Chapter Summary: This is my house now. I set the rules. I lay down the law. And if Rosalie Hale doesn't like it? Well, she can just sit in the corner and watch me rule this roost!

I just didn't ... get it ...

'What's a spatula?' she had asked me.

I didn't get that, too, but that's not what I'm talking about. So, okay, she didn't know her way around a kitchen, as much as like liked to pretend she did at first. She just wasn't born into that, I guess. She had her life of privilege, and so maybe she had people cooking for her, I suppose, as opposed to her doing the cooking for the family, like I did.

'Never mind,' I had said primly. I walked over by the sink and took the spatula hanging on a peg by the other kitchen utensils.

'Oh,' she said. 'That.' She said, then, quietly: 'I knew that... maybe.' She said; supremely self-confident she was and remained. Even when she didn't have a clue.

I suppose that was normal, though. Girls, for the most part, when they're growing up, had their parents cook for them, not the other way around, like in my family.

My family, torn apart.

Most folks didn't have that, either: their hearts torn in half when a parent just up and left.

So, Rosalie not knowing what a spatula was? Okay, I could get that.

But I didn't get this.

Rosalie was being ... what's the word? Circumspect.

Yes, she was being circumspect.

And she was still absolutely the same, ... except for the kissing-thing.

I blushed.

But even with that, she knew exactly what she was doing, and exactly what she wanted, and damn all else: she made up her mind, she didn't like it, maybe, her decision, but she was sticking by it come hell or high water!

... for now. I guess.

So she was still all, you know: Rosalie, even in this ... kissing-thing.

But now, there was a ... carefulness to her that I just didn't get, and, frankly, it was freaking me out! Why was she being careful now? What was she being careful about? The only other thing in the cabin was me, and why did she need to be careful with me? Why did she need to be careful about me?

I wasn't as if I was going to bite her head off or anything like that, so why all this sudden ... politeness? She kissed me; I kissed her back...

Oh, my God! I kissed her BACK!

Nobody punched anybody, like she threatened to do, so why all this ... carefulness around me?

Well, I just didn't get it! And it scared me, a little, that Rosalie would be scared about something, and it, frankly, ticked me off a little, because it was weird and it was new and it was different. How it was supposed to work was that Rosalie was supposed to be in control and in charge and know what to do in everything, and she just ... wasn't doing that!

So, my nature, beaten out of me, and worried down to nothing with her constant, okay, bullying, now started to reassert itself.

I was like, 'So what happens now?'

And she was like, 'Well...'

And then my tummy went grumble-grumble, and she looked down at my belly, smirking, and I blushed, of course. So we knew what to do next, and that was to make supper.

So we did.

Or, actually, so I did. Rosalie had bought all the ingredients in town for chicken cordon bleu, but she didn't know what to do, so I took charge, of course.

I, at least, knew my way around the kitchen, even if it wasn't mine, so I had Rosalie assemble the ingredients, the filleted chicken breasts, the block of cheese, the smoked ham, egg, flour, ...

And I set to work. Preparation time wouldn't be all that long, but I was used to cooking with an oven.

We didn't have an oven.

So I improvised. Chicken cordon bleu fried in a skillet? Sure, why not! Cover the iron skillet right up with a plate, and you've got yourself a chicken fryer/baker/... something!

Improvise! That's the secret of cooking meal after meal, and cooking them well enough to keep Pa and yourself happy, day after day, year after year.

So, I improvised.

And the whole time I did, preparing the chicken, breading it, cutting the cheese (ha-ha! funny ... except it wouldn't be if I farted with Rosalie watching me like a hawk. Swear to God I'd die!), cutting thin strips of smoked ham, rolling them all together into a chicken-cordon-bleu-goodness that I knew and loved, ... the whole time I did this, Rosalie watched me like a hawk, like she were watching a ...

Watching a something, I don't know! She was watching me like she were watching a gourmet-chef preparing a meal for the king of France! She was watching me like ...

Like she had never seen me before.

Bella. In the kitchen. Cooking.

The most marvelous sight in the world.

According to Rosalie Hale, or so it seemed.

Rosalie wanted to help ... me.

It freaked me out, the attention. It created this ... tension in the cabin that hadn't been there before, this quiet that I didn't know what to do with!

So I bossed Rosalie around. Well! If she were gonna stand there, a statue of a Greek goddess, she may as well make herself useful!

