I've been in bed every night by eight.

Winter is kind of the worst, and the fact that it gets dark at 4:30 every day is disorienting. What's also disorienting—or maybe depressing is more accurate—is watching Edward pack a new box every other day. There's a stack of them in the living room, infiltrating our space while they await their ship date.

I'm in my room watching a movie on my laptop, when Rose shows up at my door. I don't see her as much as I hear her, because my comforter is pulled up around me like a shield.

"Get up, loser."

I sit up, blinking at her in confusion. "Why?"

"Stop being emo. I'm taking you out."

I wouldn't necessarily call myself emo but, "I'm fine right here, thank you very much."

She shakes her head, sighing. "I just signed us up for a wreath-making class."

"Again, why?"

"Because it's festive. And I don't think I can get a refund, so get a move on."

"I don't know." I pull my greasy hair into a bun. "There's no coming back from this," I say, using both hands to kind of motion around my face and body. "Maybe take Emmett?"

"Nope, you're going. It's called dry shampoo and hoop earrings. They're a girl's best friend. I'll meet you in the living room in ten."

"I never agreed to this!" I yell out as she walks away.

"You'll thank me later!" she calls back.

Quickly, I scrounge around my room for my earrings, pull my hair back into a low bun, and grab an oversized sweater to throw on over my leggings. It's not much, but it'll do.

On my way out, I find Edward in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove, making dinner. He's also wearing sweats, but he makes them look good. I try not to stare too long because the moment I walk in he glances my way, eyes lingering on my face.

"Hey. You hungry?" he asks. "I made extra just in case."

"I'm actually about to leave. Thanks, though."

"Where are you—" He stops, gaze floating over to me once more. There's a little apprehension in his eyes, and it makes my chest hurt. "Never mind."

"You can ask me where I'm going," I tell him quietly.

He nods, focusing on the skillet in front of him. "If it's a date, I don't want to know."

I'm a little shocked he assumes I'd move on so quickly. It also makes me a little sad, because that means he doesn't believe I felt as strongly for him as I did—as I do.

"I'm going out with Rose," I reassure him. "I'm not… dating. Are you?"

"No. I'm not interested in anyone else."

"Okay." Falling silent, I linger by the stove, not wanting to leave quite yet. "I went to therapy last week," I say out of nowhere. I haven't told anyone yet, and maybe it's no one's business. But for some reason, I want to talk about it with him. More than that, I want him to know I'm trying.

"How was that?" he asks neutrally.

I shrug. "I didn't think that finding a therapist would be… hard. I figured I'd just pick someone who's covered by insurance, and then I'd be magically healed."

He turns off the burner, a small sympathetic smile on his lips. "If only it were that easy."

"I think I need to keep searching for someone I like. Someone I feel comfortable with."

His brows knit together. "You didn't feel comfortable?"

"Maybe it's me. Maybe talking about myself is hard. It's just such a weird experience."

"I'm sure the more you do it, the easier it'll get," he says carefully. Our eyes stay locked and his gaze turns tender, causing my heart to race. "I'm glad to hear you're doing all that. Really."

"Me too," I whisper.

"Why is my girlfriend ditching me to hang out with your scrub-ass, Bella?" Emmett asks, walking into the kitchen.

"Maybe she wants a break from your bullshit for one night?" I don't even laugh when I say it. But I know why Rose really wants to hang out—it's because she's worried about my mental health, and she's trying to be a good friend.

"Ouch," Em says. "You're not 'Heartbroken' Bella, you're 'Hateful' Bella."

"Em. Cut it out," Edward chimes in, sticking up for me.

"Yeah, Em," I add. "Don't be a douchebag."

He frowns. "I thought y'all were broken up. Doesn't that mean I get at least one of you on my side now?"

"No," Edward and I say simultaneously. We smile at each other, and for a second things feel normal and fine. Until I remember that he hurt me, so I hurt him in return, and our smiles fade in unison.

XXX

When Christmas Day rolls around, I spend it alone. The plan was to go to Charlie's, but then I got sick a few days ago. The thought of taking the ferry and driving over two hours to get to Forks while feeling miserable didn't sound appealing, so we decided to postpone our Christmas until after the new year. Charlie was kind enough to suggest coming to Seattle, but I promised him I'd be fine. There were mumblings about Billy's fish fry, and I knew he'd much rather do that than come into the city.

I'm posted up on the couch, watching It's a Wonderful Life and eating leftover pumpkin pie. Only the glow from the TV and Christmas tree lights up the room. The Duraflame I lit hours ago flickers and pops, but it's nearly out. I'm debating putting on another log when the front door opens and in walks Edward.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, pausing the movie. "I thought you stayed at your parents' place on Christmas."

