THANK YOU for reading! Next update will be Thursday.

Hadley is da best!

P.S. Charlie in this specific chapter was my dad in real life. Back in the day (like way before I was born) his band was "(my dad's name) and the Midnight Ramblers." *heart emojiiiii*

Also, Ryan Adams' version of "Wonderwall" is the one Edward plays for Bella.

ALSO. The tattoos Masen posts on his account are only the tattoos he does for clients. He doesn't post the tattoos that are on his own body. Just wanna clear that up :)

I spend half of Sunday cleaning my apartment. Being sick made me too sedentary, so moving feels good. I know Edward has already been over and seen the semi-wreck that it was, but I want things to be different tonight. Like… with everything in place, for starters. And less vomit would be nice, too.

I text him around two to make sure we're still on.

Bella: Hiiiii. It's Bella.

Edward: Hi.

Bella: You still wanna come over tonight, right?

Edward: Yes.

Bella: What time works?

Edward: Whenever.

Bella: Okay. How about 7?

Edward: Sure.

I roll my eyes at my phone. Even over text, he's a man of few words. Then again, I guess I haven't really asked him anything that requires much more than his single word replies. Maybe it's his tone that feels off more so than his lack of word count.

Bella: Okay. Don't feel forced to come over or anything. I swear I won't be offended if you'd rather not… lol

Fifteen minutes later, he replies.

Edward: Sorry, I'm working. I want to come over. I want to see you. And I've been thinking about it all day.

Edward: Does that clear things up?

I smile, my stomach twisting with anxious, flirty energy.

Bella: Yes. Thank you. Do you like ravioli?

Edward: I love it.

Bella: Good. See you later.

Edward: Looking forward to it.

I run to the store around four and grab some stuff for us to make homemade cheese ravioli. I'm not sure if he'll want wine or beer, but I grab a bottle of red wine and a six-pack of Stella, just in case.

After I unload all of the groceries, I shower and get ready for the night. I don't overdo it, but the last time he saw me, I was looking pretty rough. I go easy on the makeup, pull up my hair, and settle on a pair of high-waisted jeans and a tank top.

Edward shows up a little after seven. When I open the door, I'm slightly caught off guard. He's wearing his signature black jeans and black boots, but tonight he's wearing a white T-shirt. White. I've never seen him in such a light shade before, and it does something big to my heart. Which is completely stupid. It's a fucking T-shirt. I shouldn't care or be affected this way.

But I am.

"Hi." He smiles, almost nervously, his eyes trailing over my exposed skin. "Your hair's up."

"Hi. Hey. Yes." I stare. "You, uh—"

He hands me a bottle of wine. "I didn't know if I should bring anything."

"No black T-shirt?" I finally manage to say.

"What?"

I open the door wider and let him in. "You usually wear black. Or, like... darker shirts."

"Right. It's laundry day."

Thank fuck for that.

I walk into the kitchen and he follows behind me.

"What's all this?" he asks, glancing around at the ingredients on the counter.

"Dinner. We're gonna make homemade cheese ravioli."

"I thought you were making me dinner," he says, amused.

"Right. Joke's on you. I'm totally putting you to work."

"I don't really know how to cook," he admits. "I can just order us some take-out, if you want."

I laugh. "Throwing in the towel already?"

He picks up the ravioli stamp, examining it. "Just seems kinda daunting."

"It's not hard. I'll show you how to do it."

"Fine." He sighs, but his expression is almost playful. "Let me at it."

"First, wine." I uncork the bottle he brought. "Oh, I bought some Stella, too. I wasn't sure what you'd want."

"Stella, huh?"

He says it like it's an inside joke. "Yeah?"

"Wine is good," he says, looking away.

I grab two glasses and pour us each a generous amount.

"Alright. You wanna be on dough duty?"

"Suuure," he says, drawing out the word. "But I've never made dough before."

"Again, this is all pretty easy."

"If you say so." He looks completely out of place but takes my directions well. I grate parmesan cheese into a bowl, watching as he adds flour, egg, and salt to the food processor. "What now?"

"Just pulse it a little."

"Pulse it?" he echoes.

The way he says it sounds fucking indecent.

"Like this." I reach over him, and my shoulder brushes against his inked skin as I press the button every couple of seconds. It whirs to life, and he takes over. "When it gets kinda crumbly, add some water," I instruct and crack an egg into the cheese mixture.

I watch his face, how he concentrates on the simple task of pouring water into the processor. He's adorable. And sexy. And he catches me staring.

"What?" He stops. "Am I doing it wrong?"

"Not at all. You're doing it all very, very right." My tone sounds husky, and I clear my throat. "It'll be sticky, but that's how you're gonna want it."

"I do like it sticky."

I watch the corner of his mouth twitch. He's fucking with me. I merely shake my head and try to ignore the spark that lingers between us. Because that's what friends do. They ignore sparks and sexual attraction and… I honestly don't think I want to be his friend. Not at all.

I put the cheese mixture into the fridge while he kneads the dough.