Or so I reasoned.

So I had her fetch me a bowl for breading. I had her fetch me the eggs. I had her fetch me the ingredients, one by one. They all were there, thankfully. I mean, I suppose I could've improvised more and just had fried chicken, but I was glad she was thoughtful in her purchases and got everything I needed. I was surprised at this, actually.

She must have asked the butcher.

Heh. Can you imagine it? Rosalie Hale asking a butcher: 'Excuse me, sir, what are all the ingredients required to make chicken cordon bleu?'

And the butcher, wall-eyed at a goddess saying even anything to him in his life, trying to recover himself: 'Well, miss ...'

And he'd tell her. Or try to, and probably remember the conversation for the rest of his life.

She was not at home in the kitchen, but she was Rosalie Hale, so she looked damn fine just standing there waiting to do the next thing I needed, be it fetch me the flour, or a bowl, or a whisk.

"Bella, what's a whisk?" she said.

That brought me up short. She asked me what a whisk was. I looked at her, Rosalie Hale, a goddess, who didn't know what a whisk was, and I tried not to be caught, looking at her.

And she looked at me. She watched me put everything together, she looked at how I stood, she observed how I breaded the chicken.

And she saw me looking at her.

Embarrassing that.

It did confirm my blushes worked. So bully for that; yay!

But then, once I had assembled everything, it came to me, and the stove, again.

The stove and I had a special 'relationship,' as it were.

My 'love affair' with it, as Rosalie had called it.

Cooking on a piping hot stove? That can get you ... well: hot! And right quick!

Do you know what kept me cool?

Rosalie.

She put herself between me and the stove, not minding the heat of it in the least, and when I got too hot, dashing in to flip the breasts quickly with the spatula ... the spatula that Rosalie Hale did not know what was, I remind you...

Who put her palms to my burning-hot cheeks? Who hugged me in an icy-cold bear hug that, paradoxically, instead of cooling me down, ... it did, but it just made me hotter and hotter and hotter, deep, deep inside me?

Who did all this?

Rosalie.

There weren't words. No words went through my mind as Rosalie hovered (imperially, yes, but still) by me, as she put herself between me and the stove as I prepared supper, as she grabbed me, my body, my cheeks and pulled me into her, cheek to cheek, then, switching sides, cheek-to-other-cheek, to cool me down when I reeled away from the insufferable heat of the stove after I had dashed in to rotate the rolled chicken breasts.

And she let me do this, too.

You don't know how important that this was to me: that she saw that I was good at something, and instead of butting in and messing everything up with her grand gestures, she let me cook supper.

Me.

I was doing this.

It was ... consuming, the activity, and it was exactly what I needed, this business, so I didn't have to think under her unrelenting, unforgiving eye, but instead I could 'not-think' as I bustled about, letting the busy-ness consume my attention.

And then maybe think of this or that or the other thing.

I chuckled.

Rosalie smiled faintly. "What?" she asked.

I laughed again as I flipped the chicken, one more time (just one more time ... of the many more times that it needed to be turned), and as Rosalie pulled me away from that oppressive stove.

"Well," I said, "we had this iron trivet at home, made of cast iron and ceramic tile, and it was a painting of a woman slaving over supper, and written above her head was the saying 'Kissin' don't last; cookin' do!'"

I chuckled again. "And ..."

I didn't get to finish my 'and,' because Rosalie, holding me in her bear hug, put her lips to mine, and kissed me, softly, again.

And I kissed her back, softly.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Rosalie countered mildly, after finishing me off with another one of her heart-stopping kisses, and she gave me fiery-golden eyes, as big and as round as a doe's.

"Jesus," I breathed out, just swept away by it all, swept away by her.

Rosalie's lips twisted up in a wry smile, and her hand came up to the back of my head and tipped it forward into her shoulder.

"Bella," Rosalie said softly, "what's a trivet?"

That actually made me laugh.

I shook my head. Same old Rosalie, I thought a bit ruefully, but also with a bit with relief, because it was the same old Rosalie, so headstrong and so sure of herself, but now, it was different, because she was opening up, just daring to, just a little, tiny bit … and maybe even a bit more … and that little, tiny difference was just so incredible to be experiencing as it happened.

At least there was one sure thing in all this whirlwind of changes, and that was Rosalie was Rosalie no matter what happened.

