I didn't want to leave y'all hanging before the holidays. Merry Christmas if you celebrate.

I have a few more chapters for these two, just some loose ends and things I personally want to see them navigate together. We have some good times ahead, but it's not all fluffy because it wouldn't be ~them~ if it was lol if you're feeling done with this story, then after this chapter is a good point to leave.

Thank you so much for being here this long! Love y'all.

51
- mine -

Bella

"How are we supposed to know which ones to get?" Edward asks, standing in the bottle aisle of Kidsland.

After my ultrasound appointment, we dropped off my car at home and rode together in his to grab lunch. We had just agreed on where to go—a sandwich place near Santa Monica that he's been wanting to try—when he spotted the retail store and decided to stop "real fast."

We've already spent an hour here.

It couldn't be more different than the boutique store Rosalie and I were at a few days ago. But this place is more affordable, more of a one-stop shop for all of our baby's needs, which is one of the reasons why I'm indulging in buying stuff.

The other reason is because Edward's here.

So far, our cart is full of diapers, wipes, too many newborn clothes, pacifiers, and a wearable wrap.

"Do we need bottles if I'm going to breastfeed?" I ask, and his eyes instinctively dip to my chest.

"Are you going to breastfeed?"

"I have no idea. I haven't thought about any of this until like, right now. I was kind of waiting for you." His gaze softens, and it seems like he's about to say sorry. "Don't apologize. Don't you dare," I say, keeping my voice light, turning back to our task. "I think the difference between these bottles is the nipples. Some are slim and some are wider."

He looks overwhelmed, staring at the shelves while he fists some hair.

"So, like. You're supposed to pick the bottles that have your nipple shape?" he asks, confused. "None of these nipples look like yours."

Laughter bubbles out of me, which coaxes a small smirk out of him.

"Let's hold off on the bottles," I insist.

"Fine by me," he agrees and pushes the cart down the aisle as I walk behind him. "What next?"

"Maybe we're good for today. It's not like we need to buy everything we need right now."

"I don't know. We could probably get a few more things before we go. What else is on that newborn checklist you Googled?"

"Is this the dad-version of nesting?" I tease.

"Yes," he says dryly. "But it's called panicking."

I smile even though he can't see it, and tug on the back of his dress shirt to stop him from walking.

He slows his movements and turns around to face me.

There's been an ease between us ever since our shared moment in the dimness of the doctor's office. Ever since he pressed his lips to mine and kissed me.

I knew overwhelming happiness was guiding him in that moment, but I soaked it up and kissed him back. Just a peck. Just a chaste kiss that was appropriate for soon-to-be-parents to share in front of a stranger after finding out they're getting everything they ever wanted.

I'd worried for a split second that he acted on impulse. Too caught up and didn't realize what he was doing. But when we broke apart, there wasn't an ounce of regret on his face. Just pure, steadfast determination. And there wasn't a single shred of unease in my heart.

"It's sweet that you care and want to be prepared," I insist. "But we still have time to make sure we're ready. And… I'm hungry."

Concern flashes over his handsome face. "Shit. Sorry. Do you need a snack? I saw some granola bars by the registers."

I smile faintly. "I'll be okay. Let's just go checkout."

When we reach the cashier, I listen in amusement as Edward gets talked into joining the rewards program at Kidsland and having to hear all about the perks. After another minute, he pays and we walk out to the parking lot.

At lunch, we sit at an outdoor table and he orders too much food. A turkey sandwich and a BLT, a chopped salad, a fruit platter, a hummus plate, and two orders of fries.

"You realize I'm eating for two, right? Not a family of five?" I joke, biting a piece of pita bread.

He just smirks and chews.

For a brief second, my mind time-travels.

I can't help it.

I think back to the hotel months ago when he ordered an insane amount of room service for us to devour. It's hard not to go there. Coupled with the fact that the last time we were in Santa Monica, we had the best day together before our world was rocked… yeah. Bittersweet memories press on my chest and weigh me down.

"You know I always order like it's gonna be my last meal," he says, then catches whatever expression flashes over my face. "What?"

I hesitate. "Just thinking about another time when you ordered a crazy amount of food to feed me," I say with a somber smile.

