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I slowed my footsteps on the second floor when my Chariots of Fire mind-music and hasty pace were interrupted when I nearly tripped up the stairs. Since people were sleeping and the staircase was only halfway lit, the last thing I needed to do was to fall and break my ass in the middle of the night, have to cry for help, and wake up all the guests.

My legs were burning by the time I finally reached Edward's door, and without warning, my nerves exploded and sent my heart into overdrive. For all I knew, he would open the door, roll his eyes and say, "Seriously?"

I briefly considered waiting until morning before I realized I didn't have a room key anymore.

Earlier, since the movie was still going on as I was leaving the lodge, I'd placed my key on Doris's desk with a quickly-scribbled note, explaining my early departure—well, making up a story about spending the night at Angela's. And now I was certain that Doris had retrieved my key and locked it up with the rest of the room keys, wherever they were kept.

I supposed I could go back to the lobby and sleep on one of the sofas until the sun came up or stop standing around wondering and just knock on his door.

Rapping my knuckles softly on the wood, I waited. Not a sound. I knocked a little harder, receiving the same result. He was probably in a heavy sleep by now, and if he was awake there was a strong possibility that if he thought it was me, he wasn't answering on purpose. I debated for a minute before I tried turning the doorknob to see if it was locked. It wasn't.

Cautiously, I pushed his door ajar and a stream of faint, yellow light from the hallway infiltrated the dark room. The first thing I saw was Edward's familiar gray t-shirt, carelessly crumpled in a ball by the bed, along with his gym shorts and CD. As I opened the door further, I saw that his bed was empty and in order. The covers hadn't even been touched. He wasn't there.

Shit. I hadn't even checked to see if his car was in the parking lot. Had he left?

Lingering in the doorway, I wondered if he might have actually attempted to drive in his exhausted state. Wouldn't he have stayed the night to at least catch up on sleep? Maybe he left the things I gave back on purpose, now that they were tainted with my memory, too.

I walked inside and fumbled for the lamp, turning on the switch, and my heart lurched into my throat as I turned around. Edward hadn't gone anywhere.

I could only see his legs, but he was sprawled on the floor by the fireplace, unmoving. A vicious wave of nausea flew through me as I darted to the edge of the bed, almost not wanting to see his collapsed form. This was going to be my nightmare come to life.

"Holy shit," I breathed in a whisper as I took in his appearance.

Instead of seeing him lying completely lifeless or something horrible, he was stretched out, breathing quietly, his head cradled in the crook of his arm, which was supported by none other than the coat I'd given him during our first goodbye.

He was sleeping.

A bizarre combination of relief and confusion swirled in my mind, and I suddenly felt frozen, unsure of what to do. Why he was on the floor, of all places, was certainly strange—in the dark, no less. Why would he turn off the light and go lie by the fireplace? Even if he had fallen asleep sideways on top of the mattress and rolled off by accident, he wouldn't have landed by the foot of the bed, clutching his jacket. I supposed there was a reason for it, but none made sense to me.

I was hesitant to shake him awake, even though I was anxious to know if he was okay. If I didn't let him sleep now, then later we probably wouldn't get beyond the expanse of the conversation that we had hours ago.

Lightly stepping to the front of the room, I gently closed the door, deciding to wait with him. As I closed us inside, I hunched my shoulders, feeling my skin prickle with a chill. It was freezing; Edward must not have set his thermostat after checking in. It was fifty-five degrees in his room, and I cranked up the central heat to seventy-three and carefully stepped over him, grabbing a knitted burgundy blanket off the back of the armchair. Lightly shaking it until it unfurled, I draped the afghan over him, from his feet to his shoulders. He didn't stir, so I reluctantly sat to the side, tucking my feet under my legs so I wouldn't noisily tap them against the floor.

Then all I could do was wait.

"What goes on behind closed doors, hmm?" I quietly asked him.

After a few moments, I smoothed his hair, letting my hand brush the edge of one of his bruises. I hadn't noticed before, but there were healing cuts above his ear, which stretched further into his hair. I couldn't stomach the thought of someone hurting him like this. I still wondered what exactly had happened.

It was then that I noticed the skin around his eyes was puffy, dusky from fatigue, yet pink enough to stand out. That was new, and I only knew one thing that caused such a distinction in that short amount of time.

Crying.

He stayed asleep as I glided my fingertips over his soft cheekbone, feeling his eyelashes brush my hand. At that moment, I wanted to wake him. I wanted to pull him into my arms, insecurities be damned, and tell him I wasn't going anywhere—at least, not without him.

"You don't have to do this by yourself," I whispered softly. "Not anymore."

Eventually, as time passed, my eyes drooped and closed involuntarily, and after several jaw-snaps from jerking myself out of impending sleep, I stretched out on the floor beside him. I put my head on my folded arms and continued to watch his lips part and press with slumbering breath, and it took all the energy I had left not to curl up against him, to meld his heart with mine, and pray that he would let me be there for whatever came next.

