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!

Christ, is anyone still reading this? Please accept my deepest apologies for the ridiculous delay. There was health fail, but all is getting better. Thanks for all the comments and your patience. I'd promise to get the next update out hastily, but I've broken my word on that front enough times for it to be laughable. Instead, I'll just bribe you all with the promise of virtual cookies. Omnomnom. See? Yummy!

I pursed my lips, bringing my cup of coffee to my lips. I'd been apprehensive about my ability to keep it down, but when I awoke this morning, I was feeling loads better. I'd had that wretched stomach virus for three days, so relief couldn't come a moment too soon. I scratched my calf with my toe, cocking my head to the side as I regarded my sofa and the person sprawled upon it.

Edward's face was mashed into the cushions, his feet dangling over the opposing armrest as he slept. The afghan that he'd pulled around himself during the night only granted coverage to half of his body, and one of his socks was missing. I narrowed my eyes, scanning the floor. Ah, there it was, hanging off the end table.

This was weird.

I hadn't put up much of a protest when he'd insisted on staying the night. I mean, I was just so miserable, and it had felt... comforting... to not be alone. He hadn't even had to do anything. I honestly would have felt so much better simply knowing someone had been in the house. But, of course, Edward never did the bare minimum. He'd catered to me the entire afternoon, evening, and night. He'd cleaned my dishes, took my temperature, kept me properly hydrated, and fed me pain reliever at the highest rate the dosage recommendation likely allowed. He'd watched me vomit, had wiped specks of regurgitated noodles from my lips, had held my hair back. My hair. He'd touched it—had overcome his obvious dislike of it for the mere sake of assisting me.

The previous night, when I'd awoken parched and raspy, my damp skin sticking to my sheets, I'd pathetically called out for him. When he'd entered my room with a glass of water in hand, somehow anticipating my needs, I'd told myself that I wouldn't forget how I'd felt in that moment: relieved, grateful, comfortable, and most of all, not alone. I'd laid back down once he'd exited my room, having granted him permission to sleep on the sofa, and everything had seemed so clear. Edward was a gift from God.

Now?

He stirred, a snort escaping his nose as he burrowed his face deeper into the cushion, messy hair all nestled between his head and the coarse upholstery.

It was just weird.

I sat outside and smoked my morning cigarette as I waited for him to wake up. My hair was still wet from the shower I'd taken when I'd awoken sticky and gross, the act of bathing feeling like somewhat of a religious experience. There was nothing like the sensation of the first day following a recovery from illness. Everything looked brighter. Everything smelled more pleasant. The birds sang, the coffee didn't taste as bitter, and the man on the sofa who you'd once absolutely loathed seemed like welcomed company. Previously regarded problems were shed in a new light of triviality, and you could swear to yourself, you could swear to God, that you'd never take this feeling of normalcy for granted ever again—and yet that promise was usually forgotten within the span of a day.

I didn't consider myself much of a pessimist, but I was certainly no optimist, so I savored the feeling that I was confident wouldn't last as I ruffled my hair, willing the scant breeze to assist in drying it. I had just closed my eyes and pulled humid, chilled air into my lungs, fleetingly resolving to quit smoking, when I heard the telltale stirrings from within the living room. I butted out my cigarette and curled my fingers around the warmth of my coffee cup, my footsteps light as I reentered the house.

I found Edward perched on the edge of the sofa, head down as he scrubbed his palms over his face. I observed him for a moment before making myself known, assessing his squinted eyes. Grimacing, he reached a hand to his crotch and shifted, adjusting the bulge beneath his jeans. He stretched one leg forward and propped a foot on the coffee table before him, a raspy groan punctuating his movement.

He began rubbing his knee.

His features were tight and somehow pained, lips stretched into sharp frown as he watched his hand rub and massage his leg. I quirked a brow as he began muttering under his breath, "Fucking steroids don't... what's the point... just gonna make... ugh." I shifted forward in an effort to hear him better, but he caught the sound of my feet shuffling against the floor, and his head whipped around to face me.

Watching him carefully rearrange his features was rather frustrating. "You look better," he noted, bracing one elbow on the back of the sofa as he pivoted toward me. "Your stomach?" he asked.

I lifted the coffee as I rounded the sofa, replying, "I can drink this without gagging, so that must be good."

