A/N: Thank you for the support so far! I'm loving Bella/Carlisle, and there's an odd lack of stories! I do want to TW the beginning: there is a scene between Jacob and Bella that features light non-consensual intimacy. Honestly, I think it's what WOULD have happened if Stephenie Meyer were a bit more realistic with her writing (not a dig at her, just an observation based on personal choices). Enjoy!

Three-Bella

Nearly six months pass before I even see a Cullen. I've been aware of them, of course-how do you miss three perfect humans sitting in a dingy cafeteria corner every day? I have the distinct feeling, though, that they're playing the elitist game of cat-and-mouse with me that's ever been played in history. I've chosen this route. Seeing them would only cause more damage, to me and to them. I appreciate Alice being complicit in my game; I'm sure she's ready to burst from it.

In the time apart, I do what I need to in order to stay distracted and not spiral into a pit of despair. The sadness and hurt of Edward disappearing has numbed into some form of anger and another emotion I'm unable to identify. That is not to say that I'm not also still devastated by his sudden absence-the nights are hard without him, without our talks. I've woken screaming from a nightmare more than once. Honestly, I think that Charlie would cheerfully shoot Edward if he ever saw him again. I also think that Charlie would be happy to see me and Jacob together. I have a feeling that was his angle when I first moved to Forks.

I've taken up with Jacob outside of school. He and his friends do not attend Forks Public. In my humble opinion, I think I've done a good job of balancing my friendships with my schoolmates and with the Quileute boys. I prefer spending my time with Angela more than anyone else. She's always been someone who understands the love of silence, doesn't feel the need to be on trend with whatever is the most recent fad. I don't spend more time with one than the other, though it doesn't stop Jessica from trying to match-make me and Jacob. Jake would be more than happy to be with me, I think, but that's the furthest thing from my mind. Between my abrupt breakup and the fact that he's two years younger than me, it's not on my radar. Two years really isn't that much in the grand scheme of things, and I know that it seems hypocritical coming from someone who dated a 107 year old. With Jake, though…there's still a level of maturity that hasn't developed.

It's a constant battle with him, and it colors most of our conversations, especially in these past few weeks. It always goes the same way: I come over, we goof around with Quil and Embry, and then we argue about why he is the right person for me. Today is no exception, and the rumbling sky matches my grey mood, darkening by the second. He's over at my house, helping me with a plumbing issue that unexpectedly arose this morning. He is under the sink in my kitchen while I've perched myself on the countertop, watching. Over the tinkering of metal and PVC, our conversation has started back up, full force.

"He's not coming back, Bella," Jacob tells me, same as always. Sometimes I feel like I'm in Groundhog Day, where the script never changes.

"I know that, Jacob," I say tensely. "I'm not waiting for him to."

"Then why won't you give me a chance?" Same pleading face, same pleading words.

"Jacob," I sigh. In these moments, Jacob feels less like a 16-year-old and more like a 13-year-old who has just discovered he is too young to date. "It's just…it's not there, Jake. I know you think you feel a spark, but the flint isn't catching. I told you from the start that this wasn't what us hanging out was about. You said you understood-or were you lying?"

"No, Bella, of course I wasn't lying!" Jacob says, frustrated. "I did understand. Bad breakup with a bloodsucker is bound to traumatize you. But the bloodsucker is gone, and I'm still here. Doesn't that tell you something?"

"Yes, it tells me that you're a teenager living with his father, and Edward is an autonomous adult who does not have to listen to a parent figure," I say. I do not mention the added complication of his newfound identity with a pack of werewolves. It's a sensitive subject for him, and one that I try to avoid at all costs. He holds Sam Uley and the entire Cullen family at fault for his new life.

"You act like you're not also a teenager living with her father," Jacob points out. His voice is insulted.

"I do live with my father, but I'm also technically an adult now and could leave, legally, if I chose to," I counter. "If I disappeared tomorrow, no one could stop me."

Jacob emerges out from underneath the sink, shirt wet with old kitchen water. He wipes his hands on a towel I've set out. His face is frustrated, determined. I take in his appearance, and suddenly, his showing up in a skin-tight tank top feels less coincidental and more like the beginning of a cheap porn film. Does he expect me to bat my eyes and tell him that I don't have cash, but I could pay in other ways?

"It should be better now," Jacob tells me. He slings the towel over his left shoulder and stares out the window for a moment before turning to face me again. He takes a step forward and there is very little space between us now. I can smell his sweat, mingling with fire smoke and something herby. It's so incredibly different from the sweet, icy scent of Edward and his family.