I fell asleep quickly, but it seemed like only seconds later that I was opening my eyes and blinking away a blurry haze. What had woken me wasn't so hazy and was unfortunately familiar—the sound of Edward's distress as he slept.

Though, as I pushed myself up on my elbows to focus, what I was witnessing could hardly be defined as sleep. His breath was quick and grating before ceasing, stuck in his chest, and he released it in an abrupt, gasping exhale. Creased lines rippled across his forehead and his brow furrowed deep, contracting tightly above his eyes, which were caging him in painful darkness. I hated that he was suffering in such a way from something involuntary—such a deceptive illusion of which there wasn't an easy remedy.

Finally, I couldn't stand it. I reached over and smoothed his hair, navigating my fingers through his soft, tousled cut. "Edward," I said, trailing my hand down his arm and giving him a gentle shake. "You're dreaming. Wake up."

He calmed briefly but too soon started moaning again, twisting his body and rolling onto his other side, facing away from me. His fingers clenched the blanket that was covering him, and just as I put my hand on his shoulder to attempt to wake him once more, he inhaled stiffly and opened his eyes—the one I could see, anyway. I pulled my hand back, watching him blink, unfocused, and waited. He didn't notice me, as I was sitting in his blind spot; he was too busy staring at the handful of the blanket he was holding anyway.

I was going to scare the hell out of him.

"Edward?" I practically whispered.

I heard his breath escape his lips in a rush. "You're kidding me," he murmured, shielding his eyes from the light.

Congratulations, Bella. You officially have become the wart that will not go away.

Swallowing, I replied softly, "I know. I'm sorry."

He sat up and whipped his head in my direction, rendering me rigid with uncertainty. He looked at me, appearing bewildered as he bunched the blanket in his fists. I pressed my lips together, trying to think of something witty to say, but then he smiled, chuckling darkly.

"Well, this is new," he said in a croaky, sleep-induced voice, eyeing me up and down. "I suppose I shouldn't complain."

I was too anxious to think straight. "Huh?" I asked stupidly, feeling my heart battering against my ribs.

"You usually don't speak when I hallucinate," he answered, still staring at me in awe.

He thought he was imagining me. I laughed nervously, reaching self-consciously for my hair. "You're not hallucinating. I'm just trespassing. Again."

Edward eyed me skeptically, again giving me a once-over before I finally held out my hand. "Do you want to poke me?"

Innuendo, Bella.

"To—to convince you I'm real?" I added quickly at the puzzled look on his face. "I mean, I know I've used this excuse before, but your door was open—well, unlocked—and I wanted to see if you were awake, and then I saw you on the floor—"

His eyebrows raised as I blathered and I shook my head.

"Well, if my idiotic rambling doesn't convince you, then here," I said, reaching down and placing my hand on his. "See? You're lucid. And I'm…"

"Here," he finished, still not taking his eyes off of me. "I thought you left."

"Well, yeah. I did," I answered, glad he wasn't showing immediate signs of kicking me out. "It takes three and a half hours to get to Seattle and I didn't want to go right away, so I kind of waited at the diner for a while."

He ran his hand over his face, combing his hair back with his fingers before leaning against the bed frame. "Oh. Did they close or something?"

"No, they're open twenty-four hours."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I cringed, thinking I was a fucking idiot. He was probably wondering why the hell I was sitting in front of him instead of in a diner booth. "I had a bit of an epiphany, that's all. So I came back."

Edward ran his fingers under his bottom lip, appearing pensive, before cracking the smallest grin. "Did smacking Jessica light a fire under you and now you want to throw a punch at me before you leave, too?"

I choked out a surprised laugh, impressed at his ability to joke around when he was clearly under emotional duress. Thankfully, whatever he'd been dreaming about hadn't been enough to suck him into a panicked state, but there were still small beads of sweat around his hairline. "No. I don't want to hit you."

"I wouldn't blame you if you did," he said, pulling the blanket further onto his lap, and then looked down. He stared at the fabric draped over his legs and then raised his eyes to mine.

"Oh, that was me," I admitted, feeling my cheeks get warm. "It was pretty cold in here, so I thought you might… need it." For some reason, I felt like I was confessing to undressing him in his sleep instead of covering him up. "I turned up the heat, too. I hope that's okay."

He nodded, his eyes full of an emotion I couldn't quite decipher. "It's fine. Thank you."

"Sure," I said shyly, lifting my knees to my chest and folding my arms over them.

A few moments passed, and I tried to think of how to begin or explain what I was thinking without going off on an unorganized, emotional tangent.

"I think I understand what you meant earlier, about not wanting to say goodbye anymore," he said, breaking my concentration. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "I don't know how I'm going to be able to do it when you leave again. You're right. It really does hurt worse each time."

I opened my mouth to explain that he had the wrong idea, but he continued. "Watching you walk away... I don't think I can—"

He swallowed, cutting himself off, and his expression was like watching something precious shatter into pieces.

"Hey, don't," I said, clumsily pushing myself off the floor, moving toward him and pulling his arm until he was close enough so I could wrap my arms around him. I tucked my head against his shoulder and strengthened my grip, hoping to ease the pain for both of us.

