'd never tell you this in a million years—except I do wind up telling you in about ten or so—but that's the first time I think about marrying you.

—|—

"Edward!" you screech from the other room. Even if we hadn't been friends for years, we've been dating long enough that I know that when it's important things, you get really quiet and your eyes get really big and scared. This is just your morning neuroses.

I tuck my shirt in, leaving my tie undone around my shoulders, and walk into the bathroom. You're standing there in just a pair of my boxers, completely topless. I approve.

"New look?" I ask. "I like."

You roll your eyes and cup one of your breasts, but not in the fucking hot way you sometimes do when we're having sex. You lift your breast and drop it, which makes it jiggle slightly. You repeat the action with the other one, and then with both at the same time. I sit on the edge of the bathtub, wondering if there will ever be a day where the dumb, awesome shit you do won't entertain me.

You turn away from the mirror to face me.

"Are they getting saggy?" you asks.

I snort. "Your breasts? Not at all."

You squish your mouth to one side as you stare down at them. "I think they're getting saggy. Like, a year ago, they were up here"—you demonstrate by pushing them almost into your face, which, even after this morning, gets me hard—"and now." You release them and they fall into place. I'm not really getting what you're talking about. Breasts are breasts, except when they're yours, and then they're perfect.

"Bella, they're exactly where they always have been."

You shake your head and turn back to the mirror as I begin to knot my tie. "No, no." You walk over to me and make me stand, taking over the tie-tying. "I think you're just placating me."

I roll my eyes. "I promise, I'm not. You know how much I love your breasts. I promise, I still wanna do all the dirty things I wanted to do to them before."

You push my chin up as you loop around the material, and when I look back at you, you're smiling. "Really?"

"I swear."

"Okay." As you tighten the knot, you tug on the tie and pull me down for a kiss.

"Alright, I better go before I'm late," I say against your lips, wanting to do anything but.

"Don't forget to call Garrett later, unless you want me to. Kate's going in for her appointment today. They'll probably set a date later this week to induce labor," you remind me. You kiss me again then move behind me, shedding the boxers as you step into the shower. Now I really don't want to leave, but you call out, "Have a good day!"

As I walk out of the bathroom, I say "Bye. Love you."

"Love you, too."

It's only when I'm at the door that I realize that's the first time we've ever said that to each other.

You pop your head out of the shower; your hair is wet already, and you're squinting because there's shampoo dribbling down your face. You don't say a word, just grin at me. I grin back and walk to you, giving you a solid, kind of squelchy kiss because your lips are all wet, and then leave for work.

When you call me later, you end the conversation with "I love you" and just like that, we're in love.

It's as easy as every other part of being with you.

—|—

"Edward," you whine, pushing your hips up to me. It feels so good when you brush up against me because I've been hard for the last, oh, thirty minutes or so, but I still keep on task: the task being slowly driving you crazy as I put my mouth all over your breasts, not touching you anywhere else. We'll get to the sex—we will definitely get to the sexbut for right now, it's really fun doing this to you, hearing you almost beg for me.

"What was that poem I wrote you? About your boobs?" I ask, and you laugh, despite your frustration with me.

"Your erotic poem?"

"Yeah, yeah, that one. How did it go?" I kiss you quickly on the lips. "This breast." I kiss your neck. "Is the best." Right between your breasts."Something about a quest." I move lower, lightly biting at the bottom of your bellybutton, which makes you squeal. "I do not jest." I make my way up, trailing kisses over your ribs. "Blah blah blah chest." I put my mouth on your nipple, and the noise you make is amazing. "I will not rest."

I thought I knew you before, but it's amazing what I know now. I know that you like it better when I flick your nipple with my tongue rather than suck on it, that you hate doggie-style on the basis of the name alone but love reverse cowgirl, that you moan when it feels good but just screw your eyes shut and open your mouth silently when it feels best. I've lost count of how many times I've made you come, and know how to do it in a million different ways, but tonight I want to find the millionth and first and second and third and fourth.

I give up on teasing and get to tasting.

