I positioned myself lightly, keeping my spine straight and my breathing careful.

Every move I made felt offensive, feeling like an unwelcome stranger in this place—because I was a stranger. Not by anyone's doing but my own. It was an impolite invasion of the beauty of it all.

Edward seemed unnaturally comfortable, though, reclining on the white couch with a fat book in his slim hands. His nose was mere centimeters from the page, buried deeply in the crease, and his eyes narrowed as he engaged himself in whatever it was he was reading.

My presence was all but overlooked.

"You look different than the book described," I took a deep breath, shifting my weight only slightly; the mattress still creaked underneath me, nonetheless, the springs squealing in the silence. "You seem … even better." I exhaled in embarrassment.

He glanced up from his novel, resting it on his lap and smiling humbly. "I requested of Stephenie that she not overdo it. Not make me sound better than I am in actuality, I mean."

Coming out of anyone else's lips, his words might've sounded narcissistic—but, somehow, perhaps due to inflection or the absolute truth of his words, it sounded like the most altruistic thing I'd ever heard when he said them.

"She didn't do you justice."

He scoffed in disapproval. "May we change the subject, hmm? How about you? You know every little thing there is to know about me—well, all that Bella knows—but I know absolutely nothing about you."

I looked out the window.

"It's not very fair, if you think about it," He smirked. "I shouldn't allow a girl to kiss me if I don't know the first thing about her."

"It was an accident."

"It seemed far from unintentional."

"How was I supposed to know it was actually you?" I countered.

"As opposed to what?" He chuckled. It took me a moment to realize the question was not rhetorical, so my chances to make a witty comeback were wasted. I was silent. Answering his own question, Edward sighed, "The fictitious me?"

I shrugged.

He grinned, "Do you dream about me so often that it's difficult to differentiate?"

I swallowed. "I don't think it's very fair, either. You should give me some shred of credit. I apologized, didn't I?"

Something that sounded like music echoed throughout the room and I even glanced out the door in curiosity as to what it was, before I noticed that it was the sound of his laughter. He leaned back farther, so that his back was pressed up against the glass wall behind him, and laid the book down on the floor, spine bowed to keep his place.

"Oh, you're a very innocent girl, aren't you? You think something as simple as an apology deserves praise?"

"Not praise," I denied. "Just a bit of sympathy."

"Give you sympathy…?" He seemed intrigued by the suggestion. "Adorable."

"I'm not a child."

"I never said you were."

"But you called me adorable."

"And that hints adolescence?"

I folded my arms. "Adorable is what you call puppies and week-old babies."

"And, if you are not an adolescent, what are you?" He wondered honestly.

"A teenager." I sounded almost proud to proclaim it.

The smile gradually vanished from his expression, his breathing growing in volume.

He swallowed, repeating after me slowly, "A teenager."

"I turned seventeen in June."

"What day?"

"The thirteenth."

"My birthday's in June, too."
"The twentieth."

His eyebrows furrowed. "How did you…? Oh, yes, the book. I didn't know she mentioned my birthday."

"Everything you told Bella, I know," I tapped my temple.

Again, he grew a bit fearful. "…Hmm, filtering my private conversations with my wife never struck me as much of a priority, but now that I see firsthand who the audience is," he looked me over for a short moment, "I will be sure to catch Stephenie before she disappears next visit."

"You don't have to worry," I smiled amiably. "You're only PG-13."

"Ah," He grinned, nodding. "Thankfully, it seems Stephenie has done the filtering for me."

