Once again… you guys. How many different ways can I say that you all own my heart? Thank you so much for everything – the reviews, the reads, the favorites and the faith. This story is very near and dear to my heart, and I'm so glad that it's near and dear to yours, too.

Thanks to my betas, Ali & Snarkerella. They are the best. They 'I CAN'T' with me, and make me laugh all day. I'm a stubborn person to beta for, so I know it's not easy. ILY.

Thanks to my banner makers – I can't wait to debut them. And thanks for all the help about cameras to my girls on twitter!

xXxXx

Never Too Soon

"Bell-laaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Bella is unloading her bags when something screeching attaches itself to her leg. She laughs and playfully shakes it off, but it just clings harder.

"Jacob. Let go of Bella so she can get her things."

Bella glances up and sees Sue, the step monster, standing on the porch of her father's home. She's wiping her hands on a dishtowel in a picture perfect mannerism of domesticity.

"Hi, Sue," Bella says quietly.

"Hello," she says, her smile weak. Jake has let go of Bella's leg, and Sue's eyes are on the back of her son's head. She's never liked the relationship between her son and Charlie's daughter.

"Emmy!" Jacob loves Bella's friends, all of them. It's that childlike wonder at people bigger than him, she knows, but it's still adorable. He completely melts under Emily's ruffle of his hair, and then attaches himself to her leg this time.

Bella hauls her bag over her shoulder and Emily follows, dragging Jacob and making a scene.

"So… heavy… can't… make it…"

Bella laughs at their playing, and Sue steps aside so she can enter. Bella always feels a bit smug about it, that she was the first lady of this house. Her dad is standing just inside the foyer, a grin on his bushy face just for her.

"Hey, Bell," he says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and taking her bag off her arms. "You get prettier every time I see you."

Bella smiles and tucks her long hair behind her ear. "Ah, Dad… so do you."

He scoffs and laughs, and then harasses her about what she's going to cook for all of them.

"I was planning on making spaghetti," Sue says. She's been behind them the whole time, watching their exchange with a neutral face.

"You know Bella always cooks for her old man when she comes home," Charlie chastises with a smile. "I miss your cooking, Bell."

To a man, it's a simple statement. But for two women fighting for the same man's approval and affection, it's everything. Sue's expression shuts off completely, and she turns away. When she faces them again, it's with a smile.

"Charles, I just realized – " She calls him Charles, and Bella hates it, " – that I actually have to put in a shift at the church library tonight. Mrs. Chandler is sick, and I promised."

Bella is not fooled, and she wonders if her dad is. In any event, he looks put out. "You have to?"

"I absolutely have to," Sue says clearly, making her way to the stairs. "In fact, I'm almost late. Besides, it will give you and Bella plenty of time to catch up without me getting in the way." Sue pauses by the stairs. "Jacob doesn't eat anything. Good luck with finding something he will eat." She says it with a smile, but it's definitely not a joke.

Bella turns to Jake. "Hey, man. How do you feel about cheeseburgers?"

"Cool!" he cries, clinging to her once again. "No onions, though. And lots of ketchup, and…" He lists his favorite toppings for a burger, and Bella cocks an eyebrow at Sue.

Ha.

An hour later, they're all eating pan-fried cheeseburgers and oven fries. It's not gourmet, but it's not take out, so it's better than what Charlie used to eat before he had women in his life. She's been surveying Charlie a lot this evening. It's strange, this picture of him she has in her mind – he's perpetually around thirty, the age he was when she was about seven. But it's been fifteen years, and years aren't always kind to a small town man. He's still ruggedly handsome – do all girls think their dad is handsome? – but he has grey hairs in his mustache and at his temples.

He's about forty-five years old, give or take a few years. She can't really remember, but she's just now noticing the aging in him. It makes her really sad for a reason she can't place, like this is just another thing she's failed to notice in her float through life.

"Why don't you ever cook for me like this, Bella?" Emily demands, drawing smiley faces in her ketchup.

She shrugs. "I don't cook much anymore." She used to love to cook, but she hasn't gone into the kitchen with that creative spirit in god knows how long.

"That's a crime, Bell," Charlie says, leaning back and patting his full belly. Bella notices that his stomach stretches over his belt. It didn't used to do that – when did that happen?

