A/N- Happy Monday!

As always, massive thank you to SunflowerFran for making this remotely readable and for continuously changing my British spelling -you're a saint!

To you guys; the readers, the people who take the time to review every chapter, those of you who continue to rec' this story - you all make me smile so damn wide and I love you all!

This chapter is all Bella's ... enjoy!

As always, I own nada.

~oOo~

Chapter 12. BPOV

I let my head fall back against my bedroom door, touching my fingers to my swollen lips. I can't wipe the beaming smile from my face.

As far as first kisses go, I think mine was one of the best.

The way Edward looked at me, the way he touched me, and the way his lips felt against mine, everything was perfect. I feel giddy, alive, and breathless as I look up dreamily towards the ceiling of my bedroom. My heart still thuds heavily against my chest; erratic butterflies beat their wings within my stomach.

I don't know what possessed me to make such a bold move; maybe the time I've spent in Edward's company is making me more daring. But his impassioned outburst made me throw all caution to the wind and ... take a chance. I held my breath when our lips first touched, both terrified of rejection and elated at the feel of his mouth against mine. The moment I felt him inhale and then deepen the kiss gently, my knees weakened, and I was gone; instinct took over, a deep need surfaced and spurred me forward. He smelled of stale cigarettes, a hint of sandalwood, paint, and a whole lot of trouble.

I'm obsessed.

He took away my apprehension, my fear, and first kiss jitters. He made me feel safe ... wanted. Brave.

I can't wait to kiss him again. Sure, I've had a crush before; I've noticed good looking men and felt attracted to them. But this feels deeper; it's an ache, a need. I'm addicted. One innocent kiss, and I'm hooked on him.

I make my way over to the window and look down onto the street, hoping he's there, knowing he's not. I let my eyes drift towards where we stood, though I can't see the exact spot clearly. Biting my bottom lip, I relish the tingle; the blood still pooled near the surface.

For the first time, I regret not making more effort with my peers and having a close girlfriend, a confidant. Back home, I had Angela, but she is just as innocent and clueless as I am. Here, I have Alice, and although I do have her cell number, I don't quite feel comfortable enough to confide in her. It would only lead to more questions; we go to the same school, she'd demand to know who I had kissed, and she'd soon find out it's no one she knows. I'd never hear the end of it.

No. Telling her is out of the equation.

For the longest time, I sit at my window, my knees pulled up to my chest, contemplating and reminiscing. When my phone finally vibrates, I look towards my feet, where it sits on the bench.

I smile and pick it up. It's Edward; my heart skips a beat.

Safe and sound ~E

Short and to the point. I shouldn't have expected anything more. I waste no time replying.

I'm glad to hear it. Good night. ~B

He doesn't text back, though I can see that he's read the text.

It's 11 pm. Mom is in bed, in a wine-induced coma, and I decide it's time for me to catch up on some sleep, too, though I know it'll be tough. My mind is elsewhere, back in the street below, with my hands in Edward's soft hair and my lips against his.

For most of the night, I toss and turn, tangling myself in my duvet. One minute I'm too hot, the next I'm too cold. I punch my pillows, trying to make them more comfortable and then less comfortable; eventually throwing most of them onto the floor in a huff.

Dawn breaks, and I feel anything but rested. I don't waste any time staying in bed, though; instead, I make my way to the shower, apprehensive about the day ahead.

I don't hear from Edward as I get myself ready. I tell myself it's early, and he may still be in bed, but I can't ignore the flicker of disappointment as I stare at my motionless phone, willing a text notification to light up my screen.

Making my way downstairs, I grip my phone tightly in my hand, deciding that I'll kill more time by eating breakfast. Mom is in the kitchen already, looking a bit worse-for-wear and holding a steaming cup of coffee as though it's a lifeline. I bite my lip to hide my smile as she looks over at me. She loves wine, but unfortunately, wine hates her.

"Don't laugh at me, please," she pleads, fighting her own smile.

"Sorry." It's a lie, and she knows it, rolling her eyes as I make my way to the coffee pot. "Good morning?"

"Nope," she sighs, taking a sip from her cup but looking a little green.

"How many bottles of wine did you get through?"

She groans and shakes her head. I can't help it; her regretful expression makes me laugh.

"Two, I think," she answers. "I can't remember. Halfway through the second bottle, everything gets a little blurry."

"I bet," I smirk, taking a seat across from her. She playfully narrows her eyes at me. "Is Dad home?" I ask, changing the subject.

She nods. "He got home a couple of hours ago. No doubt, he'll be sleeping most of the day."

Dad has never enjoyed working through the night, but now that he is in his late thirties, he's even less tolerant. Mom and I hardly ever see him these days, but we expected that. This city is larger, with a higher crime rate; we all knew his job here would be a lot more intense than back home.

"Where are you headed?" Mom asks, eyeing me carefully.

"Um ..." I hadn't really given much thought as to what I was going to tell her. "A few of us from school are headed to see some artwork ... for a project." I cringe inwardly. It's not a complete lie; at least some aspects of my tale are the truth.

