"You know, you can steel your heart against any kind of trouble, any kind of horror.

But the simple act of kindness from a complete stranger will unstitch you."

- Chris Abani -

In His Eyes

The next morning, my truck started without a problem. I considered asking Emmett if he could take a look at it, just to be sure, but he was a construction worker, and I knew he was very busy. Therefore, I made a mental note to take the truck to a repair shop as soon as possible.

The rest of the week passed uneventfully. Every now and then, I found myself thinking about the blond, kind stranger I had met a few days ago, wondering who he was. I still got all fluttery whenever my thoughts drifted to him, and it confused me. I told myself it was only because I'd been pleasantly surprised to receive help from someone I didn't even know. Nothing had compelled him to come and help me out, after all. It was nice, even comforting, to know people like him still existed.

For some reason, it still vexed me that I hadn't asked his name. I didn't know why it bothered me so much – I'd suppose it would have been nice to know at least something about him.

I made the mistake of telling Rosalie about what had happened. We spent Saturday together; she got to decide where we shopped, and I got to decide where we had lunch. I wasn't into shopping, but I put up with it, because I knew Rosalie enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed good books.

"So, this mystery man," she began, raising her eyebrows playfully, "Was he prettier than me?"

I grinned. "You know, he might've been, as impossible as it should be. He was blond, and his eyes were like..." I shook my head, searching for words, "They were this deepest shade of blue. Not blue-green like yours, just blue. Like really, really blue." I got shivers even thinking about his eyes.

"You sound like you're quite, hmm...taken with him." Her voice was teasing.

I rolled my eyes. "Come on. I don't even know his name."

Rosalie pulled a burgundy blouse from the rack. "Here, try this. This color looks perfect on you."

Knowing resistance was futile, I took the blouse and slipped into the fitting room, hearing her trail behind me.

"Why didn't you ask it, then?"

I pulled the curtain between us and wiggled my way out of the sweater I was wearing. "Ask what?"

"His name, silly."

I gave a laugh as I pulled on the blouse. "Why would I have? It's not like I'm going to see him ever again. I don't even know if he lives here."

"Exactly. You can't know that." She pulled the curtain open, not bothering to ask if I was dressed, and stepped inside. She gave me a once-over. "Wow."

I turned to look in the mirror. "What? What are you wowing about?"

Rosalie gave an exasperated sigh. "Well, look at yourself. That color is perfect on you. It compliments your fair skin and dark hair."

I frowned at my reflection, admitting that I liked what I saw, but still, I couldn't say I understood anything about these things. "Really? You think so?"

"Bella, sometimes I think you're either very stubborn, or you just fail to see yourself clearly. Or both." She met my gaze in the mirror. "Now, back to the original topic. What if the man who helped you lives here in Seattle? You can't know that. Who knows – you might even bump into him again."

I shrugged, looking away from her eyes and pretending to study the material of the blouse. "So what? You think I'm going to walk up to him and ask him out or something if our paths cross again?"

"Yes." She said it very slowly, as if I was a little slow-witted. "He obviously had an impact on you. I can see that. I've known you all my life, and I've never seen you this...I don't know, confused?"

I chuckled. "Confused?"

"Well, yeah. It clearly bothers you that you didn't ask his name. Don't deny it."

"Okay, maybe it does bother me. A little. But the fact remains that he was just being nice to me. He simply saw I was in trouble, and he helped me out. There was nothing more to it than that. He was very considerate and polite, and I'm sure he would've done it for anyone. And besides, he was a lot older than me."

Rosalie pursed up her lips in a pondering manner. "What's up with you and age, Goldilocks? The man at the café was too young, and now, this one is too old," she sniffed. "How much older was he, then?"

"I don't know. Uh...maybe forty?"

"But under fifty?"

I nodded. "Yeah, maybe. I don't know."

Rosalie's smile was mischievous. "You know how they say men only get better with age? I'm sure there's a reason for that." She winked at me.

"Stop it." I rolled my eyes and smacked her arm gently. "There's no point talking about this, anyway. He's probably married. I can't see why he wouldn't be." I remembered the deep, stormy blue color of his eyes, and my stomach fluttered again. I tried to ignore the feeling.

"Was he wearing a ring?"

"I don't know. I didn't look."

Rosalie sighed. "There are clearly some things I haven't been able to teach you. Bella, when you see something you like, the first thing you have to do is to take a look at his left hand. From now on, you'd better remember that."

"You know, it doesn't really tell anything about a person if they wear or don't wear a ring on their finger," I argued. "My dad still wears his wedding band, and it's been over twenty years since he and my mom got divorced."