Well, maybe if I didn't choke him to death first.

"Sorry," I said, relaxing my embrace as he put his arms around me, too. I quietly added, "I hate when you look like that, especially when you're upset because of me."

"I had it coming," he answered, his voice laced with an achingly familiar tone—the careful, tortured one he used when he was holding back a slew of emotions. "I know I hurt you tonight, and I deserve to watch you go and feel every bit of pain that comes with it, but—"

His arms stretched over my shoulder blades and my lower back and he pulled me tighter against his chest, his fingers curling around my side. He inhaled, his breath shuddering. "But please don't go yet. Just give me a few minutes."

"I won't," I said, sliding my fingers into his hair. "I mean, I'm not. I'm—"

Suddenly, he hissed through his teeth as my fingernails scraped over a bulging lump on the side of his head. I jerked my hand away and he exhaled laboriously. I tried to lean back to see his face, but his grasp was firm.

"Are you okay?" I asked, gingerly smoothing the back of his head instead. "I'm sorry. When did that happen?"

His breath was strained and shallow against my neck. "Sunday," he rasped.

"Sunday," I repeated, narrowing my eyes in thought. "Sunday night?"

When he didn't answer, I put my arm back around him and squeezed. His phone call had been early Monday morning—almost one AM. It would have been close to three AM, his time. Maybe that was what made him call—something had happened to him. Maybe that was when he'd been hurt.

I rested my chin on his shoulder and stroked his back, slowly becoming aware that he was starting to slightly tremble under my touch. "Edward?" I said timidly.

I could feel his breath coming faster against my chest, but he didn't let me go.

He thought I was leaving again.

"Edward," I said sternly, pushing out of his clasp. When I looked at him, he had his eyes closed, and tears were wet on his flushed face. I quickly brushed them away with my thumbs.

"Hey," I tried again, ignoring the spread of worry in my chest.

He held up his hand and pulled at the collar of his shirt, swallowing and letting his breath out in a slow exhale. His breathing sounded labored and I felt my own throat constrict as I realized what was happening. He wasn't quite panicking, but he appeared close to losing some sort of control.

"What can I do?" I asked nervously, moving off of him and placing my hand on his knee. I didn't want to get too close if he already felt breathless. "Do you want some water or something? Or should I just back off?"

Edward finally opened his eyes and struggled to straighten his back, his knuckles growing white as he clenched the fabric of his sweatpants. "Distract me?"

Right. "Okay," I said, shrugging off my hoodie and glancing around the room. "Um…"

My eyes fell upon his coat that was on the floor, next to us.

"You, uh—you told me you were at the hospital for being dehydrated, but—and I'm not saying you're lying, but it wasn't also because you suddenly contracted chlamydia or anything, right?"

He stared at me with a bewildered look on his face.

"I'm joking," I said with a small smile. "But I got your coat from a place called Newton's Outfitters—that sports store up the street. Anyway, I'm asking because Mike Newton works there. Remember that guy who was screwing Lauren down the hall that one night? I mean, it's not like he's going around humping the men's coat displays or anything, it's just that I think of Mike and all I want to do is dip everything he's touched in hydrochloric acid."

Little bits of victorious warmth spread through my chest as Edward unclenched his fingers, released his clothes, and rested his hands on the floor. I reached down and tentatively took his hand, which was tepid with sweat.

"Also, if you ever go shopping there, be sure to stay out of the bathrooms," I went on. "I accidentally overheard Mike and Jessica. They were… well, you know. He was sticking his candy cane in her holiday stocking."

Edward choked out a laugh. "Oh, yeah?" he asked. "What are you, a magnet for those situations?"

"Right? Lucky me," I said, moving closer until I was sitting next to him. I listened to his calculated, deep breathing, reassured that his discomfort didn't seem to be mounting.

"Anyway, I bet you're sorry you missed it, but a sequel usually isn't as good as the original, anyway," I joked lightly. Though, thinking back, the ball-pinching-skirt moment had been pretty entertaining. "Let's hope there isn't a chance of a trilogy while we're here."

He cleared his throat and rested his head on his knees, turning to face me with tired eyes. "I don't think you'll have to worry about that," he said huskily. "You're leaving in what—less than an hour or so? Even they aren't trashy enough to pull off another spectacle in that amount of time. Unless Lauren and Jessica are taking a train ride today."

I smiled, reaching over to rub his back. "Well, as much fun as that would be to witness, I won't be on the train. That's what I was going to tell you—I'm not leaving. Not today, or tomorrow… I really don't know when. It kind of depends on you."

"Me?" he echoed, his eyebrows gathering together in a confused crease as he lifted his head.

"Well," I said, reaching for his hand. "You are not easy to figure out, but apparently I'm slow on the uptake."

He still appeared at a loss, and I sighed.

"I forgot," I admitted, growing quiet. "Every memory of what I wrote to you slipped out of my mind the second I saw you yesterday. I promise none of my feelings disappeared, they just got buried by my insecurities."