"Thanks," I say, because I can't think of anything else to say. I'm growing uncomfortable as he takes another step toward me and I hop down off the counter to try to put space between us. Instead, I stumble forward-right into his waiting arms. He steadies me and his hands linger too long on my waist. "Thanks," I mutter again. He doesn't let go and I try to squirm out.

"Bella," he says, his voice low. He leans forward, closing the last inches of space between us, and then his lips press into mine, inexperienced and zealous. He continues his ministrations, running a hand down my sides and under the bottom of my shirt. He pushes hard into me until I'm trapped between him and the counter.

"Stop," I try saying, but it's swallowed by another messy kiss. The kisses grow more insistent and a feeling of cold dread races through me. I will myself not to panic. "Stop!" I say again. He pauses. I see red for a second before I push away. He starts to speak and I stun him into silence as my fist connects with his jaw. Pain sears up through my knuckles and into every part of my wrist and forearm and I cradle it closely.

"What the hell, Jacob?" I shout at him. "At what point did you think I was saying yes to…to any of that?" My hand is absolutely throbbing, which only fuels my anger.

"It just…it felt right and I wanted…," he trails off, unsure whether to laugh at my pathetic attempt at a punch or to defend himself. I shove past him angrily, grabbing my keys. "Where are you going?"

"Yeah, that's the problem," I tell him, still fuming. "You wanted, so you took! Never mind what Bella wants! Go home, Jacob!"

"Where are you going?" he asks again. I throw my hand in his face and he has the good grace to flinch.

"To get this taken care of!"

I slam the door to my house shut, and then slam the door to my truck shut. The heavy metal door shuts all outside noise out and I become aware of a ringing in my head. My heart beats rapidly, a metronome measuring out the beats of my anger, and the pulse in my hand keeps time with it.

The sky opens up as I turn my engine over and back out of the driveway. I can just barely make out Jacob standing in the rain, lit up by my headlights, before I complete the K-turn and head toward the hospital. With an out-of-character surge of pettiness, I'm glad that he has to drive home in this weather on a motorcycle. I hope he's freezing cold and uncomfortable the entire way back.

As I step out of my car, I realize that I am without my raincoat. The rain soaks through my shirt and jeans in moments as I make my way into the lobby. I catch myself looking at the parked cars for Carlisle's Mercedes, and see it parked in its specially allotted spot. It looks like my game of cat-and-mouse is officially over. I think of Jacob with another stab of bitterness for ruining that for me.

"Please don't call my father," I say to the receptionist as she checks me in. "I'm 18 now, and I can make my own decisions. Ch-my dad doesn't need to be called for this."

The receptionist, Sienna, purses her lips at me but does as I ask. She informs me that a room will be ready shortly, and that a nurse will call me back. I take a seat in the lobby. The TV is fixed on a pre-season MLB game. I wonder vaguely how my mother and Phil are doing. He'll always be minor league, but he's okay with that. He knows he's past the age to begin in the majors, and he does well enough for himself and my mother. He's what my mother needs to wrangle her and keep her take care of, and I cannot be upset about that.

The pleather seat squeaks under my wet clothing as I adjust my pose. I cross and uncross my legs, trying to figure out what to do with them. I am supremely uncomfortable and can do nothing about it. I didn't even bring a book with me, and I'm left with watching a game between two teams who mean nothing to me. The weather and news highlights scroll in a banner at the bottom of the screen: rain, rain, and a slight chance of sun in the next few days. It's March-I shouldn't expect much.

"Bella?" a male voice calls. I look up at the nurse standing in the door. His face is unfamiliar to me.

"That's me," I say, rising. I follow him back, explaining that I've hurt my hand as he guides me into one of the last rooms. He takes my temperature, my blood pressure, and gives a cursory glance at the offending hand before making some notes on a clipboard.

"Definite swelling and bruising, but Dr. Cullen will be able to tell you more," the nurse says. "He should be in shortly." I nod, trying to ignore the way that all of my organs flipped at the thought of sharing space with Carlisle again. I let out a massive whoosh of air and lay back on the hospital bed. The sanitary parchment paper slowly becomes wet as it takes on the rainwater in my clothing. Uncomfortable.

"Bella."

The voice, soft and musical, fills my chest and I sit up very quickly. I stare into Carlisle's topaz eyes. My breathing hitches as he looks back at me, and my heart picks it's frenetic pace back up. Was he always this beautiful? Have I just been suffering a Cullen drought?

"Carlisle," I manage. My throat is suddenly very dry.