"And that's exactly why you have this." Rosalie reached out to tap my lips with her forefinger. "I suggest you use it. You say, 'Excuse me, Sir, do you have a special someone waiting for you at home? Because if you don't...'" she trailed off meaningfully, looking at me from under her eyelashes. Those were her bedroom eyes, I assumed.

I stared at her, torn between amused and appalled. "You don't actually deliver lines like that, do you?"

She smirked. "Not anymore. I don't have to. I have Emmett now. Although, sometimes, we have these little role-plays, and there are actual lines involved. One night, I pretended to be–"

"Oh, my God! Stop right there, I've heard enough!" I raised my palms to my ears. Rosalie laughed brightly. Trying to ignore what she had said – and trying to banish the mental images – I turned to face the mirror again, studying the burgundy blouse.

"Okay," I sighed. "You know, I actually like this. I'll take it."

There was a pleased smile on Rosalie's lips as she slipped outside, pulling the curtain between us again.

"Where do you want to go to have lunch? Have you decided yet?"

I said the name of our favorite place, and I heard Rosalie give a soft laugh.

"But we always go there."

"Well, there's a reason why it's our favorite restaurant."

Next week, I went to the movies with Rosalie and Emmett like I'd promised. I also carried out my threat and sat between them, unwilling to see anything X-rated that night. I made it halfway through the movie when I finally got up, unable to stand their linked hands that rested in my lap, and the suggestive glances they were constantly giving each other.

"Fine, you hypersexual weirdos," I whispered, pretending to be miffed. Rosalie giggled quietly as she switched places with me. Their obvious affection towards each other didn't really bother me – I actually found it kind of sweet. They had been together for two years, and they still looked at each other like they had just met. Like they had just fallen in love. I wondered idly when Emmett would propose to her.

The rest of the week was busy. I had a lot of late shifts at the café, and every night when I came home, I went straight to bed, unable to stay awake any longer than was necessary. I'd always been an early to bed, early to rise type of person, and since staying constantly on my feet was practically part of my job description, that obviously added to my weariness.

As if to make my week even more packed, my truck refused to start again on Wednesday morning, and I had to call Rosalie and Emmett for help. After Emmett had jump-started it, he gave me the number of a mechanic who was a friend of his. I called him later that day, and he told me I could bring the truck as soon as the next afternoon. Apparently, the shop was more busy than usual, and that was why I couldn't get the truck back until Monday. It was fine by me – I could walk to the café and back home on Friday, and luckily, I didn't have any shifts during the weekend.

Rosalie offered to act as my personal driver, but I refused, knowing how busy she was with the salon. And besides, I liked the thought of walking for a change, especially when it turned out that the weather was getting better. It was raining in the morning when I woke up on Friday, but by the time I had to leave for my shift in the afternoon, it turned out I wouldn't need an umbrella.

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of work. It was funny that sometimes, Friday was the calmest day of the week at the café, and other times, it was the busiest. I'd learned to recognize some of the regulars who would always come for a coffee on their way home from work or school, and they always celebrated the weekend by buying more pastries than normal.

It was close to nine when I was free to leave. I changed out of my waitress uniform, replacing my red apron and black shirt and pants with my own clothes. As I was shrugging on my coat and gathering my things, I checked my phone and noticed my mom had called. Knowing she always stayed up late, I decided to call her back as I left the café and began to head for my apartment.

As I waited for her to pick up, I started to wonder if I should have taken a cab after all. I felt like walking, though, despite the fact that I noticed it was beginning to rain again. That was why I decided to take a shorter route to my apartment, to avoid getting drenched. I didn't know this area of the city very well, but I remembered I had taken this shortcut once before.

My mom answered – she seemed relieved to hear my voice. I knew why. We usually took turns calling each other, and I realized I had neglected my part – the past couple of weeks had been busy. She understood, of course, and when I told her about my truck, she suggested I should start saving up for an actual car – she had never understood why I was so charmed by the ancient vehicle Charlie had given me. She also seemed concerned about the fact that it was getting late, and I was walking home. I managed to put her mind at ease when I told her I didn't have to work this weekend, and I'd get my truck back on Monday.

She told me Phil – her new husband – had broken his leg the previous day. He was a baseball player, and sometimes, I thought he was even more accident-prone than I was. It wasn't a good thing, considering what his occupation was.

"Oh, that's too bad," I said. "Just when his shoulder began to feel better, this happens."

"Tell me about it," Renée sighed. I could imagine how she shook her head. "Now, he's even more helpless than he was with his shoulder. Can you imagine how grumpy he is, since he can't do anything? Bella, I swear to God, I love him with all I have, but the man drives me crazy sometimes."