I felt Rosalie's smile, connecting her to me, and me to her as I laughed at the folly of, yes, Rosalie Hale, always having to be right, all the time, no matter what.

Now it was silly, her righteousness, even, dare I say, maybe even a little bit ... cute.

Pan-frying the chicken? It went much more quickly than forty minutes to an hour of cook-time, or maybe it did take that long, but the time passed away without care, because I was cookin' with Rosalie.

And you might think she was grabby, or crowding me in the non-existent kitchen of this little cabin, but it wasn't like that at all! And how could you think that? She was right where she needed to be, and when she was in the way, she was just ... gone, giving me space to do my work, and watching me work as I did.

It was ...

It was hard to believe, how easy it was to breathe now, whereas before it was impossible. Now she gave me space to breathe and to be, and the feeling was exhilarating, this freedom to move about in the cabin, doing my work, and to move around in my head, doing my thinking.

"There!" I declared, pleased with what I had wrought. The chicken was a golden brown on the outside, and the inside was piping hot and just the perfect balance between cooked-through and gooey-cheesy-steamy-moist. I nudged the breasts from skillet to a serving dish and set them unceremoniously, clunk, onto the table.

I turned from the table to wash my hands. "Rosalie," I said, "would you be a dear and set the table, please?"

"Certainly," she said primly.

But I heard a smile in her voice, so I looked over my shoulder, and saw the table already set, Rosalie standing by my chair, pleased as punch with herself.

"Hmmphf," I grumbled to myself softly. My one chance to be bossy to her and she has to anticipate me so easily.

Rosalie just had to be the queen bee wherever she found herself, didn't she!

I wiped off my hands on my apron, and took it off, turning, to face the table; it was supper time.

Rosalie pulled out my chair for me, smirking to herself privately. She was just eating up being happy now.

I stuck my tongue out at her, sat in the offered chair. I felt myself blushing, big time, and it wasn't from the heat of the stove.

Rosalie's fingertips traced a line along my shoulders as she left my side to go sit on her side of the table. As her fingers brushed me, an incredible chill seeped along the line she traced, it felt good and yummy and scary all at once, her touch.

It scared me how much I yearned for her touch. It scared me how good it felt when she did touch me. Before going to her place, she got out a glass jar of beets, opened it and placed it by my plate.

Hint, hint, eat your vegetables, Bella.

I got the the hint. I stuck my tongue out at her.

Rosalie smiled faintly at me from her end of the table, not sitting down.

"I got a little something to go with your supper," she said. She went to the pile of supplies from town, reached in and extracted a long-necked wine bottle. It was a white wine, and it had warm, mellow golden hue to it.

Rosalie's color was gold, ... oh, and red: burnished red and molten gold.

She showed me the bottle. "It's a Riesling," she said, then added: "a sweet white German wine. I thought you might like it."

"Thank you," I said faintly, my heart beating like a drum as I looked up at her.

Rosalie got me something because she thought I might like it.

She smiled down at me and left myself, returning to the sink to open the bottle for me.

Good thing we had a corkscrew ... or did she buy one, anticipating this moment?

Or ... how long had she been anticipating this moment? Ever? Would she have held the bottle of wine for me forever, for just this moment? Or would she have given me the wine tonight, anyway, just so I could enjoy supper with wine, even if we weren't ... this?

I blushed.

Whatever this was.

She poured me a generous glass of wine and set it front of me, along with the bottle, then did sit at her side of table, gracefully sinking into her chair.

"Well," I said, then I bit my lip, blushing. "Uh, cheers?" I offered, raising my glass.

"Wait!" Rosalie said quickly, so I stopped, the glass to my lips.

She got her own glass, poured herself a splash, then sat down again.

"Cheers!" she returned then raised her own glass to her lips.

I drank.

The wine was really, really, really good. It was drinking a slightly tart and very crisp candy apple, and the alcohol hit me right after, like a bee sting, coloring my cheeks.

And that was the first sip.

Rosalie smiled at me sweetly, her pure white lips moistened with the wine.

Her smile was meant to be encouraging, but I found my tongue touching my own lips, tasting the wine on them, and wondering what her lips tasted like now, moistened with the wine?

I put my hands to my cheeks, my face was burning off in my embarrassment, but my cheeks also started to feel funny, just slightly numb.

