In the instant that Edward stepped toward her, Bella froze, bringing her arms up between them. Had that been enough to discourage him, she might have apologized, tried to explain that she wasn't really the hugging type. But he didn't seem to notice, or maybe he didn't care. His arms slipped around her in one fluid motion; their grip had strength, but it also had solace. She did not resist as he her forward. Instead, she cried.

She cried for her sister, for the nephew she would never know, for the life they had all been deprived of. Her knuckles began to throb with the force of holding on to Edward's shirt, but she couldn't let go. Each sob, each shuddering breath pulled something out of her until it seemed like there'd be nothing left. Then slowly, finally, the tears began to wane, as though the grief that had seeped itself into her very pores had finally run dry.

When she opened her eyes, she was staring into the wrinkled fabric of Edward's shirt. It was damp with rainwater, like his hair, falling forward to brush against her ear. His chin had settled on the crown of her head, so lightly that she might not have known it was there save for the warmth the touch created. The rest of him was warm too – even through the wet cotton gathered tightly in her hands, she could feel the heat radiating off his body. It seemed odd that touching him should feel so normal. The muscles of his chest yielded under the gentle pressure of her forehead; his lungs rose and fell almost in time with hers. If she listened closely, she even could make out the beating of his heart. Each paired thud came less frequently than she would have expected, but otherwise, it sounded like any other heartbeat she'd ever heard. It sounded normal. It sounded human.

She took a deep, cautious breath and lifted her head, letting go of his t-shirt. Edward took a step back, and his arms dropped from her shoulders. Her body was instantly sorry for the loss of warmth, but she didn't move toward him. She couldn't even bring herself to look up into his face, to admit how much his words and presence had meant to her. But somebody had to say something. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't think I'd lose it like that."

"It's all right. I understand – I understand that you are sad."

The simple phrase sounded almost comical, but when she finally looked up and met the full intensity of his gaze, she couldn't laugh. She couldn't even speak, and ducked her head to wipe away the remaining tears on the hem of her camisole. When their eyes met again, his expression had shifted into something more restrained and awkward.

It was silly for them to be standing there, in the middle of the floor, taking turns not saying anything. She moved to the futon and pushed the bedding out of the way. Her hands shook slightly, a combination of nerves and exhaustion. She should probably sleep, she knew that, but going to bed also meant Edward would leave, and all of a sudden, sleep didn't seem all that important. And if she had to guess, Edward wasn't so eager to go anywhere either.

But he hadn't followed her to the futon. Instead he stood rigid, looking into the kitchen, alarm written all over his face. "Shit," he swore, mouth curving into a grimace. There was nothing subtle in that expression, no hint of the man who had just let her sob all over his clothes. "Is that clock accurate?"

She straightened and stared at him. "What?"

"The clock. Is that the proper time?"

She followed his gaze to the microwave, realizing that she had lost all sense of time. 4:54 – when had it gotten so late?

"Is it?"

"Yeah, I … think so. Why? Are you – do you need to be somewhere?"

"Yes." His eyes flashed to the window across the room. "Do you have a basement?"

Frowning, she squinted at the window, but there was nothing on the other side – no prowling intruders, no flashing sirens – only the dark silhouette of the backyard fence, made visible by the barest hint of dawn.

Edward exhaled with a hiss. "Bella. I need a basement. Or some other place that is very dark. Do you have that here?"

She watched him blink rapidly and suddenly remembered what he had said about daylight and his eyes, that the light interfered with his vision. "Yeah. Sort of. It's not really a basement, just some storage space." She paused, chagrined. "It's really cluttered, though. If you want some place dark to sleep, my old bedroom still has curtains and – "

"No. The basement. I would like to go to the basement." He pivoted on one heel, scanning the walls around them, already looking for the door.

"Listen, I'm serious. It's a total mess, there's barely any room to sta– "

"Where is it?"

The tone of his voice brought her up short. "It's... outside. The door is on the side of the house."

His shoulders fell. "Outside," he muttered, glancing back to the window.

Bella frowned; something wasn't adding up. "Why – Why do you need the basement?"

Edward just shook his head. "Take me there."

It took all of her willpower to stand still, to keep her eyes trained on the profile of his face. "Why?"

He whipped his head back to glare at her, burying a hand in his hair. "I told you. The sun bothers my eyes. It hurts my eyes, so I sleep in a dark place."

"I have a sleeping mask."

"No. The basement." Suddenly, he was two inches away from her, his hands curling tightly around her shoulders. "Now, Bella."

She went rigid in his grip, half-expected him to shake her or start shouting. But he didn't. Through clenched teeth, he only said, "Please."

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then she pulled out of his grasp and muttered, "It's this way," jerking her head toward the far corner of the kitchen.

His feet thudded against the floor as he followed her. Every other time she'd seen him move, those feet had barely made a sound. Now, each heavy step pounded ominously into her ears. In the corner of the kitchen, she pushed a mop and bucket out of the way and fumbled with the lock. Edward hovered behind her, so close that she could feel his heavy breath rippling the hairs on the back of her head. When she pulled the door open, he shrank back.