Thankfully, he was calming as he was listening—even his breathing was settling down.

"I forgot long enough to make you doubt yourself. And I'm so sorry if I made you change your mind."

Edward put his hand over his eyes, circling his thumb against his temple, and I leaned over and rested my cheek on his shoulder.

"I don't want you to push me away because you're afraid that you might hurt me or because I might be better off with someone else," I stressed, knotting my fingers into his shirt. "I don't need to be spared from you like you were saying. Don't you understand how much I want this? How much I want you?"

The hand that was covering his face slid into his hair, and I raised my head as he stared at me with a tender mix of sorrow and disbelief.

"Please don't pretend for my sake, just because you think it's safer if I go," I said. "I need you to be honest. If you were just trying to protect me, that's my fault for not assuring you sooner. And if you're protecting yourself because you're afraid of getting hurt, please give me the chance to show you we can be something good. But if you really don't want to do this, then, I'll just—" I took a slow breath. "Have to accept that, I guess. But you have to tell me the truth."

His responses were usually hard to predict, and after pouring out my feelings, I felt pretty vulnerable. He was very capable of crushing my plan at the moment, and I was willingly giving him that choice, but there was equal potential for him to give us hope.

Since Edward always took his time in deliberating crucial answers, I took a mental time-out. My chest was already too tight and I needed to stay strong—I didn't want to be the next one to start shaking with anxiety, waiting with bated breath for him to make or break us.

I was in the middle of noticing that one of my black socks was a tad lighter than the other (and wondering how the hell that happened when I always washed them together) when he finally spoke.

"I wasn't pretending the whole time," he said in a weary voice.

I lifted my head, not jumping to any conclusions yet.

He cleared his throat before he resumed. "I still think you deserve someone who wouldn't prove to be such a nervous wreck—we both can't say I didn't give you an emotional headache every single day."

I pursed my lips, about to tell him that probably could go both ways, but I decided not to interrupt him.

"It really doesn't make rational sense for us to feel so strongly for each other after a week," he said frankly, straightening and pressing his back against the bedframe. "I kept asking myself if I was being honest—if I really wanted you or if I was just grasping for something that would make me feel better."

He slid his hand out of mine and I felt my breath catch, afraid of where his words were leading.

"I'd be lying if I said you didn't make me forget about my fucked-up life or that I feel normal and good—so good with you, because I do. But it's so much deeper than that. You're always honest with me and aren't afraid to put me in my place. You make me feel safe and happy, and before you, I barely even smiled for a year, and you made me laugh, of all things, on the first day I met you."

He reached over to touch my cheek, gently cradling my cheek and gazing at me with hope in his eyes. "I heard what you said, but—am I crazy? You really want this? Me, and all the emotional ruin I carry?"

He let out a strangled chuckle, and I could see the incredulity and raw vulnerability transpire through his stare.

"Everything that you are, yes," I confessed. "Do you still want me?"

"God, yes," he breathed, and that's when I moved to him.

I cupped his face, feeling the scratch of stubble on my palms, and I hummed unspoken wishes as I brushed my lips against his skin. His lips found mine for a moment, the shortest, softest, gentlest sweep before I felt him hesitate and slightly duck his head. When I pulled back to look at him, he still seemed shaken.

"I'm sorry," I said, knowing that this would have either been the perfect time, or the very worst time, to do something like that.

"No—I want to. You have no idea how much," he said, sliding his hands to my wrists. "It's just—I feel like there's more you need to know first."

I nodded in agreement, willing to listen to him all night. I was sure I'd end up looking like a haggard, heavy-lidded wretch, but I would do it.

"I can't tell you how much this scares me," he confessed, his voice like wind on water. "I mean, anyone who offers me what you have deserves a trophy, but I'm terrified of scaring you off. It's just—when I was gone, things happened that I didn't anticipate. And I—"

He dropped his head into his hands, treating his temples as if they were knots, pushing and massaging like he was in pain—and maybe he was, considering whatever head injury he'd managed to acquire while he was gone.

"When I called you, it was to say goodbye," he said, and after a long inhale, the words came hastily. "I was out of my goddamned mind. I told Carson that I didn't want to look for the killer anymore, and right after, I ran into Justin's brother and got my ass kicked just for breathing because it's my fault that Justin is gone. And later, I woke up and couldn't stop seeing these horrible memories in my head—things I try so hard to forget, but they just kept coming back."

Edward stopped to take a breath and I sat silently, stroking the back of his neck. Talking like this was like opening wounds.

"It was the most pain I've ever been in since I lost my parents," he rushed on. "And I was just so tired of everything, and I thought that if I heard your voice or said goodbye properly, maybe I could finally be at peace with something when I ended it."

My thoughts were in a whirlwind with his words. I expected that whatever he'd been through was going to make an awful story, and it did. I had worried about him constantly, praying that somehow whatever he was dealing with wouldn't be enough to crush him, but it sounded like it already had.

"Ended it?" I repeated, my stomach rolling.

