A/N: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I don't own anything. Not even Boozeward. He belongs to the fab ladies at WArehab and they can do whatever they want with him (except allow him anywhere near water or feed him after midnight). Thanks so much for all your kind words and encouragement!

WOW. Was that a huge wait, or what? So sorry for the delay in updates.

Anyway, I should probably warn that updates for this story will be decreased to once per week. They're growing in length and I can't promise them as often as I used to. In any case, I keep forgetting to mention that my outline grew a bit, and we're looking at possibly 7 or 8 more chapters.

Three fluorescent bulbs had gone out overhead, and as a result, the basement of the church was bathed in an eerie glow, the corners of the room obscured with darkness. We didn't have a full group today, though Lauren, Tyler, and even Jasper were all present. There were other people, though, that I'd never gotten especially friendly with for various reasons, who hadn't come. The weather was bad today—rainy and cold, and there was some kind of flu virus going around.

Carlisle had watched over the refreshments table like a hawk, encouraging, "Wash your hands," over and over and over…

With the way my leg had been, I dreaded even going out at all, without adding the possibility of infectious illness on top of it.

Jasper hadn't said much yet, and I doubted he was going to. He came to the meetings and indulged the rest of us, but I knew his mind was really three miles away, sitting inside that dainty coffee shop while his eyes stalked my sister. This should have bothered me, should have pissed me off, or at least made me fear for Alice, but mostly, it just depressed the shit out of me.

All had gone silent, and Carlisle looked to me expectantly.

I cleared my throat and shifted in my metal chair, spine straight. "So that girl whose house I've been working on?"

Their heavy sighs were all audible, since they no longer made any attempts to mask them with yawns or coughs as they once had, but I didn't care. I'd had to hear about Lauren's fucking cat every single meeting this month—the calico with the diabetes—and Tyler's brother—who apparently makes it his life goal to sabotage Tyler's career.

Seriously, they could handle my talking about Bella.

I continued, "Well, turns out, she's some kind of journalist or something, and when she was in college, she wrote this article on… bullies." I frowned and tugged absently at my hair, noting aloud, "It was a little brutal, you know? Because even though she wasn't talking about me, she was definitely talking about me."

I'd found the article innocently enough. There just came a time in every man's life when he needed the quick and dirty release that only internet porn can bring. Sadly, my mind kept drifting. I'd been easily distracted by every fake brunette and blonde that bounced on my screen, my palm's efforts having proved unfulfilling. Curious and resigned that internet porn had lost its luster, I did an internet search on Bella, which revealed more information than she'd ever willingly offered up.

This had been on my mind all week—the article, not the porn—sort of pressing at the fringe of my consciousness. Every time I remembered the things she wrote, I'd want to cringe, could feel my face growing hot in embarrassment for having been seen as one of those people. Sure, I'd felt shame for my behavior before, but it was always limited to how my actions had affected Bella—not so much about how people might have interpreted those actions.

"How do you know she was talking about you?" Carlisle asked, eyes thin with contemplation.

I trained my gaze to cup I held in my lap, answering, "I know because… because she was talking about herself, even though she wasn't, you know? And how many bullies could she have dealt with back in high school?"

No, I had definitely been the motivation behind that article—or my actions had been at least.

Carlisle gave me a brief nod, before looking away, face tight. He wasn't too fond of Bella after I'd spoken to the group about the beer incident. It was odd how I'd almost kept it from them, as if their opinions of her mattered so much that I was willing to lock away the battle she'd presented. I didn't want them to hold that moment against Bella, because as she'd confessed, it wasn't indicative of her character.

The whole incident with the ladder and my leg didn't exactly make Carlisle too happy, either.

"Anyway," I sighed, rubbing the heel of one palm into my eye. "It really got me down—which I get is a totally selfish reaction, because I don't deserve to be down about it. I wasn't the victim." I paused and glanced at all the faces, expressions varying from sympathetic to blank. I concluded, "But, still. It got me down."

"Did you talk to her about it?" Carlisle asked.