The confusion in his green gaze quickly shifts to recognition when he understands exactly what I'm referencing.

"Even in the thick of that mess, you were trying to take care of me," I muse, focusing on the good parts, not the bad. He reaches across the table through the maze of plates to grab my hand, loosely linking our fingers together.

"I didn't always get it right," he admits. "I still won't. Even now."

"I'd rather us be honest than right," I confess. "And I won't always get it right, either. But it already feels different. Just… like I can breathe."

He holds my gaze. "Yeah, it does," he agrees, but his smile is small and contrite.

"What's that sad expression for?"

"I don't know. I feel like… an asshole. Like I let you down."

I frown, remembering how he said last night that he'd failed me. "Why? And more importantly, how?"

"We're okay with honesty and not always getting it right?" he asks, almost like he's double-checking that I meant what I said.

"Of course," I murmur.

"Everything you said in couples therapy… I just…" He clears his throat, staring at our clasped hands. "When I was talking to Dr. Molina, I realized I'd picked up on some of that stuff over the years. Your insecurities and jealousy. The way you'd put yourself down. Or make comments like I'd eventually get bored with you or leave you for someone else." He meets my eyes, and there's genuine remorse in his. "I always corrected you when you'd talk like that. I always said I loved you. That I'd never leave you. But I understand that you maybe didn't believe me. They were just words. What was I doing to make you feel secure?"

"You could've done and said everything right and it wouldn't have gotten through to me, Edward. Because I needed to be secure in myself before I could ever be secure in you."

"I know," he agrees. "But still. You cried the first time my mom hugged you goodbye. Like, that should've made me think harder, you know? I always knew there was something a little bit off. Something deeper, maybe. I just… let it fucking slide. Because it was easier. And I'm sorry."

I swallow back emotion, appreciating his honesty even if he seems upset about what he's saying.

"Hey," I say gently. "It's okay."

"It's not, though. Because look at where we ended up."

"We're building something stronger now. That's where we ended up," I insist. "Even if you addressed stuff way back when that wouldn't have meant I was ready to face any of it myself. Who knows, maybe if you would've made me acknowledge stuff years ago, we'd be in a worse place. Maybe we wouldn't even be together. And that's the thing—we can't play the what-if game. We're here now. So we need to focus on that."

He nods, and I can sense a little relief rolling off of him. "That's basically what my therapist said, too. And I'm trying, but it's difficult."

"Well, he's a damn good therapist. You should listen to him," I say lightly. "We can move on and forgive and stop being so hard on ourselves. Okay?"

"Okay," he says quietly, squeezing my hand three times. A group is seated at the table next to us, ending our little bit of privacy. "You ready to go or do you want dessert?" he asks just as my phone starts ringing in my purse. He lets go of my hand so I can dig in my bag to pull it out.

"It's Rosalie. She's FaceTiming me," I say. "She wanted me to call her after my appointment to let her know if we're having a boy or girl."

"Answer it."

"You don't mind?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "Do you care if I tell her what we're having?"

His expression stays neutral. "It's fine. I trust Rosalie. And if she's your friend, tell her whatever you want."

Vibrating with excitement, I answer.

"So?" Rosalie immediately asks.

"It's a boy," I lie.

"I don't believe you."

I laugh. "Okay. We're having a girl," I tell her, and she squeals so loud I have to turn down the volume because nearby strangers turn to look at the commotion.

"I knew it! That's why I went back to the boutique and bought that tutu yesterday. I also saw you eyeing those pink ballet flats, so I got those, too."

"You did not," I chuckle, heart squeezing with fondness.

"I did. See!" She holds the items up. "Aw, I'm so happy for you."

I smile, feeling so grateful. "Thank you. Also, those items cost way too much. You need to return them."

"No way. They're a gift," she says simply. "Are you going to do a gender reveal?"

"For who?" I laugh. "You're the only person I talk to."

"I don't know. Anyone in Seattle?"

My eyes meet Edward's. "I'm not that into it, but if you are…"

"Nah," he says. "We can just call my parents and tell them."

"Who are you talking to?" Rosalie asks.