"Me. My life." There were tears caught in his eyelashes when he finally lifted his head. "I just wanted to be done."

I nodded slowly, my breath feeling like toxic fumes in my chest. The thought of him all alone and feeling so terrible—enough to want to end his life was horrifying. Hot, traitorous tears built up in my eyes, too.

"I'm—" I could barely find my voice, but managed to weakly say, "But you didn't do it."

He wiped his eyes but still didn't look at me. "No. I started to, but I stopped. I couldn't get your voice out of my head. You sounded so worried on the phone that I…" He coughed and cleared his throat. "I was taking pills. And every time I swallowed, I'd hear you."

It took me a few seconds to realize that I was holding my breath.

"I didn't take much," he continued. "Hearing you—imagining you—it made me hesitate. Then I started thinking how it wasn't right, and that I'd promised myself I would never do something like that, not when my parents didn't have a choice. I never wanted an easy way out. It would be an insult to their memory."

Edward's hands were continuously busy, threading through his hair and moving to interlace his fingers, restlessly bouncing on the corner of his knee, and I sat, frozen.

"So I made myself sick and that was that. I should probably say thank you," he continued, "because if it hadn't been for you, I'm not sure that I would have stopped."

I pulled at my sleeves, trying not to envision what would have happened if he'd been successful because the mere thought was so horrific. I knew that if I allowed myself to imagine it, I wouldn't sleep peacefully for weeks. Struggling to expel a breath, I was finally able to choke out a strained, tearful, "I'm so sorry, Edward."

He snapped his head up quickly, looking at me with such a sorrowful gaze, it broke me further. Suddenly, all I could think of was how angry I'd been over his phone call, and how he'd said he would have taken it back because I'd been so upset. Jesus Christ, I'd even teased him about it.

"If I would have known, I would have been on a plane in a second. I would have tried to—"

I started crying, unable to help it. If I had known that was what had been happening to him, I would have booked it to Chicago without thought of clothes, money, or consequence of any kind. I would have done whatever I could to help. I would have taken care of him, or hell—I would have tracked down and shot the lunatic he was after if it helped. Instead, I hadn't done anything—not that I could have done much, but maybe I could have tried harder to get in touch with him. I could have sent Charlie a fucking sweet potato pie and bribed him to pull up Edward's records and give me an address or a phone number. I could have done something else other than sitting around, feeling pathetic.

"God, I am so, so sorry I ever said—"

I reached for him, but he pulled me into his arms before I could hold him instead. He was the one who deserved consoling, not me, especially not when I was the one who had been wrong in the first place. But I couldn't concentrate on anything except the feel of his arms around me and the sweet scent of his hair, his skin. I breathed him in, immersing myself in the relief that he was here and whole.

"I'm sorry I said—" I tried continuing, my breath hitching. "If I made you feel like—calling me wasn't—I'm so—"

I wasn't making sense. Edward shushed me gently, tucking his head into the corner of my neck.

"Don't apologize," he whispered, granting me small, warm kisses up to my ear.

His lips were like flames to ice, melting the solid tension I'd built up since the previous evening. He'd shown me countless times that he was unconditionally forgiving and was always striving to make things right in his own way. His decisions were complicated and he'd treaded on rocky ground for so long, but he still survived. He was amazingly strong, even if he didn't think so, because he'd dragged himself through hell and back—back to me, of all things—and even with his self-sacrificing ways, he had come back with hope.

We sat in embracing quiet, letting our bodies express what words could not. His hands continued their soothing path of exploration through my hair, over my back, and then his fingers slid to my waist, squeezing just enough to make my tears cease and my breath change. Suddenly, his touch was different—it was lingering, sweeping a slow, tingling trail from my sides to my shoulders, and as I finally leaned back, separating us, his hand moved across the exposed skin on my chest.

In equal precision, our heads lifted and our eyes met. So much need and such intensity. For the second time that night, it felt difficult to breathe.

"I dreamed about you so many times," he said, his gentle, persistent touch scaling to my chin. "You always looked as you do now. Beautiful—and sad." His thumb captured a lasting tear on my cheek, carefully gliding his hand over the curve of my face. "I know I have to try to get better. I want to. But I promise I'll do whatever I can to erase any pain I caused you."

I shook my head, wiping my eyes so he wouldn't have to. "It's okay, it's done," I replied sincerely. "I know that you protect yourself—you told me that the first day we met. Your whole warning label comment, remember?" I gave him a small smile, regardless of the serious air. "Besides—what you just said—you want to try to feel better? That's the important thing. Nothing else exceeds that."

Edward looked uncertain, but he didn't argue. Slowly, he leaned toward me and kissed my forehead in a gentle sequence, stopping only to press his cheek against mine, and I grew lightheaded. The warmth, combined with his heady scent and the soothing relief that we were finally being honest and moving past so much insecurity, made me eager again, and all the blood that was pumping through my chest and swelling in my lips grew feverish.