Bella just shakes her head. "I've just been busy, I guess."

"That's right," smiles Charlie. "That's my girl – what's the name of that fancy degree again?"

"Psychology," she laughs. "I'm just getting a specialization in children. It's not that fancy – I just… you know, people have locks on their minds, like shields. I want to be the one to help open those up. All that protection on their… well, never mind. I'm going to go on a rant. I just want to be able to help children not form the blocks on their minds that adults have."

Charlie smiles at her, and she wonders if he really understands what she's saying.

But worse, she wonders if she really believes what she's saying.

xXxXx

He's not in class on Tuesday, and she's so disappointed she can hardly sit still. Her attention wanes, and her break cigarette doesn't taste good. She's really annoyed that she can't just text him, and she's definitely not lending him her notes. Could he not let her know? What if he got in a car accident? What if he's sick? What if… what if he had just let her know he wasn't going to be there? She would have let him know. He practically asked her on a date, and then he can't even – ugh, no, she's too annoyed for this train of thought, and if she continues, she knows she's going to call him and yell at him for nothing.

As soon as class lets out, she calls him. He doesn't pick up, so she waits until she's driving back home to call again. He answers this time, and he sounds groggy and disoriented.

"You missed class," she told him by way of greeting.

"Bella?" His voice is rough, and if she closes her eyes (which she shouldn't do because she's driving), she can almost feel him lying next to her in bed, using that voice to wake her up in the middle of the night.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Hi," he says back. "Man… I feel awful. Fuck." She hears rustling, and she imagines sheets falling away – is he naked? She hopes.

"I took notes. You can borrow them, I don't mind." She's weak once she hears his voice, and how truly sick he sounds.

"Thanks." He yawns. "I didn't mean to skip class – god, what time is it? I told myself I'd only sleep for an hour."

"It's a little after nine."

"Oh, god damn it. I knew I wasn't ready for this shit – fuck."

"Ready for what?" He's cursing a lot. He doesn't have the cleanest mouth, but that's three in the past thirty seconds.

"Nothing," he says quickly. "Not… you. I wasn't referring to you, or anything… if that's what you thought."

That isn't what she thought. She wasn't thinking anything. But she is now. Does that mean he's ready… for something? For her? Or that he's not discounting it totally? Does he ever just come out and say anything?

They breathe back and forth for a couple moments, and then his voice comes back.

"I'm sorry. I… I really need to go back to sleep."

She's disappointed again. She was hoping that he'd talk to her all night, like he did the whole time she was in Forks. She's missed him a lot, and she thinks it's weird, but she feels so good all the time that it's okay.

"Oh, okay."

"Bella, I – I'm sorry. I need to. I don't want to, but I can't… I'm fading fast."

"Go. It's okay. Goodnight."

She waits for a few seconds, and he doesn't say anything. His breathing evens out, and she knows he's asleep. She should hang up, but she listens to the sound of his peace all the way back home.

xXxXx

He's in the library the next day when she gets there, and she blows out the giant breath she's been holding. She walks up behind him and puts her hand on his shoulder. It's a bit bony, but she squeezes it as hard as she can.

Without taking off his headphones, he puts his hand over hers and drags his nails lightly down the back of her hand. It's a hello, and Bella's insides churn and melt and die.

She sits down across from him, and he looks terrible. He smiles at her briefly and adjusts his cap, and she wonders why he always wears a bandana under it. His head must get hot like that, the way it drapes down his neck. He has deep bruises under his eyes, and his mouth, though smiling, is tight.

"Hey," she mouths as she cracks open her book.

He grins over his laptop at her, and they work in silence until he gets up to leave an hour later.

She taps her fingers against the table as she watches him go. He's walking slowly, limping a bit. Bella chews on her lip – maybe he did get in a car accident. Or something.

xXxXx

"Why don't you all take a break?" Esme suggests, sweeping into the room. Her hair is up in a tight bun, Bella notices, and it makes her look older than she remembers, too.

Has she just been asleep the past few years? At least Sleeping Beauty's kingdom had the pleasure of not aging while she got her act together, but Bella has had no such luck. Esme doesn't look old, and neither does Charlie, but they both look older, and it's stabbing her in a really weird place, between her heart and her gut.