I tap the screen to turn the camera around for her to see Edward sitting at the table with me. He lifts a hand to wave, a bemused smile on his lips.

"Oh, sorry to interrupt. I didn't know you two were on a date," she says, humor in her tone.

"Don't start," I warn, my cheeks flushing.

"Hi, Rosalie," Edward says, and I detect a hint of fondness there.

"Hi, Edward," she echoes. "Congrats on your baby girl."

"Thank you," he says, his smile equal parts content and proud. "I've never been happier to be out of my element."

Rosalie laughs. "Element schmelement. You're gonna be great parents."

I turn the camera back to me and say, "Thank you. You're gonna be a great honorary Aunt."

She smiles. "Where are y'all?"

"Some sandwich place near Santa Monica. We're just grabbing some lunch. What are you up to?"

"My makeup gal is about to arrive. I have an evening of schmoozing ahead of me at the network Christmas party," she sighs.

My eyes flick to Edward, curious if he's going, too. Rosalie mentioned it the other day, but Edward never said anything about it to me. That doesn't mean he isn't going, I guess.

"Will I be seeing you two there?" Rosalie asks bluntly, throwing me a pointed look since Edward can't see my screen.

Enough time passes for him to say something, but he doesn't.

"I'll be asleep by eight," I say to fill the awkward silence. "So you won't be seeing me, but have fun."

"At least Emmett is going with me this year so that already helps make it more enjoyable. Did you decide if you're gonna go to the Rams game with me on Christmas day or not?" she asks now.

"Not yet."

"So what are you doing for Christmas, then?" she wonders, then mouths, "Ask him."

"Not sure," I tell her.

I can feel Edward's eyes on me but I don't look at him. I get what Rosalie's doing, though. She's saying all of this out loud for Edward and me to address. She knows I'd love nothing more than to spend Christmas with him. But she also probably knows I don't want to rock the boat.

Thankfully, Em interrupts, stealing the moment.

"Can you stop referring to it as the Rams game, babe," I hear Emmett holler out from the background. "It's the Broncos' game! Whose side are you on?"

Rosalie and I both laugh and when I glance at Edward, he's grinning.

"Oh, my God. I love having this man at home but he also needs a freaking hobby," she tells me, purposely saying the last part louder so he'll hear.

"Just wait until I retire next year," we hear Emmett say, his tone playful and taunting. "Home sweet home. Every damn day."

"He's retiring?" Edward asks, interested, and I hold the phone out so we can both be seen on screen. "I know there was talk about it a couple of years ago, but it never happened."

"Yeah. Nothing official is out yet, but my old man probably has one more year in the NFL," Rosalie tells Edward. "Don't go spilling the tea or anything to the gossip rags. You won't make much money."

Edward smirks. "Right. Because that was my first instinct."

"Hey, he could probably get some dough. Gossip rags love me," Emmett says, appearing on screen with Rosalie, draping an arm around her shoulders, taking up most of the frame. "Also, I'm not old, babe. I'm thirty-five."

"And in football years that's like eighty-five," she teases, then says, "Oh! You haven't officially met Edward yet, have you?"

"Nah. Hey, man. Good to meet you," Emmett says.

"Yeah, you, too," Edward replies, jutting his chin upward.

We hear a doorbell ring. "That's my cue to go get ready for the party," Rosalie says. "Just let me know if you want to go to the game. We have an extra ticket since Em's uncle can't fly in now."

"Okay, I'll definitely keep you posted," I tell her before we all say bye and hang up.

After Edward pays for the check, we leave the restaurant, the sunny Los Angeles December warming our skin. We leisurely walk to his car a few blocks away.

"So… the network Christmas party is tonight?" I ask.

He glances over at me. "Yeah."

"Are you going?"

"No. I've gone back and forth a lot, but I wasn't planning on it. Why?"

"Just curious. You don't have a date or anything?" I tease, something I wouldn't have been able to joke about months ago.

He searches my face before answering, and once he sees it's okay, he breathes out a laugh.

"No. The only woman I want to take as my date might be asleep by the time it starts, so. It creates complications."

I fight a smile and stare down at the sidewalk. "She sounds like a real loser," I joke, then worry about what he said earlier about putting myself down.