He had a deep line running down one side of his cheek as he ruffled his hair. "Fever?" he asked, falling back into the cushions with a shallow exhale.

I shrugged, but answered, "I don't feel feverish."

He inspected me with a sideways glance, eventually waving me over with his hand. Confused, I leaned toward him and was less startled than I should have been when he put a palm to my forehead, before moving it to my cheek. It was only when his hand then descended to my neck that I began to feel a twinge of discomfort, but I didn't halt him, even though he'd just touched his morning wood with that hand.

See? Weird.

His eyes followed his palm as it brushed my hair aside and cupped my neck, his skin feeling warm against the portion of my nape that my dampened hair had cooled. His palm lingered, and the tickle of his delicate touch caused me to clench my teeth in an effort to restrain a shiver. "You feel pretty cool," he deduced, pulling his hand back.

I lurched, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, back to my portion of the sofa, informing, "I actually feel perfect. Must have been—"

"—a seventy-two hour bug," he finished. Before I could think to respond, he intoned in a rushed, strained breath, "Do you have that ibuprofen still?" His eyes were guarded as they darted to the stairs, jaw tight as his hand resumed massaging his outstretched knee.

My brow furrowed. "Yeah, upstairs. Are you okay?" I shot a pointed glance to his leg, his posture all rigid and seeping of some unfathomable tension.

"Just... an old injury. No big deal," he assured, though the clipped and stretched tenor of his voice suggested otherwise. He continued in a reluctant tone, "Maybe... well, if you're feeling better... you could go get it for me real quick?" His eyes were beseeching—begging.

"Sure," I replied, blinking in confusion.

The bottle was beside my bed where he'd left it the previous night, and when I returned to the living room, his eyes fell upon the ibuprofen with equal amounts of relief and impatience.

He swallowed them dry and I felt a little guilty. Edward had done such a great job at taking care of me, at anticipating my needs, and when it came time for me to repay the favor—to balance the scales—I fell a little short.

"What's the old injury?" I asked, curious.

He sat so perfectly still on the sofa, staring at the digital clock about the television, that he could have been a statue. "Car accident," was his soft, distracted answer.

My eyebrows raised in interest. "The one with James?"

His eyes snapped to mine then, flashing in shock, a trace of horror present in the crease between his brows. "How do you know about that?"

I tugged guiltily at my lower lip, fingering the frayed ends of the afghan. "I just... saw it in a newspaper while doing some research is all." When he didn't respond, I chanced a peek at his face, only to find his gaze once again trained on the clock, face devoid of emotion. "Do you still have a lot of problems?" I continued, adding hastily, "With your injuries, I mean. The article didn't say..."

I felt intrusive and ridiculous prodding him for information when, even when I'd read the article, I hadn't felt it necessary to learn more. He hadn't died, while James had. Further facts had seemed inconsequential at the time.

His lips pinched into a purse as he responded, "Not really. My legs are just kind of..." He paused and shifted his upper body, his legs remaining freakishly still. "Vulnerable," he concluded. I watched as one corner of his lips curled up into a grimace at the confession.

It was then that it occurred to me, "The roof!" I gasped. "God, Edward, why didn't you say something? What are you doing climbing ladders, anyway, if you could get hurt and—are there doctor bills? Do you have insurance?"

He halted my flurry of panicked words with a weary exhale. "Please, this is nothing, Bella." He met my gaze then, eyes emphatic as he repeated, "It's nothing."

I argued, "It looks painful," as I watched his hand continue to rub and soothe his leg. Obviously, he was in great pain if he couldn't even make it upstairs to get the ibuprofen.

His next words were sharp, almost icy. "Can you please drop it?"

Taken aback, I raised my palms in a yielding manner. "Sorry," I apologized, somewhat annoyed that my responsibility in the matter couldn't be properly acknowledged. The silence that stretched between us was laced with tension, and I struggled to find some way to ease it, while simultaneously lamenting this newly discovered imbalance.

Edward was the first to speak, his voice soft and considerably less irked. "I'm glad you're feeling better," he said, glancing at me sideways and offering a small smile.

"Ugh," I grouched. "Me too. That's the last birthday party I'm working. Aside from the whole... 'biological hazard,' the clown they hire is exceptionally skeevy." My lips curled in disdain for the rainbow-afro'd man-boy who had made me balloon animals that were in no way appropriate for a children's' party. Satisfied with the change in topic, I rose and asked, "Breakfast?"