Rosalie smirked and nodded to the chicken on my plate. I served myself some of the beet-slices from the jar, wanting to say 'See, I can serve myself vegetables, Rosalie Hale!'

You know: so mature like that.

I blushed harder, and grabbing my utensils, set to it.

...

A glass and a half of wine later, and just only a half a chicken breast later and a few beet slices, I was done, I was full, I was happy, and oh! I was contented, just floating in the of a full tummy of a really good meal with Rosalie keeping really good company with me. Embarrassing to be eating as she didn't? No... well, maybe a little, but she continually set me at ease, asking how it was, did I like it, leaving me in peace to chew my small bite, toasting me after so we slipped at our wine.

The wine was a sweet-sharp perfect complement to the savory-saltiness of the chicken cordon blue, cleansing the palate and creating the space for the next bite.

Bliss.

Rosalie's glass never emptied like mine did, and the magical thing about my wine glass? It refilled itself with wine whenever I threatened to empty it, so the glass and a half I consumed? I wasn't really sure about how much wine I did drink. It couldn't have been much at all, because I am what they call a 'cheap date.'

But the effects of the alcohol were profound.

I tried to pretend nonchalance, but damn I could not feel my hands, nor my cheeks anymore, and my arms and legs felt sluggish: comfortably numb.

In a way that was just a little bit scary. I wasn't used to losing control, and I wasn't afeared for just my body.

I feared my cheeriness, and my loose tongue, and what it might just blurt out.

I watched myself very, very carefully.

I might suggest sumtin stupid...

Sorry, something ... someTHING ... stupid and tell Rosalie to get a boyfriend to fuck, loosen her up a might. Take a head of steam off, you know.

You know how people are always mellower and quieter the day after the night that they go out the bar, they dance, they say pretty things to each other, they go home, they ... you know.

Always a quiet day at the office with the deputies all ... tired out, the night after a big dance.

Maybe I'd just blurt out that if there were no guys she'd fancy, maybe she'd be willin' to take me for a turn or two between the sheets.

Maybe I might just blurt that out. And then it'd be out there. With her lookin' at me. And me lookin' at her. And all those words out there. And her ... trying to pretend I didn't say sumtin that stupid. And ... me. Wonderin' how I could just kill myself now.

Yeah. I really, really had to watch myself. Didn't I!

Jesus-God! Save me from my loose tongue and what it just might say!

But Rosalie wasn't being all Rosalie, glad to see.

She got up and took my plate right away from under me and took it to the sink.

"Hey," I complained faintly, "I can git dat!" I offered.

But I didn't get up.

"Uh, huh," she said easily, hand-washing my plate herself.

I had guilt.

And I admired her bod, leaning back on the high-backed chair. Her fine bod. I smirked at myself a bit.

Rosalie Hale was a catch, and that's the God's-honest truth!

I could tell in the way she set herself, facing away from me, that she knew I was a-lookin'. I didn't mind it. Woman could put herself right over my lap for a good paddlin' if she wanted to give me any sass about it.

That wine was reallll good. Don't know if you know that, so I'll mention that just now.

Rosalie looked over her shoulder at me and smirked knowingly.

I felt my insides turn into molasses and honey.

Woman could look; I'll give her that. Make you find your movin' body, and I ain't lyin'!

Rosalie flicked the water off her hands. "Dishes done," she said. "You liked your supper?"

"Mmhm," I said contentedly.

She set her seat right on the table, right by me.

"Glad to hear it," she purred, and then reached out, fitting her hand along my cheek, lifting face to look up to hers.

She bent down to kiss me, and my face was awash with heat. I panted, maybe, just a little bit in anticipation.

"Hm," she said thoughtfully, humming her sweet breath right into my face.

I could've died right there and gone straight up to heaven, the rosy-honeyed scent wafting off her was better than the wine, by far.

But her hum was a thoughtful one, and nothing happened.

I opened my eyes, which had been closed somehow, to look into Rosalie's face, not sultry anymore, but bemused.

"Sweetie," she said kindly, "could I ask a favor of you?"

Will you marry me, Bella Swan? She's ask. And I'd be all gallant about my answer: Well, shure, Rosalie Hale, that'd be a just fine thing today.

But that didn't look like the favor she wanted: the favor of my hand in marriage.

"Yes?" I said, and I whispered to myself: anything!