As I pulled back, hoping to rejoin my lips with his, I reconsidered once I took a good look at him. His eyes were inflamed and bloodshot, and beyond the fragments of pretense he was still donning, I could see that he didn't feel well. Exhaustion, anxiety, and tears were a thorny combination; mentally and physically, he needed to sleep. And I was suddenly very aware that I hadn't brushed my teeth since the previous morning.

"So, um," I said, looking around the room, "do you mind putting me up for the night? I returned my room key and I figure Doris wouldn't be excited to be woken up at three AM to give me another."

Edward let out a small chuckle. "Like I would say no."

"Well, I think I've been plenty presuming in the past twenty-four hours," I pointed out. "I'm one step away from being Jessica Stan—"

"Never say that name in this room," he said with an actual smile. "You can stay."

"I do have one more question, though," I said, eyeing him curiously. He waited expectantly, and I ran my fingers over the worried creases across his forehead, giving him a small grin. "Can we please sleep in your bed? I mean, as nice as it was to curl up on this awesome carpet…"

Edward's eyes brightened and he pulled my hands to lift me to my feet. "If you absolutely insist," he said. "Wait, you fell asleep?"

"Waiting for you to wake up, yeah," I admitted, twisting and stretching my muscles, sore from my afternoon run with Angela. "Why were you on the floor, anyway? With the light off?"

He reached down to retrieve his coat and folded it over his arm, studying the area where we'd just been sitting. "I…" He pensively ran his thumb under his bottom lip. "I don't suppose you'd believe that I think beds are overrated."

I cocked an eyebrow. "No."

"I didn't think so," he said, brushing past me to place his coat on the armchair. "I only had the bathroom light on, and when I turned it off and went to walk to bed, I just… sort of ended up on the floor."

His eyes were distantly wistful for a moment before he sighed, shrugging. "Hell, I guess I can't feel any more pathetic tonight. I broke down and cried. A lot. And I didn't feel like getting up."

I lightly rocked on my heels. "Don't feel pathetic. I cried, too. At least you didn't gorge on two sundaes in addition."

Edward let out a mysterious chuckle, sounding more cynical than he was amused. "No. No, I didn't."

I felt an inevitable blush on my cheeks. "Yeah, well, I guess it was better than going back to the bar."

"Hmm? Oh, no, I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly, shaking his head. "I don't care if you ate an entire carton. Don't listen to me, I'm…"

"Tired?" I offered.

He nodded, emphasizing it further by rubbing his eyes. "Yeah."

He was suddenly giving off a peculiar vibe, but I figured it was due to all the exhausting events from the previous day. Also, I was beginning to think his secretive persona was a permanent quality.

"I left all my stuff in my truck," I finally mentioned, and gestured to the floor by the night table. "Would you mind if I borrowed your shirt again? To sleep in?"

"Oh, sure," he said, craning his neck to look where I was pointing. "Do you want one that hasn't been on the floor? I have plenty."

"I don't mind," I said, picking up the shirt and shaking it gently. "I've gotten attached to this one."

He probably wouldn't want to wear it again if he ever found out all the sweat and tears I'd put it through.

"You should keep it," he replied. "I know you like Robert Frost. I only wear it to sleep in, anyway."

Ha. So he did know that poem.

I tucked the shirt over my arm, giving him a shy grin. "You sure?"

"Well, maybe under one condition," he said, walking toward me. "Although, it's hardly fair of me to ask."

Edward studied me for a few moments, looking a bit apprehensive. He ran his fingers under the hem of his shirt, lightly rubbing his side, and it was enough to grant me a glimpse of the trail of hair on his stomach.

I swallowed, honestly wondering if he was about to take off his clothes and if the 'one condition' would be something I hadn't expected.

Finally, he gazed at me, so uncertain and beautiful, it was hard to think straight. "Can I have my letter back?"

Well, that was what I got for being a hussy.

"Oh," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the golden paper.

He hesitated, absentmindedly stroking the bruise on his cheek. "Is that okay?

"Do you promise not to return it this time?"

Edward immediately looked apologetic; I needed to stop teasing him when he was vulnerable.

I pushed the note into his hands. "I'm just messing with you. It's yours. Of course you can have it." I curled his fingers around the paper and gently pushed him toward the bed.

"Thank you," he murmured, running his fingers along the main fold of the paper. He peered at the note as if in deliberation, and when he looked at me, I felt a nervous bubble in my stomach. I wondered if he would ask if I had seen his little addition of script. But he remained silent, simply turning and tucking the letter back into his coat—into the pocket that I'd originally placed it so many weeks ago.

"Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" I asked, slipping off my shoes and setting them next to the fireplace.

Edward looked over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows, smirking. "Yes. I do, actually."

I laughed, rolling my eyes, then looked around for my purse. I needed a ponytail holder, but after searching I realized I must have stuffed the spares into my toiletry bag, which was in one of my duffel bags.

"Crap," I muttered, figuring I'd have to run down to my truck after all. If anything, I knew that a hair tie was around the gear shift.

"What's wrong?" Edward asked, folding the afghan and placing it across the top of the armchair.

