Thirty One.

The smoke clinging to his clothes releases its grip as he wanders into our flat, trailing in his path. It's a smell I associate with him since the day by the mural, embers burning in the oil drums nearby, and deep in my stomach as we kissed.

"Your mum's out?" he asks, shrugging out of his jacket and placing it on the back of one of the dining room chairs. He shoves his hands in his pockets, waiting for me to make the next move.

"I guess." I glance into her room, her unmade bed, dirty plates and clothes strewn over the floor, and pull the bedroom door to. He doesn't need to see how little she cares about herself. I go to the fridge and peer into the cold, bright light, finding nothing apart from leftover Chinese, a mouldy lemon and a bottle of tonic water. "Can't offer you much, you want some water?" I close the door hard enough to rattle it against the lino.

"I'm good thanks." He's still stood in the same spot, his eyes on everything but mine.

I say the one thing I know will draw them back to me. "Where did you go?"

"I went back home."

"To Manchester?"

"Yeah, I needed to see someone and as I was suspended," he shrugs, "seemed like as good a time as any."

"You could have told me," I say and immediately wish I hadn't, my voice sounding needy in a way I've never heard it before. The image of him disappearing into Sam's house still fresh in my mind.

"I know." He reaches a hand out to me, but I don't move an inch. "I'm sorry," he adds.

I fold my arms to create an extra barrier but keep my mouth shut. He looks different to when I last saw him. Older somehow. His hair is the same uncoordinated mess, his stubble the darkest shadow, but it's his eyes. When he's not looking at me, they're harder, tiredness has drawn dark circles and something else has sharpened them. I need him to tell me what before we can move on.

He searches out for another subject, another way in. "I didn't do what they accused me of at school."

I choke out a laugh. "I know that."

"Do you?"

His response makes me pause. Do I know that? Do I know anything about this boy who trades in secrets I can never seem to afford. "I don't believe you did it. Maybe that makes me stupid." He's somehow closer, but I still keep behind the line I've drawn. "I don't know what's going on with you, but I'm not doing this anymore. If you can't trust me … talk to me … then the best thing is to just stop."

"Stop what?" His eyes are all over me now and I wish they'd go back to the worn settee and piles of unopened letters, even the excruciatingly awful school pictures with Mum's DIY haircuts.

"Why were you watching the fire?" I ask.

"Why were you?"

I was watching you. "Lots of people stopped there."

He smiles to prove his point and I want to frown but his grin catches the edges of my lips and lifts them up even as I fight it.

"You are the most annoying person I have ever met."

"Thanks."

"It's not a compliment."

"It means you're thinking about me. That's not a bad thing."

"And did you think about me when you disappeared?"

"I've not stopped thinking about you since you walked into detention."

I feel my body softening to him. I let my arms drop.

"You're going to tell me what's been going on then?"

He doesn't get to answer before I hear two noises, one a lot more terrifying than the first. A key scratching against the lock, and Marcus' laugh, a sound colder than cracking ice. I freeze, eyes wide, and grab Cullen's jacket and throw it to him.

"Should I go?" he asks.

The vision of Marcus and Cullen crossing paths spins through my mind, the possibilities are bad enough that I snatch his hand and shake my head. "No, come with me."

I drag him out of the living room and into my bedroom, closing the door and grabbing my desk chair, pushing it up against the handle to lock us in. Cullen comes and leans one hand against the door as if to add his weight too, but his attention is not on the voices outside in the hall but on me again. It dawns on me that barricading yourself in your house and then your bedroom probably isn't normal behaviour. "Should I be worried?" His voice is low as he tilts his head toward the intruders.

I consider laughing it off but I hear Marcus say my name, the context lost behind the thick walls, and any lightness in my heart drains out onto my threadbare carpet. "Probably."

His breath is warm against my face, I feel the words as well as hear them. His lips are so close to my ear "Who is he?"

"Mum's current boyfriend."

"What did you say his name was again? He … something seems familiar about him."

I wince at the volume of his voice and put a finger to my lips. The last thing I want is for them to hear I've someone in here with me. My heart thumps in my chest as the wanted part of my life hurtles closer to the unwanted. Someone turns on the TV cutting into the heavy silence, allowing me to answer him. "Marcus. Marcus Volturi. He's … there's nothing good when he's around."

The creases in his forehead deepen. "Why not?"

"He runs with a gang, or used to, called the Bloods. They moved onto bigger things than this place. He moved on too which was a relief because he didn't treat mum well, not at all, but she loved … loves … him even after everything." It hurts me to admit that to Cullen. It's painful that Marcus is back and I can't do anything to stop him from destroying her all over again. "I think he was locked up for a bit but he crawled back to mum a few months ago. I don't know why. I can't work it out."

Cullen's hand curls into a fist against the door and I'm afraid he's going to thump it. He steadies himself with a deep breath, his hand opening back out to press against the wood. "Bella, when I asked you whether I should be worried about this … the answer should have been yes."

AN: Thank you for (still) reading and for Choc and Gemmah for reading this over for me. x