Bella blinked at her cell phone as she sat up in bed. Then she rubbed her eyes.

No, she told herself. She was not imagining things. That was Edward's name and number she was looking at. He'd texted her about an exhibit at the art gallery. For Eighteenth century British art.

She'd seen the ads. Drooled over them, if she was honest. So had Marie. The cost had been prohibitive. No student rates for the specialist gallery.

Another text arrived: only if you're interested.

Damn him.

He knew her well enough to know she'd want to go.

Keenly so.

They hadn't seen each other since that last, disastrous lunch. In so many ways, it was safer just staying away. But if she was honest with herself...she wanted to see him.

She still just wanted...him.

And she wanted him to want her.

Ugh, she thought, hands in her hair, a monstrous and exasperated sigh escaping her lips.

The desire to see that exhibit was pretty strong, too.

She paused, jaw pulled taut by indecision.

Remember, the little voice in her mind piped up, remember how you wanted to be able to do things? See things? Experience things? This counts, right?

With an impetuousness she hoped she didn't regret, she typed back: I'd love to.

Then she pressed send, before she could change her mind.

Edward texted back immediately: Pick you up at six?

Six.

The exhibit opened at seven thirty.

And where would that hour and half be spent? she wondered.

If you don't mind me taking you to dinner? The next message read.

She cocked an eyebrow. At least he'd asked. Not presumed.

That would be lovely, she wrote back.

At least, she hoped it would be.

She bit her lip nervously, remembering the last time she'd seen him.

The rest of the day passed as anything but, and she jittered through her weekend routine, unable to focus on her exam review. By one, she gave up, and grabbed her coat, heading out for a walk.

She didn't hear the feet attached to the set of arms that grabbed her. Jun felt her shocked surprise though, as she scrambled to get away, a frisson of horror and fear taking control.

"Sorry!" he said, letting go immediately, and then reaching for her hand, steadying her. "I thought you'd heard me."

Bella was leaning over, hands on her knees, trying to make her breathing come back into itself again.

"Hey," he said softly, this time snaking an arm around her back, "I really scared you, didn't I?"

She nodded, standing.

She'd imagined much colder arms, and much less playful purposes.

He pulled her into his arms. "Sorry," he said, "I wasn't trying to frighten you. Just being…" he trailed off. He was going to say "playful", but it sounded...silly, now.

"Just a bit of a freak show," she said, trying to smile.

She felt like it, for sure.

He shook his head. "Where were you heading, before I so effectively freaked the shit out of you?" There was a rueful smile on his lips.

"Library," she said, trying to grin. Her lips didn't quite stretch all the way.

"Want me to walk you?" he asked. He'd planned on joining his study group elsewhere on campus, and had only seen her by chance. Stupid was feeling like his middle name at this point, and he wanted to make sure she was OK.

"No, I'm fine," she said, "studying to do."

He nodded, but his eyebrows were pinched together. "OK," he said. "You free later?"

Her expression become a mirror of his own.

"Um...no."

"OK," he said, not thinking anything of this. He did wonder at her blush, but attributed it to the fright he'd given her. "How about bowling tomorrow night then?"

"Sure," she said uncertainly, eyebrows high.

"Don't look at me like that," Jun said, his grin wider. "It'll be fun, you'll see."

"Gonna take me to the soda shop first, too?" she smiled, "'fraid I left my best poodle skirt at home."

"Socs and greasers all the way, babe," he grinned at her. "I should run. Gotta get to study group."

She took the opportunity to stand on her tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek.

"Uh-oh," he said, "I've been demoted to cheek kisses." He didn't move to make it anything more intimate, but kissed the back of her hand. "See you tomorrow."

"See you," she said, continuing her walk towards the library.

In the stacks, she let her fingers trail over the spines of the books, admiring their different textures, and finding her way to one she whose cloth spine appealed. Milton. Ew. Maybe not. This time she used her eyes, picking at the texts like berries, some taut and resilient, others soft and ripe with age and wear. When she had an armful, she made her slow walk back to her room, gorging herself on their words as she went.

She was knee deep in Wakefield's commentary, when she realized the time. Opening the closet door, she tried to remember if she'd washed—and then stopped, staring at the garment bags hanging there.

She didn't own any garment bags.

Or dresses. Because that was what was inside of them.

Pinned to one of them was a note, from Alice: Merry early Christmas! Obviously, I can't tell with certainty which works for you, but you look nice in blue. The other, unmentioned garment was a simple, short black cocktail dress. The blue dress was long, featuring a modest, but suggestive neckline, and delicate cap sleeves.

Bella laughed, and pulled out her phone, texting Alice: Thank you. They're lovely.

The you're welcome was fast in returning.

After trying to fuss for a bit with her hair, she gave up, letting it hang loose, and then tried to settle back into her book, too nervous to really attach to any of the words.

Deciding she'd rather wait outside than fidget in her room, she grabbed her coat and purse, head down as she opened the door.

Edward stopped her gently with his hands, before she ran into him, but it didn't prevent the surprise from making her gasp.