"What artwork? Where?" Her interest is piqued. I should have known; she loves art.

"It's actually ... street art?" I tell her hesitantly. She's silent for a while, eyeing me over her cup of coffee.

"Like, graffiti?" She asks, eventually, and I swallow hard.

"Some people might call it that, yeah." I don't know why I sound nervous. It's not my work. I shouldn't care about my mom's opinion of some else's creative outlet.

"Inferno?" She asks, and my eyes widen in surprise. I did not see that coming.

"Eh, yeah ... how did you know?"

"I've read about it in the newspaper. And your dad has mentioned vandalism a few times ... you're learning about it in school?" She doesn't sound displeased, more curious. But then, Mom has always been more open to such things than my dad.

"In art," I answer. "Miss Holden thought it would be a good way to discuss and learn about politics through art."

"Smart woman," Mom nods. "I'm glad you're making friends, too." I blush. If only she knew. "I'm not exactly safe to drive you anywhere, sorry."

"It's okay," I smile, "I'm going to head to Lincoln Park and meet them all there." Another lie, but she buys it, thankfully.

"Well, have fun," she grins. "I really need to shower. Let me know if you're going to be home late."

"Will do." I scrunch my face and push her away when she tries to kiss my head. "You stink of wine," I laugh.

"Oops, sorry," she chuckles as she leaves the kitchen. I watch her go, sighing once she's out of sight.

I set my phone on the table, and purse my lips at it. It stays silent.

I decide to text Edward, suddenly feeling the need to get out of this house.

I'm heading to Lincoln Park. Let me know if you'd like to meet me there ~B

Without waiting for a reply, I rinse my coffee cup in the sink and make my way to the front door. The weather outside is more overcast than it has been, so I grab my suede biker-jacket before leaving.

The walk to Lincoln Park takes longer than it should. I'm stalling, I know, waiting for Edward to reply to my text.

The cooler air and swift breeze whip my hair into my face, but my hands are in my pockets as I walk; one has a tight hold on my phone. With the breeze and slight drop in temperature comes fresher air; the summer haze seems to be lifting, and a few times, I lift my head a little and inhale deeply, enjoying the less congested atmosphere.

Cafes are bustling with life as people enjoy the freedom of the weekend; shops are alive with early-morning patrons, and smiling faces roam the streets. People and their chatter, their laughter, pass in a blur as though I'm walking in slow motion. I observe, yet I don't digest any details. My mind is preoccupied, so far removed from the carefree attitude of the strangers around me.

Before I can register much else, I'm standing in front of the young boy and the bonfire again. It's different in the light of day; the morning rays of filtered sunshine light it differently. I can see more detail; the texture of the wall seems sharper, rougher. My mind takes me straight back to last night when I stood in this exact spot, Edward so close I could almost feel every inch of his body, his presence.

I pull my phone from my pocket. No notifications. I'm no longer upset or surprised by his silence. It is what it is, and looking at the artwork; my problems are nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Opening my camera, I snap a few pictures of the decorated wall from different angles. The color of the paint seems almost muted in the brighter light of day— as though it was created to be appreciated in darkness. Somehow, Inferno managed to make this specific piece come to life under the veiled light of night.

I have the locations of the other pieces mapped out on my iPhone, so I pocket the device again and make my way into the park.

My feet carry me as my mind drifts. I think of the graffiti and how unfitting that term is to describe Inferno's work. It's art, nothing less. We're conditioned by the media, corporations, and law enforcement to believe what they want us to believe because that's a civilized society, right? Much like everything else. In a way, we're conditioned to see what they want us to see. But their visions for us are fluid, depending on who we are. If we're poor, their vision is for us to believe there's no way out. If we're financially comfortable, the vision we're shown is that we have nothing to worry about; that everything is under control. But this is the 21st century, and people know better, don't they?

Streets blur as I walk, blending into each other. The city is gray and dull at its core, a reflection of my thoughts.

But the tenants have tried to make it vibrant. It's all so artificial. If you were to strip it all back, turn all the colorful lights off and rip down the vibrant signage; you'd be left with an anemic cityscape devoid of any warmth. But it's deeper than an aesthetic illusion; it's the whole vibe of the city—its very core is rotten. The overcast sky amplifies the cold I feel and the darkness I'm always aware of. I don't feel unsafe or apprehensive; it's more of a niggling reminder that although I'm in the affluent part of the city, there's still a deep gloom that lingers like a warning, buried under the opulent, concrete surface. The people either ignore it or are truly naive to it, but either way, I'm attuned, and I force myself to listen. Especially now, after spending a couple of evenings in Edward's company and after conducting my own research.

When I reach my first destination, I'm equally disgusted and upset. I glare across the street, my feet heavy and unmoving as crowds of people brush past me. Inferno's latest piece depicts a homeless man holding a sign that reads, "keep your coins; I want change," is being removed. The water from the powerful jet-wash cascades down the wall and pours messily onto the sidewalk. Swirls of color mix with clear water as the liquid flows towards the nearest drain.

