Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. The rest is my doing. Please do not repost the story without authorization.

Word Prompt: River

A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates.

Not beta'd.

I loathe the way he's scowling at me almost as much as not being able to ask about the enmity in his eyes. Surely it relates to why he's so closed off. Getting him to trust me enough to open up feels like a losing proposition, but I won't let that stop me from trying. I know it will take time. Given everything that's happened between us in the last twenty-four hours, the best thing I can do right now is tread lightly.

I turn my attention to the box. Grasping the tail of the bow, I unravel the string and deposit it onto the counter. Then I peek under the lid. Nestled safely inside are four cannoli.

"You remembered," I whisper.

"If two are a pick-me-up, then four ought to make up for the outrageous way I behaved yesterday, even if I don't deserve it."

I resist the urge to fight his logic. He let me have my say; I owe him the same courtesy.

"Where did you get cannoli at 6:00 in the morning?"

"A gentleman never divulges his secrets."

He walks over to the dining table and pulls out a chair. After pretending to wipe the seat with an imaginary cloth, he waves his hand over it in invitation. The action is markedly romantic, even more so with the shy smile on his lips. He looks expectantly at me, and I can't deny him.

I quickly grab two plates out of the cupboard and sashay up next to him. He pushes my chair in once I sit, then brings my mug and the carafe of coffee to the table as I set a cannolo out for each of us.

"How do you take your coffee?" I ask, filling the mug while I wait for his reply.

"Black is fine; cream is better. I've been known to drink battery acid if that was all that was available. I'm not very particular."

He complains when I put the cup down in front of him. I ignore his grousing, and quickly get another mug and the creamer from my fridge.

"Sorry, this is all I have."

I put the container down in front of him. He chuckles after he reads the label.

"Of course it's vanilla-flavoured."

"Only the best!"

We sit quietly, drinking and eating. He serves me a second cannolo, and pushes the box at me.

"I can barely finish two of these suckers. You're going to have to help me out," I say.

I reach in and pluck out the last pastry. When I spy the red ink on the doyley lining the box, I freeze. There, written in elegant script, are the words: I'm sorry.

Tears flood my eyes, unbidden. It's so much to have him here at dawn with treats and apologies and romantic gestures, all while I struggle to repress my questions, afraid to alienate him again.

"Hey." His voice is whisper quiet, but I hear the concern in the single word he utters.

"Sorry."

"You apologize too much." The tender look in his eyes makes me swoon. "You should follow my lead. Only apologize when you fuck up big-time, and do it with fattening sweets."

I laugh, and it sets off a river of tears.

His hand extends across the table and stops, hovering a few inches from my face. He doesn't touch me, but the twitch of his fingers makes it seem as though he wants to comfort me. It's almost as good as if he actually had, certainly more than enough for me.

"You're one of those weird girls, who cry when they're happy, aren't you?" His tone is deliberately absurd.

I roll my eyes at him and smile.

"I cry about everything."

He leans forward, draping most of his upper body across the tabletop. I'm pulled in by him like gravity or magnetism, some invisible force that I don't fully understand but can't—and don't want to—resist. His Adam's apple bobs up and down slowly as he swallows, his eyes locked on my lips.

"For what it's worth, I really am sorry for losing it yesterday. You weren't the only one who jumped to conclusions."

The anguished look on his face divulges his internal struggle, but his body language is decidedly at odds with his expression—a war between desire and control. He wants to dry my tears, but stops short. He comes closer to me, but keeps his distance. He watches my lips with hooded eyes, but doesn't kiss me. He won't let himself. The question is why?

A/N: I don't pretend to be Italian or know much about cannoli except that they're delicious. According to Wikipedia, cannoli is the plural form, cannolo is the singular form. If I'm wrong on this or have used the words incorrectly, please forgive me.

Thanks for reading & reviewing.

You can follow me on Twitter: (at sign)picklewinkle

I'd love to hear your thoughts.