The girls scatter as Esme says this, all going for their water bottles and giggling with their friends. Bella stands and watches as Esme walks towards her, a determined look on her face.

"Bella," she says in a low voice as she nears her. "Ma puce, what is the matter with you? Your heart is not in this dance."

"I'm not the one dancing," Bella answers, even though she knows that's horse shit.

"You thought up the steps for your little girls to dance to, but you disrespect those girls and the art of dance by not giving them and it your whole self."

Bella sighs. "What's wrong with the steps? They're all ones you taught me yourself."

Esme shakes her beautiful head. "There is nothing wrong with the steps. They are technically perfect and flow seamlessly. But you are not proud of this, of what you've created and taught in a bunch of girls who look to you for guidance. Dance used to be your passion – what happened?"

"I had a lot of passions," Bella says quietly. "Dancing, cooking… photography. Do you remember when I couldn't put my camera down?"

Esme nods, smiling. "Yes – so many unflattering pictures of your old godmother."

"Now," Bella continues, "I don't… do anything. It's like it all slipped from my fingers so slowly, I didn't realize it was leaving until I had lost it. I want it back, but I'm just so tired lately. Too many psychology classes, maybe… realizing the amazing potential of human life and the way we all waste it. I'm becoming a statistic in a psychology book, or something. I don't know. I'm not making any sense."

Esme pats Bella on the back, and then rubs her nails against her shoulders in soothing circles. "Bella, cherie, you cannot wait for life to inspire you."

Bella knows. She's heard it all before, and yet, it has never sounded plausible to her. Grab life by the horns? No, life was too busy shoving its horns up her –

"Start with something small, oui?" Esme is still talking. "Something that you used to love. Dancing is huge, has been huge your whole life – it'll be more difficult to find your inspiration for it, because you have had more time to become, ah… disillusioned towards it. Go home and cook for your roommate, something inspired. A soufflé. Ha! Do not give me that face – pasta? Homemade pasta noodles. Anything."

"There's still thirty minutes left in class," Bella protests.

"I will take it from here," Esme says, clapping her hands together and calling the girls back to order.

"They're terrified of you," Bella whispers, smiling.

"A little fear is something everyone needs in their life," Esme says sagely.

As Bella gathers up her things and hugs her students goodbye, it hits her. Hard.

Her problem isn't some grand depression with life. It's her lack of fear. She has everything she could ever want, and nothing she is scared to lose.

xXxXx

"I made pasta from scratch," she tells Edward the next night, as they lean over the balcony, smoking their cigarettes. He looks better tonight, less tired and handsome all the same.

"That must have taken years," Edward comments, smoke furling from his nostrils. "I did that with my mom once, and I was pretty sure I had arthritis afterwards."

"It wasn't that bad," Bella laughs. She scratches her ankle with her opposite foot. "It was actually… it was fun. I used to cook a lot, and I really…" She shrugs. "It only took a couple hours, and the look on Emily's face when I had dinner on the table when she came home was priceless. She asked if someone died."

Edward laughs, and she loves the sound so much. As a dancer, she's always been really in tune with music, its beat and melodies. The way it moves around life, and the way it sets a backdrop for everything. His laugher is no different.

"She had been bitching at me about never cooking for her… she seriously asked if she had to sleep with me before she could eat it, like some overworked, cranky husband. I told her I'd rather she just shut up and ate it – "

"Like an everyday wife," he says, grinning at her.

"Exactly!" She's giggling like crazy, and she nudges him in the arm. "Sounds like you know a little about women handling."

He just shakes his head and smiles, and it's enigmatic and secret and perfect. He trips her as she walks back into the classroom, and she acts like she doesn't notice when he winces at her slap on the chest.

xXxXx

On Saturday, he arrives at her apartment at five PM. She lets him in, and his eyes scan her place slowly. He whistles under his breath at the high vaulted ceilings and open floor plan. Her apartment is modernly furnished and from an outsider, it looks like a very wealthy person's place. She sees her jacket flung over the couch, and her dirty dishes still on the table. She's sure he sees the plasma TV on the wall, and the fireplace in the corner.