I can't move.

I watch the worker through narrowed eyes; his portable water tank hoisted high on to his back, as he erases the very work I'm here to appreciate.

I'm too late.

I sigh deeply and turn towards the coffee shop directly behind me.

There's a free table outside, offering me the perfect, yet devastating view of the destruction. I wrap my hand around my steaming cup of coffee and scowl, my eyes never leaving the wall.

I'm so preoccupied that I don't notice when someone sits at the table, directly opposite me, until a throat clears. I slowly move my gaze from where it lingers, and I draw in a sharp breath when my eyes fall on Edward. His smirk is almost timid, which isn't like him. I watch him carefully, the butterflies in my stomach erupting once more. We don't speak for a long time as I watch him fidget, running his hand through his hair. I drum my fingers on my coffee cup as I wait because, dammit, he should be the one to speak first. He's been elusive and quiet since our kiss. The next move is his; I refuse to be a clingy, doe-eyed puppy and spew word-vomit.

"I, eh," he starts, "I meant to text you back."

I nod but don't speak. He purses his lips and sighs, standing as he tells me he's going to get a coffee.

Within no time, he's back in his seat, steaming coffee in hand.

"Why are you here?" I ask, my voice devoid of much emotion, taking both of us by surprise. It's a stark contradiction to the heat I feel in his company and the speed at which my heart thuds in my chest. I didn't mean it to sound so aggressive; thankfully, he ignores the tone.

"I came to find you," he answers, his brows lifting as though my question was a stupid one.

"They're removing it," I tell him, nodding my head across the street and changing the subject.

"Yeah," he sighs, following my gaze. "They'll probably remove them all." He shrugs like it's no big deal, and I scowl.

"They shouldn't." My voice is angry as I watch the last of the paint wash away from the wall. I exhale through my nose and look back at Edward. He's smiling. It's not a full-on grin, it's a wistful closed-lip smile, and I cock my head in confusion. "What?"

"Nothing," he chuckles, shaking his head and draining his tiny, strong coffee in one sip. "Come on; you should probably see the rest before they're gone."

I don't argue; I quickly drink the remainder of my lukewarm latte and place the empty cup in his outstretched hand. He throws both in the trash and waits for me, his hands fisted in the pockets of his leather jacket.

We walk on in silence for a few paces before my curiosity gets the best of me. "Why didn't you text me back this morning?" I ask, turning my head up to look at his face.

He groans and scrunches his face a little. "My phone died."

"You couldn't charge it?" I question, raising a brow. He shakes his head and something in his reluctance to elaborate and the fleeting shift of his eyes, makes it click into place. "Because you weren't at home," I state dryly. I don't need confirmation, his silence speaks volumes, and although I hate to admit it, it hurts. I can't help but wonder where the hell he was, who he was with, and what he was doing. No, I shouldn't think that way.

On second thought, I don't want to know.

"It's not like that," he tells me, sounding bored. "Whatever you're thinking, stop it."

I shrug, because what else can I do? He doesn't owe me any explanations, I suppose. And that's a tough realization to stomach. I don't know what he was doing or who he was with because ... I don't really know him.

He eyes me suspiciously, but his head doesn't turn towards me. I feel the shift in the atmosphere around us as we walk. Our steps match; our pace is more hurried than I'd like. We're not wandering, enjoying the company of each other; this is strained, like Chicago itself. This is darkness consuming me and overwhelming me. It's a taste, a warning of the path I'm choosing to explore, and for the first time, I question myself.

I look ahead as we walk, overly aware of the man walking next to me and his devil-may-care attitude. Conscious of this proverbial crossroad, I've found myself at. We weave our way through the Saturday crowds, Edward hardly faltering as he side-steps people who aren't looking where they're going. His scowl causes a few people to send worried glances in every direction but his as they avoid his gaze.

I'm angry at myself—frustrated. Did I think he was going to meet me and I'd run and jump into his arms, like a scene from a Nicholas Sparks' movie? My voice would be light, I'd giggle; my cheeks flushed, smile wide and matching his ... yeah, no. I don't think that's Edward's style. That much, I do know.

"You're angry," he states, casting a quick glance in my direction.

I sigh and close my eyes briefly. "No," I groan because I'm not. I have no reason to be. I'm a dreamer; I always have been. This is nothing but a much-needed dose of reality. "Did you have a good night?" I ask, deciding to act mature and ignoring the crackling of electricity in my veins at my close proximity to Edward. I smile to myself, deciding that although I made the first move, the next move is his.

He shrugs but doesn't speak, and I feel that I started this day thinking we had taken a step forward, but in reality, we've clearly taken ten steps back.

~oOo~

A/N- Please let me know what you're thinking. It really does help, and it makes me happy to hear your thoughts.

There's no way it would be automatically easier for them, just because they kissed. What kind of story would that be? You'd all hate me if I did that :) And let's not forget, Bella is seventeen years old, she's got a lot to learn when it comes to relationships and love. Cut them both some slack ... please?

As always, thank you for reading.