He replied with a statement that disappeared behind me as I entered the kitchen. "Just so you know, I do more than plumbing and carpentry and painting. I could really fuck a skeevy clown up."

The serious tone of his voice made laughter bubble within my stomach.

---

As we began painting the house the next day, the air between Edward and I was amicable. Given his behavior during my illness and the fact that he'd injured his leg cleaning the gutters, I was feeling particularly inclined to accept his efforts.

It became clear to me that day that most of the work surrounding painting was in preparation and not so much the actual task. I was actually a little disappointed when the sky darkened and we had to set our things aside for work the next morning. When Edward left, I ate dinner alone while sifting through paperwork on Dr. Aro.

When I woke up the next morning, I got a weird package in the mail. What was more, I was surprised to find how excited I was to laugh about it with Edward when he returned to finish preparing the siding for paint. Finding topics of discussion was always most difficult for me where he was concerned. There were too many words, suggestions, or memories that were best left unvisited. But as it turned out, we were so busy that I never had to worry about making conversation. "We'll need to replace these," Edward said of the shutters that afternoon. He began removing them, one by one, and I stood in the grass below when he had to climb the ladder, holding it steady and praying he didn't fall again.

His choice of words hadn't escaped my notice—We'll.

"I was wondering..." He lingered around the foyer that evening, wiping his shoes on the rug for an unnecessary length of time. "What are you doing for dinner?" he finally asked, bracing one elbow on the banister he'd crafted himself.

His stare, fixed upon the dirt jammed beneath his fingernails, was quite intent.

I shrugged as I sat on the bottom stair, unlacing my muddy boots and massaging my feet, which were positively aching from walking around the house all day. My weekdays were nothing special. Though I worked every weekend evening at the Lodge, my weekday nights were often spent in—alone. "I put a beef roast in the crockpot this morning. Probably watch some Wheel or something while I eat."

Edward hummed, his head bobbing as he continued picking at his nails.

It seemed a little rude not to offer. "Do you eat roast? I made a lot. You can't really make a small roast."

He pursed his lips, avoiding my gaze. "I don't wanna intrude or anything."

"You're not intruding," I sighed. "I'm asking you." Seriously, what the fuck did he need? An engraved invitation?

His gaze met mine then, and though his hair was droopy and flopping into his eyes, I couldn't have missed the way they flashed a bright, vibrant green. The corner of his lips tucked into a small grin. "Okay."

When I was done in the bathroom, he went behind me to clean up, and I began preparing the rest of our dinner. As I began dicing cucmbers I got the same feeling I'd had that night when he stayed for macaroni-and-cheese casserole. It was nice preparing a meal for more than myself. For example, I never bothered making side salads or rolls for just myself. It never seemed worth the effort, but having a guest over changed everything.

Edward took one end of the sofa, while I took the other, and thirty minutes later, we were both hunched over our T.V. trays as we watched an elderly, gangly man spin the wheel.

"N!" the man exclaimed, to which Pat Sajack replied, "Four N's." Loud applause erupted as Vanna strutted in her animal-print dress across the stage, slowly revealing the puzzle.

With a thoughtful hum, I guessed, "Slinging on money cars?" I then took a large bite of roast beef and nodded appreciatively.

I was pretty good at this game.

Edward, still chewing, knotted his brows together and deadpanned, "No offense, but you're pretty awful at this game."

I balked, definitely offended, as I dropped my fork and turned to him. "Excuse me, but I happen to be somewhat of a wordsmith."

His laugh was small and muffled, before he caught a glance at my sour expression. "Really?" he asked.

I thrust a finger at my chest. "Aspiring journalist with a Bachelor's in English, thank you very much."

He pushed his beef around his plate with a cautious glance in my direction. "Yeah, but writing with words and playing word games are two different things. I'm actually good at word games. Not so much with writing." Then, never breaking my gaze, he guessed with confidence, "Swinging on monkey bars."

The man on television solved the puzzle, "Swinging on monkey bars!"

I scoffed, but shoved a forkful of potatoes in my mouth. No way Edward Cullen was going to beat me at Wheel. "I bet I get the next one," I challenged with a smile.

For the next puzzle, I was anxious that he might solve it first. So much so, that I think it was clouding my mind and frazzling me. I sat close to the edge of the sofa, and whenever he'd open his mouth, even to eat, my body would clench. I searched the revealed letters frantically.