"I might go grab a bag out of my truck," I said, reaching to collect my keys. "I need a hair tie. Getting my toothbrush probably wouldn't hurt, either."

"I have one you could use," he said, picking one of his familiar black bags off the floor. He unzipped a side pouch and pulled out a handful of packaged toothbrushes. "Do you have a color preference?" he asked with a small smile.

I raised my eyebrows. "Were you in the Boy Scouts or something? Always prepared for a plaque crisis?"

He laughed. "Yeah, since I got the Best Dental Hygiene badge, I always keep a bunch of these with me. When I'm on the road, I tend to accidentally leave them in different hotels or wherever. And I've dropped more than a few on gas station floors, so… it helps to have extras on hand."

It was almost comical, yet touchingly sad, to think of him on the road, on a mission of revenge with a bag full of toothbrushes, taking care of his teeth in gas stations, of all places. The thought made me want to hug him again, but the mood had turned surprisingly light. I wanted to hold onto that for a bit longer if I could.

I chose a red brush. "Thanks. I don't suppose you also got the Best Aid in Hair Care badge?"

He scoffed a laugh, scratching over his eyebrow and looking somewhat sheepish. Clearing his throat and pushing his sleeve up his left arm, he said, "Well, as long as we're confessing things tonight."

He held up his wrist, which was encircled with a black band. He pulled it off and held it out to me. "It's yours."

Curiously, I took it. "How did you get it?"

"Remember the night I first told you I was leaving?" he asked, letting his sleeve down. "Well, the first time I thought I was leaving, anyway. It was the night I told you about Justin."

I nodded, though I still couldn't remember giving him anything that had to do with my hair.

"We were downstairs in the lobby, talking," he continued. "It was right after I acted like a jerk and was attempting to apologize. Little strands of your hair kept falling in your face and you finally just ripped it out."

Remembering, I chuckled at the memory.

"I found it when you went upstairs. When I went to turn out the light, it was on the table. I'm not really sure why I took it. I suppose because I thought I was leaving and wanted something to remember you by."

Edward sat on the edge of the bed and rolled his shoulders, narrowing his eyes to me, gauging my reaction. "Honestly, I forgot I had it since then," he added quickly. "It was in my pocket in a pair of jeans. I didn't find it until I left for Minnesota."

"Why do you look embarrassed?" I asked, cracking a smile. "You kept a hair tie. I kept your clothes. I'd say I'm the bigger offender."

He shrugged, looking a bit relieved. "I suppose I thought you might think it was strange."

"Hmm," I said, pursing my lips in jest. "You met me when I had blood running down my face. You heard me sleep-talk your name and then I recited poetry to you when you could barely breathe. And then I pilfered a gun out of your locked car and hid it from you. So, of all things, I don't think you keeping my hair tie is strange."

He grinned. "I'm having a few second thoughts about you, though."

"Yeah, I'll bet you are," I said.

"Go," he ordered lightheartedly, pointing to the bathroom door. "Help yourself to whatever you need."

I went, closing the door behind me. I'd never been in his bathroom before—it was highlighted in tan tones and much smaller than mine, only containing a shower, toilet, and sink. I supposed I'd been the lucky one with the extra space and a bathtub, even though I only used it once—and that was to cry in.

I pulled off my clothes and folded them into a small pile, hiding my bra in between the folds of my shirt. Once I'd pulled my hair up and slipped on my 'new' shirt, I took the toothbrush out of its package, dropped the trash in a wastebasket, and borrowed some toothpaste to brush my teeth, oddly excited by the fact that I knew exactly what his mouth tasted like. It was only 'Clean Mint,' but it was still kind of thrilling.

I was so fucking weird.

Washing the traces of minty foam down the sink, I proceeded to splash my face with warm water and then peeked through the glass shower doors. He had said to help myself, so I figured I'd take him up on borrowing some facial cleanser. I swiped my chin, brushing away drops of water before sliding the shower door open. Sure enough, next to a bottle of shampoo, there was a small bottle of face wash that was boldly labeled So Clean For Men. I skimmed the rest of the small print, which read 'Hints of amber and musk with sandalwood and vanilla essential oils.'

Well, didn't that explain everything; it was Edward in a bottle.

I rubbed the gel into a lather, breathing in the aroma, and it tingled and cooled my skin in a gratifying fashion. Smelling like him was alluring and I suddenly had an urge to run the shower and see what else I could get out of this experience—there was still his shampoo and body wash to discover. I would be willing to let the scent of everything he owned surround me as I pressed my back against the slick tiles, imagining that he was the one to smooth soap and bubbles over my skin and through my hair…

Okay, okay, okay. Stop.

I twisted the water to a strong blast, splashing my face once more before turning off the faucet and reaching for a towel. At least I could attribute my reddened cheeks to washing my face. When I finally opened the door to walk back into the bedroom, I caught a split second of Edward leaning his head on his hand with his eyes closed, but he sat up straight, blinking quickly before I could take a step.

"Sorry," he said, standing up and running his hand over his eyes.

