A/N: I'm so fucking excited to finally be sharing this with you all! A couple of disclaimers before we get started:

This story takes place essentially in the present day, starting in August of 2019, but at no point will I be talking about COVID-19, quarantine, masks, or any of that mess. I think we all need an escape. Politics likely won't be mentioned either.

As far as the lore goes, it's all canon to the original series. No fangs, sparkly skin in the sun, all that. However some characters will need to be moved around down the line. It'll all be clear and easy to figure out, I'm sure.

There will be citrus. It just won't happen for a long time. I'm sure you'll see why.

I'm only going to say this bit for this first chapter; Stephanie Meyer owns everything, any copyright infringement is unintentional.

So, without further ado, let's dive into my version of what it would be like if Bella was the vampire and Edward was the human!

Infinite thanks to my prereaders, and my beta Frannie. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

(I promise not every chapter will have some stupid long A/N)

XX,

Dani


Chap 1: Edward

"Does she know that we bleed the same?

Don't wanna cry but I break that way.

Did she run away? Did she run away? I don't know

If she ran away, if she ran away, come back home

Just come home

Where's my Love by SYML"

I always found a great deal of comfort in watching people. Maybe it was just my way of focusing on something besides my own mundane existence for once.

The couple in the corner kept an entire seat between them piled with their carry-on bags. The way their bodies angled towards each other and the venom evident in their features told me that whatever they were arguing about held substance and passion. Perhaps they had been together a long time and were on the verge of a break up. Perhaps they used to be lovers, and extenuating circumstances had brought them back together, but they still have to navigate the past hurt.

I'd like to think they were simply two people in love having a minor disagreement, and later on tonight, when they arrived home, he would pull her into his arms and apologize for the way he spoke to her. They would find a way to talk about the problem, come to an agreement, and make love until the early hours of the morning.

Call it misplaced optimism, if you will. I just like to think that not everyone lives a life as messed up as mine is.

About ten feet from me, there's a little girl; blonde curls, sky blue eyes, rosy cheeks. She's sitting on the floor coloring; a beat-up stuffed animal under her arm in a death grip. From here, it looks to be some sort of dog. She's so focused on her masterpiece that her little pink tongue is poked out of the corner of her mouth, her head tilted to the side as she pulls back to admire her work.

Her mother sits in a seat behind her, and it's clear her mind is nowhere near this place. She's looking off into the distance, her eyes completely vacant. She's beautiful, with blonde hair and blue eyes like her little girl, but you can tell her life has been rough. Maybe she just suffered the loss of a parent, a sibling, a friend. Maybe she is running away from an abusive partner, and I wonder if it could be the child's father. But I hope it's none of those. I hope instead of running from; she's running to. I hope she's out to make a better life for her and her little girl, and I hope they find a good one.

We all deserve to be running to something better.

And then there's this sweet old couple, sitting right by the gate. They're well into their eighties; white hair, liver spots, and all. They're both dressed nicely, maybe a little too nice for the airport. The man's hair is combed and gelled just so; the woman's hair is styled in that sort of overdone shield of curls you only ever see on older women. But aside from all of that, they look nothing short of two people madly in love.

Rather than sitting in one of the more comfortable chairs with rigid armrests on either side, they're seated on a hard metal bench by the window. His arm is around her tightly as if she is the whole world, and if he loosens his grip, he'll lose everything. Her head is tucked into his chest as if that spot was made only for her, and both of her hands are clasping his one free one in his lap. I catch the glint of two simple gold wedding bands, and I wonder how long they've been together. Something tells me it's been at least fifty years.

It's the happiest, most wholesome thing I can find in the vicinity, yet it's the one that makes my heart hurt the most.

I've never been in love. Hell, I've never even been in like. Not even with myself. The closest thing to love I ever felt was for my mother, and I haven't been able to enjoy that feeling in a very long time now.

A loud, tinny voice calls across the speakers that my plane is boarding and interrupts my brief foray into other people's lives. I tear my eyes away from the lovely couple that are oblivious to the world around them and stand to take my place in line.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Masen. Unfortunately there has been a mishap, and your seat was double booked. We do, however, have an available seat in first class, so your ticket has been upgraded," the assistant tells me. Her face is set into a broad, fake smile, and it's clear she's on autopilot- no pun intended- just trying to get through her day and go home. I like to think she has kids, a loving husband, and maybe a dog waiting for her. I hope she's not going home to an empty apartment like I am.