I pursed my lips, having to look away from him to keep my thoughts in check, whether he could overhear them or not. His room was quite bright, though cluttered masculine elements—dark wood tones, warm, neutral colors to match the scenery, modern, boxy furniture. The black iron bed I recognized from Eclipse was the main attraction in the space; the lights that dangled from and coiled around its frame were the only truly feminine evidence of his wife to be seen, with the exception of a few framed pictures of her on the walls. She was quite beautiful, or so I could guess; the snapshots were of a contemporary sort, where her whole face was not in the frame, or her hair was in her face, or her slim figure was partially disguised by the large trunk of a tree. None of the photos had a clear view of her face, which I was most eager to see. To put a face to my narrator. I knew that Edward would not allow me to meet her, no matter how hard I fought; hiding from his family, as he had informed me was essential, sounded near impossible. How he could keep a flagrant human a secret in a house full of vampires seemed of the highest impracticality.

Edward had lifted the book off the floor, continuing to read, though his constant glances at me hinted that it was a bit difficult for him to concentrate.

Following my gaze, he lowered the book into his lap once more.

"She is quite beautiful, isn't she?"

"I'll bet she is," I nodded.

He closed the cover and returned the novel to where it had been before, strewn with many others across his desk. "My bachelor pad has been left relatively untouched. Bella and I live in a cottage, not a mile's distance from here."

"Oh." I remembered this from the story.

He returned to the sofa.

"I'm surprised Alice hasn't jumped the gun and promptly repurposed this room, then," I said, standing to investigate a bit further.

He laughed.

"What is it?" I turned to face him.

"Nothing, nothing," He waved his hand, leaning back against the glass wall again. "I just suppose I have to get used to that. Hearing someone talk about my sister as if they know her personally. You're accurate, to the say the least."

"I might as well know her personally," I shrugged.

"Well, I'm sorry you won't be able to have a real friendship."

I blinked, turning my back on him and saying to the bookshelf, "You know, if I could only meet her, even for a minute…"

"You are in over your head."

I swallowed, walking over to his collection of CDs. "Maybe not. My adaptation skills are above par, if I may say so myself."

"Move around a lot?" He guessed.

"Only once," I shook my head, "and it wasn't long-term. But, you know how it goes. High school, in addition to teaching survival skills and brutally demolishing all traces of stable self-esteem, is good for forcing you into the mold, whatever it happens to be that particular week."

"Not a fan of the system, are we?" He laughed.

"Did you miss the part where I told you I was a teenager?" I glanced over my shoulder at him.

He stood, walking over to stand beside me. "Hmm, what's the mold this week?"

"Well," I looked up at the shelves, scanning the names for anything for familiar, "punk is all the rage right now. Everyone's wearing scarves and listening to indie rock and swimming up the mainstream. I don't get it—I was totally doing that, like, two whole years ago. I was a hipster before it was cool."

He did not attempt to hide his amusement.

"So that means you fit in." He assumed, but, when I made a face, he shook his head, "But you hate it."

"You're right on one account," I sighed. I reached the top row of CDs, smiling when I recognized almost all of them, "Rooney, Beck, Death Cab, Firehorse. I'm impressed."

"Bella converted me."

I moved back to the bed. "Just don't start wearing scarves. Or I'll kill you."

He smirked, "That's more Carlisle's style."

"Hey, I should make you a mixed CD." I offered. "I'll educate you."

He looked away, exhaling in disagreement. "It's not wise of you to want to so eagerly be my friend."

"We've skipped all the technicalities," I crossed my legs. "What's the harm?"

"You haven't the slightest concern for your safety?"

"If it makes you any more comfortable, I could sit on one side of the room and you could sit at the other," I joked. "It's not like being your friend requires getting especially close to you, or kissing you again."

His eyes widened, reluctantly lowering himself down on the bed beside me. "This is cheating on Bella, isn't it?"

"What?"

"I mean, look at us! Sitting in my room, talking about music!" He brought his hands to his face.

My eyebrows furrowed.

He quickly stood, going to the window. "Oh, I can't believe myself! May the devil cast me to hell where I belong…! Oh, I could never bring myself to tell her. How could I even stray for a moment. The audacity…!"

"Whoa, dude, calm down. It was an accident. Accidents don't count."

He remained inconsolable.

"And I forced myself on you," I shrugged. "I guarantee, if you, or any of your family, for that matter, step foot in my world, you'd have girls waiting in line."

