*V*V*V*V*V*

I'm an idiot. I don't know why I'm doing this. But I knock at his office door anyway, already blushing. I debated with myself all night and half the morning about not wanting to be jerked around, but also not wanting to avoid my problems – and I found myself marching down the English hallway to his hamster cage of an office anyway. At least I didn't make the damn coffee – there is still some pride involved here.

"Come in."

"Hey."

"Hey," he says, eyebrows rising. "I wasn't . . . I wasn't sure if you'd come."

I shrug self-consciously. "I wasn't sure either. I didn't bring coffee, though," I blurt out – like that will show that I'm some adult human being in full control of her actions because I choose who gets coffee or not.

His expression is blank. "I was just kidding about the coffee, you know. I wouldn't bring me coffee either."

I stare at him for a moment, surprised. Now I feel bad. "I'd like to think I'm not that petty." Of course, I've also been hiding from him in the library for nearly a month because he yelled at me one time, so who's to say?

After a moment of intense eye contact where it feels like he's trying to x-ray into my soul, he sighs. "Maybe I'm projecting. I've wanted to apologize to you for a long time."

I'm not astonished exactly, though I wasn't expecting this discussion to happen so quickly. "I have, too."

A scrutinizing gaze accompanies his response. "When I said I wanted to forget ever meeting you . . . I was completely overwhelmed by everything. Finding out you used to date Emmett and that you worked for my family and that you had told your mom –."

"I am sorry for that – for dropping all of that on you. I'm not proud of how I handled it either. I just didn't want to be on this rollercoaster anymore."

"I don't blame you for that at all. I can't believe you didn't run sooner."

I'm unsure how to respond. Maybe I should have run – I've just never wanted to.

When my silence pervades, Edward exhales loudly. "There's so much I want to say. I've just, uh . . . I've missed you."

I'm lost in him for a moment, feeling a wave of that same connectedness that has eluded me for weeks. Like we're a team against the world. I swallow loudly. "I've missed you, too."

"Bella," he says slowly, "I –."

A knock sounds on the door, causing me to jump.

"Come in," Edward says, self-consciously straightening his tie. Instinctively, I grab the nearest stack of papers off his desk to appear more studious – and not like I'm in the middle of navigating romance with my high school English teacher.

"Hey, Ed," Mr. Berty says, popping his head in but then following through with the rest of his body when he sees me. "Oh, hey, Bella!"

"Hi, Mr. Berty!" I say a bit too cheerfully in my attempt to sound normal.

Thankfully, he doesn't notice, turning his head back to Edward. "I just wanted to talk to you about that matter we discussed yesterday, but it can wait. I forgot you had tutoring this period." He smiles at me. "He's not being too hard on you, is he?"

Immediately, I flash back to my first time in Edward's office when I noticed exactly how hard he was. "No," I choke out.

Mr. Berty's eyes wander around the four claustrophobic walls of our confinement, adjusting his glasses on his rounded nose. "Jeez, they've got you squished like sardines in here. You're practically on top of each other."

Seeing Edward's face flush in response to the last sentence, I fake a laugh and look down, pointlessly perusing through my purloined pile of papers.

"Oh, well. I imagine they'll give you my office when I retire next year," he comments affably. "Anyway, shoot me an email when you have time to meet. See you in class tomorrow, Bella. I'm looking forward to reading your short story. You really are a gifted writer."

I'm blushing; Edward and I practically match. "Thanks, Mr. Berty. See you."

He closes the door behind him and I breathe normally again, turning to Edward only to find him already staring me down, eyes wild with emotion. I half-expect him to transform into the cold professional shell I've seen so often, but I watch as his gaze turns to steely resolve, his face a mask of determination. He writes hastily on a sticky note and hands it to me.

"Can you meet me at this address today? After school?"

It's hard to read his flowing script as I pinch the paper between my digits because my hand is shaking. I swallow when I read the last words: Clallum Bay. "Is this your address?" I think of the possibility of making love in his bed, fucking on his sofa, rutting in his shower. I'd pretend like it's crazy that my mind jumps there so quickly after not speaking for so long, but there's no denying my urges regarding this man.