"I had to get out of there." He sits on the coffee table, untying his boots. "Too many people were crashing there. Namely my aunt, her husband, and their moody teenagers."

"So what you're saying is that there wasn't enough room at the inn?"

He smirks. "Clever."

"Where's Emmett?"

"Staying with Rose."

"What's that?" I ask, pointing toward the Tupperware and bottle of whiskey next to him.

"Leftovers from dinner and the cure to your cold," he says. "My dad thought a hot toddy was just what you needed."

"He's a doctor, so I definitely have to listen to him."

"Exactly. C'mon."

I follow him into the kitchen. He tells me to heat the kettle, so I fill it with water and set it on the stove. He squeezes lemon and drops a dollop of honey into each mug before pouring in a generous amount of whiskey. Soon enough the water has boiled, and he finishes the drink by adding hot water.

He hands me a mug, clinking his glass to mine.

"Thanks." I blow on it, taking a small sip. "Fuck, that's hot. It feels good on my throat, though."

"Good." He nods, hesitating for a second. "What are you watching?"

"It's a Wonderful Life."

"Is it cool if I finish it with you?"

"Sure."

He follows me into the living room and sits on the couch, making a point to stay on the opposite end. I can't help when my mind wanders back to the time we had sex right here. By the look on his face, he's also thinking about it.

"What's the movie about?" he asks, thankfully switching the gears in my brain.

"Are you kidding me?" I balk, curling up and pulling the blanket over my legs.

"What?"

"How have you never watched this?"

"I don't know."

"It's the fucking best," I say, suddenly excited. "Should I start it from the beginning?"

His smile is sincere. "Just fill me in on what I missed."

So I do. I explain the movie to him in great detail, describing all of the relationships and analyzing all of the major scenes. When I start to accidentally spoil some parts he urges me to go on, promising this is probably better than the actual movie. It's not, and I tell him as much. But he's having fun—we're having fun—so I keep going, for close to ten minutes, eventually explaining the entire movie.

"And then he looks up, winking, and says 'Atta boy, Clarence.'"

Edward stifles his laughter. "Wow. Are you crying?"

"No. It's just sweat from my strenuous performance."

"You were definitely getting emotional," he says, sipping his drink.

"Well, that's because it's heartwarming. I'm surprised you're not shedding a tear or two."

"Hard to be moved with those acting skills."

"Sorry, not everyone took a series of drama classes in middle school like you did."

"I've never regretted anything more than telling you about that," he mumbles, yawning. "I should probably go to bed."

"Right now?"

"Unless you want another drink?"

I look at the clock. It's just after eleven, but I'm having fun, and I feel warm, and I don't want him to leave just yet. I don't want him to ever leave but definitely not right now. Not on Christmas, when things finally feel okay.

"Sure. Less toddy, more whiskey."

"Meaning?"

"Just whiskey."

He raises his eyebrows. "Okay."

I stay on the couch until he returns with two lowballs of liquor. He hands me mine, and I take a long pull, enjoying the way the spice tingles my tongue but not thrilled with the way it sends a chill down my spine.

"So how was Christmas?"

"It was fine," he says, sitting a little closer than before.

"Fine? Did you not get everything you wanted?"

He gives me a look, one that I assume conveys no, he didn't get everything he wanted. Instead of touching on that he says, "It used to be a small thing, but now my dad's side of the family comes. And it's fine, whatever, I get it. The more the merrier. It's just a lot of different personalities for one evening."

"I feel that," I muse, nodding. "I actually don't know why I said that. Charlie and I never did a big thing, so I can't really relate. It does sound overwhelming, though."

"You could've come with me tonight."

"I know. I just… I didn't want it to be awkward."

"My aunt was drinking directly from a bottle of wine. Awkward was the theme of the night."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Classy. What did your parents get you?"

"Jeans, a pair of boots, and some fancy noise-canceling headphones."

I click my tongue. "Doesn't sound like you got the one thing you actually wanted, though."

His eyes stay on my face. "Which is?"

I smile, disappearing to my room to grab his present.

"I hope it's not weird," I prompt, sitting next to him again. "I ordered it before everything happened and… yeah."

"Not weird," he says, catching my eye. "I actually have something for you, too."

"Open mine first."

He tears at the paper, immediately laughing when he picks up the travel pillow with a hood attached, the one he joked about on our flight to LA. He rolls his eyes, but his smile is sincere. "You really shouldn't have."

"Put it on." I grab it from him, placing the pillow on his shoulders and sliding the hood up over his head, covering his eyes. And just for fun, I tug at the drawstrings, tightening them around his face. "Really, you've never looked better."