Rosalie smirked at my half-lidded eyes.

"Would you kindly brush your teeth?" she asked sweetly.

"Oh," I said.

The wet blanket.

The fire had gone out of the moment.

"The food," I said.

Rosalie smiled ruefully. "Yes," she said.

"M'kay," I said.

She was being all polite with me, trying not to say my breath stank, trying not to hurt my feelings.

And I was trying to be all polite back, and saying to myself my feelings weren't hurt at all. After all, I just ate. She didn't like the smell of cooked food: 'twice-dead,' as she called it. That's all. It wasn't me.

That's what I told myself.

I smiled bravely up at her, and lumbered up out of my chair. It was actually hard to do. And my feet didn't work properly as I listed over to the sink.

I'm drunk. I told myself.

It hit me. I was really drunk, and on a cup and a half of wine.

I tried to hide it, hoping that Rosalie wouldn't notice it and think less of me. She said Royce was a drinker, that he drank Scotch ... maybe because something so weak as wine didn't affect him at all. If I couldn't hold just a bit of wine over supper, how could I hope to be able to compare.

I picked up my toothbrush and applied the tooth powder.

And then there was all his money. And his dashing good looks. And his charm. I mean, he bagged himself Rosalie Hale, because he was the package deal.

Rosalie and me? What could I possibly offer?

Drunk-me brushed my teeth, subdued now.

Okay. I thought to myself. Think squarely here, Bella. You ain't got nuttin'.

So why did Rosalie ... want me? Because I was such a good kisser? Ha, ha! Stiff as a board and as lively as a cold, dead fish? Why would Rosalie want me?

I cleaned out my toothbrush, spat out the frothed paste and rinsed my mouth with clear, cold water.

I turned from the sink, and the whole cabin spun with me. Whoa! was I drunk!

Rosalie was right there in front of me.

"Hey!" she said lightly, brushed the hair out of my eyes, and leaned into me, hard, nearly bending me backward over the sink with her passion. Her lips locked with mine and she kissed me hard, locking me in her arms, holding me, suspended above the ground, suspended in time, and my hand came up to her shoulder, holding on, and my foot hooked around her ankle, like it knew what to do, and I kissed her back, not matching her passion, I couldn't do that, I couldn't even come close, but I kissed her back, just holding on for dear life.

Our breathes synched, and I felt her start to melt into the kiss, no, melt into me.

And that nearly made me swoon, Rosalie Hale was passionately kissing me, pressed into me, pressing me into the sink, and melting into me.

I sighed into her, and then breathed her in and kissed her back, and then ...

... but then, something else asserted itself in me.

I needed to pee.

I rubbed Rosalie's back with my left hand, but that only made her hold me and press into me more tightly, and that made the need in me more insistent, more urgent.

So, like, how do you break a kiss?

I tapped lightly on her shoulder.

That seemed to work.

Rosalie pulled back, her eyes aglow, afire, and dancing with delight.

"Much better," she remarked, very pleased.

I bit my lip. "Uhm, yeah," I said.

It was much better, but ...

Rosalie's face became concerned. She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

"So, uh," I stuttered, "could I ask a favor of you, Rose?"

I blushed at her name.

"Yes?" she said carefully.

"Uh," I said, embarrassed. "I kinda hafta go now? You know? And ..."

I bit my lip.

Rosalie chuckled at my discomfort. "Did you want to christen the chamber pot now, then?"

"Bleh!" I exclaimed.

Talking about private matters. Very embarrassing for me, but Rosalie had no shame about this, which only embarrassed me further.

"I ... think, maybe," I said slowly, "I have to ... you know, go more than just pee ... you know?"

Rosalie smiled. "I'll warm up the outhouse. Wait here."

And vit-vit-vit, she was a blur of motion, hovering around the stove, pulling out live embers with her bare hands, placing them into the little metal bucket, and zut! out the door as fast as you could say 'Jack Sprat!'

I shook my head. It was a complete change for her, how she just threw herself into these domestic things for me. She was fast before, she was fast now, but the difference was that she did it with eagerness, like she couldn't wait to do something for me.

It was like she had to prove her worth to me, and that just simply boggled my mind. Why would she even think she had to do that?

I went to the door, standing by it, looking out over the desolation of the forest. A deathly stillness hung heavy in the air, like the forest had eaten Rosalie whole, and would never give her back to me.