Eventually, only five letters of the Then and Now puzzle were yet to be revealed. I knew he'd get it when a burly lady chose with unconcealed enthusiasm, "Y!"

Edward's eyes narrowed at the screen, and I saw it happen. His lips stretched into that craggy, stupid grin that I loathed, and then his pink tongue separated them with an inhale that signaled his imminent victory.

"BADLY FUCK AND COVER!"

His words died in his throat as his head whipped to face me, eyes wide, eyebrows hiked high on his forehead. "Daffy duck and cover," he said, still staring at me in that incredulous way when the lady solved the puzzle.

My face burned.

He turned to his food and ducked low to the plate, murmuring, "You do realize that Wheel of Fortune is a family show, right?"

I gnashed my teeth together, warning, "Shut up. I don't do well under pressure."

The corners of his lips twitched as he continued, "No, I like your version better, though. Very relateable." He punctuated this with a mockingly stern nod at his plate, but was amused when I shoved my tray away and stood, towering over the couch.

"That's it, motherfucker. You. Me. Scrabble throw-down. Loser paints the trim."

Thus, we found ourselves sprawled out on my living room floor. We moved the coffee table to the side of the room, each of us taking the sporadic bite from the plates we'd brought to our laps, until they were eventually abandoned.

By our second game, he had his bad leg stretched out before him, framing the Scrabble board, as he regarded his lettered tiles with an intense gaze. "Really, Bella. Buqshas? No way that's a word," he accused, snatching the game's dictionary from the floor between us. It was already well worn from my years playing Jacob as a teenager, and I wasn't surprised when he threw it down a moment later, defeated. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair. "This is borderline humiliating."

I grinned as I added the letters to my score. Triple word play, too. Nice. "I told you," I said, "I know my words."

He inspected his tiles with a scheming face. "Yeah, but you take forever. If this game were timed? I'd totally beat you down." With his tiles, he carefully created the word 'C-O-I-T-U-S,' sparing me a brief glance from below his lashes. "Plus, you have the lucky pen. Not fair."

I studiously recorded his score with said lucky pen. "And if you took more time to think, you might come up with some choices that weren't related to sex, food, or sex." Snorting, I muttered under my breath, "Typical man."

I could have sworn he was blushing. "This coming from Miss Badly Fuck and Cover?" he retorted.

"I was under pressure," I reiterated with a scowl.

"And anyway," he continued, ignoring me as he shook the bag of tiles, "I made Alfaqui." There was that crooked grin again.

Ugh.

"Would you shut up about the fucking alfaqui?"

He refused to let me forget that it'd won him the first game. "Just saying." He shrugged. "Are you going to take all night over there?"

While we continued playing the game—and I supposed, having fun in our own weird way—my stiff posture relaxed, and I ended up mirroring his pose—propping my back against the table behind me as I kicked one leg out toward him.

But when he casually took my foot into his lap and began rubbing it, my spine stiffened once again. He asked, "I'm probably gonna be painting trim tomorrow, huh?" He flashed me a smile as his fingers pressed into the balls of my foot, rubbing over the thick cotton of my sock.

I was definitely uncomfortable, and I flattened my palms to the carpet in preparation of snatching my foot from his grip, but then he ground his thumb into the arch, and shamefully, I didn't.

It was amazing.

With a grimace, I diverted my gaze to the board and ventured, "Probably."

He spelled out the word 'T-I-N-T' as he spoke, "Also, I can find you a really good deal on some shutters," and then returned his full attention to the foot in his lap. He was staring down at it attentively as he added, "My friend Jasper knows some people."

At this point, I was pretty much putty. "Cool."

After a long silence, I realized that it was my turn and snapped my gaze to him. "You don't have to do that," I said with a swallow and a glance at my foot. This was really unforgivably intimate. Right?

Edward lifted one shoulder as he watched his fingers knead my toes. "I know." But then his fingers paused and he met my stare, worrying, "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"No." Yes, but it feels wonderful, and I'm a selfish person. Oh! Selfish! I spelled out, "S-E-L-F-I-S-H-L-Y." My right foot, which was tucked beneath me, began feeling a little jealous of all the attention Edward was giving to the left, and I wondered how awful it would be if I just... maybe... I kicked my right leg out, but only so I could reach the far end of the board. "Taxi," I gloated as I recorded my score. I wiggled my toes.