"Gee, thanks," he says dryly, eyes still hidden.

I loosen the strings and pull the hood back, revealing his face again. I'm so close, touching him, and for a second, my stomach tightens with anticipation.

"I need to go grab your gift," he says quietly, taking off the pillow before leaving the room.

When he's gone, I focus a little too intently on folding his wrapping paper into a neat little rectangle. I'm nervous, but I don't know why.

He returns a minute later, carrying a sketchpad. "So, my gift isn't as nicely wrapped as yours. Or wrapped at all."

"That's okay."

Opening the book, he flips through a few pages before tearing out two sheets and handing them to me. My eyes settle on the drawing, staring at the first place we ever lived together. It was a duplex, a real shithole. The sketch he drew is so spot-on, though. Every detail precise, from the rust on the railing to the crack in the steps, and the one part of the roof that still had Christmas lights from the tenants before us. Nostalgia tugs at my heart.

I slip the first drawing under the second to find our current house—a one-story bungalow, every charming detail present. The lonesome tree in the sloped yard, the detached garage just off to the side. The exposed brick and the worn wood.

"Wow," I breathe.

"I didn't know what to get you," he says self-consciously. "The idea was to draw a third place for your present next year, after we moved in together. But. Yeah. I know it's kinda—"

"Perfect. Seriously, thank you. I think this might be my favorite gift ever."

We stare at one another, eyes lingering, the air thick with tension.

He clears his throat then reaches for his glass, lightening the mood. "Your favorite, huh? Then what's the worst gift you've ever gotten? I'd like to know how low the bar is set."

I don't even have to think about it. "Renee sent me five bottles of face wash for my sixteenth birthday," I say, slipping the drawings back into the sketchbook for safekeeping.

"That's pretty bad."

"I was partially happy because it meant she actually remembered my birthday, but yeah. What about you?"

"A radar detector. I'd gotten a couple speeding tickets one year, and my dad thought it was funny or would help me not get caught. My mom was pissed and accused him of condoning my speeding, so she made him return it."

I playfully shove his shoulder, not buying his bad-boy status. "Edward Cullen, speed demon? I can't imagine it. Why were you breaking the law?"

When he brings his glass up to his lips, he laughs before he takes a sip. "What can I say? I'm a rebel."

"Definitely not without a cause."

His eyes crinkle. "Oh, shut up."

"I bet you were rushing to return a library book. Or maybe you were running late to volunteer at the soup kitchen," I continue, poking fun. "Or—"

Closing the distance, he kisses me. It doesn't catch me off guard as much as it should, and I kiss him back, harder. My glass is still in my hand, and some whiskey kind of sloshes over the side, onto my skin. I don't care though. I don't care, and I blindly feel for the coffee table, finding any surface for it to land safely because his lips are on me, and I'm on fire.

We haven't done this in over a month, and it feels so good. His kiss is rough, and his stubble is abrasive, but it's such a welcome pain. Our mouths move together roughly, open and wanting. I grip at his shoulders, lying back and pulling him on top of me.

His hands are all over me, sliding up my shirt, palming my breast. Then he's pulling off my T-shirt, and his mouth is on my chest, kissing a hot trail down my stomach then back up to my lips.

I lift my hips, meeting his. And we make contact. Over and over again. He's so hard, straining against his jeans, and then I'm internally begging him to fuck me or love me or whatever he can give me. Because I just want him, despite all my stupidity. I want him to turn down the job, and I want his lips to have not touched Kate's. More than all of that, I want this man to have not lied to me. But I know I can't have any of those things because they've already happened. The only thing left now is to get past them, to move on, but I don't know how.

As if he is reading my mind, his movements slow, and he pulls back, sitting up on his heels and catching his breath.

"Sorry."

"Why?"

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he says, "I shouldn't have started that."

"I let it happen, too. It's okay." I lean over, about to meet his mouth again, when he pulls away.

"It's not okay. I'm not trying to just fuck you," he blurts. "Because then I'm going to want to be with you. I'm leaving Seattle in a week, and I'm not gonna be able to convince you to trust me while I'm gone. So, I don't think this is a good idea."

I try to not look completely rejected but fail miserably.

Before I'm able to actually reply, he tosses me my shirt and grabs his tumbler of whiskey, mumbling "Merry Christmas" and disappearing down the hallway.

Oy. Thanks for reading, y'all! I really appreciate it so, so much. Next update will be Monday!

I know I'm always singing her praises, but Hadley's my homegirl and I wouldn't have been able to post this much, this often, if it weren't for her support. :)