"I did." My head bobbed with a proud nod, seeing as how approaching her about it had been difficult. I raised my hand and swept it in the air, elaborating, "I just came out and asked her if she saw me like that, which… duh, right? Then I asked her if there was a point to… me even trying to make amends, or whatever."

My main purpose for doing this, aside from not wishing to waste everyone's time, had been the fall I'd taken from her roof earlier in the week. It hadn't been a serious fall or anything, mostly just me being distracted and stupid, but it fucked my leg up enough to necessitate an appointment with my physical therapist—the one I'd used after the car wreck.

I felt so guilty and ashamed as my leg was assessed for permanent damage, my parents looking on worriedly from my side. I promised to make the best of my second chance, and here I was, being careless and risking all the physical progress I'd made since the accident. Plus, if there had been serious damage, I might have been forced to even quit my job at Newton's. I knew I'd be okay with taking that risk, if I could just see some kind of proof that headway was being made. I'd gone to sleep that night in pain, and not just the physical pain from my leg, either.

Carlisle raised one sandy brow. "And?"

"She said there was." My smile was relieved as I eased back into my chair. Every day I spent with Bella made earning her forgiveness that much more vital to me. Once I got to know her a little better, had a chance to see her for the person she truly was, had a chance to really see how badly of a person she perceived me to be, my quest for forgiveness became less about me and more about her.

I wanted her to like me.

"Oh!" I shot back up in my seat. "Also, we did this thing," I began, laughing at the memory before I could even say it aloud. "She had mice, right? So I go to set these traps, but I have to set the no-kill kind, because apparently, she's a total softie for the little shits. And then, when we go to set them free? She takes me to this rock in her backyard—couldn't have been more than twenty feet from the house, you know?"

I paused here, laughing once again and clutching my cup to my stomach. I took a deep inhale to continue "But she looks all happy, and you don't know her, so you can't really grasp that, but she's never happy. Like… ever. Anyway, so I set these little mice free, and she's watching them with this… look—I don't know, like she just cured cancer or something—and I just didn't have the heart to tell her no, even though those fucking mice probably did a one-eighty and scampered right back into that house—I just know it."

I snickered into my cup of coffee while taking a short sip, shaking my head at the memory. I'd secretly set the traps again immediately after, anticipating recapturing the mice and setting them free again—this time, much farther away.

I raised my gaze to a handful of blinking stares, blank and heavy with a silence I couldn't decipher. I swallowed, glancing back and forth between them as my smile slowly withered. "What?"

Tyler's voice broke the uncomfortable silence, a cheeky grin punctuating his laughter. "Man, you've got it bad for the Locker Girl," he declared.

My gaze narrowed. "Shut up," I replied, voice low with warning. Everyone was looking at me, all those eyes swimming with a knowledgeable flicker.

I didn't like it.

He scoffed. "Oh, come on. Every meeting, it's 'Locker Girl this, Locker Girl that.' And you should see that look on your face when you—"

My chair scraped as I lurched forward, snapping, "I told you to shut. The fuck. Up."

Tyler's eyes grew wide, though they shone with amusement. "Hey, I was just—"

"He said drop it, Ty." Jasper's voice was sharp and thin, razor through paper, though he wasn't looking at Tyler when he spoke. He fixed his gaze on me. His face was emotionless as he nursed his cup of coffee.

Tyler didn't say anything else after that, but my muscles remained coiled and aware of everyone's eyes. I palmed my forehead when it began growing clammy and cold with sweat. I tapped my toe to the floor and watched the clock, so relieved when Carlisle stood and we recited the serenity prayer.

I couldn't count how many times I'd left the church after telling stories of wretched, deplorable things, yet I'd never felt as vile as I did then—walking out to Carlisle's car, his eyes burning accusatory patches into the nape of my neck.

---

My hair was still wet as I hurried from my bedroom, taking the stairs gingerly for the sake of my leg, fingers fumbling to button my shirt. It was dumb of me to come home after work just to take a shower, but I couldn't bear going over there looking—and smelling—as I had.

Esme intercepted me as I passed the living room, the roar of her vacuum ceasing as she turned to me. "Will you be home for dinner?" she asked, one hand on her hip, forehead glistening with sweat.

