I do not own Twilight.

You all deserve some angst, followed by some making up :)

Summer before College

It's easier to avoid Edward in the summer.

At least, that's what I told myself the day that I broke up with him.

Tensions have been rising for weeks. I think it scares him that I'll be so far from him after the summer is over.

I dodge call after call, text after text, visit after visit until, eventually, Charlie has to tell him that I don't want to see him anymore, even though I've already told him to his face, two days prior.

I try not to stare out the window as they talk in the driveway and I try to ignore the look of sympathy on Charlie's face. My mom's presence behind me is one of strength, of quiet sorrow, but a resilience so strong that it makes me feel like what I've done is good, even though I'm terrified it's really, really bad.

The look on Edward's face clarifies that this decision was and is really, really bad and I have to stop myself from reaching across to open the window and call out to him.

My mom's hand on my shoulder is a powerful reminder that she thinks this is right.

When Charlie comes back inside, I pretend that the hidden smile pulling at my mom's lips doesn't kill me inside.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Charlie asks once my mom has gone upstairs. His voice is quiet, like he's afraid my mom will hear. Or afraid if he's any louder, the pounding in my head will become an explosion.

"No," I say and the answer is truthful, if not indignant.

I ignore him and my mom for the rest of the day and stay holed up in my room, staring at the cellphone I turned off so I don't have to see his name flash across, if it even will anymore.

Two days later and I'm disappointed, but not shocked, by my inability to stay away.

He stands on the bottom step to my deck, hidden by my backyard and surrounding woods, and I stand two steps above him.

Like this, we're eye-level and I can see the glazed over look, the sleepless marks that ring his eyes, the reddened streaks to his bloodshot gaze. I wonder if he's been crying, or high, or, both.

I stare at him and try to ignore every impulse in my body to sink to his level, to let him hold me like we both want him to, but I resist. I resist so hard, tears rim my eyes and I bite down to keep from crying.

His jade eyes study mine and he looks away quickly, down to the post between us, his own jaw clenching and unclenching.

He's trying not to cry, too.

I'm grateful that his hands are shoved deep into the front pockets of his jeans. I have no excuse to try to reach for his fingers this way.

I don't know why I'm standing here, or why I'm letting him stand here, or why I told Emmett to tell Edward that he can talk to me today, if he'd like to.

And even though I don't know, I know.

It's a weakness that grows in both of us. We're one and the same and I don't know if I can make it without him.

I don't know if he can make it without me.

It's stupid when I let my body tip forward, my toes holding me to the step, and wrap my arms around his neck, grounding myself to him, and it's even more stupid when he doesn't reciprocate. It's stupid and annoying and heartbreaking that he doesn't take his hands out of his pockets to hug me back.

But I can feel it in the way he fixes his footing and lets out a breath that sounds more like a groan of pain. I can feel it in the way he relaxes against me, his tense muscles loosening as though they haven't relaxed once in the four days we were apart.

"What are we doing?" I whisper against his hair and then rephrase. "What am I doing?"

I think my question scares him because he pulls his hands from his pockets and wraps them around my waist, pulling me from the step I'm holding onto so that I'm completely dependent on him. His hand comes up to hold the back of my head and he buries his face into the crook of my shoulder.

I'm whole and wounded, all at once.

"Don't leave me," he begs and then, in the same breath, "Take me back."

He pulls back and guides my face to his, my mouth to his and everything is complete.

I'm glad my parents are at work because I know what's going to happen when Edward picks me up and lets me wrap my legs around his waist.

He wastes no time when we're in my room, stripping me of my shirt and shorts, his mouth hot and fiery on the skin of my neck, my chest, my stomach. I reciprocate just as hurriedly, just as desperately. We hold each other for a few seconds, skin to skin, and reunion is spectacular and thrilling and breathtaking.

His eyes hold mine and I see what leaving him has done to him; I've brought his worst fear to life and the realization brings me to tears.

I'm just another person who's left him.

His fingers and mouth brush away the tears, but he's still moving inside of me, building me to a crescendo that I know I will never be able to reach with anyone else. We're like a holy union; we seek a higher power and find it within each other.

"I'm sorry," he whispers and the sour grievance of his words contradicts the way he fucks me, as though he's trying to keep my body with his; like he's afraid I'll disappear if he doesn't hold me hard enough.

"I'm sorry I'm controlling." He lifts my hips slightly and I'm caught off guard, reaching to hold onto the blankets surrounding me.

"I'm sorry I'm jealous." His tongue and lips are doing something to the skin beneath my ear that I know will leave a mark.

"I'm sorry I'm possessive." His mouth finds mine and his words are proven when his tongue takes over my own.

And when I find my end with him, my back arching high, moans vibrating involuntarily from my lips, there's a small voice in the back of my head reminding me that he hasn't said he'll stop.