"Is it far?"

"No." She looked up at the horizon, at the traces of pink and violet that were becoming visible through the clouds.

"Is it locked?"

She nodded.

"Then I will wait here while you open it."

Bella's lips tightened, but she plucked the keys from a nail by the door and stepped outside.

The door to the basement was ten feet down the side of the house. She stepped through the wet, muddy grass on her tiptoes, avoiding a small patch of gravel by habit, barely aware that her feet were even moving. Sliding the key into the weathered lock, she flung open the door and eyed the darkness below.

Calling the room a basement was a stretch. The space was unfinished, just cement floors and walls, not meant for anything other than storage. It barely spanned half the length of the house, and this was where she had come to stow most of her family's possessions after emptying the upper floors. Now, it was crammed so full of stuff that you couldn't take more than two steps away from the stairs before running into aging furniture or stacks of boxes. There wasn't even a proper light fixture, just a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling.

It was a miserable place to spend the day.

She grimaced at the stairs. Sensitive eyes or not, Edward wasn't telling her the truth. She had a hunch of what he was leaving out, but she didn't know for sure, and she didn't know why the man who had let her sob all over his clothes only minutes before suddenly turned into a stranger. He'd frightened her. She didn't like being afraid.

With that thought, she almost turned away from the basement – Edward could do whatever he wanted down there – but her conscience stopped her. After all, he was only here because she'd called and asked for his help, and it wasn't the first time he'd come to her house in the middle of the night to offer assistance. Whatever was happening with him now, she owed him some benefit of the doubt. If he insisted on being in the basement all day, she could at least make some room amid the clutter for him to sit down. So she went downstairs, and by the dim light streaming through the doorway, began to clear a path to the nearest corner, piled high with bags of blankets and old clothes. She was nearly done when Edward's muffled voice sounded from somewhere above. "Bella? Is the door open?" She called back that it was.

Momentarily, his silhouette appeared in the doorway. She fought the urge to watch him climb down the stairs, and turned to push another box out of the way. His steps sounded slow and heavy, and the wooden railing creaked a little under his weight. He was almost to the ground when his stride faltered. She looked up just as he stumbled forward, his hand sliding off the railing. His body hit the cement with a sharp thud, and Bella's breath caught in her throat. For an instant, she was sure that he had broken something, an elbow or a hip. Then she remembered the nail that wouldn't pierce his skin, and how he'd jumped onto the roof of her house without so much as a running start, and was completely dumbfounded.

Edward wasn't getting up. He had rolled onto his stomach, and was began to drag himself out of the light that filtered down the stairs. Pushing past an old chest of drawers, she dropped to the floor next to him.

"Are you okay?" Her voice sounded shrill to her ears. Edward didn't look up, but reached for her arm. His grip was too weak, his skin too warm.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her earlier anger forgotten.

He whispered something.

"What?"

"Close the door …"

She jumped to her feet and rushed up the stairs to pull the door shut. The seal around the door frame was tight, designed to keep out insects and moisture, and as the lock clicked shut, the room descended into complete darkness. She heard clothes rustle against the floor below, the sound accompanied by uneven, shallow breathing.

Bella swallowed. She was afraid again, but for, not of him this time. "There are some bags of clothes in the corner. If you need to lie down." He made a noise in acknowledgement, and there were more sounds of movement. She wanted to go down to help him, but the darkness was complete and disorienting. She didn't trust herself not to trip down the stairs; that wouldn't do anybody any good. So she made her way down slowly, sliding her foot to the edge of each step before stepping down. Just as she reached the ground, she heard the crinkle of plastic and a heavy sigh come from the corner.

"Edward?"

"Yes?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Can I turn on the lamp?"

"Yes."

Her hand swung twice through the empty air before finding the string that served as a light switch. It clicked softly when she pulled, sending the lamp rocking back and forth like a glowing pendulum. As the arc of light glided over Edward's crumpled form, he turned his face away, head pressed awkwardly against the wall. He lay in the middle of the pile of black plastic bags, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

She took several slow steps forward and cautiously knelt next to him. His eyes remained closed, and she wondered if he'd passed out. But then he shifted to the side, whether to make more room or to move away from her, she wasn't sure. So many questions bounced off her tongue, but she didn't even know where to start.

As if on cue, Edward's mouth parted to draw a labored breath. His eyes fluttered open and swung over to meet hers. His pupils had shrunk to tiny, black dots surrounded by rings of malachite green.

"I'm sorry," he whispered slowly. "I – This must seem … odd."

Bella bit back a nervous laugh – 'odd' was the least of it. "It's the sun, isn't it? It doesn't just bother your eyes."

Edward looked away. "No."

"It hurts you."

He ran an unsteady hand over his mouth. When he lowered it to his chest, she could see that his entire arm was shaking. "It can make me very ill."

Bella peered back at the basement door. "But it's barely dawn out there."