I shrugged while stuffing my feet into my shoes, answering distractedly, "I dunno. Maybe…" I trailed off as I tied my laces, fingers clumsy in my impatience. I turned to my mom and sighed at her frown, throwing my hands into the air. "Not right now, Ma! I'm gonna be late." I swear, the woman could make me feel ten years old, any time, any place.

Her frown deepened. "Late for what?" she asked, but before I could answer, continued, "You're always rushing out the door, and you're never home for dinner. What are you eating? Is that girl feeding you at least?" As she spoke, she walked past me and into the kitchen.

I answered while pulling on my jacket, "Yeah, sometimes, okay?" Really, it was only one time, but she didn't need to know that.

When she emerged from the kitchen with a banana, already half-peeled, I rolled my eyes. "Eat this before you go? You didn't eat breakfast, and I know you don't have time to eat at work."

Snatching the banana from her hand, I took a swift bite and kissed her on the cheek, mumbling, "Save me a plate?" Her heavy sigh followed me as I rushed out the door, diving into her Volvo with the banana hanging from my mouth.

It was gone before I left the driveway.

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel and hummed along to the song that was playing on the radio, my eyes flickering to the rearview mirror. Esme and I had this battle of sorts with every adjustable facet of the Volvo, so when I was met with my own reflection instead of a view of the road behind me, I grunted in annoyance.

But my reflection startled me.

I gulped as I looked away, adjusting the mirror with haste. This was the moment in which I stopped denying it. I'd been able to blow off various signs, but the meeting the night before, and now this? It was time to stop lying to myself and face the facts.

Fact one: My visits to Bella were the highlights of my week. I'd even taken to scheduling them directly after work at Newton's, because going to Bella's had become an incentive, and a rather effective one. It made my shifts crawl when I'd watch the clock, but I had something to look forward to.

Fact two: Bella was the closest thing I had to a friend outside of AA. We couldn't talk as openly as most friends could, but that didn't matter. If I had a particularly meddlesome shipment of tents come in that day, I could tell her about it, and she'd tell me about her asshat customers at the Lodge in response. I'm certain that'd be small talk to some, but for me and Bella? It was a pretty big deal.

Fact three: Bella was pretty—nice to look at—easy on the eyes—and I don't just mean her hair. Her skin looked soft and delicate, but her posture was always anything but. She was confident without being cocky, humble without being shy. Her eyes were pretty. Her hands were feminine. Her lips were full. Her eyebrows were expressive.

Fact four: Bella was intriguing. When she'd get frustrated with something, she wouldn't get all huffy and screw her face up into an ugly sneer like most people would. Instead, she'd smile this wry grin that dimpled the edge of her lips and just… shake her head—like she was keeping some kind of list in her mind of everything she hated, and she'd get revenge for it later, rather than get worked up about it then.

Fact five: That look I'd just seen on my face, the shine in my eyes, was new and foreign, which made it equally thrilling and terrifying.

Fact six: All of the aforementioned facts were bad. Bad bad bad. All of them were wrong on too many levels to even tabulate. It was unthinkable—appalling—bad—wrong—badly wrong—to like Bella in that way.

Fact seven: I didn't know what to do about it, how to approach her, how to see her every day and act as though the sight of her didn't make waking up in the morning, leg stiff and aching, totally worth it. It was easy to write off my feelings, like maybe I felt that way because she was the last person on my list, which gave me a sense of purpose that I didn't want to lose. I didn't know how much longer I'd buy into that excuse, though, because deep down—really deep, where I could clearly remember always having inklings of these feelings toward Bella—I knew that wasn't true. I knew I'd had that crush on her in high school, even if she didn't believe it.

Fact eight: Things were good right now. Bella wasn't uncomfortable or annoyed with my presence, so why should I change anything? You can't fix something that isn't broken.

With a new resolve, I adjusted the mirror once again, certain that the guilt I felt would dissipate if I just didn't have to look myself in the eye.