I chuckled and told her to send him my best. We talked idly for a few more minutes, and then, we told each other goodnight.

As I put my phone into my bag and turned the corner of the street, I realized that choosing a shorter route hadn't helped me much. It began to rain more heavily, and as I sped up my pace, I came to realize something else as well; I couldn't recognize my surroundings.

I began to wonder if I had taken a wrong turn while I had been talking with my mom. My current route was taking me down an alley between apartment buildings, and I was pretty sure this wasn't the shortcut I had used before. I couldn't remember this alley.

Pulling my hood over my head in a vain attempt to shield myself from the heavy rain, I considered turning back and trying to retrace my steps. Hesitating, I slowed down and glanced behind me.

And that was when I realized that turning around wasn't a wise idea at all.

Someone was following me. A man. I wondered how long he had been walking behind me. He was about thirty or forty paces away, and I turned to look ahead of me again, speeding up my steps. Forcing myself to stay calm, I told myself that maybe his purpose was the same as mine. Maybe he was hurrying home as well.

I didn't look behind me again until I was at the end of the alley and about to turn the corner. My heart began to hammer in my chest as I glanced over my shoulder again and realized my follower was much closer to me now than he had been before. Since I had sped up my walk a moment ago, it could only mean that so had he.

He's just probably in a hurry to get out of this rain, I told myself. Who wouldn't be?

Nevertheless, I kept my pace brisk as I turned the corner. What I saw made my lungs feel like they were on the verge of collapse. There was another alley ahead of me, narrower and even longer this time. I knew it for certain, then, that I had taken a wrong turn at some point, while I'd been preoccupied with my phone conversation. I quickened my pace, knowing very well how clumsy I got whenever I had to run. The chill that ran through me had nothing to do with the cold rain as I glanced over my shoulder again, noticing the man who was following me was getting closer. I estimated the distance between us was now less than twenty yards.

I tried to think quickly. For a moment, I considered dropping my bag – I had some cash in my wallet, and if money was something he was after, maybe he'd leave me alone, but a small voice in the back of my mind told me my follower might be something far worse than a mugger. I swore to myself I'd never go outside without my pepper spray ever again.

I listened intently for his footsteps, but the rain was so loud that it drowned out all other sounds. Would it drown my voice as well? Should I try to scream? My throat felt dry – I wasn't sure how much volume I could manage.

I continued to walk as quickly as I could without actually running, focusing on the end of the alley a few dozen yards away from me. I hoped it wouldn't be just another deserted street waiting for me there, and I was relieved when I saw a car drive by; there would be more people around, once I got out of this alley.

I glanced over my shoulder again. What I saw made me slide my bag off my shoulder and grip the strap with one hand. I was no longer considering surrendering it – I was considering using it as a weapon if the situation so demanded.

The man was closing the distance between us. There was a small, sudden change in his posture, in the way he moved, and in an instant, I knew what would happen next.

He began to run towards me.

I reacted instantly, breaking into a run as well. The adrenaline rush that coursed through me was so strong, it made me feel almost dizzy. I forced myself to look straight ahead – there was no point looking over my shoulder anymore. It would only slow me down.

The pavement was slippery under my shoes, and as I extended my strides, my foot slipped. I lost my balance, and I broke the fall with my hands, losing my bag in the process. Something sharp cut through my other palm, and I idly took notice that there was a broken bottle on the ground. I couldn't feel any pain, though. There was only fear, and a voice inside me that told me to run, run, run. Obeying the voice, I pushed myself up, forcing my trembling legs to cooperate.

The street was getting closer, and I risked a glance over my shoulder. Was it only wishful thinking, or was he beginning to drop behind? Would I manage to outrun him?

My breaths were coming so fast that they began to sound like sobs. My lungs started to burn as I quickened my strides, and I looked over my shoulder again, noticing I'd managed to put more distance between us. I didn't slow down, though – every cell in my body refused to believe the chase was over. I turned to look ahead of me again, just as I felt myself crashing into something – or someone. The impact almost sent me to the ground, but a pair of strong arms wrapped around me, steadying me and keeping me on my feet.

"What the–? Whoa, easy there. Are you alright?"

I vaguely comprehended that I'd reached the street, vaguely comprehended that I was looking up into someone's face. Eyes of deep, stormy blue found mine; recognition flared up in their depths.

Something like relief flooded through me, like my body was trying to assure me I was safe now. My mind still refused to believe it. Half-sobbing, half-gasping, I kept staring at the kind, familiar face, as if trying to force myself to realize I was here. That I was fine.

"Is everything alright, Miss? Has something happened?" he asked me, his face edged with concern.

It took a while before his familiar, smooth voice penetrated into my consciousness. I heard myself answer, felt my lips forming words.