"What happened?" he asks. He's all-business. I don't know if I'm happy or sad about it. I go for nonchalance and shrug.

"I punched a werewolf in the face," I say. There is a beat of silence and then Carlisle lets out a delighted, if not somewhat exasperated, laugh. Just like that, the awkwardness of the room lifts.

"I don't know what I expected, but that was not it," he tells me. He pulls my hand toward him and test-squeezes throughout. I wince, but the worst of the pain recedes with his icy skin on mine. "What made you try to take on a werewolf?"

"He wasn't a werewolf when I punched him," I defended myself. "Is it animal cruelty if I do punch him when he's transformed?" I wonder out loud. "I mean, he's an animal, but technically a human. Whatever, maybe we leave PETA out of this one."

Carlisle's hum of laughter is drowned out by the door slamming open. Alice stands in the doorway looking like she's seen a ghost. I stare back and I'm certain that I look equally as stunned. Carlisle does not react as he wraps my hand tightly in an ace bandage.

"How did I miss this?" she asks. "There was nothingness, and then I saw Bella sitting here in the hospital. What happened? Ugh, I feel blind!"

"I got into an argument with Jacob Black," I offer. I wince as Carlisle finishes the wrap. He pats my knee in an apology.

"Come over for dinner," Alice says in response. Her request-demand?-is abrupt and it takes me back. "Esme and Emmett have already ordered food and it should be there in fifteen minutes."

"Alice, I-,"

"See you there, Bella!" She flits out of the room before I can say another word, and I look helplessly to Carlisle. He shrugs at me with a half-smile and I grumble. She's just been waiting for her chance and now she's taken it. Once Alice has set her mind to something, it's impossible to derail her and I quickly have to make peace with the fact I'm heading right back into the lion's den.

"Would you like to ride with me?" Carlisle asks. He offers me a hand and helps me hop down off of the examination bed. It's like my kitchen all over again as I stumble into him but this time, I feel a shock run down me where his hands land on my waist. We both right ourselves quickly and put space between us, but the feeling still lingers. I clear my throat as Carlisle turns away to clean up the sterile wrappers. "My shift ends in about ten minutes, which Alice knew and manipulated."

"Sure," I say. "I probably shouldn't drive one-handed in this weather, huh?"

"Probably not," Carlisle agrees. He looks over at me and takes in my cold, damp clothes. With a jerk of his head, he has me follow him back to his office. It looks similar in some ways to his home office, with a rich mahogany desk and cushy executive seat. An ancient-looking apothecary cabinet holds an equally ancient-looking glass display with a rolled parchment. His degrees, framed in golden wood, line the wall above his window. One whole wall is filled with books. He's made it as homey as possible in such a sterile environment.

I sit on a cushy settee while he finishes up paperwork. He roots around in a small cupboard before extracting a pile of grey cloth. He hands it to me and I stare at it.

"Thank you?" I say, unsure. I unfold it to see "Forks Hospital" emblazoned across the chest of a sweatshirt, and under that are what I assume to be a pair of Forks Hospital sweatpants. Carlisle's name has been embroidered onto both items with a bright red thread; the irony makes me laugh. "Thank you," I say more sincerely. I excuse myself to a bathroom to change, and then re-enter his office with my damp clothes balled in my arms.

"They're a bit big on you, I'm afraid, but they'll do," Carlisle says, appraising me. He wears a soft smile.

"They're dry and warm, so they're perfect!" I say.

Several pairs of eyes watch us closely as we leave the hospital, but I pay no mind and neither does Carlisle. I'm sure that he's used to the attention by now. We stop at my car briefly to dump my wet clothes and then I slide into the cool, dark Mercedes. I inhale deeply, relishing in the rich, sweet smell.

We pull into their home minutes later, and it surprises me how much I've missed it. The pane windows are lit up and I see several figures from a distance. Carlisle makes a sound of surprise and I look over at him.

"Rosalie's back," he says in response. "Interesting." If he hears my heart jump, he doesn't comment on it. I guess I'm jumping right back in. What's that saying? Out of the frying pan, into the fire? A gentle hand on my arm brings me back to reality. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, it's fine. I'm fine."

In an instant, Carlisle is at my door, opening it for me. I grip the legs of my sweatpants with my good hand and tug the bottoms up to avoid them soaking up the water on the ground. It's an awkward and slow waddle to the front door, but Carlisle keeps pace with me the entire time, a guiding hand on the small of my back. The door is flung open as we approach, I assume by Alice, and the faces of the people I thought I'd never see again smile down at me. Carlisle also turns to smile at me.

"Welcome home, Bella."