Bella wasn't home when I arrived, but this didn't surprise me. She was usually late, usually kept me waiting in her driveway or on her porch until she came roaring up to the house, bumbling and flustered. Still, it never once crossed my mind to not be here, waiting, at the second I said I'd be. Even if I had to wait in the rain, in the freezing cold, I'd show Bella that I was punctual and trustworthy.

She arrived twenty minutes later, just as I'd suspected—flying over the hump in her driveway and screeching to a halt. My pulse increased at the mere sound of her sedan, and held a steady rhythm as I watched her emerge.

"Sorry!" she called as she stepped out of the car, ducking inside to gather notebooks, files, and papers, as was common.

"No worries," I responded smiling at the sight of her flustered expression—cheeks rosy, little wayward strands of hair framing her face.

She kicked the door closed and came galloping up to the porch, ranting, "The fuck is wrong with people in this town?" I pressed my lips together in restrained amusement as she shoved her keys into the door, flinging it open in frustration. "Never mind the fact that no one will take a fucking debit card for Christ's sake, but on top of that, do you have any idea what I had to go through to find a fax machine? A fax machine!" She turned to me after dumping her papers atop her kitchen table, eyes alight. "A fax machine, Edward. That's not even, like… ugh. Twenty first century technology. It's a fax machine."

Her hands were waving in the air, forehead pinched and eyes narrowed as if, were she to focus hard enough, she could telepathically transfer understanding to me.

My grin was impossible to contain as I calmly informed, "I have a fax machine at my house."

Her entire jaw dropped, face tinting that familiar magenta, and it was a physical battle not to pump my fist in the air. Her jaw closed, and then opened, like she was trying to find the words to express her anger, which really wasn't necessary. The curling of her fists and the shaking of her arms said quite enough.

She stomped her foot and with clenched teeth, emitted the most guttural, most frustrated, sexiest growl I'd ever heard. I could practically see the chords of her throat vibrate, the soft, delicate skin there tinged with a furious pink.

Below my belt, there was a definite stirring, and I went to the sink under the guise of washing my hands, when in reality, I just couldn't hide my smirk. I'd found that there were other ways to experience Bella's being flustered without having to be the direct cause of them. I also found it easier to enjoy those moments when her annoyance was only surface-deep—nothing too substantial or heavy.

"Well, isn't that just motherfucking special?" she snarled, throwing her arms across her chest and looking especially sulky.

I dried off my hands, my smirk finally falling away as I sidled up to her, encouraging, "Oh, chin up, Swan!" I threw my arm over her shoulders and crushed her to my side, reminding, "We're choosing paint colors today. Don't girls usually dig that kind of crap?"

Her hair was right under my nose, her body warm and fitted so perfectly against mine. I palmed the ball of her shoulder and grew slack as she grew rigid. I knew I was being too forward, just as I'd known that day in my parents' kitchen when I'd hugged her. But I wasn't used to feeling… whatever it was being close to someone in that way felt like. Affectionate? I wasn't certain what name to give it, but it was nice, and it made me feel all warm on the inside.

Bella, however, didn't seem to share my enjoyment for close proximity. Her sharp eyes jumped to my hand, which was still grasping her shoulder. Rigid posture aside, though, she wasn't exactly hurling me away in disgust.

I could feel my entire being brighten.

But then her eyes narrowed, and she grinned, but it was that wicked grin that dimpled the edge of her lips. She raised her hand to her hair and plucked the shiny, silver pen from its nest. My eyes widened as she shoved her fingers into the knot and quickly shook it loose.

I was on the opposite side of the table before it could complete its tumble to her waist, eyes careful and maniacal as they fixed to the tiled floor below me.

"I've never really been good at design and stuff," she said, voice exponentially more chipper than it had been. "All those stupid color names? No, sorry. Blue is blue, if ya ask me."

I gaped at the floor as I watched her bounce to the fridge in my periphery, all of her thick hair springing behind her. I gulped. "So, d-d-don't look at the names. Just… you know… look at the colors." I internally rolled my eyes at my stuttering. Was I always this moronic when I crushed on a girl?