"Hey," he mock-defends. "She's not a loser. She's pregnant with my baby girl, so it takes a lot out of her."

My stomach somersaults to my heart when I look over at him.

"Oh. Awkward," I say dryly, the buoyant feeling in my chest intensifying. "You have a baby mama? Why didn't you tell me that before I came to lunch with you?"

With a satisfied smirk, he keeps playing along. "Yeah, I have a baby mama. You didn't think it was weird my trunk was full of newborn stuff when we drove here?"

"I don't make it a habit to inspect men's trunks before I get into their vehicles."

"Pity. You should. It could save you a lot of awkwardness."

I release a soft laugh. "I don't know," I muse. "I don't really feel awkward with you right now."

"Neither do I," he whispers, slowing his pace until we're stopped on the sidewalk. "Come with me."

"To your work Christmas party?"

"No. Come home with me for Christmas, Bella."

The way he says it.

So earnest.

So fiercely determined.

Like it's not the first time it's crossed his mind.

"Are you still joking around?" I ask, just to make sure.

"Not even a little bit."

"Home for Christmas," I muse. "Like, Seattle?"

"Yeah. My mom asked about us coming home a couple of days ago and I wasn't able to give her a real answer at the time, but… I think we should do it."

Suddenly, it's all I want.

Christmas with the Cullens.

Christmas… as a Cullen.

Pregnant with a Cullen.

"Would we get a hotel?" I ask, and we move closer to a storefront window, away from the middle of the sidewalk.

"If that makes you more comfortable, sure. But they have spare rooms, too."

I take note of his plural use of the word rooms and wonder if he said it for my benefit.

"Your parents won't think it's strange?" I ask. "We're still…" I wave a shaky hand between us. "And it's all…" I make a face.

"Okay. So, I see you're still awful at charades," he says, smirking, "which means I'll definitely need to be on your team Christmas day."

"You punk." I can't help but laugh, even if I'm nervous about going back home with him. "What about Allie? I'm not sure I'm ready to see her. Or to talk. And I'm sure she still feels some way about me."

"Allie doesn't get a fucking say. I want you there. My parents want you there. But if you think it'll be too uncomfortable, we can spend Christmas here," he offers, staring down at me. "I don't care where we go as long as we're together. Especially tomorrow. On Christmas Eve."

He doesn't say the last words with painful intention, but they're all I feel.

All I hear.

Because Christmas Eve was the first time I reached out after months of ghosting him.

It was one of—if not the—worst conversations we've ever had. We yelled almost the entire time, placing so much blame on each other. Neither of us took responsibility because we both thought we were in the right. I didn't cry on the call, but I did after. And then I drank myself into an even deeper stupor than I already was.

"Did I taint Christmas Eve for us?" I worry.

His smile is grim. "No. But I think everything will feel… fragile between us for a long while. Only time will help with that, I guess."

I nod, accepting this. "I love the idea of being with your family, but will your parents ask us about… stuff?"

"They're not confrontational like that. You know they'll just be happy we're there."

"Okay. What about Allie? She's confrontational like that. If she puts us on the spot, what will we say?" I ask, desperate for him to give me something, anything that indicates what we are or what we're doing.

He just shrugs, seemingly unaffected. "We don't have to say anything. We don't owe anyone any explanations. It's our business."

The high I was feeling seconds ago starts to wane. I could blame pregnancy hormones for the quick shift, but I know it's not that. It's the potential for more heartbreak. All of the unknown that still exists between us. This tentative, tender place we're both stuck in.

I love that we can share light moments and banter and it's all further proof that we can be good with each other even when things are tough.

But until we leave the limbo of our pending divorce, I'm not going to feel fully settled, and I doubt he will either.

My eyes sting. I don't want to get emotional when we've had such a good day. But this is important. He's the most important person to me.

"Bella," he says quietly, standing in front of me, bending his knees a bit. "Hey. Look at me." I shake my head.

His hands are on my arms, and I lift my head to meet his concerned gaze.

I'm scared to rock the boat. But I'm also worried he's too terrified to address what we need to, and time is not on our side.