"So, what did you have in mind?" she asks finally. They haven't really said anything about the 'date' except Bella giving Edward directions and he smiling shyly as he wrote them down.

"I don't…" He's still looking around. "Want to give me a tour?"

"Oh! Um… okay." It's not that big; he's acting like it's a three-story manor. She wonders what he goes home to. Being too poor for texting means being too poor for any sort of luxuries. Or maybe not – maybe he just picks and chooses his indulgences. Maybe he has a huge, California king bed that he just had to have instead paying for texting each month. Or something.

She leads him through her apartment – the living room and kitchen are open, but there's a little bar separating the two. She shows him the view off the balcony, the lush green woods, healthy from the constant Washington rain. She walks him down the hallway, pointing at Emily's room but not opening the door (it's always a mess, and she knows Emily would be mortified).

"That's her bathroom," says Bella, pointing at the closed door next to it. "And on the other side of the hall…" She dons a game show host voice. "What's behind door number one?"

She flings open her bathroom door, and there on the floor are the bra and underwear she forgot to pick up after her shower.

"Pretty," Edward remarks, and she doesn't know if he means the mint green and brown theme of the room, or her purple lace bra and white panties.

"Um… okay. Moving on," she laughs. The door at the end of the hall is her room, and she cracks it open, quickly scanning it for more embarrassing things. She's a pretty neat person, so there's nothing even on the floor.

"This is really nice," says Edward, stepping in past her.

"Thanks," she responds, watching him look around.

She's got a queen sized bed with all white sheets and huge, fluffy down comforter. Her walls are lavender, and the floor – just like in the whole apartment – is wood. She's got a butterfly chair in the corner, a messy desk and a couple shelves with haphazardly stacked books. Her MacBook is thrown carelessly by the bed, where she dropped it the night before. She remembers the careful way he treats his things, and she's embarrassed by her lack of… something.

"Do you take pictures?" he asks finally, pointing to the camera on her desk.

"I used to," she says, walking over to it. It's a Nikon D700, one of the nicest digital SLR cameras on the market. She expressed an interest in photography to her mother over an email about a year ago, and a week later, it arrived for her.

She took a class in photography last semester, and she had learned that she had a natural eye for unusual beauty. Her professor had absolutely adored her and kept offering to set Bella up with photography studios around the Pacific Northwest, but it had just been a hobby for Bella. She was a psych major – psych majors didn't just drop out of a prestigious program to take pictures.

She realizes she hasn't picked up the camera since, and does so, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She misses it, so she puts it up to her eye – even though it's a digital screen, she's always preferred the lens – and snaps a picture of Edward when he isn't looking.

"Hey!" he cries, covering up his face. "Rude."

She looks over the picture. It's all wrong, semantically. She hasn't adjusted the light or the settings, so he looks to be almost glowing in the picture, against the backdrop of her walls. It's not a good picture, but she loves the unguarded expression on his face.

"Sorry, I should have warned you." She puts the camera down, but she vows to herself to pick it up again. Soon.

"I wouldn't have let you… unless you would have let me do my Blue Steel." He pouts dramatically, and it's funny and silly, and she rolls her eyes and laughs at him.

"Zoolander – nice. Whatever. Come on, are you done inspecting my room?"

"Not yet." He toes off his beat up sneakers and climbs into her bed. Her eyes nearly bug out of her head – what is he… is that even legal –

"Get out!" she shrieks. "You're going to get your nasty balls smell all over my clean sheets."

"My balls do not smell," he murmurs, snuggling into one of her many pillows. "This is niiiiice." He opens an eye. "Well, come on. Stop staring and climb in."

"Space invader," she grumbles, kicking off her flip-flops and sitting gracefully on bed. Far, far away from his body.

"No, no," he chides, and grabs at her foot. He yanks her in his direction, and she screeches. "Come here." He pats his chest.

He's so weird. So strange – doesn't he have any sense of chronological order? Date first, kiss second, make love third, cuddle in bed fourth.

"I have to know," he says as she crawls over that way, "if we fit together this way. If we don't… then what's the point?"

"Right," she murmurs, because she doesn't really understand, but she wants so much to be close to him. She lays her head to his chest, and it's like his heartbeat is right there, with no flesh covering its sound.