"There was someone...I think...there was a man...he was following me..." I was still out of breath, but apparently, he understood something about my fragmented sentence.

"Where?"

I whirled around to face the alley, just as my pursuer turned the corner at the other end, disappearing from sight.

I vaguely realized the man I had ran into was still holding me steady, like he wasn't quite sure if I could stand on my own. I saw indecision in his eyes, hesitation.

"I'll try to follow him," he offered, but I shook my head. I didn't know why, exactly. After a short moment, he reached the same conclusion as I had – whoever it was who had been chasing after me would be too far away now. There was no chance we – or he – could find him.

"What happened?" I heard the man ask.

I shook my head, trying to calm down. My heart was still pounding like crazy, and I realized I was trembling from head to toe. The adrenaline was quickly wearing off, making me feel like I had been run over by a train.

"I was on my way home from work," I began to explain. It annoyed me how breathless and feeble I sounded. "I could've taken a cab, I guess, but I wanted to walk. It began to rain, and I took a shortcut – I must've taken a wrong turn at some point. And then, I suddenly noticed there was someone following me. I thought maybe he was just on his way home or something, but after a while, he began to run, trying to catch up with me."

"Did you see his face?"

I shook my head. "No, he was too far away."

The man nodded. His blond hair was completely wet, and that was when I realized it was still raining like crazy; I'd barely noticed it. The hood had slipped off my head at some point, and I felt cold raindrops sneaking under my collar, wetting my shirt. I shivered.

The man's next words managed to surprise me.

"You've hurt yourself."

Feeling slightly out of my body, I tried to comprehend what he was talking about. I didn't understand, until a sudden stabbing pain made itself known in my palm. Then, I remembered; I had fallen and dropped my bag, and there had been a broken bottle on the ground.

Something warm was trickling down my fingers. Blood usually made me queasy, but now, I was too disoriented to feel queasy. To feel anything but dizzying relief.

I felt the man taking my hand in his own, examining my palm – his hands were pleasantly warm.

"They don't seem too deep," I heard him murmur. "Some of these cuts might need stitches, though. I can't be sure, until I see your hand in better light. How did this happen?"

"I tripped," I heard myself explain. "There was a broken bottle on the ground. Just my luck."

The man gave me a wry smile before beginning to examine my hand again. He hesitated.

"These need to be cleaned and tended to," he said. "I could call you a cab, or I could get my car and drive you to the hospital myself. What would you prefer?"

I suddenly remembered my bag. If the man who had followed me had taken it...

Bye-bye wallet and cell phone. Bye-bye keys.

"What is it?" the man asked, noticing my expression.

"My bag," I explained. "I lost it when I fell."

He nodded, digging out a neatly folded tissue from his pocket. He pressed it against my bleeding palm gently. "Add some pressure here, but not too much – there might be glass in the cuts. Wait here – I'll be right back."

He was gone before I managed to utter a word. I held the tissue against my palm and watched him make his way down the alley. He walked about twenty yards before he stopped and reached down to pick something up from the ground; my bag. Relief flooded through me as I realized that the creep who had followed me hadn't taken it.

The blond man came back to me.

"Is my wallet still there? And my cell phone?" I asked, still pressing the tissue to my palm. My hands were trembling.

He hesitated – maybe he was surprised I had asked him to go through my bag. I couldn't blame him. I didn't know him, after all. He opened the zipper and looked inside.

"It's looks like you're in luck today," he murmured, giving me a reassuring smile.

I let out a relieved breath. "That's odd. Why didn't he take it, after I'd dropped it? That doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe he didn't see you drop it," he suggested as he gave me the bag. I slid it on my shoulder, gingerly trying to make a fist with my injured hand. "Or maybe he didn't want to risk it, after he saw he was about to get more company."

"Yeah, maybe." I knew what he had left unsaid. Maybe the creep who had been chasing me hadn't been after my bag, as simple as that.

The man was scouting the street, apparently trying to spot a cab. After a moment, he turned to me again, hesitating.

"I don't live that far away from here," he said, contemplating. "I can take a better look at your hand if you want – I'm a doctor. I have to make sure there's no glass in the cuts. Or I could drive you to the hospital, like I suggested earlier. What would you prefer?"

Slightly stunned, I tried to think of something to say. I only had one thought in my mind: I hated hospitals. I'd spent half of my life there. Hospitals meant blood and vomit and needles and syringes and stitches. "Uh...did you say the cuts aren't very deep?"

He nodded.

"And they might not need stitches?"

"Maybe not, but I need to see them in better light to know for sure."