Edward spelled, 'I-C-I-N-G,' and when his eye caught the movement of my neglected foot, I almost pulled it back, but he only reached out and snatched it up, bringing it into his lap before he began massaging it.

I released a long, contented sigh, but weakly accused, "You have serious issues with personal space, don't you?"

He continued, unfazed. "Yes. You look like you're really bothered," he mocked, grinning at my toes.

One ankle propped on either of his knees, I cooed, "It's appalling."

The silence that followed for the rest of the night could have been tense enough to cut with a knife, and I wouldn't have noticed. The urgency of our Scrabble game dulled to a lackadaisical pace, each of us making words between sighs and yawns.

The sounds of the television transformed from evening news, to late night talk shows, to infomercials, and his hands were close to putting me to sleep. After watching Edward stifle his fifth yawn, I grudgingly mentioned, "You're going to be drag-ass at Newton's tomorrow."

I was used to staying up until two in the morning, but it was obvious that Edward was not. His lids were heavy, eyes red-rimmed as they surveyed the mess we'd made of the living room. "I'll help you clean up," he offered, giving my heel one last squeeze before finally releasing my feet.

"Don't worry about it. I'll just leave it for tomorrow," I assured as we both stood. I could have whined when my feet pressed against the hard wood of the floor, Edward standing before the sofa with both hands now shoved into his pockets.

"Bathroom?" he asked, cutting a sideways glance at the stairs. At my nod, he shuffled from the room, and I cleared our plates, startled when I realized how late it had actually gotten.

"Are you okay to drive?" I worried when we met in the foyer, but he only shrugged me off, pulling on his hooded sweatshirt and mussing his hair. I was dangerously close to offering him the sofa when his gaze landed on the ornately wrapped package I'd received that morning.

He curved a brow at it in curiosity.

"I almost forgot!" I barked a laugh, promising, "You'll appreciate this. Apparently, I have a secret admirer," I began, rifling through the box with a wry smile. I emerged with a fancy, gold-capped bottle and stated, "And he seems to be quite concerned over the state of my hair."

Edward leaned his back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. "What is it?" he asked, scanning the label. "Shampoo?"

I answered with a somber face, "Oh, not just any shampoo, Edward. Frederick..." I glanced at the bottle. "Fekkai," I sounded out. "And not just shampoo, but shampoo, conditioner, moisture treatment, freaking... advanced overnight hair repair." I flailed each item about for emphasis.

"Wow," he responded, lips lifting into a smile. He definitely looked awake now. "He must really be—"

"A complete ass, right?"

His eyebrows shot upward, before pulling together, lips fallen into a loose gape. "Ass?"

I snorted. "Well, yeah. I mean, who does that?" I wondered, staring down at the bottle as if it could answer me. "Whoever this guy is, he could have bought me flowers or chocolates or some other totally socially acceptable gift, but evidently, he thinks my hair is in dire need of attention." With a final scoff, I tossed the bottle back into the box, muttering, "Complete ass."

Edward had pushed off the door by then and was diligently adjusting his hood. "So you like flowers and chocolates," he deduced in a low voice.

"Hell no," I answered. At Edward's askew, confused glance, I explained, "I don't like any gifts with monetary value."

Now Edward was huffing at the floor, jamming both fists into the pocket on his sweater. "Well, maybe he knew that, and maybe he thought that it'd be nice for you to pamper yourself or something." He kicked at the rug, removing old, loose dirt from his boot. "Maybe it's more of a compliment and not so much of an insult."

As I watched his feet, I ventured, "Maybe..." Truthfully, I had expected Edward to appreciate the oddity of the gift—had expected it to get a hearty laugh out of him. With a frown at the bottle, I persisted, "But you have to admit. It's a really weird thing to send someone." When our gazes met, I was further puzzled by the long, almost defeated expression he wore.

"It's weird," he finally agreed, nodding.

Why did I feel so guilty? I didn't want to seem like one of those people. "Not that I'm ungrateful, or... I mean, I guess it was nice, but—"

"Weird," he finished, emitting a small, strained chuckle. He added with a roll of his eyes, "Almost creepy. What a fucking douche, right?"