"I just… I can be patient," I mumble. "I can. But it feels like we have this ticking time bomb and it's gonna explode on January 11th unless we stop it."

At the mention of our official divorce date, he frowns, brows tugging together as he straightens to his full height.

"You want to talk about this now? On the street?" he asks.

"Not really, but now or never, I guess. Where it happens doesn't matter to me. A parking lot, at lunch, in my bedroom, or the therapist's office. This needs to be addressed. So… yeah."

"The last thing I want is to put more pressure on us," he says evenly, dropping his hands from my arms.

"What do you mean?"

"January 11th is only…" He pauses, maybe doing the mental math. "Nineteen days away."

"And?"

"Realistically, we're not going to be good by then. We still have a lot of work to do. Together and individually and—"

"So? Then we do the work."

His eyes are imploring. Probing. "I agree. We'll do the work."

"We'll keep going to couples therapy. And our own therapy. I'm not planning on stopping any of that when it's been so helpful for me," I say.

"I know. That's what I want for us, too."

Panic pulses through me when I feel an unspoken but hanging onto his last word.

"Then what's the problem?" I ask.

"There's no problem. I just… emotions run so fucking high and low between us. Right now things are high. They feel good. I want to make sure we're making the best decision for us and our baby."

"And you think calling off the divorce could be a… a bad thing for us and our baby?" I ask, throat dry, heart racing, eyes brimming with tears.

"Of course not." He fists some hair, looking lost. "I'm just fucking scared, Bella."

I am, too, but I ask, "Scared of what?"

"You."

A tear slips down my cheek and I wipe it away. "I don't know what I can say or do to make you believe me. Baby or no baby, I'm all in. I want you. I love you." My fingers brush his stomach and I move closer so we're flush. I stare up at him, my head tilted back. "I'll keep reminding you. I'll fight for us. Every single day."

He instantly wraps his arms around me in a hug, his actions offering more reassurance than his words.

"There's nothing for you to say. I do believe you," he says, and with my cheek pressed against his chest, I listen to his deep voice from the inside out. "But sometimes there's a little fucking doubt that creeps in and it's like… everything I want is right here. Right fucking here." He squeezes me a little. "But I had you before and lost you just like that. I know I'm to blame, too. But I can't do it again. I can't go through that again."

I pull back to look up at him. "So, realistically what is the plan? For us to stay together but get divorced? You can't lose me if you don't fully have me again? Because I'm not okay with that. I need more than that. You should, too."

"No," he sighs. "I don't have a plan or even a clue. Being with you like we were today helps though. Just us. Together. Rebuilding and learning to trust. And last night at your house was good, too. Learning how to be around each other again. Remembering how good we can be."

"Yeah, it's necessary and we should take it slow. I get that, and it's why I didn't push you to talk last night. I'm not trying to be pushy now but… if we can stop the divorce from being signed off on by the judge, why wouldn't we? It doesn't mean we have to take things fast. I don't want to rush things either. I'm not asking you to move in or for us to wear our rings," I sniffle. "I'm not asking for us to explain our situation to people. That can stay private and between us. I'm not asking for anything other than—if you think there's any hope for us to be together in the future—to please, please, please stop the divorce."

After I say it, I immediately press my face against his chest to hide my incoming tears.

He holds me tighter and sighs again. "Baby."

With my eyes clenched closed, I take a few seconds to calm down, then look up at him, pleading, needing him to know where I stand.

"You know how I feel about you. You know what I want. The ball is in your court. A divorce would break my heart but it won't break me because I'm still going to be right here, waiting for you. Loving you. In whatever capacity I can have you. A friend, lover. My baby's father. I'll take anything you're willing to give me," I say as fiercely as I can while trying to keep it together.

His head drops back in defeat, staring at the sky before locking his gaze on me.

"You're killing me. Everything you're saying. It's a knife to the fucking heart and everything I've wanted to hear and feel for so long."

"Good. You deserve to hear it," I say softly.

He searches my face, but stays quiet, contemplative, and I worry.

"Am I being too pushy?" I ask, not caring if I am but wanting to respect his wishes. "I can stop."

"No. Don't stop," he says fiercely. "This is the kind of fight from you I've needed for a long fucking time."