—|—

We're walking down the street on a fantastic fall day when I feel a tug on my shorts. I look down, and there's this kid, this tiny little thing in braids, her big, brown eyes taking up half her face.

"Hello," I reply. I catch a glimpse of your face, and you're watching me incredibly closely; I feel like I'm in a test or something.

The kid replies something, but she's so soft spoken, and I'm too tall to hear what she says. I crouch down on my haunches, and even then, I'm still taller than her. It kind of floors me how small she is.

She and her sister—a replica of her with a foot of extra height sweet-talking some other fool a few yards away—are selling lemonade; it's so ridiculous and quaint that even if this little thing wasn't the best salesman on the basis of her tininess, I'd buy some anyway.

I buy two glasses, and as we're walking away, the kid yells, "Thank you, sir!" She's not so soft spoken once she's made the sale.

I laugh at her calling me 'sir' and turn around to reply, "Thank you, Miss."

She's not done though. "You have a great day!"

You raise your eyebrows and smile at me. "I think you have a little admirer."

I'm about to shrug and reply when the little girl yells again, "And your wife too!"

You get this deer in the headlights look that is so comical, I start laughing.

"Shut up," you mutter, but I pull you to me, slipping my arm around you and kissing your temple as we continue to walk.

"I thought I was weaning you off your commitment phobic tendencies."

You smile and then frown. "It's just with my mother's track record... marriage doesn't seem like a great thing. Or maybe it's marriage that's fine and divorce that's the problem." You say these words carefully, measured, then quickly add, "But things with us are great."

I laugh. "Thanks for letting me know that."

"I just... I didn't want to make you feel bad," you say, and I grin.

"You didn't. And I promise, I won't divorce you," I reply.

You raise your eyebrows. "You must be some kind of stubborn to talk about marrying me after what I just said." Your eyes are teasing, and your smile is emerging. I love you.

"Whoa there, Bella. Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I say. "I never said I'd marry you... just that I'd never divorce you."

And I see in it your smile, your blush, the way you change the subject abruptly and start yammering on about something ridiculous—butter? batter?—and don't let me even get in a word.

You want to marry me.

Maybe not today, maybe not even soon, but you do. You want to marry me.

You stop talking and look at me, narrowing your eyes. "What?"

"What?"

"You're grinning that grin," you say.

"What grin?" I know exactly what grin it is.

"That one where you have something up your sleeve," you say. I love that you know exactly what grin it is.

I try to tamp it down and reply, "I have nothing up my sleeve. Except for my heart, because that's where I wear it."

You roll your eyes, but don't say anything, because jokes aside—hell, male pride aside, since I pretty much gave that up the day I started chasing after you—it's kind of true.

I wear my heart on my sleeve for you. Maybe you'll wear yours on the third finger of your left hand for me.

—|—

I wake up suddenly; it feels like a heavy weight has been laid upon my chest. I open my eyes, and there you are.

"Hi," you say, smiling.

"Hi." I'm still sleepy, and you're sitting right on top of me which is making it hard to breathe. I take a deep inhale, but halfway through you dip down and kiss me hard. It wakes me up and leaves me sort of breathless, but maybe not completely for the usual reasons or the way you'd want it to.

"Hi," you say again, and you're still wearing that dumb grin. You're drunk.

"How was your night out with Rose and Al?" I ask, smiling more at you than with you.

You shrug. "Alright." But you belie it by your grin. You had fun; we both know you did. "We spent most of our time talking about our boyfriends. How was your night in with Jasper and Em?"

I smile. "We spend most of our time not talking about girlfriends."

You pretend to pout, and that's when I know you're definitely drunk, because you don't pout; you whine or you bully me into giving you whatever you want.

"I missed you," you say, leaning down. You shove your tongue a little too forcefully into my mouth, but I kiss back anyway. "All I could think about was this."

You grind your hips into what you probably think are my hips, but are really my ribs, which knocks the breath out of me a little.

I put my hands on your hips and move you a little lower, laughing. "You are always so horny when you drink."

You sit up, and for a second, I think I've genuinely offended you. Then you smile. "I am. But do me a favor?"

"What?"

You lean down and with your lips inches from mine say, "Oblige me anyway?"