The thought of stitches made me seriously consider his first suggestion. I had to remind myself, though, that I still didn't know this man, despite the fact that he had helped me and had saved me from trouble twice now. Getting myself a cab sounded like a lot safer option. When I really thought about it, I had no reason to trust him – this was only the second time I'd met him. But if I was completely honest with myself, something about him made me feel...I didn't know. Like I was safe. It was crazy.

Maybe it was my fear of needles talking and running my brain.

I shook my head to clear it – for some reason, it felt foggy. "Uh...how far away do you live?"

"Just a few blocks from here."

I still hesitated. "I don't want to be a bother..."

"It's no bother," he assured me, smiling softly. Then, he inclined his head, gesturing for me to follow him. "Come. I'd hate it if you caught a cold."

Right. It was still raining. The August evening felt colder than normal, or maybe it was just me. Maybe I was going into shock or something.

As I fell into step beside him, he reached out to check my hand again. The tissue he had given me was now bright with blood, and he replaced it with a new one. I wondered if it was a habit of his to carry a pack of tissues with him.

"So," he began conversationally, giving me a brief smile, "How come you're walking home, when the weather is so terrible? Did your truck give you trouble again?"

"I took it to a shop yesterday," I explained. "I'll get it back on Monday. You were right – the battery was bad."

He nodded. "Well, I'm glad the truck didn't have any worse problems. I hope you two still have many miles ahead of you." Despite the situation, his warm, slightly sad smile made something inside me ache in a strange, pleasant way.

I chuckled quietly. "I hope so, too. It seems, though, that my truck has been giving me only bad luck lately." I raised my injured hand, and he gave a soft laugh. "Or maybe it's not the truck. I'm an incurable trouble magnet, you see. I always have been. It's funny, though, that this is the second time you've happened to appear when I'm in trouble."

He gave me another small smile. "Well, it was fortunate that I happened to be taking a walk."

I had to admit, it was a strange hour to be taking a walk, especially since it was raining like this. I shrugged inwardly – maybe it was just a habit of his.

"Well, I don't know what would've happened if I hadn't – quite literally – run into you tonight. Thank you, Doctor, uh..." I paused, realizing I still didn't know his name.

"Oh." He closed his eyes, like he was frustrated with himself. "I'm sorry about my poor manners. I'm Carlisle Cullen. And please, just call me Carlisle."

Carlisle...what a beautiful, strange name. "I'm Bella," I told him, giving him a smile, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Bella Swan."

He smiled brilliantly. "That's a pretty name. Suits its owner."

The raindrops beating against my cheeks felt suddenly colder. I hoped he didn't notice I was blushing like an idiot.

We kept talking idly about this and that, and before I even knew it, we were there. For some reason, I'd assumed he was living in an apartment building, but I suddenly found myself in a neighborhood with elegant, refined houses. I saw a familiar black SUV parked in the driveway of a large, white house. That was where the blond man – Carlisle – was leading me. There were no lights on inside.

I hesitated as he led me to the porch and began to unlock the door. "I hope no one wakes up because of me. I mean, I'm sure your wife..." I trailed off, not really knowing what I wanted to say.

A very strange look passed in Carlisle's blue eyes. It was gone almost immediately, though, and he gave me a brief smile.

"I live alone," he stated. "Don't worry about waking anyone up." He held the door open for me, and I stepped inside, realizing I was unreasonably pleased to find out he didn't have a wife. I wondered about the strange look in his eyes, though, when I'd asked about it, but I soon forgot about it as I stepped inside.

The place was spacious...and beautiful. Carlisle followed me inside after closing the door, and as he turned on some lights, I spotted several elegant paintings adorning the white walls. He led me to a large, modern kitchen, again turning on some lights, and then, he pulled up a chair for me. My eyes took in the space – the walls were ivory white in here as well – and I thought to myself that the house was slightly intimidating. I wondered if he was rich. He had to be.

"Have a seat," he told me. "I'll be right back."

I did as he said, hanging my bag on the chair and watching him as he went back to the hallway where we'd just come from.

He returned a short moment later. He had removed his coat; the pale blue dress shirt he wore made the blue of his eyes stand out even more, and I tried not to stare. Instead, I eyed warily the huge first-aid kit he had in his hand, and that was why I almost didn't notice he was also holding a blanket.

"Why don't you take off your coat," he suggested, placing the first-aid kit on the table next to me. "It must be drenched. You'll be more comfortable without it."

Remembering what he had said about catching a cold, I rose from the chair and began to shrug off the coat. I almost felt startled as warm fingers touched mine briefly. He had come over to help me, and I wondered idly when the last time was that a man had helped me to take off my coat. He hung it over the back of a nearby chair to dry, and then, he took the blanket he had brought with him and spread it over my shoulders.