I didn't even know how to answer at this point, so I just bobbed my head at the bottle in my palm. Unlike earlier, I definitely noticed the tension of the silence that followed as he shifted from foot to foot, rustling his hair. It wasn't until a loose, ratty leg of his jeans came into view that I looked up at him again.

Before I could meet his gaze, he'd crushed me to his chest, forcing a familiar oomph from my lips.

"Oh no," I whined, rigid as he embraced me tightly to his body, my cheek mashed to the plush cotton of his dark sweatshirt. "You're hugging again?"

His chuckle into my hair seemed genuine as he swayed us from side to side, the sound of his response rumbling through his chest into my ear. "It's non-monetary, right? At least I'm not going around buying you beauty care products."

I shoved him away with a scowl, yanking the door open. I thrust a finger at the driveway, ordering, "You'd better get some sleep if you're gonna start on that trim tomorrow."

He held his palms up in surrender, but the cheeky grin he gave was relieving. That whole moment before had been weird, and frankly, more unsettling than the unsolicited hugging. He exited through the door but turned when he'd hopped down to the steps to the drive, calling, "Let me know whenever you wanna let me win some of my dignity back. You can wager for manual labor, and I'll play for awkward displays of affection."

I gave a stony look and replied, "Your funeral," before shutting the door. I watched him retreat through the kitchen window, only retiring for bed when the red halos of his taillights disappeared through the fog.

My sleep was filled with the soft clacking of lettered tiles, sleepy laughter, and gentle presses against my sore feet. That wasn't the first night I dreamed of Edward Cullen, but it was the first night I dreamed of him without the backdrop of eerie, blue hallways, craggy grins, and black lockers.

---

My investigation into Dr. Aro hit a lull for the next two weeks, and it wasn't because I'd hit any kind of roadblock. Working on the house proved to be a timely, exhausting task. I wasn't certain how the hell Edward managed to show up every other day, tools in hand, eyes bright, mood chipper, ready to work his ass off, but he always did.

He usually insisted that I allow him do all the hard work, and then I'd argue and put my bitch-face on until he laughed and handed me a paintbrush or hammer or whatever tool necessary.

I liked that about Edward. His protests against my doing work were less about me helping and more about him wishing to accomplish the task himself. Otherwise, he never underestimated or coddled me. Though he may have gotten skittish when I'd climb the ladder, or he'd worry when I lifted lumber, or acted sketchy about my using the fancy paint sprayer, he never stopped me. Instead, he explained how the paint sprayer worked, or how to lift with my legs, or how that third rung from the top on the ladder could be a doozie. (He'd scowled at this.)

We actually worked fairly well together, syncing our use of tools and hoses so effectively that we rarely had to speak, unless we were discussing work or town gossip. I was certain most of the townsfolk had already enjoyed plenty of gossip on our behalf, and returning the favor was really rather fun.

He mowed the lawn while I measured shutters, or installed shutters while I put down grass seed. And when the painting finally began, I was amazed at seeing the house's gradual metamorphosis. I knew that a fresh coat of paint would make a difference, but I often found myself awestruck whenever a new patch was completed.

The little house began to look so bright and clean and... happy. I never even realized just how sad it had looked until it began transforming. Every evening included a small, reflective moment as I assessed the progress from the mailbox, Edward always taking this time to get his tools in order, or clean up in the bathroom, or run to the hardware store for a last-minute purchase before it closed.

It was almost as if he could somehow sense my vulnerability and chose to give me space, which was odd, because Edward had a big problem with respecting my space.

After that first night we'd spent playing Scrabble until two in the morning, he'd become impossibly more fond of touching. It was never really inappropriate, so I had trouble deciding how to make my discomfort known. It was especially difficult because the discomfort I felt mostly stemmed from a lack of discomfort at his brief embraces, shoulder grasps, or playful hair tugging. My guard around Edward was dropping, and though I'd anticipated this to some degree as I got to know him, I hadn't expected it to drop quite so much.

I soon began to question his motives. I wondered one day, as he placed a warm palm to the small of my back, speaking animatedly about having found a new door at the hardware store, if he was this physically intrusive to everyone, or if it was just me?

"But it'd make the perfect back door, Bella. You should see this thing. And for only forty dollars? I'm pretty sure it's an antique or something, too. A total steal," he said, using his palm to steer me around the back of the house, and halting us before my back door—which really, was in dire need of replacing.