"Don't apologize for being tired," I said, setting my folded clothes by the fireplace. "I'm beat, so I can only imagine how you feel."

"I'll be alright," he assured me, placing his hand on my shoulder and nudging me toward the bed as he turned toward the bathroom. "Pick a side. I'll be out in a minute."

He retreated into the bathroom and I chose the bedside nearest to the bedroom door, remembering he liked to be next to the windows. As I climbed in, I was surprised at how natural it felt to be in his bed again. The folds of the hunter-green comforter were familiar, soft, and reminiscent of the warm glint I longed to see in Edward's eyes again.

One day and night at a time.

When the rush of water ceased from the bathroom, Edward emerged moments later, slightly flushed—I guessed from washing his own face. He boyishly ruffled his hair and gave me a heartwarming half-smile as he pulled back the covers on his side of the bed. He got under the comforter and as his head hit one of the pillows, his eyes closed and the sigh that escaped his lips was flooded with contentment—probably exhaustion, too.

I reached over and rubbed my hand along his arm. "Do I have time to say goodnight before I lose you?" I asked.

"Mm, I'm not going to sleep yet," he said in a feathery voice, his heavy, hooded eyes remaining closed. "I'm trying to tell myself you'll still be here when I open my eyes."

Laughing through a yawn, I hugged a pillow and inched closer to him. "Still don't believe that I'm real?"

Edward winced as he pressed the ball of his hand to his forehead, breathing deeply. "I'm deliberating."

"Are you okay?" I asked, my fingertips lingering on the edge of the blanket, watching him fight to pacify the tensing ache that was almost certainly wracking his mind and muscle.

Even so, before he could speak, I gently kneaded the back of his neck, letting my hand glide over the frame of his shoulders. He hummed a sound, a conflicted answer that I couldn't distinguish—maybe a simultaneous yes and no.

Of all things, at that moment, he was a collision of crushing struggle and profound strength, and of glass emotions. He was tired, stained with dark memories, yet trying to persevere for something better. He was not okay right now, but that didn't mean he wouldn't ever be.

My fingers found his silken hair and I continued to comb and smooth every strand that I could reach, and eventually, the sharp creases along his forehead lessened. He dropped his hand and when he opened his eyes, he kept them fixed on the sheets. I studied him thoughtfully, moving to caress his roughly-stubbled cheek and chin, and finally resting my hand on his wrist.

"I still can't believe you're here," he said.

I brushed my thumb over his hand, exhaling slowly. "Well… You came back for me. Why wouldn't I come back for you?"

Edward's glistening eyes flashed to mine and he pulled his hand back, lifting the covers that lay in the space between us.

"Come here," he almost whispered, sounding as though he was asking.

I was only frozen for two seconds before slowly rolling toward the side of the bed to switch off the lamp and moving back to the center. I felt for him in the dark and he took me into his arms, tucking me snugly to his chest. I reveled in the contact of my bare legs on the shape of his, the whispered friction of fabric as we moved in rhythm, finding ourselves at the fortune of being face to face, nose to nose. His breath danced with mine—warm, fresh, and inviting.

"I—" He said, his voice hushed. I waited, but he didn't finish. Just as I started to say something back, he stopped me, eclipsing my words with his lips. The warm, gentle pressure made me whimper softly, and I gave back mildly and tenderly.

We moved not in an eager craze, but a slow, desired exploration—a healing of cracks from the past few weeks. His mouth was supple and rewarding, and I could taste the mint on his lips that mirrored the flavor of my own. His hands were delicate, flowing through my hair and pulling me closer. Each movement, press, and brush of skin was precious, wanted, and needed.

"Bella," Edward breathed, breaking away with an affectionate hum against my cheek, and his hand resting on my neck felt deeper than just the surface of my skin, heating me thoroughly on the inside as well. "This might sound stupid, but… you saved me. You are saving me. I don't know how to thank you."

I was stunned, unable to think of an adequate response. "You got yourself this far," I said. "I didn't really—"

"You did."

I ducked my head, huddling into his shoulder, feeling his chest expand against mine. "I don't think you know how strong you are."

His breath was warm on my hair as he spoke. "Maybe one day you can convince me of that. Until then… Thank you."

He tilted my head back and kissed me softly, and the sparks were back like wind and fire, consuming my every thought and fiber. And in that second, contained by sensibility, I realized that I loved him.

The thought was so staggering. We'd both said it before—how it was unthinkable to feel so much in the extremely short period of time that we knew each other. Yet, here it was, bubbling within me, and the sweep of his lips and pads of his fingers branded me further with each kiss and touch.

The power of time was unpredictable. Minutes and moments of our time spent together, though little, had stacked in such intrinsic ways—unseen but not unfelt. And this was the result. The feeling was real, not contrived or mistaken, and as confusing and scary as those words sounded in my head, I loved him, regardless.

I wasn't sure whether sleep came to him first or me. All I remembered was Edward rolling onto his back, hugging me close to him. I could feel his heartbeat under my palm, and the rhythm and relief of every single word said between us was enough to lull me to a peaceful oblivion.

-:-