She shrugged, whipping her hair to one side, and grinned at me over her shoulder. "Whatever you think is best." And then she bounced past me, sending waves of her scent up my nostrils as her wavy hair leaped and plummeted in her wake.

My glassy eyes followed her out the front door, one corner of my lips pinned painfully between my teeth.

As the day progressed, I told myself it was good seeing her like this—hair free, eyes alight with a mischief I couldn't comprehend, back straight with confidence as she held paint samples to the siding of the house in contemplation. My physical reaction to her wasn't as… er… pronounced as it had been that first day, even though stirrings still occurred. Mostly, she just looked… classic—like if I'd ever been one of those fruity, artsy types, I'd get a camera and take pictures of the way her hair captured the sun and made a dull ray of light glow like a halogen bulb.

Then, I'd probably kick myself in the nuts, not only for turning into a complete pussy, but for doing so as a result of Bella Swan.

She tilted her head to one side, scratching the dried dirt from the siding with a stubby nail. "I think it used to be this color," she mused aloud, comparing the paint sample to the house with a wrinkled brow. She had her hair swept over one shoulder, and her ear peeked out from it, a little silver stud nestled in her earlobe.

"Peacock Plume is too green," I advised, reluctantly leaning in closer than I felt comfortable with to compare the samples. "I think Powder Blue is closer to the original." I put my finger to the paint sample, rubbing it with my fingertip.

She hummed, eventually deciding, "Okay."

Surprised, I eased back, scratching at my brow. "You don't wanna change it to something else?" I asked. "You can do anything you want. Even—" I looked to the colorful palette, finishing, "—Zany Pink." I shuddered, but held the sample out to her. Whatever she wanted, I'd gladly do, even if it made Pepto Bismol look dull.

"Um…" She gnawed at her bottom lip, brows pinched as she wrung her hands. "I don't know. I think I should probably just make it the same." She stretched her lips into a cringing frown and shook her head. "Definitely not the Zany Pink kind-of-girl, know what I mean?"

I pursed my lips, pushing my head back on my neck. "Well maybe not the pink, but don't you have some color that you like? This isn't permanent, Bella. You can always change it later, you know."

Her brows furrowed further. "No, I get that, but… my dad chose Powder Blue, so…" She looked down at her hands, intertwining her fingers, eyes guarded.

"But," I protested, shifting to one side. "What if he only chose that because your mom liked the Powder Blue? What if the Chief was more partial to Peacock Plume?"

Bella snorted, finally meeting my gaze. "Trust me, Edward. My mother would never—ever, ever—choose a color like Powder Blue. You know the Zany Pink?"

I cringed.

"Exactly." She nodded, a smile flirting at her lips as her eyes once again fell upon the house. Gently, she placed her palm on the siding, caressing it with reverence as she explained, "But my dad looked at this house, and he said 'Powder Blue would sure look nice here.'" She assessed it with shimmering eyes, concluding in a watery voice, "He wanted me to live in a Powder Blue house."

I watched as she turned away, her eyes averted as she cleared her throat, one hand ducking beneath her hair to grasp her neck. All of her confidence had dissipated, and she looked small and sad as she hugged herself with one arm, probably hiding tears for all I knew.

I shifted my feet against the grass, inwardly panicking. I was never good at seeing people cry. I scratched at my neck, forearms tight with tension, before I decided to just let instinct guide me. Without even considering it, my hand went to her shoulder, rubbing over the ball of it as it had earlier, in her kitchen.

She tensed as she had before, body swaying stiffly to my palms movement, but she didn't shrug me off. She shook her head, clearing her throat once again. "Sorry," she breathed, voice cracking.

"Don't be," I implored, feeling less uncomfortable when she sighed, her body finally loosening from its coil. I shook her shoulder lightly. "We'll do the Powder Blue out here, and you can get creative on the interior," I suggested, humor in my voice as I smirked into her ear. "I hear that Zany Pink bathrooms are all the rage."

She released a thick chuckle, her hand leaving her neck before swiping at her face. Dammit. She'd definitely been crying. "What is it with you and the pink, Cullen?" she asked, still refusing to give me a view of her face.