"You're being too gentle with it," I tell him, pushing him aside. Except he doesn't really move, and I kinda have to work right beside him. Our arms are touching, and he's watching me instead of what I'm doing. I don't look at him, but I can feel his eyes. I don't think he wants to be friends, either.

"Do it like this," I tell him. "Stretch it out with the heels of your palms then pull it back toward you."

He lets me do it for him, never taking his eyes off of me.

"I like your hair up like that," he says quietly.

Yeah, zero fucking way we can be friends.

"Thank you," I murmur, but I can't look at him because I might jump his bones.

He finally looks away and I can breathe again. I cover the dough in cling wrap and stick it in the fridge.

"Now what?" he asks, drinking his wine.

"Gotta let the dough chill for, like, half an hour. Then we can fill the ravioli."

"So I get a break?"

"Yes," I laugh, rolling my eyes. "A well-deserved break for all your hard work so far."

I catch him smiling before he walks into the living room. I get comfortable on the couch as he inspects the record player I have in the corner of the room. Pretty sure it's covered in dust and honestly might not even work.

Eyeing it, he asks, "Have you ever used this thing?"

"Yeah. All the time." He gives me an unconvincing look. "Fine. I used it for, like, a month after I bought it."

"Such a hipster," he teases.

"Shut up."

"Can I put something on?" he asks. He seems a little nervous, thumbing through my records.

"Sure."

He settles on a David Bowie record and sits on the couch next to me. Further away than I'd like.

"Good choice," I tell him, nodding along as we listen to Bowie sing about if there's life on Mars.

"Good album collection… for someone who doesn't actually listen to them."

I laugh, loving how lighthearted he's being tonight. "I can't take credit for the collection. The records were Charlie's."

"Charlie?"

"My dad. He was actually in a band, too."

Edward's smile is sweet. "Yeah?"

"They were The Midnight Ramblers or something. They played a lot in the 70's, but by the time I was born they mostly just met up to play in our garage. Mostly an excuse to drink beer, according to my mom."

"What'd he play?"

"Everything," I say with a soft laugh. "He always had so many instruments everywhere. Banjos, violins. Guitars. Either he was seriously talented or had a raging case of ADD."

Edward laughs a little. "I bet it was definitely the former."

"I think so, too. I still have one of his guitars."

"I saw it in your room the other night."

"Can you play the guitar? I mean, I know you play the bass but..."

"I can play guitar, too."

"And do you sing?"

"Sometimes."

"Play me something."

Edward groans. "I hate being that guy."

"What guy?"

"The guy at the party who whips out his guitar and forces everyone to listen to some shitty rendition of Wonderwall."

I laugh out loud. I know what he's saying. But Edward isn't that guy. He couldn't be even if he fucking tried.

"Well, this isn't a party. You're not forcing me to listen; I'm asking you to play. And I'd appreciate it if your rendition of Wonderwall wasn't shitty."

He gives me a look. "Bella."

"Come on! I love that song so much and now that you brought it up, I'm not gonna be able to let it go."

He sighs. "Fine."

I jump up from the couch to stop the record player, and grab the guitar before placing it in his hands.

I think I might die tonight. Between the white shirt and his tattoos and the look in his eyes, the guitar in his hands… he is going to kill me.

"I can't believe you're making me do this," he mumbles, tuning it a bit.

"I can't believe you're surprised I'm making you," I laugh. "Isn't that the first thing people make you do once they realize you're a musician?"

He shrugs, and I fall quiet when he starts strumming. It's slower than the original version I'm used to hearing. It's darker, too. Almost haunting.

And then he starts singing.

I can feel the words in my bones. And when he sings I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now, I can't look away from his face. He's not looking at me, though, but keeps his head down, strumming with an ease that lets me know he's immensely talented with his fingers.

I'm thinking about what else his fingers can do when he looks up at me. He's still playing, still singing. But this time the words are: there are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don't know how.

I'm a fucking goner.

His head drops again as he sings the chorus, and I hum along.

He doesn't finish the song after the chorus, slowing the strums to a stop.

"Wow." That's all I can say.

He doesn't look at me as he leans the guitar against the couch.

"Who taught you how to play?"

"YouTube," he admits, breathing out a laugh. "But my mom taught me how to play piano."

"Ugh, you play piano too?"

"Is that bad?"

"No." I shake my head, finishing off my wine. "It's very fucking attractive."

He fists some of his hair away from his forehead, cheeks turning a bit pink. "Do you play any instruments?"

"No. I didn't inherit that gene," I laugh. "Unfortunately."

"I could teach you."

"I think I'm more interested in watching you play, to be quite honest."

He stares at me. "You're more forward than I thought you'd be when I first met you. And just... different. Good different."

"You think I'm forward?" I ask, staring at his mouth.

"A little. But I like it."

"I don't necessarily think I'm forward," I say. "Forward would be…" I think about this. "Forward would be crawling into your lap and kissing you."

He drains his glass.

"Yeah. That would be pretty forward of you."