"It is enough."

She nodded, still frowning, still feeling far more ignorant than she wanted to be. "What does 'ill' mean?"

His brow creased in confusion. "Uh – it means I'm sick, unwell..."

"I know what the word means." It was difficult not to snap at him. "How does the sun make you sick?"

"Oh." He shifted again, turning onto his side and hugging his knees into his chest. His gaze drifted to some boxes stacked against the wall. "Just … sick. Cold. Aching. Weary." His eyes slid shut for a moment, then blinked open. "It becomes difficult to think. To move."

His hair had fallen over his eyes, and suddenly, her fingers itched to brush it back. She frowned at the impulse, reminding herself that he had lied to her, and not just once. Still, mustering up the indignation wasn't as easy as it should have been. Her gaze traveled the length of his body. "That's why you fell."

He nodded, his chin tracing an arc on the plastic. A fine sheet of sweat had broken out over his face, making his cheekbones gleam in the light.

"Do you get sick often?"

"No. I was caught off guard here. At home, I am better prepared."

She frowned. "Better prepared?"

"My bedroom has no windows, and the ones in the library are fully veiled. Thus, the sunrise is not usually so … dramatic." He must have sensed her confusion, adding, "What I mean is, I can avoid any contact with sunlight."

"Any contact," she repeated, feeling like a parrot. "So you stay inside all day?"

"Yes. Every day."

"Wow. That sucks."

The corner of his mouth twitched into a brief smile as he glanced at her. "Sometimes." The smile fell away. "But it is the status quo. I have learned to accept it."

"Yeah, but still, to never – " she began, but broke off as Edward's eyes tightened. Instead she asked, "What would've happened if I didn't have a basement?"

He twisted his neck to face her, and now she didn't resist, reaching forward to sweep aside the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He froze at her touch, the rise of his ribs stalling in mid-breath, and his eyes followed her hand as she drew it back. "I would have asked for a closet. Many blankets." His gaze traveled up her arm before settling on her face. "I wouldn't have died, or spontaneously combusted, or whatever else you might imagine. But it would have been a wretched fourteen and a quarter hours."

The sweat from his brow had made her fingertips slippery. She rubbed them together, then frowned and curled her hand into a loose fist. "Why did you lie to me the other night? I asked you about the sun, and you said it didn't bother you."

He was silent for a moment. "I did not trust you."

"Even now, just now? When you told me you just want some place dark for your eyes? Did you really think I wouldn't figure it out?"

He mirrored her frown, turning his face back to the boxes. "If you are angry that I misled you, it was necessary. You cannot not fault me for being guarded about my weaknesses."

She fought the urge to snort. "That's totally unfair. You know my weaknesses."

"Society is not so eager to have your head on a platter." At that moment he shivered, teeth clicking against each other, and tightened his arms around himself.

She lay a hand on his shoulder. "You're burning up."

He tried to shrug her off. "Fever is common with exposure. It will pass."

She didn't move her hand. "You'll just get worse if you stay here."

"Unlikely."

"Goddamn it," she muttered, and turned away to rummage through a nearby pile of bags. By the time she found what she was looking for, she was squinting to shield her eyes from the thick layer of dust rising into the air.

Edward arched an eyebrow at the bundle in her arms. "My old sleeping bag," she said. "At least it'll keep you warm."

His expression softened, and he didn't protest as she unrolled it, didn't even comment on the musty smell coming from the faded cotton. But he didn't move to take it from her either. She didn't know if he was just being stubborn, or if, despite looking and sounding better by the minute, that much movement was still too difficult for him. Hesitating briefly, she spread the unzipped bag in her arms like a blanket and lowered it over his legs and waist. He tugged a corner toward his chest. "Thank you."

She took a step back. "You're wel –" she began but finished with a yawn. Suddenly, she felt very, very tired.

Edward eyed her with something resembling resignation. "You need to sleep."

"Yeah. I guess – " She glanced back at the door. "You'll be okay here?"

He nodded slowly.

"There are other blankets in that bag, if you're still cold. Uh..." This was the part where she would turn around and go upstairs. "If you need any thing else... bang on the wall or something."

Another nod. His half-hooded eyes drifted from her face. He hadn't stopped shivering; the cloth covering his chest trembled lightly.

"Good night," she heard herself whisper.

"Stay." The word was little more than a ghost; if not for the tiny movement of his lips, she might have thought she imagined it.

Her feet felt rooted to the floor – too heavy to step away, much less climb up the stairs, but that didn't matter. She wouldn't stay because she was too tired to leave. She wouldn't sleep in the basement because her bed upstairs was surrounded by her dead sister's possessions. She wouldn't lay down next to Edward because she owed him something.

Sinking down to the makeshift mattress, she peeled back a corner of the sleeping bag. Edward's eyes didn't leave her face as she lowered herself onto the plastic. Slowly, she slid an arm around his shaking chest and pulled him closer. His hair smelled like rain and wet earth.

She would stay because he had asked, and because she wanted to.