In an attempt to make her more comfortable, I busied myself with the paint colors, answering, "Pssssh. I wouldn't be so hard on the pinks if I were you. I've seen you turn shades of red that Sherwin Williams doesn't even offer."

She snorted at this, taking the opportunity my distraction provided to turn and pass me. She paused at the corner of the house, barely turning her head as she tugged her sleeves over her hands. "Hey… Edward?" she called.

"Hm?" I fixed my eyes to her back, the hair that covered it undulating with her breaths.

Her voice was small and reluctant but emerged contrastingly strong. "Would you like some lunch?"

---

One fifty two, my watch read.

I sighed, idly tagging a new shipment of hockey sticks with the red stickers. This job was so fucking boring, but at least Mike had stayed out of my hair today. The previous day, he'd been over my shoulder for three hours straight, criticizing my lack of organizational skills after inspecting my area. I'd grinned and nodded along to his instruction, while mentally envisionsing clocking him in the jaw.

Now, I was perched on a rack in the corner, my leg stiff as a result of the inclement weather from the previous night. Impatient for it to heal, I was trying to keep my weight off it without any of the staff noticing. I hadn't taken real pain medication in almost a year and was determined to endure the ache without the assistance of narcotics. Because all I needed was to trade one addiction for another…

The ibuprofen I'd taken was going to kick in at two-fifteen, just in time to loosen my leg up for when I got off work at three. My borrowed truck was loaded up with brushes and a paint sprayer, bucket after bucket of Powder Blue, and a sturdier ladder. I was more nervous about Bella helping me than I was about injuring myself once again.

She'd insisted she could assist me with this project during lunch last week. Her eyes had been all red and puffy, and the reminder of her tears made a tight knot wind within my stomach. But, for the most part, lunch had been comfortable. She'd made us sandwiches and regarded the interior walls of the kitchen while we discussed pain colors.

It was a little difficult, because interior design was something I'd go to Alice for. Alice would coach me on finishes and matte versus glaze, and she'd be good at it. Alice had always had an eye for design.

She still wasn't answering my calls, and I couldn't deny my growing frustration. Sometimes, she could be such a fucking child. Jasper wasn't much better, though, with his infuriating refusal to just call her. I mean, staying away from someone because you didn't think you were good enough for them?

Clearly, that was just... stupid.

At two-fifteen, my leg was starting to feel loose, the ache dulling enough for me to begin lifting boxes to the top shelves. I always saved them for the end of the day, when I felt most capable. Heavy lifting also had this way of making time go faster. So when I noticed the clock had struck two-fifty-nine, I dropped everything I was doing and clocked out.

The weather had improved drastically since the previous night, the sun even daring to peek through a few clouds. It was a perfect afternoon to paint the house, everything falling into place. The presence of Bella's car in her driveway was further proof of this, seeing as she usually made me wait.

My stomach fluttered as I loped to the door, my knocking on it feeling odd. I was not at all prepared for what greeted me.

Bella swung the door open and stood before me in a pair of sweats and a large shirt, her hair all tangled and matted to her forehead, face gaunt and pale, lips dry, eyes drooping and purple.

Stunned, I blurted, "Wow. You look like shit."

Her eyes narrowed, either from the intrusion of the sun or anger. "I'm sick," she explained in a tiny, gravelly voice. She palmed her forehead, lips parting as her eyes closed. "Some kind of virus going around or something. Some kid had a birthday party at the Lodge and…" Trailing off, her face looked nearly green as she swallowed.

"Oh, right," I breathed, cringing at her red-rimmed eyes and chalky pallor. "My dad's been treating a lot of people in ER for that."

She nodded as silence descended over us, gripping the doorknob as if to keep her vertical. I pursed my lips at my feet and contemplated leaving. I supposed I could go back home and hang out with my mom for a few hours. That'd probably make her happy. Me. Spending the evening with my mother.

"Right. Well," I exclaimed. "Let's get you to bed then, and you need fluids–and food. Soup, probably." I entered the house without awaiting permission.