I shook my head, went back inside, closing the door. I shouldn't entertain such thoughts.

I dressed quickly for the outside air. With Rosalie, you had to do everything quickly, because she had no patience before. I didn't want to push her to see if she had patience now, and find out that she didn't and have her backslide to how she was like before. I didn't like her before...

No, that wasn't it. It wasn't a question of 'like,' it was a question of me being able to stand her, and one thing was plain before: she couldn't stand me, and I just couldn't breathe with her contempt so obvious in every moment I had to face her.

I didn't want to test any waters and bring all that back again.

I slipped on my boots, shrugged on my jacket, and was out the door. I figured if I made some headway, that just might please her, that I was taking some initiative.

Ten, fifteen steps out the cabin door, the forest just starting to swallow me up, Rosalie came flying through the forest to stand, stock-still, right in front of me.

Rosalie looked me up and down, appraisingly, her lips pursed. I saw at least twelve different thoughts cross her face, but she kept all of them inside.

"So," she said slowly, "did you want to walk, then?"

I thought about it. "It'd take about a half-hour?" I asked. "Me, walking, I mean?"

Rosalie bobbed her head. "Thereabouts," she said.

I bit my lip. "I kinda hafta to go now," I said apologetically. "Could I ...?"

"No problem," Rosalie said at the same time, scooping me up, and off we flew.

Less than a minute we were there. Rosalie set me back down and held the door open for me.

"I heated some water for you so you can clean yourself after," she said, and she let me go in, closing the door when I entered, looking at her as I passed her.

Her face was neutral, polite. She was giving me space.

This was weirding me out, her treating me with such circumspection after the whole time just did whatever she wanted to do with me that she wanted.

She had me now, and she could take what she wanted, ... and she didn't.

I sat on the throne and took care of my business.

"I will do this trip by myself, one day ..." I said, then added quickly, "and soon at that, too!"

I felt a mite peeved that I couldn't do it this trip.

"Of that I'm sure," Rosalie said with certainty.

There was not a trace of doubt in her voice. She believed this, that I could do it. She ... believed in ... me.

The outhouse swam in a light misting of steam. It was comfortable in the outhouse; warm, in fact, and everything was laid out for me, just so.

All this, Rosalie did for me.

She said she would be gone in three weeks, she railed against it bitterly, wondering how I could take care of myself, and looking at what-all she did for me, I wondered how I could get by on my own if she actually were to go.

I took care of cleaning myself, and tidying up the outhouse, sprinkling lye down the hole, because, you know ...

I won't get into it. Number two. Stinky. Lye. I'll let you connect the dots.

I readjusted then fluffed out my dress. Something so natural for every other girl, so new to me. My dress was pink! I know! with tiny white flowers sewn in relief. I picked it because it was really cute. So not me, but I wondered if Rosalie liked it. It was so different than her elegant black dress, that was scandalously short, and was sleeveless, too, showing off her shoulders. Rosalie, wearing it? She killed it, looking absolutely stunning in it. I wondered if she liked what I picked out for her. She didn't say.

I put my long coat back on and buttoned up against the cold.

I looked at the door for a second, then opened it bravely to face her.

Rosalie was invisible against the snow. If not for her golden hair and her now pitch black eyes, you would not be able to see her at all. She'd be right in front of you and on you before you even knew what hit you, and then, like a buffalo, you'd be dead.

Her black dress was an angry slash against the snow, such a vivid contrast to the whiteness about her and the whiteness of her.

She smiled. "Walk back, or ...?"

She was asking me now, instead of just impatiently scooping me up and whisking me back to the cabin.

"Actually," I said, "the walk might do me good."

Cold, clear air? Bracing walk? It might help clean out some of the cobwebs in my head from the filling supper and the wine.

"Okay," she said easily, and we set off back toward the cabin.

...

The walked helped. A lot.

I got thirsty along the way, but who cares? I didn't. Just something I noticed, I thirst, then I let pass, because along the walk, I kept glancing at Rosalie, noticing things about her, about how she walked so lightly on the snow that she didn't even break the snow crust, how she carried herself, so erect, so proud, but how she was trapped in her perfect posture. It was enviable, how she carried herself, and it made you wish you could have that kind of presence, until you realized that she didn't know how to relax: all she knew was how to be perfect. She had no room to fail: any misstep she took would be the end of the world for her.