"Um, no." His eyebrows furrow. "It's a coffee shop."

"Oh." I blush. I'm a horny idiot. "Why?"

"We need to talk and this isn't the place for it."

Self-consciously swallowing again – god, why is there so much saliva in my mouth right now? – I nod jerkily. "Ok. Just tell me when."

*V*V*V*V*V*

I find myself adjusting my cleavage and tapping my toes, glancing around the coffee shop listlessly in a kind of fugue state. It's not like I expected him to be here yet – his car was still in the parking lot when I left – but the anticipation is effectively tightening its chokehold on me.

Nestled in a booth tucked along the glass front of the shop, I instinctively think this must be somewhere that Edward frequents. He can't live far. It's warmly lit and smells like pastries and coffee. Although I have no plans to imbibe caffeine when my nerves are already shattered, I admire their wide variety of roasted-in-house, micro-batch coffee beans. It's very Pacific Northwest hipster, but there's a relaxed vibe that I could see myself enjoying if my mind wasn't sprinting in convoluted circles. I don't know what he wants. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know what I want. Well, scratch that. I do. I want him. I just don't know if I should. God, scratch that, too. I know I shouldn't, but I don't know if it's worth it. And I don't even know what it is.

After what feels like an eternity, he arrives. My heart races when I see him, but I wave at him with a semblance of collectedness. His eyes travel over me with what I interpret as male appreciation and nervousness, though he makes no comment.

"Hey," he says. "Sorry I'm a little late. I got caught up talking to Berty again."

"He's a talker," I concede blandly, remembering all too well the empty chatter that filled my prior year as a student tutor, peripherally recalling some mysterious topic they were supposed to discuss.

"Have you ordered yet?"

I shake my head. "No, I was waiting for you."

"What would you like?"

Biting my lip because him paying for things makes it harder to ignore the resemblance this outing has to a date, I say, "Um, a green tea would be nice."

He nods and departs for the register, returning shortly with a tray containing a cup of coffee, my tea, and two cinnamon rolls. "I got you one, too," he says softly – shyly. "The ones here are my favorite."

"Thank you." He only bought me a pastry, but my heart is throbbing like he asked for my hand in marriage.

After he sits, arranges our cups and treats, stirs his coffee for no apparent reason, and finishes his first bite of cinnamon roll, he finally admits, "I don't know where to start." His admission, rather than calming me, makes me more anxious. If he doesn't know what he's doing, then I sure as hell don't.

"Why did you ask me to come here?"

"It's safer to talk."

"To talk about what exactly? I mean, I could guess, but I don't know what you're wanting or expecting from me now."

"I just want . . . I don't know – to go over things, I guess. In general, I mean. There's so much we haven't said. That's what I meant about not knowing where to start."

I watch him cautiously, examining his face, his bearing, his earnestness. If he really wants to do this . . .

"Are you sleeping with Tori again?"

He chokes on his coffee, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "God, no. We're just friends." He looks horrified before his expression sharpens into realization. "Is this because I got dinner with her?"

"Yeah."

"We had a bit of a falling out and I hadn't seen her since the office party. Grabbing dinner was just a spontaneous attempt to patch up our friendship."

He sounds so genuine that any lingering suspicion evaporates, leaving me with sagging relief. The weight of that fear only fully registers in its absence. "Ok."

"I have something to admit, though," he says softly.

Oh, Jesus. "Ok?" I prompt.

"When I saw you last night laughing with that guy . . . I wanted to punch him in the face. It was like . . . it was like the rest of the world didn't even exist for a second. All I saw was this window of the future where I would let you go because it's the right thing to do and you would end up with some fucker with a stupid haircut."

"He's, uh . . . he's married," I stammer. "We're friends."

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. If not him, then someone else. I hated the thought of it. It just . . . fuck, it seeped into my soul last night. I've tried to avoid ever thinking of being with you – even after graduation – because I knew it would make not getting fucking arrested that much harder, but I can't do it anymore."