She found me in the kitchen, rifling through her pantry for something in an aluminum can with red and white labels. "... huh?" she asked, one eye screwed closed, palm flattened to the paper-cluttered table.

"Soup," I repeated, extending my chicken noodle treasure with a shake. "Sustenance, hydration, electrolytes... do you have a fever? How high is it?" I found an electric can opener beside the coffee pot, quickly filling the room with a high buzz.

She moaned, holding her head with one hand. "I... don't know? You don't have to—"

I interrupted, "—I want to."

Her bottom lip jutted out as I prepared the soup, fingering the hem of her large shirt, one shoulder tucked to her ear. "It's probably contagious," was her weak protest, voice betraying her fragility.

I tossed a smile over my shoulder, shrugging. "It's not airborne. I just have to wash my hands."

Her frown deepened as she ducked her chin to her chest. "But... I'm not..." She paused and clutched at the bottom of her shirt, stretching it down and outward. She cringed. "...presentable," she finished.

I quirked an eyebrow at the pot of soup, wondering aloud, "What exactly are you trying to present to me?" At her silence, I chanced a peek over my shoulder and found her eyes glued to my head.

She glowered. "Nothing."

"Exactly," I mumbled, turning my face before she could decipher my dejected expression. "Just go upstairs, okay? I'll bring this up to you and hunt down some pain reliever and a thermometer."

"You're being really intrusive," she blurted with less anger than I'd expect.

I turned away from the stove then, crafting a carefully blank mask as I assured, "I'll go, if you want."

She kept her eyes over my shoulder, knuckles going white atop the wood of the table as she gripped it, until eventually, she emitted a loud huff. Mutely, she pushed off the table, and her feet made little padding sounds as she exited the kitchen, climbing the staircase with hunched shoulders.

I smirked as I turned to the pot of soup. It was cheap, lame, and put more emphasis on my lack of culinary skills than I preferred, but she hadn't rejected it. That must have meant something. Even if cheap chicken noodle wasn't her most ideal soup, she didn't shun it.

(I was totally not comparing myself to canned soup, by the way.)

While it was cooling, I took the liberty of plundering Bella's medicine cabinet, her room down the hall silent and still. I found an old mercury thermometer but had no luck finding pain reliever. Luckily, I still had a whole bottle of ibuprofen in my car. Gathering everything took ten minutes, and I had to admit, I was a little nervous as I climbed the stairs to her room.

I knocked with the toe of my boot on the door frame, peeking inside before entering. Bella lay beneath a heap of blankets, her knotty hair all fanned out on the pillow beneath her. Her room was mostly bare, no embarrassing piles of dirty laundry cluttering her floor like mine would have. My eyes briefly assessed the area before they fell on her face.

Lips parted, she spoke in a dry, gravelly whisper, "I don't think I can keep it down." She tugged the blankets to her chin, her fingers poking out as they grasped tightly at the fabric. She regarded the bowl in my hand with reluctant eyes.

"Just try," I encouraged, stepping forward to place the bowl of soup on her night stand. I dug in my pocket while explaining, "The saltines might help, too." I emerged with my bottle of pain reliever, only then realizing I hadn't brought her a beverage.

I ordered her to stick the thermometer in her mouth before rushing downstairs. I halted at the fridge, rigid and wary. Curling my fingers around the handle, I popped the door open with a nervous swallow, sweeping the contents with my eyes and exhaling in relief when I found no clusters of brown, long-necked bottles.

Pink Lemonade seemed to be the best option available, so I quickly filled a glass and started toward the stairs, taking a brief moment to admire my handywork with the banister. She probably touched it every day, I mused, a little surprised to feel a swelling of pride that I'd left such a mark on the house—on her house.

The rapid sound of footsteps from above startled me, Bella's form blurred as she zoomed past the top of the stairs and into the bathroom. Within seconds, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of her vomiting. Drink in hand, I rushed upstairs and found her hunched over the toilet, back heaving.

My nose wrinkled, but I quickly cleared my expression before she could notice. I abandoned the glass beside the sink, taking a hesitant step toward her. She retched again, her long hair veiling the porcelain of the toilet bowl, and her every muscle seemed to tense and release with the violence of it.