Heart thudding, she leaned back against the door.

"Sorry," he said, "I was just about to knock."

She shook her head, trying to shake off the feeling, to tell him it was alright. "Just unexpected," she murmured.

It wasn't the way he'd wanted to start their evening, and he took a moment to look at her, catching the whiff of Alice's hand in the fabric of the dress she wore. "You look beautiful," he said, wanting to say more. Wanting to do much more, than stand, hands mute at his sides.

"Alice," she said, smiling a little, and letting her own eyes take him in. Impeccable, as always, this time in a suit that blessed every single line of his body with a appreciative curve and tuck. Blushing, she added, "you look really nice too."

"Also Alice," he smiled, gesturing the way to the exit.

Bella followed, letting herself keep a few steps behind, trying to manage her feelings, so caught off guard by encountering him so unexpectedly.

Edward forced his face into a neutral mask, hearing the flutter in her heart, wondering if she was nervous for the same reasons he was.

"Excited to see some antiquity—aside from me?" he asked, keeping his tone playful. Light.

It worked.

She smiled, the blush rising with it. "Very," she replied, letting her enthusiasm for the collection gush out in detail.

"Aren't you?" She asked, not that she believed he was interested in this for any other reason than taking her.

"There're a few I'm looking forward to seeing in person," he admitted. But mostly, his eyes were trained on the beauty in front of him.

Opening the car door, he asked, "finished your book yet?"

She busied herself with the buckle. "No," she answered, smiling at the notion. It was over a thousand pages long.

"So," she said, "where are we headed?"

"You said you wanted to experience new things, right?" he asked, an eyebrow up.

"How um, new?"

"Old, actually," he smiled, "more my vintage than yours."

He was right. The high Italianette ceilings, and crystal chandeliers were intimidating. The host, even more so. His tall and austere form looked more vampiric than human. His face showed nothing but a placid respect.

It made Bella wonder what kind of judgement simmered for a pair of teenagers who could afford to dine in such an establishment.

"Dare I ask, what he's thinking about us being here?" she asked.

Edward's bright eyes showed his surprise. She never asked. Knew he tried to protect people's privacy.

"Sorry," she said, noting the pause. "This just seems an unlikely place for two young people to go to."

He shook his head with his off-kilter grin. Bella felt skewered by its sudden appearance.

"Not even close," Edward said, "Kitchen and wait staff drama. We barely registered."

"Now that's new," she said, thinking of the reactions Edward normally collected in public.

"Well," Edward said, "he's incredibly myopic, and has misplaced his glasses."

Bella snorted into her water glass, and Edward chuckled with her.

"Poor man," she murmured after, feeling badly for laughing at him. It reminded her of Renee.

"Mm," Edward said, enjoying the dance of colour on her cheeks. Her laughter.

Bella eyed the other clientele present in the restaurant, and Edward said, "guess. I'll let you know if you're right."

She grinned widely. It was one of their rarely played, but favourite games.

"Lawyer," she said, nodding towards the table in the corner.

"Bingo," he said, smiling.

The next table was harder. "Judge?"

"Nope."

It went on, lightly and playfully, along with other avenues of conversation, until the waiter was clearing their plates. "Dessert?" Edward asked.

Bella shook her head. She wanted to get to the gallery for the opening.

At the coat check, the host handed her jacket to Edward, at which Bella raised both eyebrows over a smile, a little incredulous at the presumption.

Edward shrugged, but with a small smirk, letting his features mirror hers in inquiry, holding it out for her.

Jun was polite, but Edward was unfailingly courteous, in a way that spoke of his own era. Their time apart made such civilities fresh, and her responses to them almost uncertain.

He wished she were more fluent in his own language of courtesy, or that he could speak with the modern mannerisms she understood. The space between them made the meeting of these different customs stilted and awkward.

Their youth again distinguished them in the midst of the Art Gallery's more stately crowd, and they were the subject of small, approving smiles.

As they passed by the paintings, these little looks and stares became more pronounced, the aged crowd entertained, and then impressed by their more than casual interest.

"We're quite popular," Edward said unnecessarily, watching her blush under another couple's passing stare, trying to keep her eyes on the painting in front of her.

They wandered on, Edward happy to follow her lead as she discovered the gems in each room.

"Oh," she said, catching a glimpse of one of the canvases. "That's—"

"The wedding scene, from Pamela," Edward finished for her. He kept his disdain quiet. He really couldn't stand the novel, but didn't want to squash her enthusiasm.

She had to stop herself from reaching out to touch the canvas, admiring the acute lines presented there, each brushstroke careful and precise.

"He's really underappreciated," the woman beside her said, "I love Highmore's work." She went on to offer her own commentary on the detailing in the background. Catching Edward's look at Bella, though, she stopped, "pity people only have wedding photos these days, not portraits anymore," then winked at them both, walking away.

Bella's blush at this remark could not have been more pronounced.

Of course people would think such things, she reminded herself. It meant nothing, she told herself, but it was harder to make herself believe that.

