Converge
"Beeeelllllaaaa," Edward whined, "Come back to bed. I'm cold."
"All right your lordship, don't get your pants in a twist," Bella hollered back, as she brewed tea in the tiny kitchen she shared with her family. The Swan parents were out visiting family in Aberdeen, so weren't likely to be back until evening. Bella had feigned homework so that she didn't have to go.
Bella poured the steaming, boiled water into chipped mugs, the water turning amber. She pulled the fridge open, pulling out a glass bottle of milk and setting it on the side, waiting for the tea to stew. She rubbed her arms gingerly, goose bumps forming as she was only wearing Edward's t-shirt and a pair of knickers. It had been an afternoon of giddying freedom. No fear of being caught. As soon as Edward had opened the door, Bella had taken him by the collar and pulled him in, slamming the door behind him, her mouth falling on his with a delirious giggle from her and a playful growl from him.
And now here she was, brewing the aftermath tea. She sniggered at the thought, drained and threw away the tea bags, slopped milk into the mugs and carefully carried them to her bedroom.
Two weeks ago, if she'd been told that she'd have Edward Cullen sitting in her bed waiting for tea, she'd have told them dryly tell them to stop taking crack.
She leaned against the wood of the doorframe, mugs in hand, cocking an eyebrow at Edward, who lay in amongst her rumpled floral sheets, propped on pillows. The duvet was tucked around his waist and he was grinning a warped smile.
When he saw her, he said, "What are you waiting for Isa?"
He'd started calling her by her childhood nickname again. She liked it, in an odd way. He was the only one who ever called her that. It was therefore quintessentially theirs. No one could take it from them.
She proffered the mugs, grinning impishly, "You spill tea on my duvet and I'll kill you."
He pseudo saluted her, mock sombreness on his handsome face, "Aye-aye captain."
She treaded forward, toes splaying slightly on the creaking floorboards. He took one mug from her as she began to walk on her knees across the bed and then tucked herself in beside her, careful not to slop the tea.
It was natural for him to wrap an arm around her, like they'd been doing this for years. "I like your room," he said, his eyes falling on the music posters and clippings tacked to her walls. It was perhaps a little too messy for his tastes: piles of discarded clothes and sheets of music littered the floor, and there appeared to be no clear form of order to the things that had a semblance of organisation but it suited her.
"Thanks," she said absently, "I didn't tidy it or anything. You're not that important."
He snorted, "I can see that."
She pouted, gazing up at him with sparkling eyes, "cheeky."