"I strayed," he muttered.

"You did not."

"I imagined for a moment…. Well, I suppose you're right."

I didn't mean to sound excited. It was reflex. "You imagined what?"

"Well, for a moment … I imagined Bella was human again." He sighed. "The taste, the smell…."

"Ugh, you're just paranoid," I rolled my eyes. "C'mon, I inspired a fantasy about your wife! You strayed from undead Bella to what? Human Bella?"

"Oh, but it was still a fantasy inspired by another woman."

"I wouldn't call me a woman."

"Even worse!" He pressed his forehead to the cold glass, cursing himself under his breath forlornly.

I bit my lip. "…Am I supposed to find your old-fashioned concern for commitment endearing, err…?"

"You're supposed to be normal."

"Well, then, I'm personally wounded. The mere suggestion…."

"Just scream and run away," he near begged.

"You're having a juvenile meltdown and you expect me to be afraid?"

"Olivia, I…" He stepped forward toward me, but reconsidered our proximity and decided to explain himself from a distance. "This must be very strange for you. My actions, I mean. I have to understand that you are just coming into this world, you're ignorant to this life I lead. Reading my history in books and translating my love for Bella as you see fit is not something I've yet become accustomed to. As you can probably imagine, there a few fans of Twilight where we are now. Where you're from, Twilight is a conversational subject or common ground or … a poster to hang on the wall." He paused. "Here, Twilight is not a figment of the imagination. It is very much alive—I just hope you understand that."

"I understand." I nodded.

He took a deep breath. "Then you must understand the way I think. I overanalyze, and I apologize for that. But, remember, it is habitual that I look ahead far into the conversation, to foresee consequence. I may not be able to read your thoughts, but, in the moment a human takes to prepare a reply, I've already been searching a step ahead … if that makes any sense to you at all."

"No, it makes sense."

He nodded, feeling comfortable again and moving to sit beside me.

"If you can't read my thoughts," I wondered, "how can you be sure what I'll say next?"

"Intuition." He shrugged. "Olivia, I've accepted my flaws. Not being able to hear Bella's thoughts infuriated and discouraged me, but, by the time Stephenie had arrived and I learned that her mind was blocked from me as well, I had already come to terms with such a disability. You simply serve as all the more practice for me.

"It makes my skill sharper in a way. No longer does my third eye feel like a crutch—more so now than ever, it seems more an advantage in addition to what my eyes are able to perceive."

"Hearing what people are thinking must be so cool."

A trace of smile crossed his face.

"Although, I might be a bit embarrassed," I sighed.

"I'd been embarrassed for you," He laughed. "Some of the things I hear—well, I'm embarrassed myself for having heard them."

He took a moment to think, his smile widening.

"Oh, I simply relish the visual of Mike Newton's reaction if I were to reveal the truth of my constant supervision over him when Bella first arrived in Forks," he chuckled. "I've overheard every vulgar fantasy and every snide insult toward my family that had crossed his mind in those first months. Every once in awhile, I like to recall his internal death threats in my direction once I was victorious over him, if I'm in need of a laugh."

"Do you think you can't read the thoughts of anyone from another dimension?" I asked.

"I assume not," He answered. Examining my expression, he guessed what I was thinking. "Yes, I have considered that Bella is not of this world. It's the only plausible explanation I've been able to come up with thus far, but there are faults. She has history here. Family. Perhaps, I've thought, an ancestor of hers was of another dimension. Could it be that it is genetic…? No, most likely not. But the muddied pool that is her mind has slightly cleared—hardly enough for me to form much of anything worth making a deduction over, but at least there's some sort of noise coming from her direction where there used to be silence."

"If I were to stay here long enough, would my thoughts become a bit clearer?"

"Stephenie was here for quite some time, and all I'd ever heard was silence. If you manage to find a way to convince me to let you spend any substantial amount of time here, who knows?"