"Uh, no that's okay," I stutter, glancing behind me at the elderly couple. "You can upgrade them instead; I'm fine in coach."

Her smile falls, and her brow furrows. I've broken her out of her trance of automatic customer service, but she remains polite. "I can't do that, sir. There's only one open seat in first class."

"Uh, oh, well, okay then," I mumble before following her down another path to the front of the plane.

My reluctance to accept the upgrade has nothing to do with me being ungrateful. It truly doesn't. It's just that I was born into this life of luxury and opulence, and it's not exactly one I wish to partake in. Money makes people cold, and I've had enough of the cold to last a lifetime.

The other part is that I'm not a fan of flying, and I know all too well that when a plane crashes, it's the people in the front that are in the most danger. I know. Dark.

Still, as much as I tend to shy away from the special treatment that automatically comes with being a man of means, I also don't like to rock the boat, and so I keep my mouth shut and follow the nice lady's lead.

Before I settle into my seat, I make sure to dig the little white pill out of the front of my carry on, along with a book to get me through the short hour and a half flight. The pill is nothing major, just low dose Xanax, so I don't have a panic attack during take-off. For most people it would knock them out but I've been medicated long enough that it will only take the edge off.

Swallowing the pill dry leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as I settle into the seat that is indulgently comfortable for such a short flight. Then, I rest my head against the back of the seat and close my eyes, praying for the pill to kick in before take-off.

I don't know how long my eyes are shut before I feel it. This strange buzz fills the cabin, almost like it's been infused with static electricity, and it causes every hair on my body to stand on end. I'm alarmed to find it's not an unpleasant feeling.

My eyes fly open and are immediately drawn to the source. She has to be the most stunning woman I have ever seen.

Her skin is like porcelain, pale and smooth and perfect. Her hair is a deep mahogany, a rich mixture of dark brown, auburn, and rich caramel. It's long and hangs in soft, perfect waves all the way down to her waist. I can tell from here that it's thick and smooth, and my fingers itch to be buried in it.

I can't see her face yet, so I sit up straighter in my seat and silently beg her to look my way. In the meantime, I let my eyes take in the rest of her. She's so petite, yet her legs are long, and her curves are perfect. She's wearing these tight skinny jeans that cling to her like a second skin and black leather boots with extra buckles on them and just a little bit of a heel. I'm a bit ashamed to admit that my eyes are drawn to her heart-shaped ass for just a beat too long before they travel up.

She's holding a black moto jacket over her arm and wearing a band tee that's been cut to fit her figure and show off her tiny waist and swell of her hips, along with a small sliver of skin between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her jeans. I'm dying to see who's on the front of the shirt. Even from the side profile I'm getting of her, I can see that her breasts are perky and perfect, but all I want to see is her face. I'm craving it. I need it like air.

A breeze blows in through the open door of the plane, kicking up tendrils of her hair and bringing her scent directly to me.

...Strawberries and champagne. Warmth and home.

However, the same breeze causes her head to snap almost violently in my direction, and I only get the briefest glimpse of her breathtaking beauty before every feature is taken over with rage.

It's all I need, though.

All I need to know she's it.

Her eyes are wide and dark, lashes long and thick. Everything about her bone structure is the very definition of perfection. Between the ferocity in her eyes and the full redness of her lips, it takes everything in me not to kiss her senseless in front of everyone.

It doesn't matter that I don't even know her name.

The only thing that's stopping me is the look on her face. There's no mistaking that she's looking directly at me, but her face holds so much hatred and vitriol that it breaks my heart. Literally, my chest hurts, thinking this beautiful creature could possibly hate me before she's even gotten to know anything about me.

I've always been good at reading people, though, and there's something more to this. I just don't know what it is yet.

