A/N I don't own Twilight
Thanks to Sherry, as always.
Edward
Soft kisses along her spine, I can taste the sun on her skin. She's so perfect next to me, I will never stop loving her. I'm so lucky that she chose me, and she will be mine forever. She turns to face me, a smile on her lips. "Why did you stop?" "Just thinking," I say, leaning in to claim her mouth. So sweet, so rich.
Mine.
She giggles, her fingers disappearing in my hair. Deepening the kiss, she pulls me on top of her. Cradling my pelvis between her thighs, brushing against the proof of my want. How to tell her it's more than lust? She pulls back and meets my eyes.
"I know, baby."
Our honeymoon is spent in bliss, as we try to forget the upcoming stress of finals and essays. We only have a week, the most we can spend away from school. It seems to last forever, yet is over in the blink of an eye. I try to focus on the now, to not despair at time passing by.
Just the now.
Still slow from sun and sea, we arrive back home. One night to catch up on sleep and kill the jetlag; we have studying to do. She meets my eyes with a tired smile and I rub her back when she reads through her syllabus one last time. In turn she tests me, and as such we help each other.
We make it.
If anything has changed after our marriage, it's the way we have become closer still. The summer holiday is lost on internships and extra classes, but our Sunday mornings are still sacred. As time goes by, we get to know each other better than ever.
Who knew?
We try new things, inside the bedroom and out. Once she learns I'm open to her ideas, it's like something within her is unleashed. She wants to try everything with me, and in her love she knows no shame. It fills me with pride to know she feels so safe with me.
Loved unconditionally.
We try to go out as well. Visit touristic places when we have time, determined to not let life go by. We bake together, with more powdered sugar ending up on skin than in the bowl. We don't care. She has a sweet tooth, and I don't mind to be subject.
At all.
Whether I want it or not, time passes. It's out of my control. We move forward at a steady pace, getting lost in school and schedule. We vowed to never let our focus wander, but it happens, of course it does. We fight, and fight. I hate it, and so does she. Yet it can't be prevented. They call it the one-year itch.
I like it not.
Moving like strangers living under the same roof, every attempt to find our way back drives us further apart. Tiny irritations escalate into rattling rows. When I finally offer to leave, she all but attacks me, arms and legs around me like a vice. "Don't go," she sobs, "Please don't leave me. I love you."
"I love you, too."
She talks to me. How her education has made her afraid of all the mental disorders she could have, I could have. I finally understand why she has been so withdrawn. I've been through that phase. Knowing just about every ailment a body can have can make you paranoid. But it hurts she didn't lean on me when she wanted to.
She accepts therapy.
She finishes school earlier than I. By the time she stands on that stage, giving the speech as the best of her year, she is smiling and happy. I am so insanely proud of her, I can't stop grinning. She's doing so much better, her confidence back. Once again she turns to me in times of need.
Just like we promised when we said I do.
Her excellent results land her a job almost right away. Proud of herself, she carries a glow that makes me want to kiss her every minute of every day. I love to see her happy like this, I can't even begin to explain it in words. She says she understands, and kisses me.
Bliss.
Her job is draining, she says, taking more energy than studying for school. I help where I can, but my residency has started and I'm not home as often as I want to. She's so strong though, making sure than when I am home, she is there for me. The apartment spotless, a glass of wine at the ready.
I love her.
We make slow love, her body hot against mine. Her nipples taut against my chest, I want to suckle them but can't reach. Rolling us over, I sit up underneath her and groan when her taste hits my tongue. She moves fluidly, rolling her hips in that way we both love.
"I love you."
One year. I have one year to go, and then we can really start our lives. Or at least, that's what I'm telling myself. My internships are killing me, but I push through. I can't stop now, I've come so far. She seems to understand, because once more, she becomes my rock. She's my everything.
She doesn't know half how much she means to me.