"How are you doing, Bella?" Carlisle asked me and gave me a close look, a small frown crinkling his brow. "Do you feel dizzy, sick, cold...?" He was probably trying to determine if I was going into shock or something.

I shook my head, as I sat down again, hesitating. "Just cold. And a little shaky, I guess."

He nodded. "That's understandable, considering what happened." He walked past me, touching my shoulder briefly in a reassuring manner, before he began to move around in the kitchen. I didn't see what he was doing, but water began to run, and then, I heard as he placed something on the stove behind me.

A moment later, he returned to me and pulled up a chair for himself, opening the first-aid kit and spreading some of its contents on the table. I slipped my injured hand out from under the blanket, shivering as his gentle fingers cradled mine. Man, his hands were warm.

He removed the tissue he had placed on top of the cuts a few minutes earlier, seeming pleased that the bleeding had almost stopped. I wondered if the cuts would leave scars – it seemed like the long, ugly scar on the inside of my arm was about to get company.

I saw Carlisle give the scar in question a long look, but he didn't ask anything. I focused on his face as he began to clean the cuts with antiseptic; I didn't want to see if there was blood or how much damage the broken bottle had done. Passing out or throwing up were things I definitely wanted to skip.

I studied him carefully. His moist, golden hair. The refined angles of his face. His eyes, blue like cornflowers. I found myself wondering about his age. His features were smooth, except for the very fine lines at the corners of his eyes.

He looked extremely tired – I hadn't noticed it before. He had dark circles under his eyes, like he was in serious need of sleep. I wondered if he suffered from insomnia – why else would he look so...exhausted? But then again, he'd told me he was a doctor. And doctors were tired. Right?

For some reason, I began to feel something like disappointment. Now that I had seen him up close, I estimated that he must be at least forty, maybe older. That meant I must have been at least fifteen years his junior. It was like there was suddenly a chasm between us, something that made him unattainable.

I told myself it didn't matter – that I shouldn't feel this disappointed. I had no reason to.

As he examined my palm carefully, apparently trying to determine if there was glass in the cuts, I tried to distract myself from my thoughts by talking.

"So, you're a doctor," I stated, when I couldn't think of anything more creative to say.

Carlisle gave me a brief smile before focusing on my hand again. "Actually, I may have been slightly dishonest with you about that. I used to work as a doctor, yes...but I haven't practiced for years."

"What do you do, then?"

"I'm a professor of English Literature at the university."

"Oh. How long have you been working there?"

Something in his eyes shifted for a small moment. "A few years," he answered, his voice quieter now. "I took on teaching soon after I stopped practicing medicine."

"Why did you stop?" I knew it was a personal question – maybe a little too personal. But I found myself wondering about the strange look in his eyes. I also had this strong urge to learn more about him – I couldn't explain it.

My question didn't seem to offend him, but I noticed he didn't answer right away.

"It wasn't the right field for me," he eventually answered, his voice suddenly detached. "And I find great pleasure in teaching and lecturing."

For some reason, I got this feeling, like that wasn't the whole truth, but I didn't want to pry any more than I already had. It seemed odd, though, that he would say medicine wasn't the right field for him. There was something special about the careful way he tended to my hand. He was gentle, quick and precise, and something told me he had once been a very good doctor. Why had he changed his field, then?

He examined my hand again carefully, after wiping the cuts with more antiseptic.

"Is your tetanus shot up to date?" he asked me.

I nodded.

"Well, good news, then. I don't see any glass, and the cuts are not too deep. They won't need stitches." He reached out to take something from the table – butterfly bandages. I let out a relieved breath. When he gave me a curious look, I decided to explain.

"I'm not good with needles or blood, so those are really good news. And I'm not fond of hospitals, either. I've spent too much time in them."

"How come?"

I shrugged, trying to keep my hand steady, as he put the bandages in place. He apologized when I hissed.

"I'm a trouble magnet, like I earlier said," I answered, when he was done with the bandages. "It's a synonym for clumsy and unlucky. I'm more accident-prone than some children. Trouble finds me wherever I go. Well, I'm sure you've noticed. First, my truck, and now this."

He chuckled quietly. Then, he rose from his seat and disappeared behind me again. I heard him move about, and then I thought I heard him pour something into a mug.

"That life of yours sounds quite challenging," he stated, amused. "What kind of work do you do?"

"I'm a waitress at a café."

He came back and sat down again. I told him the name of the place, and he nodded.

"I think I've stopped by there once or twice," he murmured. "Not in a while, though." He began to wrap some gauze around my hand, securing it with medical tape. "Do you have to work tomorrow?"

