oOo
Bella was very quiet over dinner. She didn't touch the spring rolls, and only had one or two sips of the Riesling Edward had opened. She looked pale, he thought.
He asked how her day was and she shrugged and said that the library had been busy, but she'd been able to finish her work.
"You look tired, darling," he remarked. He took her hand and squeezed lightly.
"I'm okay."
But she seemed far away and withdrawn.
She went through her notes after dinner, so Edward returned to his studio to look at this afternoon's work. He needed to go over the details, but the general direction was exactly what he'd intended. A young woman at a station, waving her hand at a leaving train. In the distance, there was a man waving back from one of the train's windows.
Edward was surprised by the knock on the door and when he turned, Bella was peeking in.
"I didn't mean to disturb you…"
"You aren't." He stretched out his hand for her. "Come in."
"Wow. That's beautiful."
She put her head against his chest and wrapped her arms around him.
"I'm sorry I was so moody just now."
Edward kissed the top of her head, inhaling her lovely, familiar scent.
"There's nothing to apologize for," he murmured. "Were you thinking about your work?"
"Um… yeah. I guess."
A sigh left her chest and she snuggled up closer to him.
"I love you, Edward," she whispered. "I love you so much."
.
Later, when they were in bed, and she was asleep in his arms, he couldn't stop thinking.
Were they moving too fast? Was he being too possessive?
If it were for him, Bella could move in tomorrow. He would never want anybody else, of that he was certain.
She was the one who could restore him. She already had.
He knew he hadn't been able to find closure with his past for a long time, but since Bella had stepped into his life, those demons didn't torture him any more. As long as she was here, with him, in his arms, his fountain of youth, his saviour, he could heal.
He was realizing that he had let Irina go at some point over the years; what he had not been able to escape from was the guilt he felt over the circumstances of her death.
He knew, of course, that he was not really responsible. He'd talked about it with his therapist back then. And still.
By three-thirty, Edward gave up on sleep. He loosened his hold from Bella, who had turned to her side, placed a gentle kiss on her hair, and tiptoed out of the bedroom.
Once in his studio, he put on an old sweater that hung over a chair and considered his painting.
It needed more purple, he found, and maybe some dark blue.
Edward stretched his fingers and collected the material he needed, finding the forgotten tumbler of Glenlivet next to the cupboard. It couldn't hurt to take a swig, he decided.
oOo
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