A/N: Both kids sleeping at the same time? Must be all that fresh air! Another chapter...it's a short one. (TWSS.) Happy Monday, if there is such a thing! And happiest of belated birthday wishes to abadkitty, whose awesomeness knows no bounds. xo
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March 23, 2013 – Word Prompt: Limit.
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"I'll be fine," I say, because my head may be swimming, but it isn't from the wine. I'm high off her company, drunk on her presence, and it's a buzz I want to bask in.
"Please, Edward. I'll worry, otherwise." Earnest brown eyes, and a lot may have changed, but not that. A spike of hope – stupid, because her not wanting me to wrap my rental car around a telephone pole doesn't mean she loves me again. Still, maybe someday it'll be enough that she just likes me again.
But this – I don't know that I can sleep on her sofa. Be that close and that far and not yearn the whole night through. I don't want the reminder of darker things to chip away at the new light that a few hours of her simple, forgiving presence has bought me.
"Please," she says again, and I can't bring myself to disappoint her even in the smallest way.
"I really doubt I'm even near the legal limit," I say, even as I'm following her up the stairs to her front door. Watching her calves in front of me, the slender ankles that taper into a pair of heels. Considerably taller than the almost-heels from homecoming years ago, but not slutty-tall. Elegant-tall.
Grown-up-Bella-tall.
She slides her key into the lock, and I've been here before. Been standing behind a woman, waiting to gain entry. This time, sex isn't on the table, and yet the nerves swimming in my stomach, the heady mix of anticipation and anxiety swirling through my blood rivals any past dalliance. I'm more excited about sleeping on Bella's sofa than I've ever been about sex with anyone else, and the thought would be faintly amusing if it weren't so damn sad.
"Home sweet home," she says, pushing the door open and reaching to the wall to flip a light switch. A golden retriever appears, tail wagging lazily, and she bends to pet its head. "Hey, Sammy. Good boy." The dog eyes me warily. "This is Edward," she says, as if he's a child and not a dog, and when she looks to me expectantly, I bend at the waist, petting his soft head.
"Nice to meet you, Sammy."
Because this time, I'm going to follow her lead. And when I see her beatific smile, I realize: that's what I should have been doing all along.
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