I shook my head. "My next shift is on Monday."

He nodded. "Well, that's good. I think your hand will be better by then. Make sure to keep the cuts dry, though. You might have to wear a plastic glove while you work, but it depends on how much you're going to use your hand – and how well the cuts will heal. Clean them with antiseptic once or twice a day. They aren't deep, so they should scab and heal fairly quickly."

I nodded and thanked him quietly. He gave me yet another dazzling smile before rising from the chair again. When I was about to do the same, he held up a hand and told me to stay where I was. He returned a moment later, carrying a steaming mug.

"I made you some tea to warm you up. I don't know if you prefer coffee, but I have a feeling caffeine might not be good for you after the adrenaline rush you just went through."

"Oh, you didn't have to do this for me," I said, but as he offered me the mug, I had no choice but to take it. "You've done too much for me as it is. Thank you."

He shook his head and smiled, before disappearing from my sight again. When he came back a few seconds later, I saw that he had poured tea for himself as well. He placed his own mug on the table, putting the supplies neatly back into the first-aid kit, and then he sat down, running his fingers through his still-moist hair and giving me yet another close look.

I took a careful sip of my tea; it was really sweet.

"I put some honey in it," he explained. "I'll be more at ease, when I know you have some sugar in you. You still look a little pale. Do you feel any better?"

I nodded, trying not to think about how terrible I looked. My hair was wet, and I probably resembled a drowned rat.

He, on the other hand...wet hair suited him perfectly.

Stop it.

I cleared my throat quietly, giving him a smile. "I feel fine. A little surreal, maybe."

Carlisle nodded. "I understand. I'm sure you got quite a scare tonight."

"Thanks again for being in the right place at the right time."

He smiled. "It's no problem, Bella. I'm glad you weren't hurt worse than you were." He paused, hesitating. "Whoever it was who was following you...you said you couldn't see his face?"

I thought about the panic-filled moments in the alley. "There wasn't enough light, and he was too far away. At first, I wasn't even sure if he was following me. I kept telling myself that, maybe he was heading home, just like I was. But then, I noticed he wasn't dropping behind. After a while, I began to walk faster, and I noticed he tried to match my pace. And then, he started to run." I shivered if I even thought about it. "I'm never walking home alone again. At least not without my pepper spray."

Carlisle gave me a sympathetic look. Man, his eyes were blue. I suddenly realized I didn't want to blink whenever he was looking at me like that.

"You should consider reporting this," he suggested carefully, "even if you don't have any description to give."

"Yeah, probably. Charlie – I mean, my dad – he'd want me to. He's a cop himself, so..." I let out a quiet sigh, knowing how Charlie would react if he knew I'd walked home all alone when it was so late. Good thing he couldn't ground me anymore. "I could probably go to the police station in the morning. Maybe I'm supposed to do it right away, but..." I trailed off, suddenly exhausted.

"Do you have anyone who could drive you there tomorrow?" Carlisle asked. "If your truck is in the shop..."

I nodded, thinking Rosalie might give me a ride. After she had blown a gasket, of course.

We finished our tea, and I tried to ignore the dull, stabbing pain in my palm. After inquiring one more time if I was feeling well, Carlisle offered to drive me home.

"I can take a cab," I said, slightly embarrassed that he had gone through so much trouble for me.

"I'll be much more at ease if I get to make sure myself that you get home safely. I'm sure you've had enough drama for one night."

His words made me feel oddly warm. I chuckled at his last sentence and took a glance at the clock on the wall. My eyes widened in shock when I saw it was well past ten.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was so late," I apologized, quickly getting up and placing my empty mug on the table. I put the blanket on the back of the chair and hastily grabbed my coat. "You know, I've been too much of a bother as it is. Seriously. I can't let you drive me home after all you've done for me. I'm keeping you up."

Carlisle shook his head, and a strange look passed in his eyes again. "I'm a poor sleeper, and I'd be awake, nonetheless. That's actually why I was taking a walk, when I bumped into you."

"Oh." I frowned. That answered one question – I'd earlier wondered why he looked so tired. I gave him a curious smile. "Do you often take night walks...in the rain?"

He smiled, and I could instantly see that there was something sad about that smile. "Well, not every night," he answered. "And especially not in the rain. But every now and then, I feel like going for a walk when it's late, and there are less people on the streets. I find it...well, not relaxing, but...soothing, perhaps."

I wondered about that, but I didn't ask. The sudden sadness disappeared from him as he got up, collecting our mugs and carrying them to the sink. I suddenly found myself wondering why he was living in such a big house all by himself. Was he lonely? Was that the reason behind the sadness in his smile? Did loneliness keep him awake at night?