"Okay," I agreed, stiffening when he raised his hand to cup my shoulder and crush me into his side.

He assured, "It'll be great!" with a satisfied flex of his arm before loping off in the direction of his truck, whistling and twirling his keys around his forefinger.

I think that was the first moment I really suspected it.

There were other little signs, of course, like how he'd look at me with a relieved smile whenever I'd answer the door—as if he had been worried that I wouldn't. Or how his eyes would flash in significance whenever I'd ask him to stay for supper. Or how he eventually stopped guessing at the Wheel puzzles whenever he would stay, sparing me the anxiety that usually caused me to get them wrong. But the biggest sign, by far, occurred when I ran out of shampoo and was forced to use the fancy gift from my mystery admirer. It shouldn't have even been noticeable—I'd always been happy with the shampoo I'd used since my teens—but when I used the fancy crap before bed one night, I awoke to a pillow-full of thick, bouncy, shiny hair.

I'd stood before my bathroom mirror, gaping at the sight of it as I squeezed and pulled my hair atop my head experimentally, shifting my head from side to side. It fell in heavy waves when I let it go, and I admit, I was pretty impressed.

I prayed the asshole that sent it wouldn't see me again until I got to the Thriftway. In the meantime, I spent my morning twirling it around my wrist and fluffing it in the back, almost the point of fixation. I'd only just decided to maybe not throw the bottles away when Edward knocked on my door, punctual as always—at noon on a weekend.

I'd been preparing lunch, and anticipated asking him to join me before installing the new door, so I yelled to him, "It's open!" while I stirred a large pot of chili.

The sounds of his entrance were loud and exaggerated as he stamped his feet against the rug. "It's freezing out there today. We might have to work in our jackets. Or I might have to work in my jacket while you stay in here and cook whatever belongs to that smell." His sigh upon entering the kitchen was just audible enough for me to hear its abrupt cease.

"Fine with me," I mumbled, distracted as I added more chili powder, before ultimately deciding, "But then, ten years down the line when the front door goes to shit, I won't have any cool door-installing knowledge."

His approach behind me was silent, with the exception of the sticky, soft sounds of his soles meeting the linoleum, and then his hands were on my hips. My eyes widened in shock as I stared into the boiling pot of chili,, because Edward enveloped me in the most foreign, delicate way, his chest just barely pressing into my rigid back as he hunched low enough to balance the height of our shoulders.

He ducked his nose to the crook of my neck, which was covered in hair, and inhaled deep enough to push his chest into mine. He exhaled a gentle, "Smells so good," that tickled my skin.

"The chili?" I deadpanned, every muscle in my body coiled and radiating discomfort. I wasn't sure what to do or how to politely push him away—if I was overreacting or if he was truly being inappropriate.

Until he replied in a whisper that fluttered through my ear, "Yeah, the chili smells good, too." With the solid warmth of his arms and chest surrounding me, he seemed to be just about to peer into the steaming pot when I grasped his wrists and pried them from me.

As crazy as it sounded, even in my own head, I was smart enough to spot an advance. I turned and placed a palm against his chest, gently pushing him an arm's length away. He just stared back at me with a lazy, lopsided smile, brows knitted together. "What is this, Edward?" I demanded, gesturing the empty space between us.

"What is what?" He was far enough away to prop himself against a chair. I didn't miss the way the sharp lines of his jaw hardened.

Annoyed, I could feel my nostrils flare. "Don't act like you don't know. All of this... touching, or whatever? It feels a lot like—like maybe... you want something..." I hesitated to say it aloud, seeds of doubt stealing my confidence. I eventually hedged, "Romantic?"

If he was surprised by my accusation, it didn't show on his face as he answered, "That's ridiculous." In fact, nothing showed on his face. Every line and crevice and curve was perfectly even and still. He added, "You barely consider me an acquaintance, and we're just getting to know each other, and—" But then he paused mid-sentence, hid his expression by dipping his chin to his chest, tightened his grip around the chair back on either side of his hip, and I knew.

"You do, don't you?" I asked, horrified as my mind and chest were barraged with accumulations of feelings I'd abandoned years ago.

I felt as though I might be sick. When his eyes rose to mine from below the thick fringe of his lashes, he answered in a timid, reluctant voice, "Maybe."