"And completely inappropriate," I add.

"Completely."

I shift against the couch a little. "Like, inappropriate for friends."

He nods, gaze darkening. I watch him lick his lips, and I lick mine in return.

"But you did say you didn't not have a thing for me," I mumble. "So that means you like me... more than a friend?"

He's quiet, calculating. "Is that what you want it to mean?"

I stare at him incredulously. "Please don't do that vague bullshit stuff. Just… be honest. Talk to me."

He fists some hair again, inked bicep flexing when he lifts his arm. "You want me to be honest?"

"Yes."

"You scare the shit out of me," he says simply.

"Oh."

I wasn't expecting that.

"When I first met you, I thought you were gonna be some prissy little… spoiled brat." I narrow my eyes. I wasn't expecting that, either. "And that was shitty of me. I know. But it turns out, you weren't. You aren't. And if you were to crawl into my lap right now and kiss me, I would fucking love it, Bella."

"You would?" My voice is too quiet. I mean, the guy just insulted me, retracted the insult, admitted he was wrong, and came onto me in a matter of seconds. And all I can think about is taking him up on his suggestion.

We stare at one another, our chests rapidly rising and falling. My eyes dart from his mouth then back to his eyes. He's not smiling, so I think he's serious. If he's not—well, this is about to get awkward. I move deliberately and set my wine glass on the coffee table, taking his glass from his hand and doing the same. Then I straddle him. He keeps his hands at his sides, resting on the couch as I get settled in my new favorite spot. My heart is beating so fucking fast, and I can't look at his face. Not yet.

I swallow and stare down at his hard chest. Bringing my fingers up, I trace along his collarbone down to his heart. I can feel his eyes on me.

"How many tattoos do you have?" I ask huskily, finally looking at him. His eyes are glazed over a little, but still alert, like he's not sure what I'm going to do.

"A lot."

His hands move gingerly, bringing them to the small of my back to keep me in place. My stomach drops at the contact, and my breath catches in my throat. He notices. It's such a traitorous reaction on my part, and I'm almost mad at my body for not being able to hold it together better.

"Is there a tattoo right here?" I whisper, touching the cotton covering the left side of his chest.

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"Uh…" He breathes out sharply, chest rising and falling beneath my touch. "A lion."

"Really?"

"Just the face and the mane."

"I wanna see." I tug at the hem of his shirt and he laughs huskily, gently grabbing my wrists.

"Bella."

"What?"

"Not now."

I stare at him, visibly annoyed that he's not letting me do whatever the fuck I want. But I got caught up in the moment. And sitting on him, feeling him beneath me and the warmth of his hands on my back, took away any and all coherency.

"I just…" I swallow. "I like you. A lot."

"I like you, too." His eyes are more earnest than I've seen before. "More than I…"

"More than you what?"

He leans over a bit and presses the softest kiss to my bare shoulder. I can barely focus on his words with his warm lips on my skin.

"More than I know," he murmurs. Another kiss but this time it's on my collarbone. "How." His lips are on my neck, but the kiss is chaste. "To comprehend." This time his lips press a kiss to the corner of my mouth, staying there.

My heart is racing. His gentle kisses created a fire in my belly, and I turn my head a bit until my mouth finds his. We stay motionless for a moment, just our lips touching. He makes the first move after that, mouth parting a bit to actually kiss me. I kiss him back, eyes clenching shut. I want to be closer, so I let my chest fall flush with his.

When our tongues meet, a spark in my stomach ignites, and all bets are off after that. He groans into my mouth, and our embrace turns frantic, rushed. His hands are on my back, sliding down to cup my ass. I move against him, almost grinding, as I feel him grow hard beneath me. We break away, and he kisses along my neck, nipping at my collarbone.

"Goddamn, Bella," he grits out, and I die a little.

My breath is short, choppy. I find his mouth again, eyes still closed, just feeling and kissing and loving the way he's making me feel.

And then the timer for the dough goes off.

"Alexa," I call out, breathless. "Turn off the fucking timer."

Burying my face in his neck, I feel him laugh a little beneath me. I don't want to move.

"Fucking Alexa," he mumbles.

I pull back to stare at him. His lips are red, eyes a little glazed. I guarantee I look the same amount of wrecked as he does.

"Yeah."

"Maybe we should go finish dinner?" he offers, clearing his throat.

No. I'll never eat again if it means I can keep doing this with him.

"Sure," I say instead, playing it cool. "So did we just break the kissing seal?" I ask, hopeful.

"The what?"

"Like, I can kiss you whenever I want."

I realize I sound like an idiot, but there's no taking it back now.

His eyes light up with amusement. "That sounds like a dangerous game."

"It's the most dangerous," I tell him. But that's not true. The most dangerous game is the one where we fall for each other, to the point where one of us can get hurt. I keep that part to myself, though, because now's not the time to talk about potential heartbreak. "So? You in?"

He watches my face with such an intensity, I nearly burst. Then he closes the distance and kisses me again. "I'm in."