Stephenie Meyer owns all of Twilight; but my words are my own.
EPOV
29.
"Sorry."
She offers a shy apology as she pulls away but not before I inhale a whiff of her hair.
It's heavenly.
She smells just like I'd imagined she would, all spicy, musky, and "Twilighty" like the Bath and Bodyworks scents we both shamefully admitted to using.
"It's okay."
I hate the distance I've put between us.
She's still standing six inches below me under my porch's awning, but she looks much lower than that.
I reconcile I'm the one who needs humbling.
It's now or never.
"Would you like to come in? Forgive the disaster. I haven't been myself."
A/N:
Please share your thoughts.
Thank you to my wonderful beta, Chayasara.
Thank you for reading.
PAD