"You can't do it anymore," I repeat, like it's a particularly frustrating part of a riddle. What does that mean?

"I don't want to," he clarifies. "Once I realized you weren't coming anymore, I thought I would be relieved, but . . ."

"But?"

"But it made me realize how much I want to be with you."

"You . . ." – I take a deep breath – "you want to be with me?"

"I thought that was obvious," he mumbles. "That was the whole reason why I said – well, what I said."

"You told me you wanted to forget me because you wanted to be with me?" I repeat skeptically.

"Ok, I sound like a fucking idiot when you say it like that, but basically, yes. When you told me about your mom being accepting . . . I don't know, I think I finally realized that I was fighting a losing battle over whether or not I would ask you out – like it was just a question of when rather than if I would break the law. At that moment, I did want to forget you. I wanted to be a normal teacher just doing his job not in any danger of legal trouble. But last night . . . well, like I said, I can't pretend anymore that I don't want you."

"Not just physically?" I prompt, leaning across the table now with the weight of my anxiety. "I don't want to be your fuck buddy."

"I've never thought of you that way," he says seriously. "It's never been about sex."

I raise my eyebrows so high that I feel like they'll arch off my forehead.

"I mean it's never just been about sex," he says hastily. "Obviously, I'm attracted to you physically, but I lo – um, like you as a person and you know why I haven't been able to act on that."

"I know," I say, pretending I didn't hear him almost say 'love.' Mulling over his words, I finally take a sip of the tea he purchased for me. I've let the tea bag infuse for too long, but the warmth is nice.

"What are you thinking?" he asks when my silence continues.

"I'm thinking it's still seven months until graduation," I say pointedly.

"I'll wait," he says calmly.

My mouth opens and shuts several times, grasping for the meaning of his words – like I can't possibly be interpreting correctly. "You'll what?"

"If you want me to," he adds.

I blink at him for lack of a coherent response. He'll wait for me? That easily? We'll sit in that tiny office for months knowing that at the end we'll be together? No, I wouldn't get to have all of him – not yet, anyway – but the promise of having him one day . . .

"Edward, you can't just . . ." I close my eyes, overcome for a moment. I actually feel faint.

"I can't what?"

"You have to mean this," I say, my voice shaking. "With all the risks and how far away graduation is . . . if we're doing this, then I want to do it for real. I can't take any more cold shoulders or emotional rollercoasters or miscommunication. My heart is just too . . . god, you have to mean it, ok?"

"Isabella Swan, I have never meant anything more in my entire life."

Maybe I knew that already. He's always been aware of the stakes – he wouldn't be sitting here with me with those puppy dog eyes otherwise.

"Ok," I say finally.

"Ok?" he repeats. "You want this?"

"I want this."

A smile lights his face. "Really?"

It's infectious – I'm smiling, too, even though my heart feels ready to burst from how quickly it's beating. "Really."

He exhales loudly. I do, too. We just breathe together for a while, staring, both awestruck by the other. The enormity of this . . . well, I'm blown away. This man wants me – despite all the potential risks and the insane amount of patience required. He's mine. Mostly.

I break first. "What now?"

"I don't know," he laughs, eyes twinkling. There's an unexpected mirth to his bearing now. "I didn't think I'd make it this far."

"Why?" Haven't I always been clear about my desire for him?

"We haven't seen each other in nearly a month and after what I said . . . I didn't know what to expect or how you felt anymore."

"I'm sorry," I sigh again. "I didn't handle that whole situation well and I promise –."

"Stop apologizing. It doesn't matter now. I should be the one saying sorry over and over again anyway." Then – slowly, deliberately – he places his hand on top of mine.

In an instant, seven months sounds like an eternity. The warmth of his hand feels so vital on my skin and I want more contact. I've already felt his kisses, felt his hands – and more than just his hands – on my body. I want more. After all, he's mine. Sort of.

Perhaps the look on my face is too transparent because he retracts his palm. He analyzes me for a long moment. "We're fucked, aren't we?"

Considering the tingly skin on my hand for a moment, I nod and look directly into his eyes. "Yup."

*V*V*V*V*V*