Damn. I had to leave, before I started to ask too many personal questions again.

"Thank you for the tea," I told him, taking my bag. "And for everything else as well. You've done so much for me, and I can't take advantage of your hospitality any more than I already have. I can get myself a cab."

"Is there any way I could change your mind?" he asked, meeting my gaze. "Truly, Bella, I'd be more than happy to drive you myself. It's Friday night, and getting a cab might take longer than normal. I'm sure you must be tired. Where do you live?"

I told him my address. He seemed to be familiar with the area.

"It's not far from here," he stated, giving me a smile that made my knees go weak. He saw I was about to relent, and he threw me another smile that made him look a lot younger than he probably was. "I have a good heater in my car," he added, saying it like my decision depended on this detail.

I gave a soft laugh. "Well, I suppose that settles it. Since I can blow-dry my hair and get home..."

Carlisle laughed as well, grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter. I followed him outside to his car, and I felt a little stunned as he hurried to open the passenger door for me. Gentlemen did exist, after all.

He had been honest about the heater. As we headed to my apartment, it didn't take long until pleasantly warm air began to fill the car. We talked idly about this and that, keeping the conversation light, and I guessed he was trying to take my mind off the things that had occurred earlier tonight. I realized, though, that despite everything terrible that had happened, I suddenly found myself...well, something like pleased or glad I'd bumped into this man again. There was something about him that made me want to learn more about him. I knew his name now – that was a start.

I knew I had to accept, though, that this was probably the last time I would see him. The last time I'd be in his company. He had seen someone who needed help, and now, he had done his part. And no matter how intriguing I found him, it didn't matter. We had nothing in common. I would bet we had more differences than similarities, and age was just one of those differences. He was probably old enough to be my father – I shouldn't have been attracted to him.

But I was.

"Do you live alone?" Carlisle asked as he stopped the car in the parking lot of my building. "Do you have anyone who could spend the night with you? Is there a friend you could call, perhaps?"

I told myself that, as a doctor – or as an ex-doctor – it was completely normal that he was worried. This wasn't a sneaky way to try to find out if I had a boyfriend – I was sure of it.

"I live alone, but I have a friend I can call if I feel like it."

"Does your hand hurt?"

I tried to make a fist and stopped immediately, as I realized it wasn't wise. "It's not too bad," I answered, ignoring the discomfort.

I saw him nod, and it bothered me a bit that I could no longer see his blue eyes; it was too dark in the car. "You might have to change the dressing tomorrow. Keep an eye out for signs of infection. If the cuts begin to swell, if you develop a fever, or if your hand begins to hurt more than you can tolerate, you should go to a doctor as soon as possible."

"Will do. Thanks again."

I was feeling unreasonably sad as I grabbed the door handle and prepared to get out of the car.

Suddenly, I heard him draw in a quick breath, as if to say something. I literally felt his hesitation. After a moment, he reached up, and I heard a quiet click as he turned on the ceiling light of the car. He took a pen and a piece of paper from the center console, scribbling something down. The look he gave me was contemplative, hesitant. For some reason, he was gauging my expression carefully.

"Here's my number. If you have any questions, or if your hand begins to bother you, feel free to call me." A dry smile lit his face. "And if you develop a dangerous infection and lose the ability to use your hand, now you have a way to contact me if you want to sue me. Like I told you, I'm not a practicing doctor anymore. You'll win the case."

Laughing softly, I took the piece of paper from him. Overwhelmed by his sudden gesture, I thanked him again for everything he had done for me, before opening the door and getting out of the car. Before closing the door, I told him goodnight.

"Goodnight, Bella," he answered, smiling softly. "Sleep well."

Was I imagining it, or did he suddenly seem a little somber? A little sad? Like he had just realized something and comprehended that he simply had to submit to his fate? Was he unwilling to separate from me as well?

I couldn't spend much time analyzing his expression without looking like a weirdo. I closed the passenger door and walked away towards the one-floor apartment building. I couldn't help but notice that Carlisle didn't leave the parking lot until I had opened my apartment door – apparently, he wanted to make sure I got inside safely. I thought it was very sweet of him.

As I went inside and closed the door behind me, I suddenly realized something. I hadn't imagined the sadness in his eyes just now; I had caught glimpses of it throughout the night. It had been there all the time, in his eyes. In his smile. It could only mean one thing.

The sadness I'd seen in him just now had nothing to do with me. I was alone in finding it hard to leave these past moments behind.

A/N: Some of you maybe noticed while reading the alley scene that I mimicked the events that took place in Twilight, Chapter 8, Port Angeles.

"How are you doing, Bella?" is a quote from New Moon.