My palm rested lightly on her back, offering a sympathetic pat, but her hair beneath my hand was unsatisfying.

I wished she'd get better—as soon as possible.

"Ugh," she groaned when the heaves momentarily subsided, shoulders shaking. "God hates me."

Before I could reply, her body coiled with another round of retching. My fingers were light and anxious as they collected her hair, pulling it back and revealing more of the toilet bowl that I really would have preferred to see. I twisted up her hair and shoved it into the collar of her t-shirt, standing to search for a wash cloth.

"You really don't have to watch this," she suddenly said, her voice thick and shaky.

I held the cloth under the cold tap as I assured, "Trust me, I've seen a good ralph or two in my time." I shot her a weak smirk, even though her eyes were squeezed closed, a shimmering of tears lining her lashes.

I squatted behind her, encasing her body between my thighs, and pulled her head back, wiping at her brow and smoothing away the little locks of hair that clung to her forehead. Her immediate compliancy was something that could only be explained by her absolute misery.

"I hate kids," she blurted, voice frail as her eyes remained closed. Her voice was muffled as the washcloth passed over her pale lips, "That's the secret to world domination, you know? Use kids for biological warfare, have them sneezing and coughing all over everyth—" Her voice cracked as her muscles rolled against my chest, her head ducking to the bowl once again.

My palm rubbed soothing circles against her back, the episode finally subsiding minutes later. The position had my leg screaming in protest, but I remained until I heard her small, "I'm done," her hand rising to hastily flush the toilet.

I helped her back to her room, where she all but collapsed onto her bed. "Are you hot or cold?" I asked.

She was completely still, face down, back rising as she mumbled into the pillow. "I'm hot now."

The thermometer that she'd left on her bed side table read one-oh-two. Nothing dire, I decided, though I was quick to get some fluids into her. When I returned to her room, she still hadn't moved, and I had to kneel beside the bed to see her face.

She protested as I thrust the glass of pink lemonade at her, "I've never been partial to pink vomit."

Her eyes shot opened and immediately met mine, our mirroring smiles large and swift as we concurrently exclaimed, "Zany Pink!"

"In the context of vomit, it totally works," she chuckled, back bouncing as her eyes crinkled with her smile. "And clearly," Her smile withered a bit at this, the flash of enthusiasm that had touched her features dimming once again, "we spend way too much time together."

I rolled my eyes, prompting, "Just drink it," though on the inside, her words and reaction to that fact didn't even register with me.

I'd made her smile—a real smile—regardless of how bad she was feeling.

I watched as she gulped down the Zany Pink beverage, swallowing two ibuprofens before settling back into her bed, eyelids heavy. "Sleep," I ordered, gathering the rejected soup so the sight and smell of it wouldn't disturb her peace.

"Yes'sir," she mumbled, eyes already closed when I retreated from the room, one small fist curled beneath her chin.

I took a moment to watch her before I closed the door—vomitous, sweaty, smelly, and miserable—and she was still… pretty—nice to look at—easy on the eyes—

Beautiful…

My stomach fluttered with something foreign—some gentle tug of longing that wasn't sexual or even hinted at mere attraction. What I felt for Bella was more than a crush—had to be.

It was at that moment I pretty much knew, there was no way I'd make Jasper's mistake. He refused to challenge the notion that monsters like him and I didn't belong with good people. He was content in accepting it, just like everyone else, and maybe that worked for him. Maybe he woke up every morning and the prospect of merely observing Alice was enough to get him by. Maybe he was okay with settling, but me?

I owed more to my second chance than that.

A/N: Thanks to P for the beta. She's at the dentist right now, getting all doped up and probs feeling like shit. Hope you feel better soon, darling!

My recommendations this week are: 1.) Go to my profile and download the WA PDF or Word file, because OMG, they took motherfucking forever to make. And 2.) La Pour Ca by PulsePoint (slash). And 3.) How to Save a Life by UnholyObsession. You can find both in my fave fics list on my profile.

See y'all next week! (Hump Day? Skinny-White-Boy-Thursday? Not certain...)