"Oh, God!" I gasped, slapping a palm to my forehead and spinning away from him. I squeezed my eyes closed and repeated, "Oh, God." I knew it. I had known it for so long, and yet it had completely eluded me. I felt so stupid.

"Wait, wait, wait. Just hear me out," he rushed from behind me. I couldn't look at him as he explained with a swift, desperate inhale, "I know it's soon, and weird, and like I said before, you barely consider me an acquaintance—"

This was where I interrupted, finally growing the courage necessary to face him. "Just stop, Edward," I ordered, ignoring the panicked width of his eyes. With a deep, steeling breath, I began, "Look, I do consider you a... friend—" And though I never really acknowledged it before, simply saying it aloud made me how realize how very true it was. "—which is scary and confusing enough, but...that?" I thrust a finger to the space before the stove where he'd embraced me. "That is never going to happen."

His face fell to the speed of his exhale—slow and calculating. "I know, it can't happen any time soon, but I can wait until—"

"Until what?" I snapped, appalled. I couldn't contain the volume of my voice, and I couldn't care that it made him flinch. "Until I can get close enough without associating your touch with fear? Until I forget everything you did? Until I grow fucking feelings for you?"

I was definitely going to be sick.

His breaths were steady as he inspected his feet, but I could see the flush of color that flooded his neck, and climbed to his ears. "I'm not saying that," he finally answered, raising both shoulders. "I'm just saying that... you never know."

"But I do know," I assured. "It'll never happen, Edward." I could see when he lifted his head that he was going to protest, but I stopped him with my slow, intentional, perfectly enunciated, "Never."

He searched my eyes for many moments, and I could see when it finally clicked for him—when he finally realized that this wasn't a choice for me—that it was as definite as my inability to ride in an elevator, or work in a cubicle, or use airplane bathrooms—that I could have thousands of those gentle, soft dreams of us playing Scrabble on the living room floor, and I'd always be haunted by the other, darker dreams that came the following night.

"Oh," he breathed, and I couldn't for the life of me comprehend the hurt and disappointment that flooded his face. He had to have known. He had to have. "Wow, I feel really dumb," he said with a laugh that held no trace of humor.

"I'm sorry." I don't know why I said it. I shouldn't have been sorry. I should have been disgusted. But I was sorry. I was sorry that I'd moved to Forks as a teenager, and not just because it would have spared me so much agony and devastation, but because it prevented me from only knowing this version of Edward.

When I bowed my head, I caught a glance of my hair in my periphery. My heart sank. "You sent the shampoo," I realized, raising my gaze to find him still standing, motionless and indifferent. When his lips parted and closed, he seemed to be at a loss for words, and I hated the way he was looking at me—like he should lie.

Instead, he smiled, and it was small and sad. "Yeah, I'm the complete ass."

I wanted the floor to swallow me up, right there. "God, Edward, I had no idea. It was—" I had to ignore the angry wrinkling of his nose. "—a nice gift, and I liked it, but… I can't—"

He interrupted with a sharp clearing of his throat, shifted his eyes to peer out the window above the sink, and offhandedly commented, "If I start on the door now, I can have it done by nightfall."

I was rendered speechless until he finally turned to exit the kitchen, when I called behind him, "Edward, I'm sorry!"

"Don't worry about it," was his muffled reply.

But I did worry about it. I collapsed into the nearest chair and battled with this sense of guilt I felt for rejecting him, guilt over that guilt, and the compassion I'd unknowingly come to feel for the person he was now. I wondered if I'd ever be able to look at him and see something other than the past, and I doubted it.

Mostly, I worried that the friendship I'd only just been capable of acknowledging had already perished.

A/N: Betas: Pastiche_Pen, EzRocksAngel, and TKmoon#s. All the WC peeps were awesome help with research, too. Thanks, guys!

Manyafandomand I are hosting "The AwkWard contest," which is going up for voting soon. Also, I'm judging this dry hump contest, "Fun with Your Clothes on," with a bunch of other awesome aficionados. The info for both contests can be found under the "Contests" section of my bio.

Thanks to everyone for all your comments! And everyone on Twitter who kept me company and gave their well-wishes during my painfully slow and depressing recovery. I can't believe how blessed I am! I really hope everyone doesn't hate me for my lack of review replies. I read and take them all to heart, and am more grateful than simple words could ever express.

~gives more cookies~