Hearing that both hurts and heals.

"I just... I won't be mad if you think we need to let the divorce be finalized. I promise," I say, meaning it. "But I need to know one way or another. That's all I'm asking for right now. Is it going to happen or not? If I'm expecting it, maybe it won't hit as hard, I guess. And deep down, I know I'd deserve it if you let us divorce."

"That's not what you deserve," he whispers. "You deserve for me to be honest and vulnerable and to tell you what I truly want, despite my fears."

I hang onto his every word. "What do you want?"

He opens his mouth, but pauses. "If I lose you again, I won't survive it," he says, his voice low and deadly serious. "Do you understand me?"

More tears slip down my cheeks and he cups my face with both hands, wiping them away with his thumbs.

I fist his shirt. "Stop talking like that," I mumble. "Please. You won't lose me again. We'll learn from our mistakes. Neither of us will take the other for granted."

He groans, but it sounds more like a satisfied sigh as he drops his hands from my face.

"Ask me again," he prompts, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. "About Allie."

I swallow back emotion, unsure where he's going with this. "What will you say if your sister puts us on the spot?"

Determination flashes in his eyes. "I'll say, Allie… my wife and I want to spend Christmas with our family. The woman I love—the only woman I've ever loved—is finally pregnant with my baby. We're easing back into our everyday lives. We're putting in the work. And we're doing what makes sense for us… which is calling off the divorce."

A sound between a laugh and a strangled cry escapes from my mouth. "You'd really say all of that?"

"No. I'd probably just tell her to mind her own fucking business," he says with a smirk before growing serious. "We'll call off the divorce, but take it slow. Cautious. Every day from here on out has to be brutal fucking honesty. Even if it hurts. I won't accept anything less, and neither will you."

"Brutal honesty," I agree, every part of my body vibrating for this man who both humbled and reassured me in a matter of minutes.

"We need to acknowledge that it's not going to be the same between us. But that's a good thing. We can't go back to what we were because that wasn't working."

"I know," I agree, taking his words to heart. "There will be some hard days ahead. I don't expect or even need everything to be easy."

He nods in acknowledgment. "Good. Because it won't be. But that's okay. Some days I might need a lot of reassurance or some space."

"So will I. Sometimes it might be me who needs some time alone with my thoughts. Or other days I might need to hear you say you love me a hundred times."

His eyebrows shoot up in mock disbelief. "Only a hundred? I might need to hear it two hundred times."

A sad smile tugs at my mouth. "We'll tell each other what we want and what we need. And we'll be patient with one another," I promise. "A slow, second chance. We owe that to ourselves and each other."

"Yeah, we fucking do," he says, his voice low and serious as he pulls me against him so we can hug.

With our arms wrapped tightly around each other and my cheek resting against his chest, he presses a kiss to my temple, letting his lips linger there.

We soak up the first moment of peace we've had in a very long time.

No pressure.

No heartache.

No second-guessing where the other stands.

"You think the people inside that store are wondering what the hell is going on out here?" I ask, my eyes darting toward the window of the storefront we're standing in front of. "Nothing to see here, people. Just your average day, modern romance."

The muffled sound of his laughter makes me smile. "I don't give a shit what they think," he insists, his cavalier attitude making me grin wider.

We break apart just slightly, and his eyes spark with want while searching my face.

My heart jumps from the intensity and longing in his eyes.

I tilt my chin up just a bit until our lips barely meet. I just want a taste. A small exchange of affection to remember this moment.

I'm the one who kisses him first this time.

But he's the one who deepens it.

He's the one who cups my face in his hands and angles me up so he can make it count.

And he does.

For the next several seconds, our mouths never break apart.

He adds more pressure, more intent behind his kiss. I kiss him back but he takes the lead, like he needs to confess so many things without words.

His lips coax mine open, like he's claiming me as his.

His hands move from my face down to my waist, arching me into him, like he's confessing he's sorry.

His arms lock behind my lower back, making me feel safe, and as our kiss finally slows to a soft, sensual peck, it's like he's promising he forgives me.

And all the while, I hope he can feel the same intent behind my every move as my head and heart repeat the same mantra.

Mine.

Mine.

"Mine."