I watched her as she walked along beside me, so perfect. She was aware of my stolen sideways glances, and she smiled at me one time, catching me in the act.

I blushed and faced front again quickly. This silence was embarrassing for me sometimes, but I didn't know how to fill it, and with what? prattle? 'So how has your day been, Rosalie?' Yeah. Silence was better, even when Rosalie caught me stealing glances at her.

What did we talk about?

Nothing, actually. But it was a comfortable silence. I ... liked it, us, walking back together.

The sky, heavy, greyed, blackened as we walked, and night fell in an instant.

And then it started to snow.

Hard.

By the time we got to the fallen tree, I couldn't see the hand in front of my face.

"Wow!" I remarked, amazed at the suddenness of the storm.

"I told you a storm was coming," Rosalie countered.

I snorted. "And you were right!"

If I had gone it alone this time, I would've been hopelessly lost now in the pitch black of the sudden nightfall and then a flash-snowstorm of epic proportions.

We walked along in silence now. The slight breeze picked up to the point where I had to lean into it to make any progress, however plodding it was.

Eventually I asked quietly, "How much further?"

I could see absolutely nothing, and the only reason I knew I was going in a straight line was because Rosalie was beside me.

If she did want to get rid of me now, all she had to do was to leave me.

"Just a ... bit further," she replied, her voice strained.

That worried me. Rosalie pauses weren't insignificant.

"How far, precisely," I asked carefully as I trudged along, "is a 'bit,' Rosalie?"

We went a bit further through the snow. I felt it would help me to knew exactly how far left we had to go, so, you know, I could pace myself. Otherwise, ugh!

Rosalie was quiet for a while as we walked, thinking. "If we still had to go sixteen more miles, would you keep going, or would you quit?"

Same old Rosalie, I thought ruefully. If I had thought I could wrap her around my finger now, because of The Kiss, then I guess I had another thing coming.

Not that I was planning on doing that, mind you.

So I gave it right back to her. "If I just quit," I said, "and lie right here down in the snow, ... would you abandon me, Rosalie?"

We walked.

"No," she whispered, softer than the snowfall.

I nodded.

I knew this.

I'm glad she did, too.

"Can I have a kiss?" I asked.

Before I knew what hit me, Rosalie's kiss did. She pressed her face to mine, her lips sought then found mine, easily, like they knew what they were doing and exactly where they were going, and she lifted me right up out of the snow-covered ground, supporting my whole weight, what there was of it, in one powerful arm, her other hand cradling my head, pressing me into her.

And she kissed me.

Hard.

I thought the air brushing against my face was cold. The air, however, was nothing to the ice that was Rosalie's lips on me. Her lips were so cold they almost hurt!

So why was my face on fire?

Then, before I could catch my breath or my bearings, she set me right back into the snow, my boots sliding into the tracks I had just made, just as if I had never left ground.

Just as if I had never been swept up into her arms.

But I was.

"I can go those sixteen miles now," I remarked, a bit breathlessly.

Rosalie said nothing, but I could just feel the smug smirk radiating from her, like heat, and that warmed me to my toes.

"Good," she remarked.

And it was then that the cabin magically appeared, forming from thick haze that was the snow. Rosalie opened up the door to let me in.

"You made it!" she said, her smile illuminated from the cheery light inside the cabin.

"Eh," I waved dismissively, "I wouldn't've without you right there beside me."

Rosalie nodded. She knew what I said was true, but her pleasure was undimmed. "We'll get there."

"Sure," I said.

We'd have to. I couldn't see me not being able to walk to the outhouse and back on my own.

"So," I said as I entered the cabin, "what now?"

I wondered what a girls' night was, what it was like.

"Do you like color red?" Rosalie asked, smirking.

"Huh?" I said.

"You know," she said, barely containing her amusement, "for your toenails."

"BLEEEEEEEH!" I shouted.

A/N: (In a TV-announcer's voice:) Will Bella's toenails be painted a bright candy-red by Rosalie? Or will Bella successfully rebuff Rosalie in her toenail-painting attempts? And what other attempts, and rebuffs, will occur during this girls' night in? Hmmm?

I think it's high time Bella should just relax, just a little bit, and enjoy Rosalie's lavish attention and a quiet evening of her not almost dying for a change, but that's just me.