It's not until she turns her head and breaks our gaze that I realize she's with someone, and my heart sinks to my feet. He's attractive, of course. Blonde and tall with eyes that look almost golden, but his grip on her arm makes me uneasy. His lips are moving, but I can't tell what he's saying, and they're suddenly arguing back and forth.

It looks as if she's trying to leave, and his grip is the only thing stopping her. It doesn't take me long to figure out that he's not angry with her, and I'm sure anyone paying any kind of attention could see me visibly relax once I realize she is not in any danger from him.

Instead, his eyes are soft and caring. Reverent. Almost paternal, even though he can't be much older than her.

I have absolutely no claim on this woman, but the jealous part of me is very happy to realize that this man is likely a family member of hers. Maybe an older brother or a protective uncle that's closer to her age than her parents.

I find myself thankful for the man when he leads her to a seat. It's the one furthest away from me, but considering that I'm in the middle, it's still only two seats away, and they are still perfectly in my line of sight. I'm even able to see her shirt; Fleetwood Mac. It makes me smile. Even if she hates me, I can definitely see the similarity between her and Stevie Nicks, at least as far as personas go. This woman is all kinds of mysterious and sexy, and I already can't get enough.

But she's glaring. She's looking at me as if I'm the reason for every bad thing that has ever happened in her life. Occasionally, she looks back at the man who is seated across from her. Their seats face each other, and he's holding onto her hands, but the looks he's getting are only marginally softer than the ones being thrown my way.

One thing is clear, though.

She loves him.

She hates me.

I just don't know what I did to deserve it.

I don't even notice when the flight attendant gives the safety speech. I don't notice when the plane takes off, and my ears pop. I don't notice when I'm asked if I need anything, and I certainly pay no attention to the book in my hand. I'm spellbound, and I can't look away from her, even if it's breaking me apart to do so.

The whole trip from Chicago to Columbus is spent this way. I'm staring intently, silently willing for her to see that I'm good. I mean her no harm. I want to get to know her. If only she could somehow read my mind. Or if only I had the courage to walk over and talk to her.

I have never had a woman affect me in this way. Of course, I've found women pretty in the past. I've asked a few on dates. It never went far because I never really want it to. There was never any part of me that craved the company of a woman, or found one that I could stand long enough to get to know. They were all nice enough, sure, but they never really did much for me.

Some of them would throw themselves at me, begging me to do anything I wanted to them, but that didn't interest me either. I've always had too much shit going on to worry about bringing someone else into my mess. And believe me, I have a whole lot of mess. I doubt if any of them knew that they would even want to be involved.

But I also have never come across any woman that has made me want to try. This gorgeous brunette in front of me makes me want to run straight to the nearest shrink and fix my shit so I can be good for her. And that thought is fucking terrifying and thrilling all at once.

The second the plane touches down and we are given the green light to leave, she's rushing out the door and pulling the blond man right behind her.

I don't even grab my carry on bag. I'm out the door right behind her. The airport is crowded, though, and I'm playing hell trying to weave through people to get to her. I don't even know what I'll say if I do. Will I ask for her number? Will I ask why she seems to hate me? I don't know. It doesn't matter. I can't let her get away.

I only catch flashes of her brown hair and his blond. They're both moving faster than the crowd should allow, but I guess when you look like models, the seas will part for you. Before I lose my courage, I'm yelling like an idiot.

"Hey! Wait up! Stevie Nicks, I need to talk to you!" I'm jumping around and flailing like an idiot, hoping my height will be enough to cast my voice over all the people for her to hear me.

People are staring. Normally I would care. I don't.

God, or Allah, or whatever goddess is in charge, smiles down on me for a second when she turns to look at me. I thought my heart was breaking when she looked at me with such anger, but now, the new look on her face very nearly brings me to my knees. She looks so deeply, viscerally sad-the kind that reaches through every fiber of your being and all the way down to your bones.

I want to hug her. I want to hold her and make all of her fears and sorrows go away. The sheer weight of that desire crushes me, and I physically stumble from it.

When I look up, she's gone.

I don't even know what direction she went. I'll probably never see her again. And if I thought I was lost before, it's nothing compared to what I'm now feeling.


Well, there it is! Please let me know what y'all think! Next week, we get to see Bella's side of things. ;)