It was harder, each time she was near him, to hold up as a shield, the stinging hurt his rejection had caused, and not be flattened by all the other feelings that were given shape in his presence.

He. Doesn't. Want. You.

Not enough to change you.

Or to be with you.

She repeated these phrases silently, several times.

She was standing, staring at the painting she'd moved unthinkingly towards, brain focused on the emotional battle within. When this fog lifted, just a little, the title snagged at the deadline never far from her mind.

Edward was watching her, concern growing on his own face. The colours rippling over her features were rife with feeling, but he didn't know which ones. Her silence told him they likely weren't good ones, and noting where her gaze landed, he murmured "the summer house" aloud, wondering what it was that had gripped her so.

Summer, she was thinking. She had until next summer. Six months, maybe seven, at most.

And then, she would need to be changed.

Would he want her then?

Letting her eyes flick around the room, her face felt hot. How stupid could she be, being here with him? Thinking she could handle this—not be hurt by this thwarted wanting—this continual reminder of his rejection?

Her eyes dropped, arms folded around herself, an embarrassing swell of tears threatening. The ever present blush flamed in her cheeks, and she turned, a raspy "I need some air," escaping her lips.

She scanned the room for an exit. A balcony, something—anything. She spotted, at a distance, double-glass doors to the upper balustrade she'd seen from outside, and marched towards it, Edward following, confused and soft footsteps tapping after her own.

It was cold, but she stood, taking in several deep breaths, her hands all but planted on the railing, waiting for the confusing swirl of feeling to pass.

It didn't.

She could hear the whisper of Edward removing his jacket.

"I'm fine," she said, teeth clenched.

"If you're upset enough to feel warm at this temperature, I doubt it," he replied quietly.

She turned to face him.

If she was going to be humiliated, she might as well face it head on.

"Is it that you just don't...want me?" She pushed the words out, the rotten misery of tears tromping behind the words.

"You know that's not true. You know it's because I don't want to hurt you."

Her chest clenched at the words, remembering the easy way he'd lied to her. How he'd told her he didn't want her. That he'd leave to make her life easier.

He was still doing it—lying—trying to protect her feelings.

"You wouldn't," she whispered, voice cracking. She knew he wouldn't hurt her, but he either didn't believe her, or he just didn't want her—and one of those things was just so much more plausible than the other.

The conversation was so well worn, it was practically scripted.

Then he was in front of her, barely a book's space between them, whispering, almost hissing, "all I would have to do, Bella, is lose control for a fraction of second—a fraction."

She turned her face up to his, now a tilted inch away. So close. His smell was practically tugging at her, eliminating even the air between them. She felt his fingers sliding through her hair, curled at the low occiput of her skull. Words disappeared, and all she could do was breathe—tiny, raspy things that left her fuzzy and incoherent.

"Or kiss you, just a tiny bit too hard," he whispered on, the back of one hand brushing over her cheek. "Hold you with less than the perfect control." He swallowed. "Push too much...anywhere," he added, the vague description a pointed suggestion.

She was trembling now, but not from fear.

Then he did kiss her, his lips pressed harder to hers than she'd ever felt, his arm too tight on her back, so much so that along with the sparks of pleasure that rippled all over her body, was the suggestion of pain.

He didn't stop. His own face was contorted by a strained dance between the joy of simply touching her, and the knowledge that when he stopped, he didn't know when, or if, it would happen again.

So he kissed her, and let his hands caress her cheeks, her arms, the contours of her back, so lustrously outlined by her dress.

It was Bella who pulled away, her face wet with tears. She was breathing heavily, feeling utterly dislocated in her body, and heart.

Edward knew he'd stepped so far over the line there was no way he could excuse himself. He opened his mouth to apologize. "I'm—"

"WHAT?" she spat, "YOU'RE SORRY?" Inhaling, she gathered more fuel, "FOR WHAT? PRETENDING TOO WELL?"

"I do want you!" he said, more vociferous than was safe. People inside were turning to look.

"So you can refuse me?" She asked, dropping her voice, seeing the looks, almost hissing. "Tell me you love me, want me, but won't be with me?"

"You know that's not true," Edward said, matching her tone.

"No, I don't," she said, angry colours painting her cheeks. "You've refused. Even if we're married," she said. "You've been crystal clear." The last words were spat.

"Is that it?" he said, "sex?" He was angry now. Well beyond himself. The kiss had loosened all those well kept bonds, sending chunks of self-control flying.

She didn't answer verbally, but he could read the blush in her cheeks well enough.

"Is that what you think love is?" he demanded.

There were too many angry tears choking her throat, for words to be let out.

"Bella," he said, jaw clenched with a whispered rage, "I would rather see you sleep with someone else, than be the selfish monster to kill you doing it."

Then, before he could say or do anything else, as equally, or even more regrettable, he turned, and walked away, leaving her shivering on the porch, a startled group of onlookers watching his angry footsteps march out of the building.

Bella stood there, shocked beyond herself at his words, and actions. She waited until he'd had time to leave, and then, with as much dignity as she could, left the gallery.

Disclaimer: S. Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement intended.