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

Word Prompt: Basket

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

Not beta'd.

For shits and giggles, I plug in my iPod and turn on the soundtrack from The Wedding Date. He rolls his eyes when he hears Bublé's voice begin to croon about 'saving the last dance.' Masen should know by now that I won't back down when he challenges me, especially about music.

"Only you would have Michael Bublé on your iPod, Swan," he says with a chuckle.

It's wonderful to see his perpetual scowl replaced, even if it may be short-lived. We need to talk.

"I try to keep you on your toes."

"You definitely do that." He shoots a sideways glance in my direction as I lower the volume on the stereo. "Do you dance?"

He's taking his cues from the music, but I suspect it's his way of keeping the conversation light and away from difficult topics.

"Not really. I wanted to take lessons for a long time, but my mother thought I didn't possess enough grace to be a dancer. After that, I always felt self-conscious any time I stepped on the dance floor."

"That's kind of harsh."

"That's Renée; forever critical and excessively opinionated, and she loves to share those opinions with anyone in earshot." He frowns. Before he has time to form a reply, I add, "What she lacks, my dad's made up for. He's a big teddy bear who loves me unconditionally. What about your parents?"

"I… um…" His fingers wrench the steering wheel as he blows out a breath.

I wait patiently for him to collect his thoughts, wishing that opening up were easier for him.

"My dad has ridiculously high standards that are impossible to live up to. My mom takes his overbearing manner in stride. She's a saint for putting up with him; I'd be a basket case in her shoes. He has no appreciation for how lucky he is to have such a good woman by his side."

"You're close with your mom?" I ask.

"Yes. She's the glue that holds us misfits together. I'm not sure what I'd do without her."

His affectionate tone warms me from the inside out. I want him to speak that way about me, to need me in such a significant and vital way. For that to be possible, he has to trust me, and that begins with making sure he knows he's important to me.

"I feel the same way about my dad. I don't have very many people in my life that I count on. He's definitely one of them. You've quickly become another. I'm not sure what the last couple of weeks were about, but I'm glad to have you back."

Not once during all the time he'd shut me out did I want to give up on him. I would have found the strength to walk away because it was the right thing to do for me, but it would have been the hardest thing I'd ever had to do.

Now that he's making an effort, the best thing I can do is turn the other cheek. No good will come of trying to make him pay for treating me poorly, and that isn't the kind of person I want to be. I've never been more certain that the broken man beside me needs someone in his corner.

The worry on his face is a product of his self-castigation. My anger isn't even a requirement; he's angry enough with himself. He buries his ire in charming ingratiation, holding everyone at arm's length so no one ever knows him well enough to see through his façade. But I see; maybe not the specifics behind what's made him this way, but certainly the collective toll they've taken.

What I want to know more than anything, more than why he shut me out, is whether he'll do it again, whether the difference in him today is truly a metamorphosis or another one of his mood swings.

"I'm not asking for an explanation," I say, hoping it pacifies him. "But if you're planning to ignore me again, could you warn me ahead of time? Just so I have some time to prepare."

"Sometimes I'm a little too much like my father." Shame chokes his voice.

"The only thing you share with him is a name, Edward."

"I wish that were true. He's an asshole, Bella, and I'm doing a hell of a good job imitating him lately."

"You don't give yourself enough credit. We all make mistakes; they don't have to define us."

"Some are irrevocable… unforgivable." His regrets are bone-deep and pain-riddled, too much for one man to contain or control.

"Forgiveness is a choice," I say, "permission we give to ourselves to move on from a misstep with the intention of doing better the next time around. No one is perfect."

He pulls up in front of my building and shuts off the engine. My stomach twists at the doubt in his expression.

"I want you to know that I don't think you're an asshole. You're a private person who doesn't trust easily, and that's okay. I have time; I'm not going anywhere."

His index finger absent-mindedly traces a circle on the gearshift as his gaze falls to his lap. The expression on his face makes him look so vulnerable.

"Bella, I..."

"You don't have to say anything. Just stop pushing me away. Don't give up on me, because I'm not going to give up on you."

His looks at me with watery eyes and nods his chin once.

I've said everything I wanted to say, so I scoop up my backpack and nod back. "Have a good weekend."

He reaches towards me, letting his fingers brush along the back of my hand. I can't be certain what he means, but I think it's another of his unconventional apologies.

The gentleness in his touch causes me to shiver.

I softly smile at him and slip out of the car.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who is supporting me and the story. Your kind words mean a lot to me.

Posting schedule should be every other day this week.

Does it feel like a turning point to you? I'd love to know what you think, so leave a review if you'd like to share your thoughts.