I smile and sit up so I can take off your shirt. I'd like to say it's the prospect of sex that's motivating me—and a big part of it is—but the truth is, I've never been able to deny you. I'm not about to start now.

—|—

I wake up one morning and as happens on rare occasion, you're out of bed before me. You're playing around with something on the dresser, humming a popular song from a few years ago that I recognize vaguely. Every few minutes you stop and hold out your left hand, waggling your fingers and grinning before you return to whatever you were doing.

You walk around the room, folding the various articles of clothing that got thrown around last night in the heat of the moment. You're humming a little louder and wiggling your hips from side to side; I swear, I've used the word 'cute' in the years we've been dating more than any man ought to, but that's what you are. That's what I love most about you; you're strange and goofy, and it's so you. How could it not be cute?

You're shaking your ass with gusto now, clearly singing what is your favorite part of the song—something about putting a ring on it, which is ridiculous but also very apt. I just fold my hands behind my head and watch you; you're better than any TV show or movie. Your breasts are bouncing, and I can tell you're not wearing a bra. I think that we need to reinstate topless Sundays again.

Your eyes wander over to me and you notice me watching you; maybe years ago, you would have stopped and been embarrassed. Now, you just sing out louder and move toward the bed in these weird, stilted motions that make you look like you're cross country skiing or something.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask.

You laugh. "It's the dance that Beyonce did in the video for this." And you go back to singing as you pounce on me. You kiss me all over, my mouth, my cheeks, behind my ear, on my ear, which makes a weird sound that I recoil at, which makes you laugh.

"I've been thinking," you say.

"Good, something new and different for you," I tease, and you roll your eyes. The day we stop doing that is the day we're not us anymore.

"Shut up. I've been thinking, and there's something I'd really like you to do for me." You're smiling, but your voice is serious, so I tuck your hair behind your ear and ask you what it is.

"This whole name thing is really important to me," you say, taking my hands and linking our fingers.

I nod. I mean, I'd have liked you to take my name when we get married, but I get why you may not want to. "Okay, that's fine. You don't have to take my name."

"I mean, okay, yeah. But what I'd really like is..." You hesitate.

"What?" You have to know I'd do pretty much anything for you. If you don't, I'm not doing this right.

"I'd really like if... you took my name."

What? "What?"

"Yeah. Edward Swan—it has such a nice sound to it."

Okay, see there's doing anything for your girl. Which I would do; that's what a good man does, in my opinion. But then there's also doing stuff that makes you feel less like a man, even if that's not the case, and I feel bad. I mean, I know that I'd like you to take my name; it's kind of a dick move if I balk at taking your name. But at the same time, I really, really don't want to be Mr. Edward Swan.

I'm trying to figure out how to say all this without offending you or ruining anything when I look up and see the look on your face. You've pressed your lips together in an effort not to smirk—a smirk I'm pretty sure you picked up from me—and you're absolutely teasing me. You wily, wonderful thing.

You burst out laughing in my face. "I wish you could see your face right now!" You're wheezing, practically gasping for air, you're laughing that hard.

I roll us over so I'm on top, and I can feel your stomach move as you continue to crack up. After a few minutes, you try and calm yourself but that only results in you snorting a couple of times, which makes me laugh, and I have to think that there couldn't be any better way to spend my life.

Nothing more and nothing less than the very best: you.

Fin.


And that's it. I hope you enjoyed the little snippets of EPOV.

As always, this just wouldn't happen without americnxidiot. R- forget Ben or Edward, you'll always be my Jim Bob.

To all of you guys who read, review, tweet, PM, comment, whatever; I can't tell you what it means to me. I wrote this story on a whim, never expecting that you all would make it this much fun. Your reviews, and I read every single one of them, make me so, so happy. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

If you're interested, I'll be continuing Once More, With Feeling, as well as finishing up my last two FGB commitments (thank you quothme and buriedalive55, if you're reading this, for being the most patient people ever)... and maybe something else :). Come find me on Twitter or put me on author alert and it sounds silly, but I hope to see you all around the fandom.

Cheers, Anya.