His bones are prevalent, and she's kind of uncomfortable. There's skin but not much mass, and she runs her hand down his sternum.

He catches her hand. "Don't."

"What's – there's something, Edward… just tell me."

He's quiet for a long time, but keeps dragging his nails up and down her arm. Then, he finally says, "Food doesn't really like me right now."

She's not really sure what to say to this, but she can tell he's uncomfortable, so she keeps it light. "That's so… ugh. I'm starving and wanted to take you to my favorite restaurant, but now… no. I'm not going to be the fat girlfriend."

As soon as the 'g' word leaves her mouth, she groans. Stupid. Dumb. Wow. Idiot. Wow. What are you – DUMB. She rolls over off of him, but he doesn't let her. He's laughing. It's not funny, insensitive boy.

"Bella – stop. Stop!" He can't quit laughing, so really, he needs to stop. "What, do you think I'm doing all of this to be your friend? I mean… come on."

"Yeah, but still – it's so…"

"Honest?"

"Presumptuous," she finishes. "Honest? No. I mean, yeah… but. There's being honest and there's being…"

"Candid. Caught off guard. Yeah, I get it, Bella. But it's nice – I mean, I like it. I like hearing what you think, and the weird things you say."

"I don't say weird things… and anyway, so do you! I mean – you know. Ugh. UGH. Edward, I'm such a mess – "

"Yeah, you are," he agrees. He gets off the bed and drags her with him. "A smart, pretty, funny little mess."

There are more romantic things he could have said, she guesses.

But she can't think of anything.

xXxXx

They agree on a movie instead. It's some romantic comedy, and it's actually terrible. Or maybe it's terrible because she feels terrible. She doesn't let him know she saw, but after he paid for their tickets, he took out the rest of his cash and counted it carefully, and then stuck it back in his wallet with an irritated sigh. But he hasn't said one word, and he seemed happy enough to do it – but she feels awful.

She's never had to look in her wallet and think, well, I guess I'll be going without milk now. Or whatever it was he thought when he saw he only had three little dollars left. She can't stop thinking about it, but she doesn't know how to make it up to him without insulting him or making herself look shallow.

They go for a walk after the movie, down the busy streets of Seattle. Edward is a bit winded, but she tries not to notice his huffing and puffing. She does notice the grunt of pain when someone runs into him, so she suggests they call it a night.

He drives them back toward her apartment. It's the strangest thing – he has a really nice car, almost nicer than hers. It's a modern Volvo with leather seats and tinted windows. It's pristine and well cared for, except for the saran wrap covering the back left window.

"It was broken into," he had said by way of explanation. "I don't live… well, a flashy car where I live is just asking for it."

"Hey," she says suddenly, "pull in here." She points to a gas station on the corner.

He does, and she goes in and buys two packs of cigarettes, one for her and one for him. He hasn't smoked all night, and she thinks she knows what he gave up when he decided to buy her ticket.

She tosses the Marlboro Reds his way as she climbs back in.

"What are –" He's staring at them like he's seeing Jesus.

"They had a two-fer deal on Marlboros. That's your brand, right?" She's lying straight through her teeth – it was almost fifteen bucks for two packs, but she doesn't care.

"I – yeah." He fumbles with the pack – the cellophane and the aluminum paper on the inside. "Do you have a lighter?"

She rummages through her purse and pulls out one. He lights up, and then leans back against his seat. His whole body seems to still.

She lights one up, too, but slower. She hasn't gotten to the point where she's shaking without one.

"Better than any food," he says after a minute, and then smiles at her.

When he drops her off, he doesn't kiss her. She remembers how he does everything out of order, so she doesn't really mind as far as that goes. But she wants it more than anything. More than air.

She waves as she watches him pull out of the parking lot.

She's smiling and kind of crying, too.

She finally has something she's scared of losing.

xXxXx

I haven't given any credit to the last two chapter titles – they're lyrics, just like I did in Bare.

"Free Falling" is from a song by the same name, by Tom Petty. I love the John Mayer version, too.

"Bring on the Song" is from "Bring on the Wonder" by Susan Enan ft. Sarah McLachlan.

"Never too Soon" is from "Sweet Disposition" by The Temper Trap (listen to the Ellie Goulding version. She'll melt your heart).